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queenclaudiabrown · 1 year ago

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Living Legend | Chapter Seven: Mogart

Content warnings: canon warnings and triggers for the media used and referenced; uncensored cussing (including the word ‘bitch’ used derogatorily) Media: Moon Knight S1E3 “The Friendly Type”; Primeval tie-in novel Fire and Water by Simon Guerrier Word Count: 4,992

Night fell as they cruised down the Nile, the multicolored lights of the glorious nighttime cityscape on either side as their own felucca’s lights flooded Sarah’s vision with purple, the violet and amethystine filtering over all other colors.

Marc and Layla sat apart- from the partyers on the boat and each other. Feeling a little uncomfortable at the way the two more or less glared at each other from opposite sides of the boat, Sarah decided to remain neutral and sit down between them, relatively speaking.

“So what exactly are we gonna do here? What’s the plan?”

“Oh. It’s not pleasant being left in the dark, is it?” Layla mocked saccharinely.

Marc looked away for a moment, smothering the look of irritation that had brought to his features. “Okay. I get that you’re not happy about me leaving so quickly and coming to Cairo. I understand.”

“Wait, is that your apology?” Marc went to continue, but Layla wasn’t done being sarcastic. “That’s good. That’s really good.”

“Just so we can get through tonight, maybe let’s just give our shit a rest for a moment and just try to strategize before we get to….” He gestured vaguely in the direction they were heading, but trailed off as he realized he didn’t know the name of the person they were going to see.

“Mogart’s.”

“…Mogart.”

“Just so you know, I’m not here to help you.” Layla snapped. “I’m here for me and for everyone else who would die if Harrow succeeds, and for Sarah, because she’d have come running after you and Steven with or without me and I actually kind of like her and don’t want her to die because she gives a damn.”

“I am so not getting involved in this.” Sarah said, pushing to her feet. “I’m getting a drink for me and privacy for you.” With that, she strolled away, in search of something alcoholic. She was rather relieved that Layla had come to like her, even a little, as it meant she was probably safe from being harmed or betrayed by her. Also, she believed Layla to be a decent person with a moral character, so she appreciated the tentative friendship.

The music changed, and at least one of the partyers started ululating to the song. Sarah got up and took her time weaving through the partying people and getting her drink, hoping to give the estranged couple the space and time they needed to resolve their argument enough to get on with the three’s (four’s?) shared goal. When she looked back at them, she was both surprised and relieved to see them leaning forward in their seats, their hands all together. Neither of them looked angry or annoyed anymore. She smiled softly. She didn’t know either of them too well, but she believed them to be good people who truly did care about each other, and she disliked the idea of people like Harrow and Khonshu coming between a married couple. She did wonder, though, how Steven would factor into their relationship.

They leaned back again, hands separating, and Layla tied her hair back. Deciding that the tender moment was over, Sarah returned to them, carrying her drink. “Are you two done fighting?”

“It’s a truce at the very least.” Marc replied.

They came to a stop at a dock, and Marc climbed out first. Layla all but threw her bag into his chest before stepping out herself, turning to offer Sarah a hand, but Sarah was already getting out.

“This guy’s got a lot of friends.” Marc noted.

“Yeah, and a lot with guns.” Layla warned.

“Great.” Sarah sighed. “More people potentially trying to kill me. I should be used to this by now.”

Marc stashed the bag away in the dock, but something on the water caught his eye. “What is it?” Layla asked as he stood. “Harrow’s men keeping tabs?”

Sarah saw it now- a small rubber dinghy a dozen or so meters away, moving slowly with a couple men inside. “I don’t know. It could be.” Marc admitted.

“Well, if it is them, hopefully they won’t come after us here. They’d probably not want to get themselves killed, or risk damaging something that might help them find and serve Ammit in a firefight.” Sarah said, trying to be optimistic and convince herself as she spoke.

Neither of her companions appeared relieved by her statements, but neither spoke against her. “Let’s go.” Layla said instead, and lead their way into the crowd. Shoulders squared, Sarah walked on Layla’s side opposite Marc. “Remember, your name is Rufino Estrada.”

“Right. We just got back from our honeymoon in the Maldives. That’s an interesting little detail to give to them.”

“I’d tell them you worked in a gift shop, but they’d never believe me, would they?” She returned.

“And I’m Tia Karim, your second cousin and occasional partner in crime looking to get my hands a little dirtier.” Sarah reiterated her cover to Layla. “Sure they’ll buy it?”

“You’re an Egyptologist; your interest is genuine and you’re knowledgeable. That’ll help.” Layla replied as they reached their destination. A fenced-in arena of sorts held a handful of men well and truly jousting on horseback, minus the medieval armor. In the background were two relatively small glass and metal pyramids, both illuminated from within.

“Bek.” Layla greeted as a black man in a suit came up to them.

“Layla.” He returned, sounding somewhere between friendly and courteous.

“It’s been a while.” The Egyptian woman commented, clapping her hand into Bek’s and shaking it.

“It’s good to see you. Right this way.”

“Thank you.” Layla took Marc’s hand, then unexpectedly hooked her elbow through Sarah’s. “Stay close, try not to look nervous.” She whispered.

“He’s looking forward to seeing you.” Bek said, seemingly having not heard Layla’s words. “After Madripoor I’m sure you two will have a lot to talk about. Excuse me for one moment. Mr. Mogart will be with you shortly.”

“So, what- this joker just puts on El-Mermah games in his backyard for fun?” Marc questioned cynically, observing the joust.

“No, he gets private lessons by the best in his backyard.” Layla corrected.

“Cool.” Marc returned, clearly not finding it ‘cool’. “I like the robe.” He seemed to mock as a white man- Mogart, probably- got off his horse and had what looked like a velvet robe put onto him by Bek.

“Layla. Come in.” The man said, confirming Sarah’s suspicions. “Such a delight to see you.”

“You too.” Her greeting seemed less genuine than it was to Bek, something Sarah took note of. She extended her hand, which Mogart kissed. Sarah fought down a cringe.

“How have you been?”

“Good. Thank you for having us over on such short notice.”

“Oh, please. I hope you realize you need no excuse to drop by.”�� Something about the way he said it seemed suggestive to Sarah. She hoped Marc wouldn’t ruin their mission by thrashing him until it was over.

Layla laid a hand on Marc’s shoulder. “This is my husband, Rufino.”

After a minute, Marc extended his hand. “Nice to meet you.” Lied Marc.

“Pleasure.” Mogart replied, eventually deigning to shake his hand. His eyes cut to Sarah. “And who is this lovely creature?”

“My cousin, Tia.” Layla answered, her voice holding a sharp edge that it hadn’t possessed during Marc’s introduction.

Bracing herself as subtly as possible, Sarah extended her hand, and very carefully did not show a trace of the disgust she felt when Mogart kissed her hand. The moment he let go of her hand, Sarah hooked her arm through Layla’s.

Together, the four of them headed toward one of the glass and metal pyramids. “I hope you understand this is more than a collection to me.” Mogart said. “Preserving history is a responsibility I take very seriously.”

“A self-appointed responsibility that you alone were able to enjoy, no?” Layla casually called him out on his rubbish.

“Well, I prefer to see it as a… philanthropic effort at preservation. Now, if I may ask, why such interest in Senfu in particular?”

Layla nudged Sarah ever-so-subtly, prodding her to speak. Putting on her tour guide voice with just a hint of boastfulness she often heard in Lester’s voice- what she wouldn’t do to have her old boss appear and smoothly bully Mogart into giving it to them-, she said, “I have a rather impressive collection of ancient Egyptian artefacts and historical items myself. Medjays like Senfu often go overlooked by collectors, archaeologists, so-called ‘experts’…” she let resentment and disdain bleed into her tone. “As you surely already know, in many historical texts, Senfu was tasked by several members of the Ennead: Shu, Nut, Atum-Ra, and Hathor most prominently. Such a prominent figure would have been given important duties and was obviously rewarded with special treatment after death.” She gave him a smile, saccharine and brilliant. “It isn’t you I doubt, Mr. Mogart, but who sold it to you. I’m something of a cryptozoologist, and hieroglyphs are my specialty.”

He canted his head with a shrug. “I understand. What about you?” He glanced at the couple.

“Oh, actually our purchases-” Layla began.

Mogart cut her off. “I’m sorry- I’d like to hear from your husband, if you don’t mind.”

On the spot, Marc struggled. “I think that… well, I think that I just would love to take a look.”

“Funny man.” Mogart said, watching him suspiciously. “Feel free.” He indicated the pyramid containing Senfu’s remains. Sarah breathed a sigh of relief, masking it with a (hopefully) charming smile. The three of them entered the structure.

“Please, just let Steven out before you blow this.” Layla requested of her husband.

“Not a chance.” He refused. “Whatever we need from myths and lore, Sarah can do. Alright, what do you see?”

“I’m not a sodding encyclopedia, or all-knowing.” Sarah snapped. Nevertheless, she began inspecting the sarcophagus.

“Well, the burial practices are in line with the Studenwachen texts.” Layla reported.

“The what?”

“Studenwachen- that’s one of the most critically-acclaimed Egyptian source texts in the Egyptology world.” Sarah replied.

“It’s legit.” Layla agreed. “But all I’m seeing is literature to guide the dead.”

“And no references to any special locations or tasks performed by the deceased.” Sarah agreed with a disappointed sigh.

“Okay, um…” Marc spoke up in a whisper, sighing. “Will you two give me a minute? I just have to- I gotta talk to Steven.” Sarah’s heart jumped at the name of her friend. “Just keep him occupied.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Sarah refuted. “Especially if you’re calling in Steven.”

“I’ll delay Mogart, you two- three, whatever- work this out.” Layla agreed, stepping out of the peaked structure before Marc could argue.

Sarah fixed Marc with a firm stare. “Don’t even try to push me out of this.”

Marc sighed, but returned his gaze to Senfu’s corpse. “Alright Steven, you wanna talk to me, talk to me. What now?” After a moment, his head raised, and he glared at the reflective panes of glass. “Damn it, there’s not time for this.” He gritted out. “If there’s something that you know, you gotta tell me.”

“Please, Steven.” Sarah took a chance by speaking.

“You want a bloodbath? Huh? Fine, have it your way.” Marc snapped at Steven.

Sarah spoke again. “If you can hear me, please listen to me and help us. Look, I’d love to chat with you again without going through him, but this right here in front of us is bigger than anything else at the moment. Neither of us want Ammit to rise, and if you help, we might be able to prevent that.”

Marc’s gaze traveled to the cartonnage. “Okay, what do I do?” A moment later, he pointed to a part of it. “This one?” Then, he picked it up carefully, only to fold the sides of that piece underneath it. “Like this?” He set it back down. “Wait a second….” He picked up another piece and began folding it, but didn’t get very far.

Bek had entered the pyramid without either of them noticing, and seized Marc by the arm, pulling him away. “Hey, what are you doing?” He demanded.

“Do we fight?” Sarah burst out in a panicked question.

Marc responded by combating the security guard, his moves to quick for Sarah to track and process, and a moment later he was pointing Bek’s own gun at him. “If necessary.” He replied.

“Marc!” Layla’s voice at the doorway drew their attention, and to Sarah’s horror she found the other woman standing with her hands up in surrender, two armed men pointing pistols at her. “Don’t.”

“Shit!” Marc swore in a low hiss. Reluctantly, he handed the gun back to Bek, who promptly snatched it out of his hands and leveled it at Marc.

Mogart stepped inside the pyramid. “Do you really think I’m an idiot?” He sneered at Marc, stepping up aggressively close to him and ignoring Sarah entirely. “Get on your knees.”

“Anton, stop!” Layla begged.

