#an enemy

Business.

It was like a claw embedded in leather, a phantom dragged through oceans made of flame. It was the sun, engulfing everything, she thought as she packed up her papers and shoved them into a briefcase. The business she dealt in was a liquid knife, a hellish infection. A wraith of feathers and glass screaming out arrows.

She fixed up her lipstick and twisted her hair into a bun, securing it with a pen before she shuffled into the corridor. The elevator ride was short and quick, guards watching her at every turn. No, not guards— regular people who just weren’t regular anymore. The watched her like hawks, even as she fiddled with the latches on her high heels before stepping out into the foyer and out the front door. Straight into the back of a waiting Escalade.

It was only when the door shut that she felt like she could exhale. Despite the prying eyes always on her, they didn’t know half of what she was up to. If they did, they’d have killed her before they even found out her name. But right now she was safe.

Right now, she kept it a secret.

And a secret was a strange thing. In the years of living many lies, she learned that there were three different kinds of secrets. One was the sort that everyone knew about, the sort needing at least two people. One to keep it and one to never know about it.

The second was a harder kind of secret; one kept from oneself. Every day, thousands of confessions were kept from their would-be confessors, none of them every knowing that their never-admitted secret all boiled down to the same three words: I am afraid.

And then there was the third kind of secret. The most hidden kind. A secret no one knew about. Perhaps it was known once upon a time, but was taken to the grave. Or maybe it was a useless mystery, lonely and unfounded because no one ever looked for it.

But then, sometimes…some rare times…a secret stayed undiscovered because it was something too big for the mind to hold. Too strange, too vast, and too terrifying to contemplate. She thought about this as the car pulled outside her apartment building and the driver came to open her door. Finally, she could be alone.

Everyone had secrets. They were keepers or the kept-from, players or the played. Secrets and cockroaches— that was all that would be left at the end of everything.

And she had lived with every sort of secret.

They weighed heavily on her shoulders as she trudged up the steps to the fourth floor, fished her keys out of her purse. The interior was dark, just like it always was, reminding her that she was all by herself. She kicked off her high heels on her way to the kitchen, tossed the briefcase on the counter as she opened the fridge. Pulled out a bottle of red wine.

It would’ve been unpleasant to drink if it was left out in the Cairo heat.

She poured a glass for herself as the light from the fridge cascaded across the hardwood floors. She brought the rim to her nose and inhaled the fragrant aroma of oak, earth, leather, and dried cherries. But there was something new to the bottle of cabernet this time. Something she couldn’t quite place.

There was the soft scent of salt, sandalwood, and…motor oil.

She took a cautious sip of the red liquid and slowly place the glass on the counter. Her other hand reached into her waistband, trying to move as gently as possible.

Before a hand encircled her wrist, spun her around, and pressed her into the cold countertop.

“Don’t,” a deep voice said.

And there the smell was stronger now. And she could feel the tears prickling in her eyes already before she even looked up.

The rarest of secrets was suddenly in the kitchen with her. It was here, a thing that could get them both killed if someone were to find out; because such a thing was incomprehensible. He was dead.

None of this was real because it was impossible.

But when she finally brought her eyes up to meet his, she searched for another reason to disbelieve. “Marc,” she breathed.

“If I let your hand go, do you promise not to shoot me with that pistol you’ve got?” he asked, almost like this was a joke.

She felt her teeth bare at him as she shoved forward, placing space between them. As quickly as possible, she grabbed her gun, popped the clip out, and set it on the countertop behind her hips. She wanted to shoot him. She wanted to slap him. Wanted to scream and kick and cry. But somehow, she felt barely able to move. Barely able to string together a line of thoughts in her head.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said to him, feeling her hands beginning to shake. “You were dead. I saw you, in the temple. A bullet went through you—”

“I’ve got a God watching my back, sweetheart,” he reminded her, taking a step back and looking around her apartment as though the bird himself was here watching. Maybe he was. “You, however, seem to have gone to the dark side. Didn’t expect you to be working the books for Harrow’s people.”

She scoffed. “If you’re here, it means you’ve been watching me. Which means you should know that I’m not working for his people. I was looking for something.”

“Another score?” Marc wondered, beginning to wander around the apartment looking for a light switch.

“No. Not exactly,” she began slowly. “I was looking for another tomb.”

The lights flickered on in her kitchen, basking them in warmth that she was suddenly so afraid of. She didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want those feelings to come flooding back that she fought so hard to control when he died. She didn’t want to be that person ever again.

“Why? Harrow’s been put away. He’s in an asylum and we put his Goddess away, too.”

She pressed a hand to her temple and kept her eyes closed as she listened to his footsteps return to her. “I keep hearing this voice in my head. I think another one is looking for an avatar. Which means something big is coming. None of it’s over, and I think it’s looking for me.”

There was a heavy silence for a moment.

“No,” Marc told her sternly. “You’re not going to be an avatar for anybody.”

“That’s not your decision to make.”

Suddenly she felt his warm hand on her arm and she couldn’t stop herself from opening her eyes. There Marc was. Marc fucking Spector. He was the kind of handsome that crept into her bones, the kind that spoke to her of their memories before he needed to say another word.

When he died, she died. Her whole heart had shrivelled up inside of her ribcage and sat there, collecting dust and cobwebs while the whispers of another deity kept her up most nights. Those nights that she wished he had been in bed with her, keeping her safe and warm and calm. Those nights that she didn’t think she’d get through without him.

But she had.

And just when she had begun to heal, here he was. Ready to rip open her wounds again.

They were never an item. Never even kissed. But she always felt drawn to him, felt a yearning for him that was so indescribable that it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair for her to feel that way when he was never hers to have. He had been married. Was in love with someone else.  

There was an incredible sadness washing over her. “Why are you here, Marc? Why didn’t you just stay away?”

It was his turn to soften, and it took him another moment before he spoke. “I— no, we need your help.”