The Scarlet Scarab
The next few weeks flew by in a blur.
Zara had contacted Yelena, who in turn had contacted her employer – both of whom were able to help Layla El-Faouly find the man she was looking for. Zara hadn’t heard from Layla in days, and her efforts to tamp down on the worry building in her chest were beginning to become a daily practice. Fortunately, Jake had a tried-and-true method of dealing with that: alcohol.
They’d been back in London for two weeks now, and Zara couldn’t help but feel like a piece of her was missing – like she’d left it behind on those bustling Cairo streets. But her job here wasn’t done, either – there were still widows to be helped, before she could even think about going back. And besides, though she didn’t want to admit it, the thought of leaving Steven, Marc…and, yes, even Jake, was getting to be a sore subject. But she pressed on it, in her times alone, testing its tenderness like a bruise. She couldn’t ask that of them. She wouldn’t ask it. So she kept on rolling through the days, hoping the bruise would heal over, that pressing it would stop hurting.
It never did.
“Cariño, what’s taking so long?” Jake called back to her down the dim London street, waving his hands. “I thought you could hold your liquor.”
Zara scowled at him, though he was probably too far away to see. “I told you – it’s this goddamn foot.” She glanced down, flexing her ankle. “I’m starting to think she broke it.”
The down-side of confronting black widows who’ve been brainwashed into being killing machines: it came with a relatively high chance of injury. Jake sauntered back down the street, coming to a halt just in front of her. “So you’re telling me you’ve been walking around this enorme city with a broken foot?” He tutted, shaking his head. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty, cariño, because sometimes you make the most idiotic decisions.”
“Aw, Jake,” Zara looked up at him through her lashes, mocking. “You think I’m pretty?”
“Pretty fucking annoying,” he retorted, but his mouth quirked into a grin. With the increased time he’d spent at the front over the past few weeks since he’d practically launched himself out of that ice bath, Zara had grown more accustomed to him – his mannerisms, his somewhat combative nature – even his incorrigible flirting. She could see something else under it, someone she’d grown to like. Jake didn’t flinch. She got the feeling he never would.
“We’re still a few blocks away.” Jake furrowed his brows, peering down at her foot. “It really hurts that bad?”
Zara nodded, looking back down at her foot. It was swollen. When had it gotten that swollen? “I think the alcohol has worn off,” she speculated, swallowing hard. “I hate to ruin my super-tough widow image but – I actually might have to call a taxi.”
Jake watched her for a moment, as if deep in thought. Then he let out a loud, dramatic sigh, turning his back to her. “Get on.”
Zara blinked at him. “What?”
“My back.” His head turned to meet her eyes, flashing a grin. “I’ll carry you.”
“You’re not serious,” Zara exclaimed. “It’s like, four blocks!”
“Si, which means the Jake-train is leaving very soon.” He gestured for her to move forward. “So hurry up, cariño. If we move fast, we’ll make it back before Steven realises I forgot to feed his fish.”
Finally Zara sighed, coming up behind him to loop her arms around his neck. “I cannot believe you just referred to yourself as the Jake-train.”
Jake chuckled as she painstakingly jumped up, his hands hooking themselves under her legs, her chest pressed to his back. His hands were so warm. They were always so warm.
“I’m going to pretend that was a compliment, and that you’re appreciative of my services.”
Zara snorted, wrapping her arms a little tighter around him as they moved down the street. “I’m always appreciative of you.”
Jake barked a laugh. “And you say I’m full of shit.”
“I would never,” Zara told him, feigning shock. “You must have me confused with Marc and Steven.”
“Throwing them under the bus, I see.” Jake nodded his head, and she could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “I’m impressed, cariño. Though, I don’t think Marc would be.”
Zara grinned, her voice low in his ear. “Well, Marc’s not impressed by much.”
Jake didn’t answer for a long time, the silence stretching out between them like the dim street ahead of them. The dull ache in her foot was beginning to worsen as the alcohol slowly wore off – but Zara couldn’t bring herself to care. It wasn’t like it was her first broken bone, if it even was broken. Her head came to rest on the back of his shoulder, near the crook of her arm, and she could hear his gentle breaths in the bustling hum of the city. It occurred to her in that moment that she could in fact summon her suit, but that was a task for her future self. It wasn’t like she could turn into a glowing red-and-gold maniac with all these people around, anyway. She’d heal herself up once she got back to the apartment – but for now, this was perfect. And Zara was finding she could get used to perfect.
“He loves you, you know.” Jake’s voice was low, snapping her out of her reverie.
Zara felt her stomach flip at his words, her heart thrumming against her chest so fast she was sure he could feel it. “What?”
“Marc,” Jake murmured. He shook his head slightly. “He might never admit it out loud, but he does.”
The silence stretched on again, Zara searching it for an answer. Her heart felt like it might actually burst out of her chest, and she rested her chin on Jake’s shoulder. “How do you know?”