“Get on your knees!” Repeated Anton, more angrily this time. “You too, bitch.” He spat at Sarah.

The Egyptologist didn’t even bristle at the insult, swallowing thickly as she raised her hands and lowered herself into a kneel, one leg at a time. Heart pounding in her chest, she watched anxiously, eyes darting from person to person.

Satisfied that they were both kneeling, Mogart turned back to Layla. “Layla. I was so ready to make peace with you.” He sneered.

“You don’t understand. We’re trying to save many lives.” Layla implored.

“There is a whole literal cult out there that wants to find something Senfu buried and unleash it on the world.” Sarah supplied, voice shaking but clear. “If we can get to it first, we can prevent millions of deaths, if not more.”

“Hey, pal.” Marc spoke up, bringing Mogart’s attention from the women to himself. He gestured to Senfu’s body with his head. “Take a look inside the sarcophagus. There’s something really, really big.”

Hesitantly, Mogart went over to it, and Bek stepped up beside him to rattle some French into his ear. Sarah didn’t understand any of it.

He turned away from the sarcophagus, examining their facial expressions as he declared the news: “Well, that’s interesting. It appears we have a concerned third party here.”

“Harrow.” Sarah breathed in dread. “Mogart, please, if that’s who we think it is, he’s the one that wants to unleash the weapon. He’s willing to slaughter innocents if they don’t align perfectly with twisted ideals.”

But he ignored her, stepping out of the pyramid with an order to rise.

“Whatever they’ve told you, I’m sure I can offer you something much more tangible.” None other than Arthur Harrow told Mogart, striding in in his usual matching grape-purple outfit with Ammit’s cane staff thingy in his hand. On either side he was flanked by a black-clad lackey.

“Like mass destruction and the murder of children?” Sarah called out accusingly.

He ignored her, holding out his free hand. The scarab rose from his palm, hovering there. “Why settle for a clue when you can have the treasure?” He coaxed.

“But it’s not treasure you’re after.” Sarah insisted.

“Anton, Anton, don’t listen to his man.” Layla broke in. “He’s trying to stop us from reaching-”

“Please, stop.” Mogart cut in.

Sarah took a page from her enemies’ book and ignored him, directing her words toward Harrow. “You’re trying to unleash Ammit, and you said yourself that she will bring a slaughter with her. You said that she would even kill children. Please, Mr. Mogart, I’m begging you, don’t help him.”

“He’s gonna kill millions, trust me!” Layla agreed.

“Are you seriously talking about trust?” Sneered Anton back.

“Please.” Harrow interrupted. “There’s no need to descend into violent accusations.” He began walking toward them. “Each one of you has so much more in common than you know. Layla- you keep thinking that distance will prevent the wounds from your father’s murder from reopening.”

Sarah’s eyes widened. Murder? At Lagaro’s workshop Sarah had learned that the man was dead, but neither woman had given any indication that foul play had been involved.

“But something stands in your way- your husband doesn’t tell you the truth.” Harrow continued.

Sarah was suddenly sick at the implication. When his minions- ‘Fitzgerald and Kennedy’- had kidnapped her and Steven, the woman had revealed that Marc was a mercenary who had participated in a hit on a group of archaeologists, all of whom had been quite obviously murdered. And Layla’s father was an archaeologist… and dead. Whether Marc had been responsible for the man’s death, that was certainly what Harrow intended for Layla to believe.

“And Marc, you don’t tell her because you know that if you do, she’ll see you exactly as you see yourself- as unworthy of love.”

“You piece of shit.” Marc muttered venomously.

“Yeah, shut the bloody hell up.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “I don’t think a supporter of pedicide has a right to pass judgement on whether or not someone is worthy of love- or interfere in someone’s marriage.”

Harrow’s blue-eyed gaze moved to the Egyptologist. “And you, Sarah, you’re lost, aren’t you? I did some research on you. You have a birth certificate, a driver’s license, a flat… but your first legitimate documentation is only six months old. You turned up at a hospital in the middle of the night with serious injuries, found unconscious outside. You still haven’t paid all your bills. You’re running from something, and I have no idea how many time you must’ve changed your identity to escape it.”

Sarah frowned. She would’ve expected a man who was Avatar to one primordial god and indirectly served another to be a little more open-minded about her origins.

“You know nothing about me.” She declared. “And you know nothing about right and wrong, about the greater good, about justice.”

“Anton-” Harrow turned to him and held up the cane, which was glowing purple again. Sarah gulped, certain that he was about to unleash another jackal on them. “-the lore surrounding these relics… I offer proof that it’s real.” He moved away from Anton, eyes locking onto Senfu’s sarcophagus. “This sarcophagus… it doesn’t belong to anyone.”

The lights flickered, and Sarah’s mocha eyes went to Marc, whose own gaze was trained on something high in the distance. It was likely Khonshu again, and right now Sarah wished in a moment of desperation and despair that she were his Avatar, so that she could transform into a powerful figure and stop Harrow before things went to the dogs.

“Anton, would you like to see for yourself?” Offered Harrow.

The collector nodded. “Yes, I do.”

The wind picked up, stirring dramatically around them- whether a sign of Khonshu’s power or Ammit’s, Sarah didn’t know- as Harrow raised the cane. The violet energy grew as Harrow began to chant in Coptic- the same one he had used to summon the jackal in the commune, from what Sarah could tell- and the lights began flickering madly again. Harrow’s chants grew louder, more emphatic, but instead of Marc seeing a jackal, they all saw a purple mist form around Senfu’s sarcophagus, swirling around it.

“No!” Sarah shouted, but she was powerless to do anything but watch in horror as their lead was destroyed. The powerful cloud vanished, and Harrow turned away triumphantly.

“That’s just a taste of the godly power I offer.” He boasted enticingly to Mogart.

“‘Offer’?” Sarah seethed, anger sprouting from both her dismay at the loss of the sarcophagus before their research was finished and every one of Harrow’s past actions that she was aware of. “Like you offered food and clothing to that poor sod in London before you murdered him instead? You didn’t even use the cane to see if he was a bad person or not; you just outright murdered him when his only crime was having innocently picked up your precious scarab!”

But he ignored her, departing calmly with only a final glance over his shoulder- though Sarah got the impression it was meant for Marc or Layla more than her. Sarah scowled after him anyway.

“Hey, he’s gone!” An unfamiliar male voice called.

Sarah turned to discover that ‘he’ was Marc.

“Where is he?” Mogart demanded.

In unintentional sync, Sarah and Layla’s gazes lifted and moved to the same place at the same time: the peaked top of the pyramid that housed the paltry ashen remains of Senfu’s sarcophagus. Marc stood there, clad once again in the lunar armor, his eyes glowing visibly even to them with the same silvery-white light of the first quarter moon glowing through the thin clouds behind him. He made for an imposing figure- perhaps intimidating to Mogart and his band of idiotic thugs, but a symbol of hope and security to Sarah and Layla more than Superman and Captain America ever were.

Bek was the first to act, hauling Mogart to the side. Marc hurled a crescent blade down, killing the man guarding Layla and Sarah. He hit the ground and Layla wasted no time bending down to snatch the man’s weapon up for herself.

Another guard fired at Marc with his pistol, but it seemed ineffectual as Marc leapt down, his cloak flying outward to spread into a- lo and behold- crescent moon shape. He made his landing by planting both feet into the shooter’s chest, bringing him straight to the ground.

The crowd of civilian onlookers screamed and clamored as they fled, but the jousters prepared for battle as their horses whinnied. Layla was shooting down guards, and Sarah looked around frantically for a firearm of her own. The first time she had ever taken a human life- a day and event she had long tried to push to the back of her mind- she had tried to console herself with the technicality that she only trapped them with a creature that then did the actually killing for her, though her traitorous brain reminded her that that was called ‘murder by proxy’. She had never used her stolen gun to shoot and kill anyone, but now it looked like she was going to have to.

She ended up snatching the pistol from the man who had shot at Marc, but had no chance to use it before a half-dozen or more men advanced on them, all shooting at the three. Sarah whirled and her eyes caught on Layla- the former running to the latter as he grabbed the sides of his cloak. His head turned to Sarah and he beckoned her over with it, and she wasted no time dashing over to them. Half a second later, Marc whipped the garment around all three of them. Bullets struck it without penetrating, implying it was much more than just grey cloth.

“Buy me some time.” Layla told Marc, looking up at him from the shelter of his cloak.

“I can do that.” He asserted. His head turned slightly toward Sarah, since merely turning his eyes would be a useless gesture. “Watch her back.”

Sarah nodded gravely. “I will.” She assured. She tightened her sweaty-palmed grip on the plastic handle of the gun.

Marc whipped his cloak from around them, using the momentum to spin through the air at a diagonal and fling all the bullets caught by his cape at the shooters, killing most or all of them.

That was all Sarah had time to see before she had to focus entirely on Layla, who was making a mad dash for what was left of Senfu’s sarcophagus. Sarah paused in the pyramid’s doorway, gun clasped in both hands as she turned her back to Layla. “Is there anything left?” She queried, risking a glance over her shoulder.

Layla hurriedly rifled through the paltry remains. “I think so. Hope it’ll be enough.”

Sarah let out a tiny sigh of relief, but as she turned her head back to face outside again, something hard struck her temple and she found herself sprawled on the sandy ground, the impact of her landing loosening her grip on the gun enough for the weapon to leave her hold. Dazed, she watched Bek step over her immobilized form, staring Layla down.

Layla didn’t hesitate to fight the man she’d been friendly toward, flinging a handful of shards of glass from the sarcophagus at his face before kicking him in the groin and snatching up something Sarah didn’t have the presence of mind to identify to hit him with. He knocked it from her grasp and the two engaged in hand-to-hand combat.

Sarah willed herself to utilize the adrenaline coursing through her veins to overcome the pain and dizziness from Bek’s blow. With a whimpering grunt, she rolled onto her stomach, planting her hands to push herself up. One hand left the ground, reaching for the gun and she shoved herself toward it, chest meeting the earth again as her sandy palm landed on the grip.

Suddenly, Layla landed facedown on the ground beside her, having been thrown around by Bek. The Egyptian woman raised herself partially off the ground, reaching up to grab her necklace and literally break it apart. Sarah, pushing herself up again and dragging the gun to point in front of her (albeit still resting on the ground), turned her swimming head to look at her. They exchanged nods, a hundred unspoken words passing between them- not in a romantic way, but in an assurance that they were both alright enough and were going to handle the situation together.

Layla was on her feet first as Bek more or less charged with a knife. She slashed at him with both pieces of her necklace- one deflecting his own blade toward his stomach and away from her, the other slicing at his face. She took a running leap at Bek, backing him against the sarcophagus as she embedded the ends of her necklace halves into his chest with a yell.

She didn’t stick around to watch her maybe-friend’s passing; she whirled around and rushed back toward the entrance, stopping to extend an arm to Sarah. The British woman clasped her hand just below Layla’s elbow, the Egyptian mimicking her hold and pulling her to her feet. “You alright?” Layla asked as they ran outside.

“Might have a concussion, but I can fight. For now.”

“Good enough.” Layla declared, swiping a handgun off the ground since she’d apparently lost hers.

Sarah was horrified to see Marc in the jousting arena- more specifically, that Marc was pinned down on his knees by several lances and spears literally piercing through him, the Avatar held in place by several men.

Layla planted a hand on the fence and swung herself over it with ease as she ran for her husband; Sarah took a few seconds longer, placing both hands on it (although one was mostly occupied with the gun) and halfway sitting on it as she brought her legs over. She blamed the head injury.

