Judge, Jury
Bringing Steven Grant to Cairo was like letting a child loose in a candy shop.
“Oh my days, look at that!” Steven exclaimed, staring in wonder. “They have little ushabtis of all the gods! It’s like deja vu.”
Zara squeezed his hand as they walked through the square, the bustling market stalls filling the place with a buzzing vitality. Fruits and vegetables of every colour were piled high, vendors calling to every passer-by with all the overt charm she remembered. Zara let out a deep sigh, the warm air filling her lungs as Steven pulled her along, his calloused fingers interlocking with her own. His British accent stood out in the hum of the crowds like a sore thumb, and she laughed a little. “Try not to spend all your money, okay?”
He barely heard her, pulling her towards one of the stalls, picking up a little replica of a temple – hand-painted, and carved of wood. “Ooh, actually, I’ve just had an idea,” he hummed excitedly, turning to her. “Do you think we could actually go to Karnak this time? See all the temples we…uh, missed?”
“Of course,” Zara smiled at him, and his face lit up.
“Really?” He gave a little laugh. “Amazing. This is so amazing. I had no time for sightseeing last time and I’m just thrilled about this, Zara, I can’t even tell you – ”
Steven rambled on, looking through all of the little trinkets at the stall, and Zara watched him, a warmth flooding through her chest. The boys had decided it was best for him to front while they were in public, considering they’d had to come in on Steven’s passport to avoid detection – and in all honesty, Zara was just so glad to see him happy. They’d dropped their things back at the safehouse, Zara reassuring him for the millionth time that his fish would be looked after – she’d given Alina specific instructions, and Gus and his double-finned twin would be totally fine, at least until they could neutralise whatever threat was after Marc, and get Steven back home. But more than anything, Zara felt more alive than she had in ages – the city moved around her like an extension of her veins, the thrum of Cairo starting to fill the hole she had in her heart. Jake’s words on the plane played on a loop in her head, filling her with a strange sort of hope. Maybe she wouldn’t ever find her past.
Maybe all she had now, was her future.
“Juice! Get your juice!” Zara heard the voice ahead of them, her anticipation leaping skywards. “The bestest juice in the whole world!”
“Ooooh yes,” Zara cooed, then turned to Steven. “Do you want any?”
Steven took a moment to register her words, absolutely engrossed in the next pyramid-themed market stall. “Hm? Oh, no thanks. You go ahead, though.”
Zara turned away, but then Steven swiftly pulled her back. Before she could even speak he’d kissed her on the cheek and she blinked in surprise. She felt heat rush to her cheeks and saw him turn a little crimson, but the way he smiled at her told her it wasn’t an unplanned move. Zara smiled. “Smooth, Grant.”
“I thought so,” he grinned, and Zara suppressed a laugh. “See you in a bit.”
“I’ll just be over there,” Zara told him. “Text me if you need me.”
The juice was even better than she remembered and Zara wandered through the markets, keeping an eye on Steven across the square. Though she had no reason to think they’d been followed all the way to Egypt, Zara couldn’t shake the protective streak, the need to make sure he was alright. Old habits die hard.
God, she thought. I sound like Marc.
Suddenly she was knocked from the side, her hackles instantly going up as she staggered back, almost dropping her juice.
“Oh my god!” The woman exclaimed, her arm shooting out to steady Zara. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even see you!”
The woman was looking at her apologetically, and Zara felt herself relax. “No, no – don’t worry about it, I wasn’t watching where I was going either.”
The woman laughed, extending a hand. She had the most beautiful hair, a headful of chocolate curls that stood out in the bustling street, so much so that Zara was amazed she’d missed her before. Her dark eyes were warm, her tan cheeks covered in freckles. “I’m Layla.”
Zara’s brain seemed to short-circuit for a moment, but she shook her hand. “Zara.” She glanced down at the bag in her hand. “Did you get the cranberry juice as well?”
Layla grinned, the action lighting up her face. “I did.” Her eyes flicked to Zara’s own bag. “Great minds think alike?”
“Indeed,” Zara agreed, flashing a smirk. Vendors called to the crowds around them, the throngs of people moving through like blood through veins.
Layla studied her for a moment. “You don’t seem like a tourist. Are you from Cairo, too?”
