by George Mann
“All right. Then we do it—right now,” said the Ghost, reaching for his goggles.
“One thing first,” said Astrid.
“What’s that?”
“Pour me one of those damn whiskies. I’ve just run all the way here.”
Donovan laughed. “You know, you grow on me more every time I meet you.”
* * *
The shop was actually a small bakery on the intersection of the two roads. The shelves in the window were empty, and had been for some time. Dead flies had settled in the windows, and a small handwritten sign had been posted on the door, declaring the shop “under new management”.
It was late now, and only a few lonely cars hissed by, tires kissing asphalt. The temperature had dropped, and a cool breeze was blowing in off the river. The Ghost’s heart was thrumming like a jackhammer as he squatted on a fire escape across the street, watching for any hint of activity from the windows. The lights were off, and the place seemed deserted. There could be scores of them holed up inside, or just a handful—they wouldn’t know until they made their move.
Donovan was down below, skulking in the shadows, and Astrid was on the opposite side of the intersection. He had a mind to leave her there while they went in, but she’d asked him for a gun, and he wasn’t about to start patronizing her, not after everything she’d done. Like Donovan had said, she was a remarkable woman, and she was doing this to help him get Ginny back. Who was he to tell her not to get involved for her own protection?
There was no subtlety about their plan. They weren’t planning to sneak in via the roof, or try to get her out without a fight. When Astrid gave the signal, they were converging on the door to the baker’s shop and forcing their way inside, then shooting anyone who came at them until there was no one left in their way. They’d try to retain the element of surprise, of course—at least until the first shot was fired. After that… well, he supposed it would depend on what resistance they met.
He saw Astrid give the signal, and grabbed the rail on the fire escape, leaping over and landing in a crouch below. He dashed across the street, Donovan coming up behind him. “Ready?”
“Ready,” they both replied in concert.
He gave the door an almighty shove with his shoulder, and the lock splintered almost instantly. The shop hadn’t been built with security in mind; no one would suspect an Ancient Egyptian resurrectionist cult of hiding the avatar of a reborn goddess here. He supposed that was the point.
They slipped inside, scattering to create more targets.
There was an open doorway behind the counter, and the Ghost inched round, peering around the frame. No one seemed to be coming down the stairs from the apartment above. He nodded to the others to indicate he was going up. Cautiously, they followed behind him.
He winced as his boots creaked on the old wooden stairs. Up ahead, they hit a small landing, and then doubled back on themselves, going higher. He kept to the wall, head raised, weapon arm covering the landing as he walked.
He reached another small landing. There was a door here. He frowned, unsure whether to try it, or to go higher first. Donovan was frowning at him from the stairs below.
The decision was made for him a moment later when he heard a toilet flush, and the handle on the door turned. He spun, squeezing the trigger on his weapon as the door opened. The emerging cultist caught a hailstorm of metal discs in the chest. He stumbled back, gurgling, and toppled into an empty bathtub. The Ghost heaved a sigh of relief. Then the flechettes exploded, spraying the corpse across the walls in a gory, violent eruption, and all hell broke loose.
The Ghost took the next flight of stairs three at a time, hitting the landing just as two further cultists swung out of another doorway, pistols raised. These guys, then, didn’t go in for the typical sword and blowpipe affair. The Ghost cursed, diving into a roll. Their guns snapped out a series of shots, leaving pockmarks in the wall where he’d been standing. He came up quickly, right before them. The heels of his palms smashed the cartilage of their noses up into their brains, and they crumpled at his feet, dead instantly.
Astrid and Donovan had opened fire down below, seeing to more of the men who’d obviously been keeping guard on the ground floor and were now streaming out of the bakery’s kitchens, weapons blazing.
He decided to leave them to keep the escape route clear as he went after Ginny.
He ran to the end of the corridor, sidestepping through the door from which the cultists had emerged. The room on the other side was bare and unfurnished, other than an old, bulky wireless, two overturned packing crates they’d obviously been using for chairs, and some takeout cartons, dumped on the floor, their gelatinous contents seeping out onto the bare floorboards. Another door led deeper into the apartment.
He crept forward, trying to get a sense of how far back the place went. It had obviously once been two apartments that had been knocked into one at some point in the recent past, and the work had never been completed. The walls were peeling and bare, and exposed wires peeked out of gouges in the plasterwork. He guessed the cult must have moved in before the work had been finished, and saw no need to make good.