Nonetheless, both women were now in the arena- literally and metaphorically- and Layla raised her gun and shot down a rider heading for Marc with another spear in his hand. Neither woman noticed Anton similarly riding toward them until it was too late. He struck Layla from behind with his own weapon, taking them both down by domino-effect.

“Layla!” Marc’s voice, somewhere between terrified and furious, rang out in the night air. When it hurt less, Sarah would reflect on how concerned he was for his wife despite at least three javelins going entirely through his body and anchoring him to the ground.

Sarah, having landed on her back instead of eating the ground again, brought the gun clasped in both hands to point at Anton as he rode up to a cylindrical object from which even more spears protruded. Adjusting her aim just enough to hopefully avoid hitting the horse, she kept the muzzle of her weapon trained on him as Layla slowly moved off her.

Sarah rolled onto her stomach, sparing a glance toward Marc just before the mask and hood reformed over his face and head, eyes bright once more as he burst into action, breaking and ejecting the spears and defeating the men in just a few seconds. When Sarah looked back toward Anton, she realized what had given him the strength to do so- the collector was now positioned directly across from Marc, Sarah and Layla in his path. If he charged Marc like it looked like he planned to, the women would be trampled.

Moving faster than Sarah though possible, she drew her legs up under herself and kicked off, plowing her body a few feet forward in the sand and out of harm’s way. Marc sprinted forward as Anton charged and grabbed Layla, rolling with her out of danger’s path. But even as Marc drew a semicircular blade from his chest to end the man, Sarah- who didn’t see him doing that- raised her gun once more and finally squeezed off a shot. The bullet caught Anton a few inches below his neck, and his grunt of pain was punctuated by his dead body thumping to the ground a half-second before his horse vanished into the fog.

Panting with exertion, Sarah rolled onto her back and lifted her head to check on Layla and Marc. The latter was on one knee, helping Layla to her feet almost identically to how the woman had gotten Sarah up just minutes earlier. “You okay?” He asked.

“Yeah.” Layla panted out. “Sarah?”

“I’m alright.” Sarah fudged, knowing that she was asking about life-threatening injuries more than anything. “But I really need a paracetamol.”

“We have medical supplies in the bag.” Layla assured, staggering toward her with Marc right beside her. He reached down and Sarah took his hand, allowing him to pull her up.

“Do you have it?” Marc asked Layla.

“Yeah. We need a car.”

“Yeah, come on.”

Sarah's alias of Tia Karim is the name of Laila Rouass' character on The Sarah Jane Adventures.

#primeval #moon knight #living legend #sarah page #marc spector #layla el faouly #anton mogart #arthur harrow #queenclaudiabrown

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anonymousewrites · 9 months ago

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Burden of Truth (Book 1) Chapter Nine

Father Figure! Marc Spector x Teen! Reader

Father Figure! Steven Grant x Teen! Reader

Mother Figure! Layla El-Faouly x Teen! Reader

Chapter Nine: In the Skies

Summary: (Y/N), Marc, and Layla fight for their lives and work with the gods to discover the location of Ammit's tomb.

(Y/N), Marc, and Layla stood still as the guards kept their guns trained on them. A single wrong move would get them shot, and they were in a bad enough position without being injured or dead.

Mogart approached Marc, eyes narrowed. “Do you really think I’m an idiot? Get on your knees.”

(Y/N)’s eyes widened. “No, don’t!” A guard grabbed them roughly and jerked them back.

“Anton, don’t!” said Layla in alarm, but another guard grabbed her arm to keep her from trying anything.

“Get on your knees,” repeated Mogart.

Clenching his jaw, Marc got down on his knees.

Satisfied, Mogart looked back at Layla and tutted. “Layla, I was so ready to make peace with you.”

“You don’t understand. We’re trying to save many lives,” said Layla.

“Hey, pal. Take a look inside the sarcophagus,” said Marc. “There’s something really, really big.”

Lie. A trick with enough possibility of proverbial truth to lure Mogart closer.

He stepped towards the sarcophagus, but Bek stopped him. He leaned down to Mogart’s ear and spoke in hushed French.

“There’s someone here to see you. He claims to know these three’s true identities and has information for your collection,” said Bek, and (Y/N)’s mind translated it in a instance.

“Well, that’s interesting,” said Mogart, cocking his head and looking around at the group. “It appears we have a concerned third party here.” He stepped into the doorway, and the guards forced (Y/N), Marc, and Layla after him.

Walking towards them with allies on either side was Harrow. “Whatever they’ve told you, I’m sure I can offer you something much more tangible.” Straight to the point.

He lifted the scarab, gleaming gold in the moonlight. Mogart’s greedy eyes landed on the scarab hungrily.

“Why settle for a clue when you can have the treasure?” suggested Harrow.

Lie, lie, lie! “Don’t listen to him, he won’t give you anything!” said (Y/N), and the cold metal of a gun pressed into their head. (Y/N) quieted, and the gun was pulled back slightly.

“Anton. Anton, don’t listen to this man,” said Layla forcefully as they were dragged back across the lawn. “He’s trying to stop us from reaching—”

“Please, stop,” snapped Mogart.

“He’s gonna kill millions, trust me!” said Layla.

Mogart scoffed. “Are you seriously talking about trust?”

“Please, there’s no need to descend into violent accusations,” said Harrow, acting as the ever-calm sage. “Each of you has so much more in common than you know.” Harrow looked at Layla. “Layla, you keep thinking that distance will prevent the wounds from your father’s murder from reopening. But something stands in your way. Your husband doesn’t tell you the truth.” Layla and (Y/N) furrowed their brows and looked at Marc in confusion. He shook his head, but that didn’t stop Harrow from speaking. “And Marc, you don’t tell her because you know that if you do, she’ll see you exactly as you see yourself, as unworthy of love.”

“You piece of shit,” said Marc, narrowing his eyes.

“And (Y/N)—” Harrow’s gaze landed on them, and, instinctively, they avoided eye-contact, unable to sustain it “—you think that the only way you deserve to live is by serving a god because if you don’t, you might as well have died in 2018.”

Flinching, (Y/N) squeezed their hand into a fist. Their nails dug into their palm, and they focused on the sensation. Anything but that memory. Anything but that thought. Anything but that agony.

Satisfied, Harrow lifted his cane, and the stones glowed purple. The light reflected in Mogart’s enchanted gaze. “The lore surrounding these relics, I offer proof that it’s real.” He looked around. “This sarcophagus doesn’t belong to anyone.”

“Do it. Summon the suit.” Khonshu’s voice echoed across the lawn.

“Call it to you,” said Ma’at, and (Y/N) glanced to the roof to see her standing with Khonshu.

“Give them what they deserve,” said Khonshu.

“Anton. Would you like to see for yourself?” said Harrow.

Almost hypnotized by the prospect of power, Mogart nodded and approached Harrow. “I do.”

Harrow began to chant in Coptic, and (Y/N) shivered as the words translated and Ammit’s power filtered into the staff.

“You must act!” said Ma’at.

How? (Y/N) wanted to scream. They’d fought twice, and only once against Harrow’s power. How were they supposed to understand how to act in a situation they had barely encountered?

“What are you waiting for?” snapped Khonshu.

Inside the pyramid, purple light and smoke swirled around the sarcophagus. The coffin collapsed into dust, and the light dispersed. Mogart stared in shock.

“That’s just a taste of the godly power I offer,” said Harrow, walking away calmly.

Mogart turned eagerly towards Layla, Marc, and (Y/N). With a single order, he could kill them and get some of the power Harrow held.

Mogart frowned. “Where is he?”

Marc was gone. The guards looked around in confusion, but Layla and (Y/N) knew where to look. They raised their gazes to another glass pyramid. In his suit, Marc stood and looked down on the men threatening two people Marc wanted to protect.

He raised his arms, flicked his wrists, and the battle began. Two moon-shaped knives spun through the air and landed in the arms of the men attempting to drag Layla and (Y/N) away. Layla grabbed one of the guns from the ground and slammed into another guard while Marc lunged at several shooting at him.

Come on, come on!

(Y/N)’s suit appeared, wrapping around them as they dodged the men grabbing for them. The blue cloth strips wrapped around their hands, (Y/N) reared back, and they punched with heightened strength. The guard they hit went flying and hit another on a horse (fortunately, the horse wasn’t hurt).

At the shots, the people at the carnival screamed and ran, but the men still on horseback grabbed their lances to fight for their employer. Several guards fell to Layla’s shooting, and (Y/N) threw one into the way of others, giving Marc a moment to finish them.

Bullets whizzed by their shoulders, and (Y/N) flinched. The men guarding the carnival were approaching through the dirt track, shooting all the while. Marc grabbed Layla and pulled her under his cloak. The bullets hit the cloth but didn’t go through. Seeing (Y/N), Marc pulled them into the protective cape as well.

Logically, it was likely (Y/N) had similar protection from injury, but Marc couldn’t risk that, and he refused to let go of them or Layla as the firing continued.

“Buy me some time,” said Layla, looking at Marc. “And keep an eye on (Y/N).”

“I can do that,” said Marc.

“I can help,” said (Y/N) forcefully. They had been paralyzed by Ma’at’s demand, but they saw Marc fighting, and they knew they had to be as strong. So they would be.

Marc turned, flipped, and flicked his cloak. The bullets sailed through the air and hit their former shooters, felling the guards. (Y/N) felt their suit for weapons. Last time, they’d been running on adrenaline and barely gotten to figure out what they could do with the suit. Now, they found several daggers shaped like ostrich feathers. The gods definitely liked their themes.

(Y/N) trusted their instincts, reared back, and threw their daggers. They reformed into their holsters after, but the previous hit the opponents (Y/N) was up against. Not waiting to rest on their laurels, (Y/N) kept moving and striking the guards.

Behind them, Marc ran into the horse track and engaged in hand-to-hand combat against the men. Several quickly fell to him, his stamina and strength too much to them. (Y/N) turned towards the pyramids again. Eyes widening, they saw Layla fighting, and struggling, against Bek.

“Layla!” cried (Y/N), running to her.

They grabbed Bek and threw him back. His body went through the glass and hit the ground. Bek groaned and stood up, but at that point, Layla was grabbing what she was trying steal and running at him. She pulled her necklace off, took the sharp ends, and stabbed through Bek’s chest. He gasped and fell back again.

“Go, go!” said Layla, rushing out with (Y/N).

They ran to the track where Marc was stabbed through with several lances (Steven had come back out and gotten overwhelmed). Riding on a horse, another man was approaching to attack. Layla grabbed a gun from the ground and fired. The guard fell.

Steering his own horse towards them, Mogart galloped towards them. He swung his lance at Layla, and (Y/N) pushed her out of the way. The pole hit them, and they were knocked down to the ground.

Marc’s mask disappeared, and he stared in worry as Mogart gabbed a spear, complete with a rounded tip, and turned back towards Layla and (Y/N). Marc’s mask reformed, and Marc snapped the impaled spears. Angry, he pulled out the spears and drove them into his attackers. Within moments, the guards were dead in the dirt, and Marc turned to face Mogart on his horse. The two stared each other down. Layla and (Y/N) were directly in between them, though Layla was trying to pull (Y/N) to the side.

Mogart kicked the side of his horse. Marc ran forward. Lowering his spear, Mogart charged, but Marc was there first. He grabbed Layla and (Y/N). Pulling them to the side, he whirled and threw a dagger back at Mogart. It hit his back, and he fell from his horse.

Leaving the body, Marc knelt and helped Layla guide (Y/N) to their feet. “You alright?”

(Y/N) nodded and winced. “Just a bruise. I’m still getting used to this.”

Layla smiled and squeezed their shoulder. “You’re doing fine.”

