An Open Wound
Though Khonshu had disappeared, it was becoming increasingly evident that the universe had other ways of fucking with him.
The next few days passed in a haze – Zara was keeping close contact with Yelena, who apparently was holding off on telling her employer that he was still breathing, in order to buy them some time before the next assassin was hired, and tracked him down. Of course, Marc didn’t trust Yelena Belova as far as he could throw her – but Zara clearly did, and that counted for something. So he coasted on, allowing Steven to support him as he sifted through his memories, trying in vain to figure out who the hell it was who wanted him dead. But Marc had lived quite a life, and between his military fugue-state, his years as a merc, and all the time spent with Khonshu, there really was no shortage of suspects. What he didn’t understand, however, was why they’d hire an assassin to do their dirty work – he would’ve thought everyone on his potential murderer-list perfectly capable of killing him themselves.
His dreams were also worse than ever, and he just knew Khonshu had some hand in them, trying to throw him off his game. To add icing to the shit-cake that was now his life, Marc had the distinct feeling that the one person he did trust (besides Steven, that is) was keeping something from him. Zara had been acting weird the last two days, disappearing for hours on end at a time, throwing herself headlong into the work of freeing widow after widow from the mind control that had once held her captive. She was usually gone before he woke – which was saying something, since Marc hadn’t been a great sleeper for as long as he could remember – and she came home in the dark, disappearing into her bedroom without so much as a word, avoiding conversations wherever she could muster up an excuse. Marc could see the bruises and cuts building up on her face, arms, legs – and yet she made no effort to heal them. Even when Steven had showed concern she’d simply brushed him off, which was so out of character that Steven had practically balked, and they’d come the closest Marc had ever seen them to having a real argument. Something was wrong. The avoidance, the obsession with the tasks at hand, the self-neglect, pushing people away – it was a state he knew well. And in his experience, it was never a good thing.
So that night, when Zara finally came back to the safehouse, Marc was set on confronting her about it. He was prepared for the avoidance, her attempts to brush him off. Even a full-blown argument, if it came to it. What he wasn’t prepared for was the way she staggered through the door – blood dripping from her forehead, a slice down her arm, the purplish bruises flowering on her skin like horrific blooms. Marc instantly rushed forward. “Zara, what happened?”
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she muttered, waving him away. “I’m fine.”
“You are not fine,” Marc chided, and she sighed.
“I forgot how much she liked knives, okay? I’ll remember for next time.”
“You can’t keep doing this,” Marc told her, and she glared at him. “You come back worse every time.”
“Someone has to get them out.”
Marc touched her arm, the cut still oozing blood. “Let me look at that.”
“I said it’s fine.” Zara pulled away, and he groaned.
“I can help you – ”
“You have enough to worry about,” Zara snapped, but then her face softened. “I’m sorry. I just…I don’t want you to have to do that.”
Marc shook his head. Was this what he sounded like? “I don’t have to do anything. I want to help you, Zara.” His lips quirked up. “And you always tell me not to be an idiot when the tables are turned.”
Zara sighed, but it wasn’t defensive, this time. “Do as I say, not as I do.”
“That’s not how this works,” Marc quipped, pointing to the couch. “Sit down. I’ll be back in a second.”
Zara held his gaze for a moment, the two of them locked in stalemate. Finally she groaned, walking dejectedly over to the living area and plonking herself on the couch. “This is why I called you a hard-ass back in Cairo.”
Marc huffed an almost-laugh as he retrieved the first-aid kit. “You’re one to talk.”
Finally he sat down next to her, and he felt her honey eyes watching him closely as he pulled out the alcohol wipes. He put his hand out and Zara sighed, holding out her injured arm, the streak of red running down her bicep. “It’s not deep.”
“Still needs to be cleaned,” he replied, and she rolled her eyes.
“I was going to get around to it.”
“When?” Marc queried, pressing the alcohol wipe to the cut. Zara didn’t even flinch, which he couldn’t help but be both impressed and disturbed by. He looked up at her. “Or were you just gonna take off tomorrow again looking like you lost a fight with Edward Scissorhands?”
If looks could kill, the look she gave him would’ve put him six feet under.
“I actually have seen that one, just so you know,” Zara retorted. “You’re not funny.”
“I think I am.”
She snorted. “Americans usually do.”