Zara hesitated. “Alexandria.” Layla opened her mouth to respond, but she pressed on quickly. “You’re from here?”
“Born and raised,” Layla laughed, the sound short and sweet. “My father and I lived not far from here, actually.”
“That’s lovely.” Zara tried to tamp down on the pang of jealousy that rose within her. It was unwarranted, she told herself. Unwarranted, but apparently inescapable. “Is he here with you?”
“No.” Layla’s eyes dropped for a moment, and Zara instantly regretted the question. “No, he…he passed a while ago.”
“Oh, I’m – I’m so sorry,” Zara murmured, and she meant it. “I didn’t mean – grief is the worst.” She was flailing. Why the hell was she flailing? “I’m sorry.”
Layla smiled at her, but her eyes were sad. “I get the feeling you know the feeling.”
Zara hesitated for a moment, then nodded. She was right of course, but it only just began to occur to her how much she liked talking to this woman. Her instincts told her something was up – that a random woman on the street shouldn’t care so much about her – but she also knew she had a warped perception of what was normal. The Red Room had robbed her of relationships, of friends and family, of the foundation she so desperately craved, a place to build the rest of her life on. She was an unmoored vessel, floating untethered to anything solid, aimless and lost in the sea of the world. Marc and Steven had made the journey less lonely, but what she needed was a true anchor – a place to call home. Alexandria haunted her as the place where she’d had no control of herself, and for all of London’s quirks, it just didn’t feel right. Jake’s words circulated through her mind again: that’s why you make one. Why couldn’t it be Cairo? Why couldn’t this be the place she made her home?
And home was nothing without people to share it with, right?
“I never knew my parents,” Zara started, and Layla’s dark eyes fixed on her. “But I feel them here, in Cairo. I don’t know why, but I do.”
Layla’s eyes went a little misty, and she nodded empathetically. “It changes you, doesn’t it? Loss.”
“Yeah,” Zara agreed. Her eyes flicked back to Steven momentarily, a small smile lighting her face as she watched him, engrossed in some book he’d found at one of the markets. “But it’s not all there is.”
Layla’s gaze followed hers, her lips flickering into a tight smile. “Is that your partner?”
“I – ” Zara faltered. Was he? She knew that was the story they were going with, in case they were asked and had to cover for themselves – they’d agreed on it. She swallowed. “Yeah. Steven. He’s – he’s great.” She watched him flick through the book, making conversation with the vendor, her chest flooding with warmth. He really was, she realised. He really was so, so great. All of them were.
Layla watched her curiously. “How long have you two known each other?”
Zara almost laughed. Oh you know, not all that long – I just stole a scarab from them and then we saved the world together, and shit has basically hit the fan daily ever since. Oh, and we both work for Egyptian gods.
“A while.” She smiled. “He changed my life.”
Something flickered across Layla’s face, but her expression smoothed over before Zara could catch it. “I can hear that accent from here.”
Zara laughed. “I know. Every salesperson’s dream, isn’t he?”
Layla nodded, a smirk tracing her lips. Her eyes were fixed on Steven, and Zara could swear she saw a flicker of recognition. She shook her head, chastising herself. Stop being paranoid. You’re not in the Red Room anymore.
“Hey, uh, if it’s not too weird – could I grab your number?” Zara asked suddenly. “We’ve just moved here and I don’t really know anyone.”
Layla blinked for a moment, taking a second to register her words. “Oh, yeah – of course.” They exchanged numbers, and Layla glanced at her. “Let me know if you want to get a coffee or something.”
Zara grinned, Layla’s kindness sending a flood of warmth through her. Finally – finally, she was making something for herself. A foundation, for her new home. “I will.” She glanced back at Steven, who looked like he was getting talked into buying at least a dozen trinkets. Layla eyed her with amusement, and Zara shook her head. “I better go get him before he spends all his money. But I’ll message you!”
Layla nodded, and Zara turned back to her briefly. “It was lovely to meet you, Layla.”
“Same for you. I’ll see you around, Zara.” She smiled warmly, but it seemed somewhat sad. “Look after yourself.”
Zara nodded. “You, too.”
* * *
If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.