At the praise, (Y/N) ducked their head in embarrassment. Clearing their throat, they tried to make eye-contact but quickly opted to just speak. “Um, did you grab what you needed?”

Layla nodded. “I grabbed what Marc was messing with.”

“Good,” said Marc. “Now we just need a car.”

“Come on,” said Layla, leading the way.

Marc and (Y/N)’s suits melted away and they followed.

Cairo zipped by as Layla drove them out of the city and the light pollution so they could properly look at the star map Steven had recognized in Senfu’s sarcophagus.

After he bandaged himself, Marc groaned as he looked at the holes in his jacket. “Ay. I really liked that jacket. Oh, well.” He tossed it to the back beside (Y/N).

“What was Harrow talking about?” said Layla, as straightforward as ever.

Marc froze and looked at her. Evasively, he averted his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“He said I had a right to know,” said Layla.

“I have no idea,” said Marc as he turned and grabbed a fresh shirt from Mogart’s stash in the back. He made eye-contact with (Y/N) and looked away. He knew (Y/N) had felt his lie.

“I never told anyone why I really moved,” said Layla. She gripped the steering wheel tighter. “But he knew. He just saw right through me.”

“He does that,” murmured (Y/N), pulling on a hoodie they’d found. Stubbornly, desperately, they pushed back thoughts on Harrow’s words to them.

“He just messes with everyone,” said Marc, looking between Layla and (Y/N). “Don’t let him do that. Just don’t. He’s got this idea that he can see the true nature of people or some baloney like that. If that were true, I don’t think he’d have a bunch of homicidal maniacs as his disciples, would he?”

“So it’s not true? What he said about you and—”

“No, it’s not true,” said Marc.

Lie. (Y/N) kept their mouth tightly shut.

“He’s just trying to divide us. Don’t let him get in your head,” said Marc.

Layla took a deep breath and let out a frustrated sigh. Trying not to snap at Marc for keeping so many secrets, she looked in the rearview mirror at (Y/N).

“Are you alright, (Y/N)?” she asked.

(Y/N) pursed their lips as they decided how to respond. “I’m recovering from the fight.”

Layla narrowed her eyes. “I meant with Harrow.” She wasn’t letting (Y/N) avoid the issue.

“…I don’t want to talk about it,” said (Y/N), looking firmly out the window.

Layla and Marc exchanged a worried look.

“Try this one,” said Marc, handing another scrap of cloth to Layla and (Y/N), but the torn map wasn’t coming back together.

“Um, no, anything else?” said Layla.

“It’s all just fragments,” said (Y/N) ruefully, shaking their head.

Marc hit the hood of the jeep in frustration. Groaning, he hung his head. “This is gonna take forever.”

Layla looked at him evenly. “Marc, we need Steven.”

Marc put his head in his hands. Weariness was written into every line of his face.

“He understands all of this. I really think it’s worth giving him a shot,” said Layla.

“I summon the gods; you summon the worm,” scoffed Khonshu. “He won’t return the body.”

“Marc,” said (Y/N), and he looked at them. “I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“Marc, we don’t have time,” said Layla, urging him.

Marc pulled the side mirror from the jeep, gathered up the map scraps, and walked a few paces away to talk with Steven. Concerned, (Y/N) watched him go.

Layla groaned. “He can’t seriously be fighting again with Steven.”

“Give him a moment,” said (Y/N), believing in Marc and Steven. They were different but both good men. (Y/N) trusted them.

Sure enough, the man knelt and began putting parts of the cloth together. (Y/N) smiled. Steven was there.

Surprised and still unused to the situation, Layla approached, and (Y/N) followed.

“Don’t need that,” murmured Steven, the British accent having returned with him. “I don’t need that.”

Layla and (Y/N) sat down next to him.

“Steven?” said Layla, unsure of herself.

He looked up. He paused. He smiled. “Egyptians invented modern navigation,” he said excitedly. “There’s not a lot of landmarks in the desert.” Steven crouched in the sand and began working again. “So they came up with a way to get about using the sun and the stars. It’s bloody genius, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” said (Y/N), and Layla nodded, gazing at him softly.

“Et voila.” Steven held up an, ironically, star-shaped map, taped together.

“Wow,” said Layla, looking at it.

“It’s French,” said Steven.

“I know,” laughed Layla. She and Steven stared at each other, and (Y/N) looked between them in confusion. Clearing her throat, Layla focused. “So, what do we do with it?”

“Well, I’m not sure, but if…” Steven stood and trailed off as he realized there were pinpricks through the map. “Hang on a minute. You see that? You see those little pinpricks there?”

“That’s a constellation,” said (Y/N).

“We should be able to triangulate the stars into coordinates, right?” said Layla. She held up a piece of equipment from the jeep.

“It’s not that simple,” said (Y/N), shaking their head. “Senfu made the map two thousand years ago. The stars drift over time, not a lot, but enough to change the sky we see from the map.”

Steven nodded. “It could mean the difference between us searching miles away from where we’re supposed to be looking. So unless we know exactly what the sky looked like on that date…we’re buggered.”

“I remember the night,” said Khonshu.

(Y/N) and Steven looked up. He stood on the sand dunes, and Ma’at was beside him.

“As do I,” she said. “Khonshu is the guardian of the night. I lend balance to the cosmos, the stars. We have lived a thousand years and know each day and night by heart.”

“Is it Khonshu and Ma’at?” said Layla as the two stared at the dunes.

(Y/N) nodded, and they and Steven walked up towards the gods. Layla followed, brow furrowed since she couldn’t hear the gods speaking.

Steven cleared his throat. “Khonshu.”

“We can turn back the night sky,” said Khonshu.

“How?” said (Y/N).

“It will come at a cost,” said Ma’at.

(Y/N) looked at Steven. “She said it will come at a cost.”

“And we cannot do it alone,” said Khonshu.

(Y/N) and Steven stood, looking out over the desert below them, and the gods stood behind them. A soft wind blew the sand around the group.

“Steven, when the gods imprison me, tell Marc to free me,” said Khonshu.

“Imprison?” asked (Y/N).

“We will be interfering with the mortal world in the way they declared we would be punished for,” said Ma’at. She looked down at (Y/N). “You must continue this journey on your own. Free me, but Ammit must be handled first.”

Khonshu and Ma’at raised their hands. (Y/N) and Steven’s suits wrapped around them.

“Do as we do,” said Khonshu.

(Y/N) and Steven copied the deities’ movements. They waved their hands, all four in sync, and the sky lit up with stars. They began to spin, running backwards in time, through decades and centuries of nights.

It was beautiful, and (Y/N)’s eyes widened in awe.

“Whoa. This is mental,” exclaimed Steven, just as awestruck.

“This is the night,” said Khonshu.

“Precisely as we knew it,” said Ma’at.

The sky steadied, and Steven and (Y/N) strained with the gods to keep the past in place.

“This is surprisingly painful,” groaned Steven.

“Keep holding,” said (Y/N), their muscles straining.

Layla held up the screen. “It’s working!” The calculations began for the coordinates.

A pain speared through (Y/N), and they gasped. Behind them, Khonshu and Ma’at fell to their knees.

“I can feel my energy leaving me,” gasped Steven.

It fell away from (Y/N), too, and as much as they tried to hold on, the familiar power they’d grown up with—Ma’at’s—was slipping from them. Steven and (Y/N)’s suits began to disappear as the gods behind them began to dissolve into sand. The other gods had seen what they’d done and given their punishment—imprisonment in stone.

“Layla…we can’t…hold on,” said (Y/N), panting with effort.

“Coordinates found,” said the computer’s voice. “29 degrees north, 25 degrees.”

“I got it!” said Layla.

Letting go in relief, Steven gasped and fell to his knees. Releasing their strength, (Y/N) stumbled back and tried to remain on their feet. They turned and faced Ma’at and Khonshu.

“Ma’at,” croaked (Y/N) tiredly.

Ma’at just gazed at the teenager sadly, and when the wind swept over the dune again, she was carried away in the sand. (Y/N) was left alone, bare of any of the power—purpose—they’d had since they were ten.

The edges of their vision darkened. (Y/N)’s chest constricted in panic. They collapsed into the sand.

“You were right about Khonshu and Ma’at,” said Selim, Osiris’s Avatar. He escorted Harrow through the halls of the Great Pyramid of Giza to where they kept the statues of imprisoned deities. “And in the end, they left us no choice.”

The two statues came into sight, a pair of carved sandstone sculptures less than a foot in height. The once mighty deities were reduced to such a small encasing, unable to escape.

“Now, they’re tethered to this place like many before them,” said Selim.

“Can they hear us?” said Harrow, gazing at the statues.

“We think so, yes,” said Selim.

Harrow nodded and stepped towards the statues. Selim graciously stepped away, allowing Harrow a private moment with the imprisoned remains of the god he was once an Avatar for.

“I enjoyed dealing out pain on your behalf,” said Harrow, almost softly. “That is the greatest sin I carry. I am grateful. Had you not broken me so completely, I might have known the value of healing. I’m going to do what you could not do. I want you to remember one thing. Your torment forged me. I owe my victory to you.” He turned to walk away.

Harrow paused in front of Ma’at statue. He looked down at it and smiled. “And Ma’at, I will make sure all of the knowledge you imparted to young (Y/N) goes to good use. It too will serve my victory well.”

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januaryembrs · 1 year ago

Text

LAST KNIGHT IN SOHO | Steven Grant/Marc Spector x Reader [8]

description: Dove, Marc and Layla escape Mogart’s with only more dead ends and questions unanswered. They’re running out of time before Harrow reaches the tomb, but one thing keeps sticking in Layla’s head more than the rest.

Why does Dove look so guilty?

word count: 10.8k

trigger warnings: blood, gore, violence. Knives, stabbing. Drowning. Hints of domestic abuse/grooming. Minors DNI. [Based on Last Night in Soho dir. Edgar Wright]

main masterlist | series masterlist

There was always a moment when Frank would let go of her head and she would emerge from under the water, her chest taking in deep breath, choking on the bath water, her throat heaving. There was the moment she felt as if she was dragged from the very worst thoughts, if this would be her last moments, drowned in a fucking tub of all things, and she would finally breath air and be left with the even worse feeling of fear seeing him smirking down at her.

Being dragged out of her stupid little head felt something like that.

She had been buried too deep in a haunted house, in ghost thoughts, to realise the sheer chaos happening around her. Harrow had destroyed the sarcophagus with the same purple light that had summoned the jackals, the spell pouring vibrant dust out of his staff.

The wind whipped around them, Khonshu standing watch over them from the crescent roof, his own anger swaying the trees and string lights around them, the bulbs themselves flickering as if also in tune with the God’s waning temper.

She watched Harrow scurrying away, his snide smile cutting through her like a blade, like a shard of glass, and it was only then that she realised Mogart’s men seemed to be scrambling for their weapons. The rats are always the first to abandon ship, she thought bitterly.

“Hey, he’s gone!” One called, making her whirl around for the source of the commotion.

Sure enough, Marc had disappeared, her heart dropping at the sight of it. He wouldn’t leave her here, would he? Surely-

She reached for Layla, knowing she’d be the only thing to save the woman if the men went for the triggers. Layla had no healing armour or protection from a higher god, and despite the woman’s independent nature, she wouldn’t forgive herself if she let her fend off the dozen men alone.

She prepared herself for a fight as the guns were drawn, squeezing her fists tightly as she begged her own suit to appear. Her eyes scrunched shut, willing it to cover her as it had before when she’d nearly ripped Harrow’s face apart inside the pyramid, though she felt no difference. Ofcourse, it was just her luck that the one time she needed it, she struggled to summon her suit.

She was aware of the irony, and was sure it was her god teaching her a lesson.

