Chapter Text
“Marc, stop being mulish and let me help you along.”
“I’m fine. A lot better now that you patched me up.”
Steven eyed Marc as he pushed passed him in all his stubborn glory – amazed at how much pain Marc could tolerate. They’d started off again in search of the section in the museum Layla was being held in. Steven hadn’t recognized the area on the monitor, concluding that it must be an added feature by Khonshu. The dusty old bird wouldn’t make it easy for them to locate it.
“Let’s go this way,” Steven suggested, catching up with Marc. He gestured to the room that led them away from the Ancient Egyptian exhibit. “Best if we avoid stumbling into Khonshu’s faux temple again.”
Marc agreed and they switched paths. The next exhibit featured was industrial life during 19th century London. Steven peered around. He hadn’t ventured much into this exhibit; it’d been on his to-do list but he’d gotten sacked before he could really commit to exploring it.
“Things are kinda wonky in here. Kinda like the duat. Walking into a room and you’re suddenly on a boat. Or you’re inside than you’re—” Steven was a few steps ahead of Marc. As he turned a corner, he glanced back and found he was alone. “--outside. Marc?”
Steven spun around to fully see behind him. The smooth walls of the museum had morphed into brick. Steven looked down. The tiled floor was now cobblestone. Wetness hung in the air and the alleyway was dark except for one streetlamp at the very end opposite of where Steven stood. A full moon hung perfectly in the night sky.
His attire had changed as well. The sweats that he’d donned were replaced by the perfectly fitted white suit that represented Khonshu’s armor on him. He touched the suit with gloved hands. It was as real as the clothes he’d just had on his back. The only piece missing was the mask.
Panic began to flood in. “What is this? Where am I? Khonshu?” Steven called out desperately.
The click of heels echoed down the alleyway and at the other end, a woman was passing in a hurry. Steven watched her stalk pass and not even a second later, two men crossed the alleyway’s mouth – looking rather suspicious. A scream rang out. Steven bulked as if a whip had slapped his spine. The woman struggled as one of the men dragged her into the alleyway, her screams muffled by a hand over her mouth.
Steven snapped out of his daze as anger boiled up inside him. These men – these ruffians – meant to hurt this woman and it seemed no one else was around to help. Steven lunged forward. A startled cry escaped him. His legs wouldn’t move as if his shoes were glued to the ground. His heart began to race. He tried again to move but couldn’t control his lower body.
“Steven Grant,” Khonshu’s voice boomed in his ears making Steven wince at the sudden noise. “Do you swear to protect the travelers of the night?”
“What the hell is this, Khonshu?” Steven yelled, out of breath though he’d hardly been able to move.
Khonshu leaned his curved beak closer. He extended his staff to the end of the alleyway where the woman was being held against the brick building. “Do you, Steven Grant, swear to protect the travelers of the night?”
Steven watched helpless as one man backhanded the woman and ordered her to stop screaming. He reminded himself -- this wasn’t real. Him and Marc were in the dreamscape. This was only a scene Khonshu had contrived, maybe even a memory from one of Marc’s missions as Khonshu’s fist of vengeance.
“She will die if you do not exact my vengeance!”
Steven shut his eyes tight pressing out the world around him. He gulped in deep breaths. His panicked heart threatened to pound right through his chest.
“this isn’t real this isn’t real this isn’t real,” he repeated over and over. He focused on his rapid heartbeat as it drummed in his ears. The woman’s cries of distress began to fade.
***
“Steven?”
Marc picked up his pace as he rounded a corner. Steven was there. Then, he was gone. There were no doors to duck into. The displays were sparsely scattered where no one could disappear out of sight behind one. An all-too familiar rush of panic slammed into his gut, the same way it had when Marc had lost track of Steven in the duat. This time he was afraid of losing him from completely different circumstances. Khonshu was going to use every card he could draw.
“Steven!” Marc yelled, a ragged edge to his voice.
He pushed forward, focusing on his concern over Steven to help him ignore the throbbing from the wounds on his back and shoulders. He could push through the pain. Finding Steven and ultimately finding Layla was his top priorities. If Khonshu wanted him back that bad, he wasn’t going to let him die in this realm, or in reality.
The area turned up empty. Marc leaned against the wall near the exit for seconds of a break. Steven had vanished in the air. Marc had a sinking feeling he’d have nightmares about this place in the weeks to come – if they even made it out.
He drew in a deep breath, wincing at the pressure it caused on his back and then pushed off the wall. He started forward again into a corridor, continuing to call for Steven.
“Marc?” a muffled voice called from the other side of a wall.
Marc’s entire body froze, and his breathing stopped short. The voice filtered again through the wall. Relief suddenly jolted him back to life and he darted to where the sound was coming from.