“I just do.”
Zara smiled despite herself, her face lighting up in the dim street. She cleared her throat. “Do you think Steven would mind me throwing him under the bus?”
“Please, Steven adores you.” Jake told her, with a decisive roll of his eyes. “You could probably push that pendejo in front of the bus and he’d say thank you.” He tilted his head, his voice an almost perfect mimic of Steven’s. “And offer you some tea, as a parting gift.”
Zara laughed, the sound echoing a little through the street. “And you?”
Jake huffed a little chuckle. “Haven’t decided.”
“Right.” Zara rolled her head around, tilting it to look at him. “Because you’d definitely carry me for four blocks on your back if you didn’t like me.”
“I’m just a giver by nature,” he responded, and she snorted. “What, you don’t believe me?”
“I believe you’re full of shit,” Zara teased. Jake hitched her higher, the swift movement giving him the opportunity to pinch her on the thigh. Zara yelped, smacking him on the shoulder. “Mudak.”
He laughed, the sound rattling through her chest pressed to his back.
The tiredness came then, rushing over her like a wave – and Zara rested her head against his back again, her arms still loosely around his front. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the alcohol, or the throbbing pain in her foot (or, more likely, a combination of all three). Or maybe, just maybe, it was a crack in her walls – the final pillar of defences coming down, baring her soul to the world in a way she’d always wanted, but never quite had the courage to allow. Zara let out a small sigh, her voice a low murmur against his back.
“I love them, too.”
Jake didn’t respond for a while, the now quiet streets stretching on around them. Finally his voice came back, a low hum of notes. “And me?”
Zara smiled, her arms tightening slightly around him. She could feel his thumb running over the outside of her thigh as he held them in place, the warmth of his back seeping into her, protecting her from the chill of the night. Finally she shrugged a shoulder, her answer burying itself into the fabric of his shirt.
“Haven’t decided.”
* * *
It’s done.
Her fingers felt numb as she typed the message, sending it before she could think about the implications. Zara wouldn’t judge her, she knew – the woman was trained to be an assassin from childhood, after all. So why did Layla feel so…tainted?
She’d done what had to be done. For her father, for herself – it wasn’t like Raul Bushman hadn’t deserved it. He had to pay for the murder of her father, for the countless innocent lives he’d stripped away. She didn’t regret it. Killing him hadn’t made her feel better, but it hadn’t made her feel worse, either.
Layla had made it back to Egypt before contacting anyone. If she was honest, she’d needed the time alone, to gather her thoughts. Part of her still couldn’t believe the events that had led her here – after trying to kill the wrong man, having that very man and his sort-of partner offer to help her rid the world of the blight that was Raul Bushman had not been on Layla’s bingo card. If she was honest, she hadn’t even been sure she was going to come out of her altercation with Marc Spector alive. Much less with two new…friends? That was what Zara had called them. If nothing else, she supposed, at least she had one person to give bestow that title onto.
But for now, she was alone. Layla wandered aimlessly through the dim pathways, entirely counting on the darkness to keep her secrets. This temple had been a favourite of her father’s – the temple of Opet, an odd little building built in the Ptolemaic era, dropped in the cluster of temples at Karnak. She’d never quite understood why he’d liked it so much – it wasn’t even built by Egyptians, she used to tell him. His voice seemed to echo through her mind as she wandered, her hand just barely brushing a column.
No matter who ruled us, Little Scarab – we were always Egyptians.
A shuddering breath tore its way out of her lungs then, a silent sob wracking her chest. Suddenly Layla felt her knees give out, the cold stone her only consolation in the silent night air as her grief and the weight of the past years wracked her body. She heaved and heaved, her breaths becoming laboured, but no sound came out – it was as though her voice was stuck in her throat, like honey. The memories played out in front of her like a tragic play, a supercut of all that was and all that could have been. Finally a small cry escaped her lips, her voice finally freeing itself from her throat like debris caught in a current – and then the river began to flow again. Layla splayed her hands on the ground, bracing herself, the tears falling now in streams, her chest feeling like it was caving in on itself. He was gone. He was gone, and he was never coming back.
The tears falling from her face became acquainted with the cold stone floor, marking it in the dimness as she drew a ragged breath, forcing her lungs to take in air. Finally she went still, the night stretching on around her in its infinite silence, the temple of Opet as ancient and revered as it had been for millennia. It was a tangible thing, this silence – a weighted blanket thrown over the world, closing in on all sides. Layla sat back on her knees, glancing around in the darkness. There was no one else here. So why didn’t she feel alone?
Layla.
Her answer came to her in the form of a voice, drifting out of the darkness. Layla froze, her body recoiling instinctively – but somehow, she wasn’t afraid. The voice made her feel…familiar. Mafdet instantly sprang into her mind, the image of the cheetah goddess simmering in her mind’s eye – but this wasn’t her. This voice, this presence, it was different. It was…warm.
He told me you might come here.