Hearing the men gasp amongst themselves, her eyes snapped open, looking down at her chest, only to see her flaunted breasts still staring back at her, mocking her for wanting it gone. You wish to be a hero, but you’re no more than a body. A thing for them to look at. Nothing more.

The frustration read clear on her face, her cheeks hot with panic, that is until she looked towards the source of the murmurs, her eyes locking on top of the glass pyramid at the entirely white figure staring down at them, its eyes pale moons that watched her carefully.

Marc. It was Marc. Ofcourse it was, because he’d rather die than ever let them have her and Layla.

The last time she’d seen him like that was the night at the museum, that first time she’d been in his arms, been at his mercy. She remembered the way he held her in a way no one had ever been so kind to, she was sure such a gentle hand had never existed. Not on anyone but Grace. Not anyone but Steven.

And with that it was like a thread had snapped.

Anton’s bodyguard was the first to move. Grabbing the young man by the scruff of his robe, he shoved the millionaire under his arm, manhandling him out of the way of danger.

It took two of Marc’s crescent moon shaped weapons to go whistling past her face before she felt herself jump into her own body, as if she’d been watching from the back seat until then.

The trigger had been pulled on her own body's defence the moment the guard pointed his pistol to Marc, she felt her suit slink over her shoulders, melting down her arms like a creature growing life. And the best part of all; with it came no feeling of being dislodged from her body. With it came consciousness, control. The ability to decide how her body was to be used in this fight.

Which then begged the question: how was she to fight? She’d grown up in a rough neighbourhood and had the odd scrap at school, but armed guards? This was new territory.

Marc seemed to have the weapon under control on his own however as he leapt from the building and kicked the guard square in the chest, the gun flying from his grasp. It didn’t stop her from tackling the next guard who raised his own gun to the suited man, though with little to no experience fighting, just the instinct to protect him, she simply took him down to the ground, serving him a sharp jab to the nose that seemed to stun him and kicked his weapon towards Layla, who scrambled to grab it.

The screams of the party goers met her ears, the rushed footsteps heading either to their vehicles or to any spare boats, realising their situation was not just a little catfight but more an armed brawl.

Layla shot at the two men that emerged from the mansion, slipping past Anton, who cowered behind his security guard like a child, the suave attitude long gone from the man. She seemed more than comfortable with the handgun, Dove quickly noted, though she was also fast to hear the queue of bodies that approached them, the clicks of ammunition falling into barrels meeting her sensitive ears.

That had her head whipping around.

There, slinking over the sand of the pony pit, stood at least twenty men approaching the three of them with deadly focus.

“Shit,” She cursed, looking to Marc all but a second too late. The pop of the bullets being released from their chambers had her wincing, turning away as if that would defend her at all were she to get shot. Was she bulletproof like Marc? Or would Seth allow her some bloodshed to teach her yet another lesson of taking his powers for granted?

As if he had heard her question, she felt a splinting pain slash through the back of her leg, the sharp feeling dragging a grunt up her throat. Bearable, but a horrid sting, as if she’d been shot by a paintball at close range. She was sure she would have a bruise there soon, but a bruise was better than a bullet hole, she supposed.

Eyes flicking up to where Marc stood over Layla, his cape a shield over the woman she watched as he looked up to her with narrowed eyes.

“You guys need to buy me some time,” Layla ordered, crouching low under the cape to make herself a smaller target.

“Is that you in there, princess, or have I got another problem on my hands?” He called over his shoulder, barely fazed by the bullets clinging to his suit.

“It’s me, I’m fine,” She promised, feeling another shell smacking into her stomach with a hidden grunt, “The suit is working just fine,”

Marc nodded to himself, chewing his tongue behind his mask.

“I don’t suppose you’d listen to me if I told you to leave with Layla and get to safety, huh?” He said emptily, wincing as the guards got close enough to feel the bullets graze past them.

“Don’t waste your breath,” She snipped, looking down at Layla, the same thought passing between the two of them.

“If you die on me, princess, I might have to murder you,” Layla called to her, earning a small smile, and the three of them sprang into action.

Marc flicked the bullets that embedded in his suit right back at their senders, hard enough to take down half of them men advancing on them, the other half seeming to pause to reconsider their attack.

But by that point, the two of them had vaulted over the fence and were heading at full pelt towards their assailants.

“Aim for the chin, sweetheart, chin and nose,” Marc called, his moon shaped blade back firmly in his hand like a set of brass knuckles, slicing through their kevlar with every swipe. He swiped at one hard across the face, deep enough to ward him off, spinning quickly to throw the blade into another one’s chest cavity.

“Chin and nose, got it,” She said, wrestling her arm out of one of their grasps with a quick elbow to the stomach, driving her fist up into his nose cartilage with a hard punch.

The man cried out in shock, his nose spurting with a river of blood almost instantly.

“Sor-SORRY,” She said, her fist meeting another one under his chin in a hard uppercut, the force of it snapping his teeth together, his head rattling in an ache from the damage. She wouldn’t be surprised if his jaw had popped out of place.

“Stop apologising to them,” Marc yelled incredulously, kneeing another one in the gut, throwing him to the ground as he grabbed the other by his outstretched arm, twisting it behind his back with a force that ripped apart every tendon attached, “They’re trying to kill us,”

“But I am sorry- SORRY” She called back, throwing a punch to another one’s cheek so far off form, had her super strength not been so vicious she would have been screwed. Marc would need to show her how to fight properly, he noted in his mind, though he had hoped with everything in him that it would have never come to this.

He’d wanted to keep all the violence away from her. He didn’t need the same darkness that lingered over him to shower on her too.

Tackling two of the men on his own, he threw a kick to the first one’s chest as the other tried to grab him in a chokehold. It was a frivolous attempt however as Marc threw an elbow behind him, hard into the side of the guard’s temple which sent him down. The second one wasn’t so lucky. So bitter that that woman, his Dove, was fighting; was being shot at, being manhandled right in front of his eyes, the second guard to cross his path was nothing but an export for his rage.

He hated how moral she was, hated how it got her hurt, how it got her entangled in his mess. Yet it was one of his favourite things about her, how soft she was, how she would never leave anything, human or animal, to suffer, loved how she would always want good for him too. He didn’t deserve it. He had never deserved her. Never deserved the soft.

He had barely realised he had begun strangling the guard, his hands wrapped around the meat of his throat until he saw his face begin turning blue, and Steven’s voice had entered his head.

“Stop it, Marc,” Marc grunted in anger, it was all he could manage through the wave of rage he was sinking under, “No, Marc!”

As if to brush off Steven’s voice, Marc threw the man to the ground, spinning on his heels when he heard a gun cock behind him.

The guard shot a few rounds into the hard plate of his chest, not that he felt anything, watching her tussling with a man a few feet away, trying to wrangle his gun out of his hands before he could fire at her. Not that the bullets would do any lasting damage of course, but he felt his stomach drop all the same. He was quick to disarm the guard in front of him, watching the mans face contort into horror as the white eyed mercenary set his sights on him, a heavy hand coming out to grab the pistol with a bone breaking grip, ripping the thing from his fingers as if he were taking candy from a child. He grabbed the man by the jaw with the same crushing hold, feeling the guard whine under his malicious hand, writhing in pain.

Marc hated the part of himself that felt fulfilled seeing the ones who hurt her suffer themselves. He felt pleased. Felt warmed knowing he’d made them pay.

“Give me the body, Marc,” Steven hissed from inside the headspace. He felt his alter taking the reins, felt his consciousness slipping through his fingers despite his protest. But Steven was getting used to this now; he had been so caught up in protecting her he forgot about the one he was supposed to protect his whole life.

Marc’s eyes closed and Steven’s opened.

His hands went slack around the guard’s jaw that cracked under the pressure, the man’s entire body dropping in defeat.

“Oh! Sorry!” Steven’s soft voice rang out, a world away from the gravelly growl of Marc’s lilt. Leaning towards where the man groaned on the floor, clutching his face, he murmured “You alright? That’s it. Alright, time out!” He huffed, turning to the other guards circling him, their guns cocked at their sides, weighing up if they’d be the next to end up crumpled on the floor with broken bones.

He held his hands up in a T, “That’s it time out!” he called out, his white gloves soft against his rough hands. “Guys, let’s all calm down, yeah? Let’s all just like chill the F out-”

“Steven?”

Her voice was velvet. Worried. It robbed him of words immediately after so long not hearing his name from her mouth. It was an odd feeling being inside the body, a watcher of the world and not living in it. Watching the way she looked at Marc with such raw vulnerability, such glazed trust, how he saw her sadness much more frequently now.

His body betrayed him, freezing for a second before turning to her. But when he did, he was near robbed of breath too.

Her suit, the same one he’d seen on her the first time, the night she’d nearly killed him. Though that hadn’t been her. It wasn’t her. He’d have known her anywhere.

This one was the slightest bit different. Her muzzle was gone, her lips exposed, the shock evident on her face, mouth agape. Her eyes were hers again, not black soulless pits like when they were his. But hers, the ones he loved to stare at, the ones that looked at him with such cottony kindness he felt as if he would melt under her gaze like a pool of butter.

She looked at him as if seeing a ghost. He looked at her as if she had turned on the light in a dark room, as if she were a fog horn on a rough sea, as if she were dragging him from the depths of death single handedly.

For the first time in months he said her name. Her real name.

She cracked a smile, her eyes wetting, glossing with happiness. It was him.

“Steven!” She said, her teeth gleaming at him under the lamp light. Her eyebrows softened, her mask drawing away into her hairline as if she needed to see him fully, as if her body craved him so much even the smallest barrier was a nuisance. Taking a small breath to fight off the sob that crawled up her throat. She felt as if she would be okay now, as if he was her knight in white armour here to carry her from the mess she’d found herself in. Nothing made sense to her anymore, nothing except Steven. He always had a way of explaining everything that seemed to tick the right way in her brain.

His moonlight eyes blinked at her starrily, his rose lips curving into a smile.

The space between them was syrupy thick, it made the gulps of air all that more difficult to swallow.

His mouth dropped open to call her name, his foot shuffling forward to embrace her in the biggest hug he could manage. He’d needed her more than he’d needed air.

He couldn’t help the cry of horror that ripped from his throat when the spear was shoved through her stomach and she fell to her knees.

“Steven!” She yelped, watching as one of the riders rammed a lance through his thigh, another going through his collar bone. She grunted, the effort of calling for him constricting around the pole. It was a harsh ache, and it took everything in her not to panic that the healing armour would stop working, that Seth would want to watch her writhe in pain for a little longer.

But she felt her blood stem at the site, heard the pounding of hooves approaching the two of them, gasping as two more riders circled him, another of the wooden blades piercing his gut.

Glancing at her one more time, a whine pouring out his masked mouth as he watched her drop to her hands, one of the guards kicking her in the ribs, a rattling wheeze rolling from her lips, an attempt to conceal a grunt of pain. She didn’t want to worry him, didn’t want to give the guard the satisfaction of seeing her hurt.

Yet she felt another spearhead trace over the back of her neck, sensed the way his arm drew back to aim for a killing blow. And all she had the heart to do was to meet the white eyes that watched her sadly, knowing this was another goodbye one way or another.

“Take the body, Marc!” He yelled, groaning as a fourth spear took him to his own knees, his heart rolling in waves behind his chest, “Take the body-take the body, Marc,”

Dove put a hand on the rod that pierced clean through her, feeling a wave of nausea constrict her throat when she saw the weapon peaking back out at her, the pointed tip of another blade stroking over her chin.

“Wait-Stop,” She choked, her breathing laboured by the terror that grabbed at her words, “Please,” She put her hand up, trying to hold off the attacker even the smallest amount. If he felt any guilt seeing her crumpled on the floor like a shot deer, pleading him to retreat, it never read on his face as he sneered, drawing back to seal the deal.

