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Deep in the desert, there was no light but the moon, rising over the endless sands. Here in the centre of London, the sky was never dark, the city outshining the stars. But still, the moon was always watching. Harrow ignored its baleful eye over his shoulder, but its reflection loomed before him in the window. Carefully shifting his balance on the slanted rooftop, he leaned forward and knocked on the glass.
Better to announce himself. He had no wish to get shot. Again.
On the other side of the window, in the darkened flat, a man cursed, leapt out of bed, and crashed to the floor. Harrow could make out some kind of tether attaching him to the bedpost. The man unfastened his ankle cuff and hopped over to the nightstand, where he switched on the lamp and stood blinking in its light.
Steven, then. Marc would have taken cover. Jake would have taken aim.
Harrow gave a bland smile. "May I come in?"
Steven stared at him for several moments. His bare feet pressed into the pool of sand around the bed. So. He suspected something, at least, if he was tracking footprints.
Steven marched to the window and flung it open. "This had better be some really weird dream."
Wordlessly, Harrow took his hand, and guided it to his own heart. Steven would be able to feel its steady beat, though he might not detect the bullet scars. "I'm not a dream."
Steven jerked his hand back, eyes wide.
"I'm not here to kill you," Harrow said.
"Sorry if I don't find that terribly reassuring."
"I came to warn you." Harrow glanced down at the sand. "But I think you already know."
Steven hesitated another moment, then pulled him inside. Harrow winced as his sandalled feet landed hard on the floor. He steadied himself with his cane. No Staff of Ammit, just a regular one from a regular chemist.
Steven didn't notice, already shutting the window. "Do you know what time it is?" As if the commotion might have woken the neighbours. He turned, watching Harrow warily. "How did you get out of the hospital?"
You don't remember. Or at least--you--don't. "I had help."
Steven frowned, clearly perplexed.
"Well, if we're not going to fight it out," he said, "I'm putting the kettle on."
He retreated to the kitchen, with an anxious backward glance. Beneath the sound of bubbling water, he seemed to be having a furiously whispered conversation with himself. Harrow wondered who would emerge: Steven with a cup of tea, or Marc with a carving knife.
At least Khonshu could not get at him through either of them anymore. Harrow would only be in trouble if Jake showed up.
Harrow made a slow circle of the room, examining bookshelves and furnishings. Every available surface was covered in papers and trinkets, like a museum in miniature. A large aquarium was set into a dividing wall, twin goldfish swimming in oblivious circles. The front door was locked and bolted, hung with multiple chains. A long strip of tape ran along the edge of the frame.
He hadn't been sure what he would find. He wasn't even sure what he was looking for. He had come here with the vague notion of thwarting Khonshu one last time. Seeking out his current avatar, and releasing him from his servitude. Or did Jake already have that in hand, playing some long game? Harrow was still alive after all. Jake had pulled the trigger for Khonshu, but when he dumped the body, he had winked. Like he already knew death wouldn't stick.
Perhaps Harrow came here because he had nowhere else to go. If he was being hunted, he wanted to know. Was he actually looking for someone to finish the job? Did he have some hidden death wish? He had defied one god and resurrected another. He had gone to the limit of his powers, and it had not been enough. He had been condemned, then executed, and somehow survived. What was there left to do?
"Do you take milk or sugar? I only have soy." Steven came out of the kitchen with a laden tray. His eyes widened. "What is that?"
Harrow followed his gaze. Blood on the sand. In his footprints.
Those wounds shouldn't bleed through the sandals. Unexpected. Careless. "It's nothing."
Steven put down the tray, eyes surprisingly hard. "Did you just kill someone?"
Not an unfair accusation, considering his history, but it still stung. This man had shot him, and he had risked coming here regardless.
"I'll go." Harrow headed for the window. The crunch of broken glass was loud in the silence.
"Oh my god. Is that you?" Steven looked from his feet to his face. Found something unimaginable there. "Oh my god."
Harrow could not think what to say.
"You. Stay right there." Steven disappeared down the hallway, before Harrow had a chance to object.
This wasn't part of the plan. He was caught out. He should go now, instead of standing here at a loss, surrounded by books and goldfish and the scent of hot tea.
Steven came back clutching a first aid kit in his arms.
Harrow stared. "Are you serious?"
Steven looked affronted. "I'm not the one casually tracking blood on the floor!"
"It's none of your concern."
"Yeah, no, I'll be the judge of that." He pushed Harrow into a nearby chair and reached for his sandals. Then he froze, realising what he was doing.
This was ridiculous. Harrow should get up and leave. But Steven already knew. Would know, every time they met. He sighed. "Go ahead. You'll see. It's fine."