“Hey.” He raised his brows. “No need to use that against me.”
“Ha!” She blurted, and he felt a stab of pride. “It’s nothing personal. Your country does have some quality movies.”
Marc cocked his head, squinting in concentration. “You’re welcome.”
They both went quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on his hands holding her arm. Finally, he spoke. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there? Something’s bothering you.”
Zara stiffened. “Why do you think that?”
“Because I’m not blind.” Marc looked up at her then, but she didn’t meet his eyes. “Have I done something?”
“No,” she answered immediately, but the knot in his chest didn’t loosen. “It’s not you. Or Steven.”
“Is it the other alter?” Marc asked. He held his breath, fearing her answer. “Because I’d understand if – ”
“It’s not that.”
Marc bit his lip, reaching for her face. She froze for a moment and he nodded, eyes flicking up. “I need to clean that one on your forehead. Looks like you headbutted a brick wall.”
Zara laughed despite herself, and butterflies took off in his chest. “More like an angry assassin.”
But she let him settle his hand on her jaw, moving close enough that he could see the little flecks of green in her eyes. Small victories. Zara pointedly looked away from him as he worked, chewing her lip. “I know you and Steven have been going through a lot.”
“So have you,” Marc replied, his voice a low hum. “We’re all dealing with Harrow’s aftermath, Zara. And you’ve been there for Steven and I so much.” His thumb traced her jaw, and her heard her breath catch. “Let us be there for you, too.”
Zara clenched her jaw. “I don’t want to make things worse for you two.”
Marc shook his head, sighing. “I’ve spent my whole life pushing people away, including you, all because I didn’t want to burden other people with my shit. And you stayed, anyway. Why?”
Zara paused. “Because I care about you, dummy.”
“Exactly.” Marc moved his hand on her jaw, gently turning her head to face him. “So let me help you, too.”
Finally she met his eyes, her voice dropping. “I keep having dreams.”
Marc stilled his hand at her forehead, perplexed. “About what?”
“Anubis.” Marc’s eyes widened, and she exhaled. “I released him from his imprisonment, and now he won’t leave me alone. He keeps showing up in my dreams. He thinks he owes me. He can’t make me his avatar because of Sekhmet, so now I have to see him again until he figures out how to balanceour scales, or whatever.”
Marc was silent for a moment, the cogs turning over in his head. “So…what does that mean?”
“It means I have until tonight to think of something to ask of him. And I don’t know what to do,” Zara groaned, her brows furrowing. “He’s not all-powerful, and once I ask, I can’t take it back. I feel like I’m stuck. If I ask the wrong thing – ”
“You won’t,” Marc interjected, and she narrowed her eyes.
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I know you,” Marc responded, leaning slightly closer to get a better look at the cut on her forehead, making sure he hadn’t missed anything. “You’re one of the smartest people I know, Zara.”
Her eyes flicked up at him, their faces now a mere few inches apart. “One of?” She smirked. “Who’s beating me?”
Marc chuckled, brushing a dark strand off her forehead. “You’re lookin’ at him.”
“You? Smarter than me?” Zara snorted. “That would be the day.”
“Exactly my point.”
She raised a brow at him. “You know, poking fun at you isn’t fun if you just agree with me.”
Marc’s hands still lingered on her face, and he found he didn’t want to let go. Touching her was becoming magnetic, and he genuinely wasn’t sure if he’d be able to pull his hands away. He dropped his voice. “What do you want, Zara?”
She paused a moment, her brows furrowing. “Are we still talking about the same thing?”
Marc didn’t answer – the words felt stuck in his throat, and he could do nothing else now but look at her, his thumb running over her jaw. He heard her breath catch slightly – she’d tried to conceal it, but she couldn’t fool him. Her hand met his on her face. “I want you to be okay. You, Steven, the other alter. All of you matter to me.”
Marc felt his chest tighten, as though Zara had reached through him and gripped his heart. He released a breath. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“It’s not your job to protect everyone, Marc,” she murmured, her hand finding his face, tracing his cheek. Her eyes landed on his lips, flickering their amber flames. “And besides, you have no idea what I can handle.”