Marc felt as if he’d been dragged from dark waters when he opened his eyes once more and saw her moments from a grisly end. The weak look on her face was enough to have him ripping the spear from his own abdomen effortlessly, as if the feeling of it wasn't stomach wrenching. As if he wasn’t in imminent danger himself. He launched his moon blade into the guy's shoulder, the silver crescent lodging itself into the flesh, enough to deter her attacker for a moment and have him drop his weapon in a yelp of pain.

“Wait there, princess, I’ll be right-” He started, grunting as he pulled another of the rods out of his thigh, at least enough of it that he could move, “-right there,”

But then he saw it; Layla in Mogart’s line of fire, a bleeding welt on her face. Mogart atop a horse, one of his fine Arabian steeds, a spear in his hands, a nasty smirk on his face. Layla, who had no god to help her. Layla, who lay without armour. Layla, who wouldn’t survive a hit to the chest like the two of them would, had.

Dove followed his line of sight, hearing the voice that drew her back to reality, that had the guard second guessing whether it would be wise to wound her more when the man watching over her seemed intent on finishing him off. Seeing Layla on the ground, her eyes disorientated from the strike to the face, it seemed she felt the same pang of urgency to drop everything they were doing and save her, save her, she’s in danger and you need to save her-

“Layla!” She screeched, the dread meeting her expression at the sight of the man who had seemed so willing to bed her now vulturing around Layla’s forlorn body, stunned and immobile. Helpless. Perhaps this was how Marc felt when he found her in the museum, but a pit of anger, one she knew all too well, seemed to swallow her fear whole and all that was left when the wave retreated was vengeance.

Her attacker took it then was his time to strike, seeing her caught off guard, yanking the spear from her stomach, pulling the pointed end out of her flesh and turning it back to her throat as she yelped from the feeling. It hadn’t hurt nearly as much as it should have, but she felt bile rolling around her throat at the sight of her insides splayed out on the tip of the rod.

Yet all she could think about was Layla. Layla was in danger. Layla needed her.

The nausea turned to adrenaline as she kicked him hard in the shin from her place on the ground, grabbing the weapon to hold it away from where it swung close to her face, the sharpened end winking at her.

Scrambling to her feet, she threw her fist into his nose, hearing a satisfying crunch and a pig-like squeal to follow. Yanking the spear from his grip effortlessly, she swung the wooden end into his temple, watching it splint from the force and he was down like a sack of potatoes.

There was a moment then when she spun on her heel to witness the two men circling Layla, Mogart atop his brown gelding he had told her was one of his best. Something flickered in the warm, night air, something dark, this time without Khonshu’s influence.

She felt his hand on her back, his hand. The paw that played her strings, the claws that sunk deep into her.

“Not now,” She growled, her eyes locked on Mogart’s smarmy face, daring either her or Marc to take a step towards Layla. Horses were faster than human’s by a mile, especially the thoroughbreds he kept.

“You couldn’t save her, mutt,” His dark voice rattled down her spine, sucking the air out her lungs. He knew. He knew about Grace. No one else in the world knew about Grace. Grace was just for her. “You couldn’t save her, but you can save this one.”

“You think?” She whispered, not daring to check over her shoulder, his goliath face peering down at her, his snout washing cold breaths over her ear, her hair fluttering under its breeze. She didn’t think she could stand to lose another friend, if she could even call Layla that. Either way, the blood staining her hands, the lives gone because of her.

She could have stayed with her brothers and avoided all of this mess, could have been there to see Mikey through rehab, not just dumped him there and left.

She should have tried harder to save Grace.

She would fight tooth and nail to save Layla.

“Yes, little pup.” He eased, his cold claws stroking down her collarbone, almost comforting, almost a phantom over her shoulder, “It is not wrong to want retribution. What he took from you, it is a debt you will never have cleared.”

She hated how much he sounded like a voice of wisdom. Hated how he seemed to worm his way into her head and draw out her own thoughts, make them sound reasonable.

“You could save this one, if you give into the chaos. Let him have exactly what he deserves. He wished to buy you, use you. And now he wishes to slaughter her in front of your very eyes.” Seth’s voice was a snarl, a mirror image of the anger that built in her when his dark eyes flickered over to her, his mouth drawing up into a nasty smirk.

She hated to say it, but he was right. Seth was right. He deserved her worst.

Seth chuckled, watching her eyes darken with fury, a fog of bedlam filling the air.

“Now, little beast,” Seth whispered, retracting his paw from her arm, her mask slipping back over her face to cover the delicacy of her temples, “Go fetch,”

The three of them were silent in the truck. Layla’s face had been wiped clean thanks to the limited first aid kit shoved under the seat of the rental car. The wounds were mostly superficial, it was her head that had been rattled mostly. Shaken her hard enough to have taken her wit with it.

Layla’s memories flickered like a broken projector, glimpses of the moment the four of them crossed paths in the centre of the paddock. Marc tackling her out of the way of Mogart’s steed that would have done enough damage to her bones even without its rider's weapon. The sand flicking up around them as Hellhound dragged the wealthy man from his saddle, a spear piercing his thigh, his own rod yanked out of his grasp and tossed clear across the pit.

She watched Marc scramble to stop her from beating the life from him, heard Anton say something quietly to her, whatever humour he had left spent on pushing her over her limit. Watched her fists meet his cheek as she choked through tears, angry tears, salt that stung her superficial cuts on her cheek.

Dove didn’t want to think about it.

“Let’s play nicely now, and I might still consider paying for our night together,” He’d murmured, his dark eyes trailing over her face that gave away too easily her torment, her instability. Mouth drawing into a nasty sneer, she dug her claws into his collar bone, drawing a squeal from him. A pig set for slaughter.

“This body can be bought and sold all you like. But it is mine.” She hissed, the anger bubbling under her surface when he chuckled weakly opening his mouth to speak again. Only for her to bring her armoured knuckles across his cheekbone, hearing something crack under the weight of it.

And she didn’t stop. Not until she felt arms constrict around her shoulders, pinning her hands to her sides, thrashing under the grip. She hadn’t realised she was crying until she felt her hair stick to her face, the wetness she had assumed was sweat burning her eyes even more when she heard Marc talking to her once more.

“Stop, stop.” A calm utterance over her shoulder as he pulled her away, “That’s enough, princess, you got him. You got him.”

And then they were rushing into the car before more could come, before Mogart could speak past the swelling on his face enough to call for help, before he could realise she’d broken his nose, cracked five of his teeth.

And they were setting off out of the city, towards the sand dunes that stood between them and the tomb.

Layla seemed to have quickly recovered from the heavy hit she took to the face, either that or a serious concussion had made her tongue all the more sharp as she piped up from the driver's seat, finger drawing gently over her wounds as she watched the road, Dove sat in the seat behind her.

The marrow white of the moonlight soothed between her eyes as she shut them, her clothes returned to normal, the soft hum of the engine rattling her skull as it rested against the window. She felt tired, inside and out, felt her body shutting down, dragging her back over the rainbow. Thoughts of a man that no longer existed poisoning her thoughts.

A weight sat between the three of them, a wall Marc knew the girl in the back seat was locking herself behind, hiding from him. Something she hadn’t done in the whole time she’d known him.

She’d been wary of him when they had first met, hell she’d turned tail and ran from him the first sign she saw he was not Steven. But withdraw from him? Now they were him and she was her. Now he had shown her he would always come to drag her from her dark. Never.

“Oy,” He kissed his teeth in annoyance, inspecting his ruined coat where Layla had torn away the metal cuffs to use as weapons, “I really liked that jacket,”

The street lamps were cottony balls of gold as she opened her eyes, looking past them and into the inky darkness.

“We’ll get out one day right?” She asked, her head pressed against the window, the coal colour of the sky barely concealing the city smog, the new moon of the month meaning they were alone in their thoughts tonight, the sky entirely black, missing its lunar companion.

Grace was there. Grace was always there. Always touching, always loving, just always Grace.

She reached out her fingertips to brush against her own, stroking a pretty pink thumbnail over the back of her hand.

“Of course. Some day.” Grace said, though her eyes seemed to search for the same round ivory shape that watched their conversations most nights. It was all they had, the moon and the birds, but the two things never seemed to stay for too long. They had better things to do, Dove remembered thinking. Nothing seemed to stick around except Grace.

The red light from the hotel sign sprung to life, flickering for a second before switching to full beam right as the clock struck eleven pm. Same as it did every night. Same as it would every night from then on.

Their faces were painted with cardinal red. The red reminded her of the shoes, of the glittering heels that had quicksanded her into this life. The red turned her stomach sick, the red was a sign he was heading home, a sign he was on his way back.

“How do you know?” She asked, and she couldn’t remember why she did but it was probably just because Grace knew everything. Grace could tell her the world had ended outside of their little bedroom window, that the day was night and night was day and she’d believe her. She’d take her word for gospel.

Grace held her fingertips, playing with them absently. She was thinner than she was a few months ago. They’d persuaded Frank to get her some kind of anti anxiety meds, some kind of Diazepam, to calm her down since she was struggling to sleep.

They came with as much fuss as they’d expected from the man, given to her as a treat for being so loyal, came in a little brown bottle with no label. Whatever they were, whether legit or not, they worked. Though she seemed almost tranquilised most days now.

She sighed, her sullen eyes blinking slowly at the red glare that tinted her honey gold locks.

“Because I know it can’t be this forever,” She murmured, her cheeks sunken, body lifeless. “It just can’t,”

“Hey,” She was jolted from her reverie, brought back to the car where Marc had a hand on her knee, shaking her slightly, “You okay?”

But she didn’t answer him, she simply looked back out onto the street, eyes flicking from one street lamp to the next. She wished she would just fade away, float from her body and just stop, just stop thinking, knowing she could come back to it, just fade away for a little while.

Leave me to die while you can, Marc. She wanted to grab his collar and scream in his face, Leave me, get out, get safe. I’m a disease waiting to spread.

“What was Harrow talking about?” Layla asked the man, her brow fully cleaned now as she glimpsed at the side of his face. She could have sworn the air got sucked out of the tiny metal compartment the moment she’d opened her mouth, Dove’s chest plummeted into her stomach, churning in on itself.

It was clear Layla’s question was aimed for Marc as her fawn eyes turned cold, glaring into his cheekbone as his face tensed slightly, the weight of something heavy sinking into his eyes.

“What do you mean?” He asked, his hands finding the hem of his shirt to lift the stained material over his head, even if to put a small barrier between the heat of her stare and his guilt.

“He said I had a right to know,” She pointed out, rubbing her temple hard when he met her with a beat of silence. She knew Marc too well. He busied himself with other things when he was thinking of a lie, busied himself with balling the fabric up in his hands, a sour look on his face.

“I have no idea,” He said, reaching into the back seat for his bag for a change of clothes.

If Dove was listening in on their conversation, she showed no sign of it when he caught sight of her, staring out the window, though her eyes were empty, and he was entirely sure she was not watching what was out there, but was much much further away than their little car and his and Layla’s argument.

“I never told anyone why I really moved,” Layla shook her head, gripping the wheel tightly, “But he knew, he just saw right through me,” She said aghast, the accusation clear in her tone. Marc did himself no favours, fretting more over getting his white jumper over his head than even being able to look her in the face. And her, god he wanted to shake her with everything in him and beg her to speak, to say something, to stop looking so distant from him, to crawl into the tight little space in her mind she’d found herself in and dig her out of it. Come back to me.