The voice was high-pitched, and strangely bubbly. Layla reeled for a moment, blinking into the dark. Her voice came out cracked from disuse. “Who’s there?”
Oh, sorry! The voice exclaimed, apologetic. Might help if you could see who you were talking to, wouldn’t it?
Layla blinked again. “What?”
Suddenly the temple lit up, bathing Layla in a gentle golden light. Slowly she rose to her feet, turning on her heels to gaze around in a mix of wonder and confusion. When she turned back to the top of the temple, a figure was waiting for her. Layla gasped, the sight of the deity sending her staggering back. “Who – who – ”
Oh, dear – you’ve been crying. The goddess looked down at her sympathetically, her enormous hippopotamus head somehow the perfect picture of understanding. She was massive, and Layla knew she should’ve been intimidated – but something about her was so kind, so benevolent, that Layla couldn’t help but step closer. The goddess clasped her hands. So sorry, I should have introduced myself first, how rude of me! I am Taweret, goddess of –
“Women and children,” Layla finished, her eyes flying wide. She cleared her throat. “I…uh, I know who you are.”
Wonderful! Taweret practically beamed with pride. Oh, he did say you were a bright one.
Layla reeled. “What – who are you talking about?”
Why – your father, of course, Taweret informed her, her hands spreading wide. He never stops talking about you, you know. So proud of his wonderful daughter, and all.
Now Layla did step back, as if she’d been pushed, her stomach flipping over. Her voice came out cracked. “My – my father?”
Yes, dear. Taweret stepped forward then, hands out, as if she was afraid she’d spook her. He never stopped talking about you, even when I took him to the Field of Reeds.
The Field of Reeds. Layla felt like the air had been pushed out of her lungs, but her chest flooded with a kind of warmth – and the tears returned, pressing against the backs of her eyes – one thought playing on a loop in her mind. He made it. He made it.
She glanced back up at the goddess, forcing her voice past the lump growing in her throat. “Is he – is he happy?”
Oh, yes dear. Taweret assured her, giving her a small smile. He is at peace.
Layla let out a little laugh then, mixed with a sobbing sound she didn’t quite recognise. He’d made it. He’d made it, and he was happy. And his killer would never hurt anyone else, ever again.
A thought sprang into her mind. “Wait – why did you take him to the Field of Reeds? That wasn’t your job.”
Ah, yes. Taweret clasped her hands again, wringing them a little. Well it was my job for a while, you see, but then old Anubis came back. I wasn’t really cut out for it anyway, so I didn’t mind. She smiled. But taking your father through the Duat was certainly a highlight.
Layla nodded slowly, the goddess’ words gradually clicking together in her mind. “So, what are you doing here?”
I felt your pain, dear. Taweret walked a little closer, but Layla didn’t move. I wanted to make sure you were all right.
Layla wasn’t used to feeling this way around a god – normally they had her feeling on edge, or even threatened by them. They were powerful, and vengeful, and rarely kind. They always wanted something.
Layla glanced back up, locking eyes with the goddess. “You want an avatar.”
Taweret sighed. Of course. I haven’t been on this plane in some time – being busy with all the hearts to be weighed, and all – and I’d love for it to be you, Layla. She paused. But I would never try to push you. If this is what you want, I’ll give it to you. If not – Taweret spread a hand, the gesture gentle. You only have to say so.
The thoughts ran loops in her mind then, faster and faster. Mafdet had felt like a trap – a trap she’d barely gotten out of, only because she’d been able to see how she’d nearly gone off the deep end. Mafdet had enabled her – her rage, her grief – and she’d felt out of control. Layla never wanted to feel that way again.
But being around Taweret was different. The goddess was compassionate, gentle, her eyes looking down on Layla kindly and effortlessly patient. She’d taken her father to the Field of Reeds, to an afterlife of endless bliss. She’d given a restless soul happiness. And there was nothing, nothing in the world Layla had ever wanted more than that. Zara had Sekhmet, and Layla could see even in her limited view how the goddess was really just an extension of the woman herself – powerful, tempestuous – but compassionate and just, too. When Layla looked at Taweret, an old feeling swelled in her chest, a feeling that she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. If Sekhmet was an extension of her friend’s passion, Taweret could be an embodiment of Layla’s hope. And if there was one thing she needed to feel again, it was hope. Steven Grant’s voice echoed through her head: Maybe you just haven’t found the right goddess.
And maybe, he was right. Maybe, all she needed was right here, in front of her after all these years of searching.
Finally Layla nodded, looking up into the goddess’ eyes. “I accept.”
Wonderful! Taweret practically lit up, clasping her hands together in pure excitement. I’m so happy you decided to be my avatar, I can’t even tell you! There’s so much we can do, so many places we can go – and, oh yes,” she turned back to Layla then.
Layla smiled despite herself. “What is it?”
Before we get started, I must tell you, Taweret beamed. I have a fabulous costume in mind.