“Layla?” he responded loudly so his voice would carry through the wall.
“Marc! I’m here!”
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine! Just really confused and pissed off.”
Marc chuckled in spite of the situation. “Yeah, me too. Where are you?”
“I’m not sure. I know I’m in the museum Steven worked for, but I can’t leave this part of it. It’s a loop with no way out.”
“Layla, you stay there and I will find a way to get to you. I need to find Steven first. We were together and then he was gone when we turned a corner.”
“Okay, I’ll stay here. Not like I can get out. But, Marc, I need to tell you something. There is another—”
Layla never finished her sentence. Marc pressed his ear to the wall. The banging against the wall echoed through then, “Let go!” he heard faintly.
“Layla!” Marc slammed his hand on the wall several times as he shouted her name. His instinct drove him to punch the wall, the break it down with just sheer will and adrenaline. The impact dropped him to his knees, reminding him painfully of the wounds on his back. He didn’t need to tear them any further and bleed out on the floor. That wouldn’t help Layla, or Steven.
He pressed his forehead to the wall and focused on regulating his breathing to calm his raging heartbeat. He knew Layla was more than capable of defending herself. He made sure of that the first couple years they’d known each other, teaching her how to fight. Just because he knew she could hold her own didn’t stop him from worrying about what adversary she was facing on the other side of the wall. He would find her, and injury be damned, he would beat the crap out of whoever was keeping her trapped.
***
Layla stalked down the hallway in search of Jake. He’d unceremoniously walked away without a word leaving her clueless once again as to why he so ardently wanted Marc to return to Khonshu’s services. Jake seemed to vanish into the shadows of the dimly lit area she was currently trapped in. She steamed at the conclusion that Jake was like Marc in that sense – avoiding important conversations. She was thankful Steven wasn’t so hard-headed. At least one of them was willing to communicate.
Layla hadn’t walked far when a voice carried over from the other side of the wall. It was faint, but it sent a spark up her spine in familiarity. She pressed her ear to the wall, the voice becoming louder as it traveled closer.
“Marc?” she called out.
Mere second later, she heard, “Layla?”
An overwhelming wave of relief hit her so intensely she felt like laughing and sobbing all at once. Steven had been with Marc, but they’d gotten separated – which seemed to be the running theme for this dreaded place. Layla didn’t want Marc to leave, but they’d never escape this place if they remained idle.
Marc told her to stay put. “Okay, I’ll stay here. Not like I can get out. But, Marc, I need to tell you something.” He needed to know about Jake – that the third alter who they’d never met before was lurking around with an agenda of his own. “There is another—”
A hand clamped over her mouth and yanked her back against a body so hard it knocked the wind out of her. “You do not have the right to tell them about me,” Jake growled in her ear with such venom it froze Layla’s blood cold.
She used Jake’s hold as leverage, kicking both feet on the wall and pushing off – knocking Jake off balance. “Let go!” Layla screamed. Her tactic was unsuccessful. Jake’s hold around her arms and waist didn’t let up. Layla threw her head back to deliver a headbutt, but Jake dodged her attempt.
Jake pushed her forward. “You want to tango, hermosa?” His flat cap had fallen off in the scuffle. He gestured at her. “C’mon.”
Layla seethed. She fixed Jake with a glare of utter contempt, but all he did was sneer and grin at her. He may have worn Marc’s face, but this man was unrecognizable to her. She had no weapons. No objects around that could be used as one. All she had were her bare hands and combat skills. It would have to be enough.
For every jab, every swing, Jake blocked her. It was as if he had passage into her mind. All the while, the corner of his lip quirked up in a knowing smirk. Layla hadn’t noticed Jake leading her back to the sarcophagus until he shoved her backwards and the middle of her back slammed into its rim, knocking the breath from her and cause her to see stars. Layla grimaced, and for the first time, she realized all of Jake’s advances had been geared to disarm every blow she dealt without hurting her.
“You don’t think I know every move Marc taught you. I know what you will do before you think it,” he said with all the confidence in the world.
Jake lunged forward before Layla could recover her breath. He pushed her hard against the sarcophagus, the rim eating into her back and making her cry out. Before Layla could process what was happening, her feet were off the floor. Jake picked her up as easily as picking a blade of grass. The lid of the sarcophagus was still ajar, and Layla realized in terror exactly what he was doing.
“No! No!” she screamed and flailed, but he was too strong. Layla dropped into the wooden coffin, a severe ache shooting up her already sore back. “Jake!” The last sight she saw was his face – void of emotion, a sharp contrast to when they were fighting – before the sarcophagus lid slid and sealed in place.