To be honest, it was a relief to take the weight off his feet.
The next few minutes were as surreal as any fever dream. Newspaper spread on the floor. The tinkle of glass as it fell. Steven swearing in a long litany, as he tried to slide the sandals off as gently as he could. "Fuck. This is fucked." He lifted one foot free, and stopped dead. "What the fuck."
Harrow knew what he was looking at. Shallow wounds, seeping blood, in thin red lines. And underneath, the ridges of old scars. "I told you. It's fine. They heal themselves." He still had that much power left to him, after everything he had won and lost.
Steven gave him an incredulous look. "I mean, yeah. All cuts heal themselves. Technically. But that doesn't mean--" He shook his head, and poured antiseptic into a bowl of water. "Did Ammit make you do this?"
Harrow went rigid with shock. "No. Of course not." But how could he explain the unexplainable? Trying to regain his equilibrium, he said instead, "There is a long tradition in mysticism of the physical ordeal. The saints and martyrs of old--they sought divine revelation through enduring pain--"
"Then they were all bonkers too," Steven said. "Seriously."
This suddenly felt too intimate and too exposed. "Let me tell you, this is far preferable to what I suffered under Khonshu."
There was a silence. "He really did a number on you, didn't he?"
"This isn't about him."
"Then what is it about?" Steven was still gazing at him with those dark eyes. He might seem naïve and foolish, but he was uncannily perceptive.
Harrow decided to divert the question. He fell back on a familiar mantra. "He's helpless in this world. He can only act through his avatar. And that avatar is you."
"Not anymore," Steven protested. "We had a deal."
"Are you sure about that? Whose footprints are you watching for?"
Steven let out a deep sigh, facing the truth. "Just how many of us are there?"
Harrow gestured at the sand, the tether, and the cuff. "Do you have nightmares?"
Steven nodded, slowly. "There was an asylum. You were in my dream. But that wasn't really you, was it?"
"Probably not." Harrow twisted his mouth in irony. "I thought I saw you in my dream too. But it wasn't a dream. And it wasn't really you."
Steven inhaled sharply. "What happened?"
Harrow tapped his own chest. Bullet holes over his heart. Same as he had delivered to this man, like a strange ouroboros of death. "You paid me back. With interest."
"But you're still alive."
"So are you."
Did the cracks in them run parallel? When lightning hit the desert, sand fused into glass, and glass shattered into sand. An endless cycle of death and rebirth.
"You need to get better at bargaining with gods," Harrow said. "It's not your fault. The old bird is cunning and duplicitous. He will never deal fairly or honestly."
"How did you break free then?"
"I didn't."
Steven looked baffled. "You rebelled against him."
Harrow shook his head. "He throws you away when you become too broken to use."
The memory was still just fragments. Lying down in the fresh dug grave. The shovel still gripped in his hands. The rain wet on his face. Ignoring the shouting god who commanded him to rise and obey. Was it rebellion if you didn't care if you won or died?
Harrow blinked the memory away. He was back in the present, hands curled around the arms of the chair. Steven was crouched before him, mouth half open like he wanted to say something but not knowing how, and his eyes saying it anyway.
Harrow was first to break his gaze. Too late to take any of that back. He may as well be raw all over, bleeding out from the inside.
"Well, that's just bollocks," Steven said, decidedly. "I'm not letting him do that again, I can tell you now."
The tension released like a breath of air. Harrow found his voice again. Even found some vestige of amusement. "You're planning to go fight another god singlehanded?"
"No, of course not," Steven said. "I won't be doing it on my own."
He cleaned away the glass and washed away the blood. The water had to be changed halfway through. "You know, it's a good thing you do heal. I think for serious glass injuries, the advice is go to A&E."
"I'm not going back to any hospital," Harrow said. Just in case Steven got any ideas.
Steven flushed. "You needed help. It wasn't supposed to be a prison. Even if you deserved it."
"What do we deserve though, you and I? We have too much blood on our hands. When the time comes, we will both be judged for our sins."
"No offence, but from what I've seen of the gods, I wouldn't trust their judgment on anything." Steven paused. "Except maybe Taweret."
He laid down some clean towels and unwrapped a long roll of bandage. Harrow thought about insisting he could manage it himself, but he suspected his back would disagree. So he let Steven finish his ministrations, while he downed the neglected tea. It still retained a lingering warmth.
"There you go," Steven said, tying off the last knot. He sat back and eyed his handiwork, a little dubiously.
Because it needed to be said, Harrow said, "Thank you." He lifted the cup. "For everything."
Steven looked flustered. He bent to pack away the first aid kit. "Thank you too. For the warning, I mean. You didn't have to come here."
"No," Harrow said, "I think I did."