She leaned in again and before Marc knew it he was kissing her, pulling her towards him. She pushed forward so that she ended up straddling him on the couch, pulling the breath from his lungs as she kissed him, her fingers running through his hair. Marc moaned as she tugged on his curls, his hands moving hungrily under her shirt, tracing patterns on her smooth skin. Zara’s hands found the buttons on his shirt and he shrugged it off, her lips on his neck sending his mind spinning like a top. Her hand traced his shoulder and she pulled back, her fingers lingering on the jagged scar just below his collarbone. Her voice was low.
“What’s this from?”
Marc took a moment to register her words. “Stab wound.”
She let out a low laugh, pulling up her own shirt, causing his heart to almost leap clear out of his chest. Marc couldn’t look away as her hand rested on her waist, his own hand tracing the raised marking just above her hip. He raised a brow. “Must’ve been a nasty blade.”
Zara shrugged, the corner of her lip quirking up. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”
Finally she crossed her arms, pulling her shirt over her head in one swift motion. Marc fell suddenly silent, his breath caught in his throat, hands running up her sides in awe. She smirked at him, and the way her voice dropped set sparks alight in his stomach. “Feeling all right, Marc?”
Suddenly his eyes fixed on one particular scar; a long, thin strip at the very bottom of her abdomen. Something felt different about this scar – it didn’t look like a wound from a knife, or a bullet, or even any regular cut. It was precise, practical, almost…surgical. Marc looked up at her in confusion, his fingers tracing the raised line, causing her to shiver. “What about this one?”
Zara stiffened, and Marc instantly regretted speaking at all. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words were stuck in her throat, and nothing came out. Marc shook his head, his heart sinking. “I’m sorry, Zara. I shouldn’t have asked, it’s none of my business – ”
“No,” she said suddenly, and his gaze snapped back up to hers. “No, it’s okay. It’s just…”
She trailed off, and Marc knew she was reliving some past experience behind those hazel eyes, some horrid slideshow of images that he couldn’t see. A sudden, surprising surge of anger shot through him – anger at those in her past who had harmed her, at the Red Room for robbing Zara of the life she should’ve had. Of the life she deserved to have. He cupped her cheek in his hand then, pulling her back to him, her gaze snapping back to his. “You don’t have to talk about it.”
She was silent for a long time, one hand meeting his on her cheek. “It was our final task, before we became operatives in the real world.” Her voice was practically a whisper, her other hand absently touching her stomach. “I guess it was a risk they couldn’t take.”
Suddenly all of the pieces fell together in Marc’s mind, the implication of her words slamming into him like a freight train. The scar, low on her abdomen. Surgical. Precise. To prevent the one thing that could possibly be more important than whatever mission she was sent on. If his heart could sink any further, it did. “Zara…”
“I was awake,” she muttered, and he went silent. “They gave us as little anaesthetic as possible; they always wanted us to be ready for pain.” She was looking away from him again, lost in her own memories. Marc didn’t speak, he couldn’t possibly – not while she was reliving her past. “I don’t think I would’ve ever wanted them anyway, but…it’s my body. It’s mine.” She looked back at him then, her knuckles whitening around his hand. Anger seeped from her like blood from an open wound. “I should have had that choice.”
His thumb traced her cheek. “I’m so sorry, Zara. For everything – everything they put you through.”
She smiled at him sadly, and it was like she could see straight into him. “You, too.”
Zara pulled him in again, and this time her kisses came harder, more passionate. Their hands traced each other, and Marc found that her smooth bronze skin was littered with little scars, each with their own little history. Their lips moved in harmony and he revelled in the way that she moved, the way that she sounded as he littered kisses down her neck, across her collarbones. Her hand found his chin and she pulled up, her finger tracing over his lip, the two of them locking eyes for what felt like an eternity. And an eternity in those eyes, he knew without a doubt he wouldn’t mind.
* * *
The boat glided through the ocean of sand, the dunes rising over the dim expanse like shifting mountains. That light appeared in the distance again, and Zara stood still, allowing herself to be rocked with the movements of the boat. The scales stood tall behind her again, the feather of Ma’at laid gently as ever on one side, the other side waiting expectantly for the next heavy heart. This dream, like the last, seemed to lack that hazed quality that had filtered every other dream she’d ever had in her life, the thing that gave them their surreal quality.