“He’s just trying to mess with you, he’s just trying to get into your mind,” Marc muttered, adjusting the jumper over his bare body, glancing back at the woman in the back seat to see her still down her little rabbit hole, “Don’t let him do that, you know, he’s got this idea that he an see the true nature of people, some baloney like that. If that were true, I don’t think he would have a bunch of homicidal maniacs as his disciples, now would he?”

“So it’s not true?” Layla cut him off with a doubtful sigh. He was rambling. He always rambled when he was lying, as if he was trying to fill his mouth with more words so the truth wouldn’t come pouring out instead. “What he said about you and-”

“No, of course it’s not true. No, he’s just trying to divide us, don’t let him get in your head.” He muttered, glancing back over the centre console for the third time. She was still lost in a daze on the other side of the glass, she was still miles away from him.

He wondered if Harrow had been telling the truth about her too. The look on her face, the terror, the guilt written over every inch was telling. He knew it well, knew it like looking in a mirror. Ghosts that haunted him even to the farthest corners of the world, his mother’s vicious words that never seemed to leave him.

What had she done? What had she been running from? What had made her look so… so sorry?

He didn’t care. He’d decided then and there, when she’d taken off after Layla, the woman who had hated her the moment she clamped eyes on her, then and there when he thought of her handing him the tiny pigeon crumpled in her fingers, then and there when he’d heard how relieved she was to see Steven. There was nothing she was capable of so bad that he would hate her. Harrow was trying to divide them, just like he’d said.

He forgave her without so much as knowing her crime. But Layla was not so soothing.

“What about you, hm?” Layla bit, her umber eyes flicking up into the rear view mirror, landing on the girl that seemed to barely acknowledge her, “Hey, princess, I’m talking to you,”

Dove’s head snapped to see the pair of them watching her carefully.

“Huh?” Was all she could manage, looking between the two cluelessly, catching herself going back to the woeful eyes the man shot at her.

“What was Harrow talking about? About ‘the last man you were with’?” She asked bluntly, her focus darting between the set of traffic lights they sat at and the woman in the back who purely froze.

This was it. She heard her blood rushing through her eardrums fast, mimicking waves rolling into shore. Joey had once told her that was why you hear the sea when putting a shell to your ear, it was the blood rolling through your eardrums, her clever little boy. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth, choking her, strangling her. Silencing her. Her boy. Her sweet boys.

“Well?” Layla pushed, eyes glaring expectantly. She couldn’t say she blamed her, Layla was trusting some stranger who hid half of herself to help them save the world. She couldn’t be angry at the woman, she was being cautious. She was being Layla.

Yet Dove felt herself shutting down at the confrontation. Felt her inside collapse in their resolve, her mouth remaining in its tight lipped grimace.

“My-” She cleared her throat, starting again, “Before London…”

She couldn’t say it. She felt her heartbeat rocking her ribs, vibrating through to the seatbelt across her chest, so harsh it was squeezing at her throat.

“What, was he married too or something?” Layla asked with a nasty laugh, so entirely wound up that Marc seemed all the more concerned about her weak frame quivering in the back seat than about thinking straight. He should see the warning signs by now, the way she never gave anything of herself away, the way she had a sorrow written across her expression that told her Harrow had hit a nerve with his words. Though, Layla supposed rose-tinted glasses make red flags seem normal. She would know of that one.

“Layla,” Marc warned, his eyes hardening as he looked back to her in the driver’s seat, only to have her huff.

“No-no I would never-” Dove winced, bottom lip trembling as she could barely force her words out. Would never what? Sleep with a married man. She wasn’t blind, she saw the wedding bands that lingered on so many of the men's fingers. Or even the tan lines from the few who tried to cover it. She couldn’t say it, because she had. She should have known better, should have tried harder to leave, shouldn’t have been so fucking naive.

“What, Marc?” Layla was a bomb close to detonating now, spurred on by Marc’s obvious lies and Doves' silence that spoke volumes. She felt as if she was the only person in the car speaking any sense, only one opening her eyes to what was happening, “You don’t know anything about her, are you really willing to stake both of our lives defending her?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Harrow is trying to get into your head and it’s working-” Marc snapped back, his brows entirely contorted now into an angry frown.

“Stop-” Dove felt herself whisper, the two of them falling into disarray in front of her, like she was watching a glass wall slowly crack, thunder waiting for its crack of lightning, “Stop, please,”

“Do you not think about Steven? How do you trust her with Steven knowing she hides so much from him?” Layla fought back, her hands gripping the wheel hard enough her gold rings bit into her skin, her nose flaring with anger.

Dove felt the bile rising in her throat as her very worst fear was declared, said to the one man whose job it was to protect sweet Steven from people like her.

“Now is not the time for us to be divided, this is exactly what he wants, this is exactly how he wins,” Marc hit back, not noticing how the life drained from their passengers face, her eyes filled with tears.

She couldn’t go back. She couldn’t go back to being alone. She couldn’t. There was nothing left of her before Steven.

“Stop it,” She managed a bit louder this time, drawing a breath when they seemed to ignore her as Layla pulled onto a quieter road that began to lead into a deserted track cutting through sand dunes, leaving behind the city.

“This is just so like you, Marc, not thinking about the consequences until you've dug me into shit knee deep,” Layla seethed, her foot pressing on the pedal until they had picked up a decent speed.

“Just lay off of her alright? I know we’re all under a lot of pressure but she is innocent in all of this-”

“Innocent?” Layla scoffed, with only more outcry from Marc, the two of them talking over one another.

Dove felt the sick rising, the lump moving out of her throat to make way for whatever she could give next.

“STOP IT!” She yelled, her voice cracking and silencing the two. Though Layla seemed to have had quite enough of them and slammed her foot on the breaks, the three of them jolting forward, “Just STOP,”

The car went quiet, beside the angry huffs exhaled through flared nostrils, Dove’s mouth bobbing open to speak finally. Yet she felt lost for words; her body was still back in that room, in that window, and she was but all a shell of who she should be. A ghost. A phantom in her own body.

The sound of static sprang to life making the three of them jump, cutting through the dead silence, the number on the radio in the centre console flicking through a handful of signals, before landing on one entirely different than they’d been listening to, music pouring from the car’s speakers.

‘Well, they showed you a statue, told you to pray

They built you a temple and locked you away’

No. No it couldn’t be. It had to be some sick joke. She would have known Billy Joel anywhere from her niece's endless runnings of his tapes.

‘Aw, but they never told you the price that you pay

For things that you might have done

Well, only the good die young’

She was out of her seat in seconds. The door slammed behind her heavily, her shoes tearing across the sands, lungs constricting in a rattling pant.

“Why must you torment me?” She mewled, the God she spoke to crawling his way out of the night, still as monstrous as always.

“I did nothing, pup. You are getting stronger,” Seth growled back in delight, following behind her, a shadow nipping at her heels, “That little magic trick was your own doing,”

She swallowed thickly, taking off into the dunes for a few more paces, “It wasn’t even her favourite,” She sneered, which only made him laugh loudly at her attempt of rebuttal, “Why did you choose me for this? Why me? If all you want is to torture me for the rest of my life,”

“I see it in you, mutt, as hard as you like to deny me. I see the way vengeance claws at your stomach like a babe growing life,” His ominous words were met with silence as she continued marching away from the car, ignoring his attempts to anger her. But she knew it was true, knew she was rotten inside. She’d known it long before that night. Long before Seth.

She walked through the darkness of the dunes for a moment more, if not to get away from that car where she’d be forced to spill, then to get away from him who followed her footsteps a single paced behind her.

“He wouldn’t care, mutt, if you told him,” He said calmer than ever, quiet enough to throw a fault in her steps, “There is no guilt in retribution-”

“I CARE,” She screamed at him, the air falling hushed as she finally faced the god that once made her cower, looked into his black soulless eyes that watched her intrigued, “I CARE THAT I AM GUILTY,”

She couldn’t help but fall to her knees. She needed air, more air than her lungs would take, more air than her throat would allow, like rising out of the damn water all over again. The twilight was soupy and warm as it was in the day, muggy and honey thick as she breathed in.

“You are too soft, mutt. I give you such a gift of life and I am still met with nothing but thankless whining-” He hissed, any semblance of calm gone.

“TAKE IT BACK THEN-” She yelled, fingers grabbing into the sands angrily, throwing it at him pitifully with a weepy sneer, “TAKE IT BACK! I am not the ‘fist of vengeance’ you want me to be!”

His dark laughter echoed in her ears as he melted away into the gloom as quickly as he had come, whispering into the space between them as he slipped away; “I think you’re exactly what I want, that’s why you hurt,”

She cried harder.

She barely heard the footsteps over the soft sands, not until she heard him shushing her, a hand coming over the crown of her head, stroking her hair gently as her shoulders shook.

He was like Grace in that sense. Seemed to always be there when she needed him most. Without fail, without hesitation.

She let Marc pull her close, let him wind his arms over her shoulders and hold her head steady into his chest, kissing her temple as she sniffled. She couldn’t take it anymore, burying her head into him tighter, her hands around his torso, clutching at the muscle of his back.

“Marc- Please don’t take him away from me-” She hiccuped, her body convulsing in gasps, “I’ll be good to him, I promise I would, please don’t leave-”

He hushed her louder, moving to see her face, his forehead knocking against hers, their cheeks brushing, the wetness dripping onto his jaw.

“I’m not going to leave you,” Marc assured, stroking over the back of her hair, “Steven would never forgive me-”

“You would hate me- I’m so awful-” She whimpered, sniffling into his jaw, feeling him push her away by the shoulders, far enough he could see her sodden face, “He would hate me,”

“Stop that,” He chided sternly, brushing over her cheeks with his thumb gently. A wethered smile met his lips, eyes meeting hers earnestly, “There’s nothing you could ever do that could make him hate you,”

“What Harrow said- I-” She hiccupped, she couldn’t stand to feel his soft brown hues on her mournful face. She had to tell him something, something to keep him from asking. She remembered him rambling in the car, keeping his mouth busy to keep the truth from coming out. She supposed she felt the same. “I did something terrible, Marc,”

His lips quirked downwards, as if he was stuck for what to say, his gaze following the tear that rolled over her cheek, joining the wet that pooled at her jaw.

“Terrible things don’t always make us awful,” He said quietly, though it felt as though he’d prodded at her very core, touched a nerve so raw she felt a breath leave her, clogging in her throat.

“The last man I was with, I-” She swallowed thickly, “I stole his money and left him because I was too cowardly to just break up with him,”

She felt heat rip inside immediately.

She’d lied. She’d lied to him. Then again, what was so different than usual. She had always lied to Steven.

Marc bit his lip, watching her with pity.

“Was he good to you?” He asked, stroking her hair carefully as she shook her head. She hiccupped again, wiping her face with the cuff of her sleeve, sniffling through a bunged up nose.

“He liked to tell me he was. He took me away from my brothers.” She said, brushing sand off her thighs absently, “He told me I could make more money working in the city, forced me to move away from them, and I believed him because I was so stupid-”

“You’re not stupid,” Marc tutted, his face a sour frown. He hated seeing her cry. The emptiness behind her wetted eyes only reminded him of his own, and that scared him far more than anything else she could have said, “And you’re not awful. You’re human.” He whispered, stroking a thumb down her jaw, collecting the remaining tears that gathered there.

She breathed out shakily, finally brave enough to reach his eyes. Her lip damn near started quivering again at the softness behind them, a softness she didn’t deserve, a softness that seemed to make her think maybe, maybe he would understand if she told him the truth.

She dismissed the thought immediately.

His lips parted, as if wanting to say more, except he could only stare at her own mouth. How it glistened with salted tears. He couldn’t help but slowly run a thumb over her lower lip, fixing the hurt, erasing the guilt. He could never fix himself. Could never fill the darkness that devoured his life, his memories. But he swore on every god out there he would mend her wounds for her.