Layla watched her walk around the kitchen through the window, Zara Fathi frantically pulling items from the cupboard as she worked. Layla turned her phone over in her hand, fighting back the stab of guilt at what she was going to have to do to her new friend – but it would be a small price to pay, she reasoned, to remove the risk of collateral damage. After all, Layla El-Faouly knew the ramifications of collateral damage all too well – it had cost her the person she loved most in the world. It wasn’t fair to put someone else in that kind of danger, and Layla would not stoop to his level. Marc Spector would die tonight. And he would die alone, without taking any more innocents with him.
She supposed she didn’t really have much right to be annoyed at Valentina, but the knowledge that her father’s killer still lived and breathed had nearly sent her over the edge. Her Madripoor…connection (Valentina had insisted they were friends – they were not friends) had recently informed her that her hired assassin had been unable to confirm the kill. Layla had forced her voice calm as Valentina had told her the news over the phone, all the while her hands practically shook with the barely-controlled rage that had propelled her since that fateful day. Her father had been murdered in cold blood, left to rot in the desert sands with the rest of them, like cattle divvied up for slaughter. The thought never failed to bring her blood to the boil every time it crossed her mind.
You will make him pay, the voice rang through her head, almost startling her as she crouched out of sight in the silent street. You will take vengeance, in my name.
“I take vengeance in my own,” Layla hissed. “And in the name of my father – not for you.” She threw a glance sideways, though no one was there. “And then our deal is done.”
She heard the air shift around her, the whistle of a breeze. A deal is a deal, Little Scarab. Layla flinched at the name, but the voice continued. But you may come to find that you enjoy being judge, jury, and executioner.
Executioner. Is that what she was? No, no – the man she was after had taken on that role himself, deciding who lived and who died with a swift stroke of his callous hands – she was merely balancing the scales. She was justice, finally being served after all these years. Finally the goddess appeared next to her, the dim street lights illuminating her form. Mafdet’s dark eyes watched her intently. I have not been active on this plane in some time. I will be saddened by your departure from my service, Little Scarab.
Layla blinked at her. The goddess of justice, judgement, and execution was…saddened? She hadn’t thought gods capable of such things. She shrugged. “Like you said, Mafdet. A deal is a deal.”
Your rage has propelled you to do great things. You have been an Avatar truly worthy of my power. The street lights flickered, and Mafdet nodded to her. This is the path you chose, Layla El-Faouly. The path of justice, of retribution, of bringing balance to the scales of the sinners. You told me your father paid the price for Marc Spector’s sins. Layla shuddered slightly, but Mafdet continued. There are more like him. More who cause the suffering of others, every day. You have seen them yourself.
Of course. Of course, Mafdet would wait until now to try to convince her, when she knew she’d be at her most angry, her most rageful. The curtains to the house were still open and she saw him then – the man responsible for all of her pain, her grief – and it took everything Layla had to keep herself from surging forward then and there, from taking what she wanted without a second thought. But she was not like him. She had a plan, and she would not allow harm to come to anyone else, anyone innocent, just to satisfy her rage. It wasn’t what her father would’ve wanted. It wasn’t what she wanted. Layla repeated the sentence in her head, the words that had become her mantra:
I am not like him.
Finally Layla threw her head back, summoning the armour so that it encased her body. Her hand found the sword at her back, her knuckles whitening around the hilt. She glanced sideways at the goddess, her jaw set. “This ends tonight.”
Mafdet sighed. As you wish, Little Scarab. Her cheetah-head locked back on the house, the two of them watching Marc Spector with disdain, and for Layla, a simmering hatred that threatened to swallow her whole. Mafdet chuckled a little. It won’t be hard to draw them out. Khonshu loves the sound of his own brand of justice.
But Layla was barely listening, her eyes fixed on the man in the house. Everything else fell away except Marc Spector and the simmering heat in her stomach, the barely-contained rage that raced through her limbs like adrenaline, setting her veins alight. She’d waited years for this. She’d searched for her father’s killers, she’d fought tooth-and-nail for every tiny sliver, every threadbare scrap of information – all of which had led her to Madripoor, to Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, and very nearly into the Power Broker themselves. She’d been willing to do anything, pay any price. And now, payment was due.
Now, Marc Spector would rue the day he ended the life of Abdallah El-Faouly.