Anubis appeared before her, the other black jackals surrounding her with their midnight coats, their gleaming eyes. Anubis shifted, his form changing into the one she was more familiar with – a tall, bare-chested man, adorned in gold. But his head never changed, the endless yet strangely human eyes of the jackal regarding her. His voice was a rumble of stones. Avatar of Sekhmet. You have made your choice.
It wasn’t a question. Anubis was watching her intently, as were his jackals, a dozen onyx eyes fixed on her. Zara nodded. “I have.”
Very well, Anubis nodded his great head, stepping forward. What is your request?
* * *
Zara was used to flying under the radar, of going largely unnoticed by society. It was what she was trained for, and arguably the most essential part of being an assassin and a spy. Turns out, that’s a lot harder to do when you’re walking through the busy streets of London carrying several large bags of ice.
She’d presented Anubis with their problem – of how to communicate with Marc and Steven’s third alter when there was a certain decently powerful moon good trying to thwart their every effort, and he’d delivered a solution – but how likely it was to work was a whole other story. Anubis did not reside in this realm, and thus for him to have any power to assist in their situation, the wall between the god of the scales and the minds of the three men in Marc and Steven’s body would have to be significantly thinner. Anubis was giving them an opportunity that they would never receive again. An opportunity that could be the answer to Steven and Marc’s dilemma, that kept them in the dark. Zara just hoped she would be able to pull them back, when the time came.
Marc had sourced the makeshift tub, the metal container sitting strangely in the living room of the tiny London apartment. He instantly rose as she came through the door, grabbing a few bags of ice from her arms. “I bet that was fun to carry for three blocks.”
Zara shrugged, pulling a knife and slicing open two bags. “I should’ve taken a better jacket. Who knew ice would be so cold?”
Marc chuckled, but the sound was strained. Zara lifted one bag, watching him with concern. “How’s Steven?”
Marc poured the first bag in, not looking at her. “He’s nervous.”
“And you?”
He held out his hand, and she handed him the knife. “Sweating bullets.”
Something had opened in him, something that she hadn’t completely seen before their night spent together, though now she knew it had always been there, just waiting to come out. Zara nodded. “I’ll pull you back, Marc. I promise.” She paused. “Do you trust me?”
Marc looked at her then. “You know that I do.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about,” she assured him, though her hands trembled slightly as she poured in the next bag of ice. “They used to make us do this all the time for conditioning.”
“Conditioning.” Marc stilled, his face twisting. The anger that seeped from him surprised her, and Zara watched as he dumped the ice into the bath. “Those pieces of shit.”
Zara shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “Can’t effectively torture people who are used to being tortured.”
Marc was silent, his eyes never leaving the bath full of ice. He wouldn’t be under for that long, in the grand scheme of things – he would put his head under and she would hold him there, until his breath left his lungs and his core temperature dropped. Zara had done this more times than she could count – and yet her heart hammered in her chest the very same as it had done on her first time, all those years ago. Somehow, it had always felt worse being the one on the outside. Holding someone under, bringing them to the brink of death, then pulling them back out. Even though Anubis had sworn he wouldn’t let Marc and Steven pass over to the Underworld, her heart still clenched in fear at the prospect. But Sekhmet was there, the goddess’ crackling voice resonating through her head, reassuring her.
I am the goddess of both war and healing, and you are my Avatar. Neither Anubis nor I will allow them to die while you hold their lives in your hands.
Zara looked at Marc then, and she knew without a doubt that she would do anything, anything to pull him and Steven back. She stepped towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Are you ready?”
“Can’t wait,” he muttered, running a hand through his dark curls. “Let’s get this over with.”
Without another word he pulled his shirt over his head, slipping his shoes off. Marc hissed as he stepped into the bath, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he slowly lowered himself down. Zara came to stand behind him, her hands resting gently on his shoulders. Sekhmet appeared behind her. I will tell you when to pull him back.
“Okay,” Zara murmured. Marc released a ragged breath, and she squeezed his shoulders reassuringly. “I won’t push you down. Go when you’re ready.”
To her surprise one of his hands came up to rest on hers, giving it a squeeze. Then without warning he sank under the ice, Zara’s hands following him down. Marc and Steven’s lives were in her hands, and Zara swallowed hard, glancing back at the goddess behind her. Sekhmet nodded, her golden eyes fixed on the bath of ice.
We’ve given them the way to see each other. The rest is up to them.