He wanted to kiss her more than ever. He wanted to pour every bit of love he and Steven had for her combined and fill her to the top until it poured out of her instead of those dreaded tears. Wanted to put his lips on hers as if he even thought himself worthy. He’d lay down his life for her instead of Khonshu, carry out anything she ordered of him, jump as many hoops, die for her over and over and over if it meant he could kiss her now.

He felt her looking at his lips too, something close to glistening want in her eyes, behind soggy lashes, leaning in further and further until-

“We should get back to Layla,” He said, his cool breath fanning over the bridge of her nose.

She nodded her head in his grip, sniffing one last time as the tears seemed to have died down, swallowing whatever words she was going to say.

They walked back to the car silently.

“Try that one,” Marc said, handing Layla a scrap of the cartograph. In the midst of the chaos Layla had managed to grab the shredded map and stuff it into her pack, where the three of them were now tasked with putting it back together again. Except, unlike any puzzle she and Steven completed, the map was simply a bunch of dots punctured through the fabric meant to be stars, with no actual linear picture in sight.

“Maybe actually,” Layla muttered, as Dove stared between four pieces of her own, the headlights from the truck illuminating their view, “Uh, no. Anything over there?”

“Yeah, I got the world’s suckiest game over here,” The younger woman huffed, rubbing her tired eyes. It was well into the night by now, and they had been driving for just over an hour to get to where they were in the middle of nowhere, far enough away that Harrow’s men would struggle to find them, not so far they were lost, “Atleast in UNO I know how to win,” She said grumpily, picking the skin around her thumb.

“I’m not getting any whole constellations. It’s just little pieces and fragments.” Marc grumbled, holding up three pieces sellotaped together that gave him nothing useful, before he slammed them down on the hood of the car in anger.

The two women jumped, watching him walk away with a heavy breath, hands on his hips.

Dove chewed her bottom lip. She wished Steven were here.

Watching Marc round back on them, coming to stand next to her with his elbows on the metal work, running his hands through his dark locks to calm down.

“This is gonna take forever,” He grumbled, shaking his head in defeat. They had been so close, so close to just snagging the map out of the sarcophagus. But of course Harrow had to shake things up for them as if it was all part of his game, one they never got to win.

“Marc, we need Steven,” Layla said over the bonnet of the truck, her eyes tired, her wound sore over her brow, “He understands all of this. I really think it's worth giving him a shot,” Her gaze slid to where Dove looked at the fabric pieces in her hand guiltily, “Don’t you agree?”

She felt Marc’s eyes on her then, the two of them waiting on her verdict, both equally exhausted though Marc’s almond hues came with a hint of frustration.

She saw it immediately, swallowing calmly before she met his stare, sighing slightly.

“He’s much better than I am at this stuff, Marc, and- and it’s not that you’re not useful in so many other ways, it’s just-” She bared a sad smile, though his face remained bitter, eyes unfocused as if he were lost in his own thoughts, “We could do with him right now,”

“Marc, it’s okay just let go,” Layla pushed harder, seeing as he wasn’t moving, which seemed to be the thing that had him growling in annoyance, reaching over for the wing mirror of the truck, grabbing it with his bare hands and wrestling it free, “We don’t have time,”

The mirror popped off with a whine and Marc huffed, avoiding Dove’s eyes that watched him dejectedly. She had never wanted to make him angry, nor to make him feel useless. But Steven would be their saving grace right about now.

Grabbing all of the pieces of cartonage, along with the tape in a big bundle in his arms, Marc walked away from the car, away from the pitied stares, and off a metre or so away where he could talk to Steven in peace.

Dove watched his retreating back, rubbing her arms nervously, ears pricked up for any signs of vehicles approaching, though all she heard was Marc’s mumbling to his alter through the mirror.

“All right, go ahead. You’re in,”

Then, as if his whole body seemed to loosen in moments, his shoulders dropped, his head tilted to one side, and he seemed to immediately clamp eyes on the pieces of the map at his feet.

“Cheers, thanks alot.” Came a familiar English drawl, higher in pitch, happier. The usual edge of sarcasm teasing his words.

Steven.

It was Steven.

He was right there.

No armed guards, no spears, no Arabian Steeds separating the two of them, just Steven.

She’d forgotten how it felt to have her legs weak hearing his voice alone.

Falling to his knees, his white trousers dirtying immediately which was just so Steven-like it bubbled a watery chuckle up her throat, he got to work tearing off pieces of tape, grabbing pieces of fabric and arranging them without too much thought. As if it came so easily he saw them fitting together without much head scratching like the rest of them had.

“Don’t need that bit- don’t need that,” He muttered under his breath as she dared a step near him, her footsteps wary enough she could barely spook a deer. Her heart leapt in her chest as she became close enough to touch him, close enough to run her hands through his hair if she wanted to.

Crouching down next to him, she peered over at the side profile of his face, scrunched with concentration.

“Steven?” She dared to ask, a nervous smile growing as he swivelled to look at her, feeling as if she was part of some dream she’d had for so long. How had she survived without those eyes, those gentle eyes that watched her so carefully, his face entirely different from that of Marc’s despite being identical. His face looked smoother, the frown gone, the bitterness turned into something sickly sweet that glazed his eyes with stars, “Steven,”

He took her in; god his words were knocked from him at the sight of her so close. He wanted her in his arms, he wanted to tell her how much she meant to him, how she was the only spot of light in his terribly confusing life, how she was the only person to ever see him, even when she knew about Marc. She saw him. She saw Steven Grant. The heat engulfed his cheeks immediately, his chest seizing at the feeling of her hand brushing against his own, willing him to say something, anything.

So he did. Except, ofcourse, he was still Steven.

“Egyptians invented modern navigation.” He choked out, ripping some sellotape off, biting it in the middle to cut it with his teeth, “There’s not alot of landmarks in the desert so they came up with a way to get about using the sun and the stars. Bloody genius, isn’t it?”

He continued fiddling around with the cartonage, as if his heart wasn’t speeding like a rabbit’s for having her so near, attaching the final piece to create a star shaped map, clearly showing a handful of constellations as if what he’d just done wasn’t ‘bloody genius’ in itself.

“Et voila,” He said, holding the finished product out to her, his eyes falling on her face as she took in the map with astounded eyes, her lips parting in shock, her brows flying upwards, “It’s French,”

She couldn’t help but laugh, slapping a hand over her mouth as if the sound was offensive in such a dyer situation, smiling at him through a relieved sort of glee. Steven was back. Things seemed okay when he was there.

She couldn’t contain it anymore, springing towards him for a tight hug, feeling him wrap his arms around her quickly, as if he’d needed it just as badly. There was something oddly isolating about being inside the body, having to watch her light dwindle while screaming and rattling at Marc to fix it. He’d missed her. Missed her so much he couldn’t help bury his nose in her neck, the smell taking him back to the times she would sleep over and stay in his bed while he took the sofa, and when he would crawl back under the duvet the following night everything would smell as if she’d never left. As if she was pressed against him as tightly as she was now.

She smelled like everything good in his life. Smelled like the cinnamon latte she would drink before work, smelled like cuddling up to watch a documentary, knowing they were toeing a line between best friends and something else that neither of them wanted to acknowledge.

Kiss her. Kiss her. You don’t know how long you’ll have in the body, kiss her now Steven.

Gods he would die to kiss her cracked lips and heal their stings.

“I missed you so much,” She murmured into his ear, as if she wanted only him to know.

“Oh, love, I missed you more,” He replied, nosing her neck, lips brushing over her pulse gently, accidentally, enough to have her suck in a breath and grip him tighter.

“Absolutely impossible,” She chuckled back, running a hand up his spine, weaving into the nape of his thick hair, carding her fingers through them in a way that had him whine.

“Sorry to shit over all of this,” Layla called awkwardly, and the two pulled apart as if they’d been caught, “But what do we do with this map now we have it?”

Steven stood up quickly, face flushed with embarrassment that Marc’s ex-wife had found him smelling the girl he longed for. She was quick to her feet too, brushing the sand off her knees before it could stick.

“Well, you see those little pin pricks?” Steven asked, holding the map up toward the trucks blaring white light, the thin constellation in the middle showing clearer than ever, “We should be able to triangulate the stars into coordinates using that.” He said, a wide grin on his face, the fascination clear in his tone.

“Hold on, let me just scan it,” Layla said, holding her tablet up to take a photo of the cartonage, the impressed smile growing easily on her own face.

“Well, um actually…” Steven began, disappointment slowly creeping into his tone, “Unfortunately, it’s not that simple,”

Layla’s face scrunched up as if she ignored Steven’s words, tapping around the screen for it to work magic.

“It’s not working. Why is it not working?” She asked, frowning at the tablet.

“Yeah, yeah. You see, Senfu marked that tomb like two thousand years ago,” Steven explained, his hands waving around as he explained the science behind their predicament, “And stars drift over time. Not much as far as stars go, but-”

“But enough to change our course by a fair bit, I suppose?” Dove cut in, Steven nodding in agreement with a besotted look on his face.

“That’s exactly it, love. It could mean the difference between us searching miles and miles away from where we’re supposed to be looking,” He explained, fiddling with the sellotaped edge of the map idly, “So unless we know exactly what the sky looked like on that date, we’re buggered,”

Dove chewed the rough edge of her nail, the concentrating frown on her face, the same stance she assumed when she had no hand to play in their many card games, when she was considering something big before she said it. Steven had tried to pry her finger from out her mouth before, insisting it would only hurt her more when it started bleeding, but he knew it was a soothing behaviour she had when she was thinking.

“I remember that night.” Came a deep voice, cutting through the emptiness of the desert like a horn. Not of her own master, but the bird headed one that puppeteered her companions. Her head shot up to the top of the sand dune they stood next to, where the skeletal figure stood proudly with his staff, staring at the sky as if watching his own child. Though Dove supposed she too would admire her own creation if she made something so beautiful. “I remember every night,”

“Khonshu?” Steven called out warily, the three of them following the god up to the peak of the dune as he began disappearing over the valley, fading into the night air like a laugh in the wind. Her legs burned with the effort of the steep gradient and soft sand flooring, but the trio reached the top with little complaint. Looking out onto the vast sands blanketed with stars, they searched for wherever the God of the moon had disappeared to, though they came up empty handed.

“I can turn back the night sky,” His booming voice reverberated around them, loud enough she was worried the sand would shift beneath their feet.

“How?” She asked, the two avatars looking to the stars to wait for answers while Layla fiddled with her tablet.

“It will come at a cost, and I cannot do it alone. The worm will have to help me”

As if her fear had begun materialising, the wind picked up around them, cycloning into a harsh whip, spinning a thin layer of sand that bit at her skin, caught in her hair.

“Steven,” He materialised behind the, “When the gods imprison me, tell Marc to free me,” The god requested, holding his staff up high, no doubt to beacon his power.

Fat chance of that happening, Dove thought bitterly, knowing how badly Marc wanted the being gone from his life, sucking away at his being, draining him like a parasite that forced him to obey.

But perhaps the god was not entirely awful, she thought with one single shred of hope, because as he had promised, Khonshu raised his hands to the inky blackness above and Dove watched in bewilderment as the sky began moving, twisting on its axis like a metal globe.

She watched as the stars moved slightly at first, then whipping around into a brief glimpse of sunlight as it picked up pace with Steven raising his arms too, falling towards the horizon faster and faster until there were nothing but beams of purple across the Egyptian night sky.

And the stars were turned back by damn near two thousand years.

—

Taglist:

KNIGHT IN SOHO TAGLIST

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