From the other side of the door, someone fired a shot, and it winged his shoulder, burning a line across the fabric of his coat. He flung himself against the wall, shuffling forward, and then went low, ducking out and shooting the man in the kneecaps. The explosion took his legs off, and a final shot to the head put him down for good.
The room beyond was a small kitchen. A kettle was whistling on the stove. He crept forward, heard a noise behind him and grabbed the kettle, swinging it round and cracking another man across the head with the scalding metal. He screamed, dropping to his knees, and the Ghost dropped the kettle and shot him in the throat.
These were the men that had taken Ginny, the men who had turned her into that thing. He had no time for mercy, not tonight.
Below, the sound of gunfire came to an abrupt halt. He heard Donovan thundering up the stairs, Astrid in his wake. They’d find him easily enough by the trail of corpses.
Another doorway took him through to what he assumed was the hallway of the adjoining apartment. Here, the décor was dated but still largely intact: exuberant wallpaper covered in fleur-de-lis, an old chandelier, a grandmother clock that hadn’t chimed in years. Everything was covered in a thick patina of dust. It was a relic from before the war.
He heard a rustling sound from one of the rooms up ahead, and started for the door. He buckled a second later when something heavy struck him on the back, and he stumbled forward, barely maintaining his balance. It screeched angrily in his ear, clawing at his face, trying to pull his goggles off and get to his eyes.
The baboon.
The thing had incredible strength. It had obviously been lurking above, out of sight, and had dropped onto his shoulders as he’d passed beneath it, wrapping its legs around his neck. He could feel it beginning to constrict his breathing, crushing his windpipe as it gave up trying to get at his eyes and started pounding his head with its fists instead.
He charged backwards, slamming the creature against the wall. It bellowed angrily, but didn’t release its grip.
Ahead of him, the door opened and two cultists rushed out, laughing at the sight that presented them. The Ghost put a flechette in the face of one for his trouble, and another in the gut of his companion.
He was gasping for breath now, his head swimming, his damaged ribs stabbing with pain. He staggered forward, grasping at the baboon’s legs, but it was too strong, and he couldn’t prise it free.
There was a loud shot from right behind his head, and suddenly the creature’s muscles went slack, and the weight of it slid from his back, striking the floor with a thud. He turned, gasping, to see Astrid standing behind him, lowering her gun. Her face was spattered with the creature’s blood.
“I’m glad I gave you that thing,” said the Ghost, through choked tears. “Thanks.”
“I think that’s two you owe me now,” she
said, with a cocky grin.
Donovan was already at the other doorway. “In here,” he called. “Quickly.”
They ran to join him.
Ginny was inside, lying on a mattress on the floor, her hands and feet bound with leather belts. She looked unconscious. Her skin was pale, and she was wearing the tattered rags of the costume she’d had on during the parade. There were dark circles around her eyes, and she clearly hadn’t eaten properly in weeks. Around the mattress was the detritus of her captivity—used hypodermic syringes, coils of frayed rope, a potty, the remnants of a sandwich, a stain that looked disturbingly like vomit. It was unconscionable that someone could do this to Ginny; to take such a bright, brilliant woman and put her through this hellish nightmare.
Astrid was at her side before the Ghost was properly through the door. She felt for a pulse. “It’s sluggish,” she said. “She’s been drugged.”
“Get those binds off of her,” said the Ghost.
Astrid did as he said, and he came forward, scooping her up into his arms. She felt as light as a feather. He cradled her for a moment, and then turned to Donovan. “All right, get us out of here.”
“And then where?” said Donovan. “Back to your apartment?”
“No,” said Astrid. “My place is closer, and I might be able to help her.”
The Ghost nodded his assent, and together, they fled before any of the neighbors could report the disturbance.
TWENTY-FIVE
For a while, he watched her sleeping.
She was curled up in Astrid’s armchair like an indolent cat, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. She looked so fragile, so thin and broken. This wasn’t the Ginny he knew, the vibrant, cocksure, self-confident woman who had gone off to Egypt on her own for an adventure. He hoped it wouldn’t change her; that she wouldn’t become cautious and afraid to live her life in the way she always had. That was what he loved about her, he realized—her ability to turn any situation into an adventure, her fierce independence, her freedom and sense of being. He hoped he could help her to heal. He hoped that she’d want him to.
While Donovan put a call in to Mullins to tell him what had gone down above the baker’s shop, Gabriel sat with Astrid, talking in hushed tones while Ginny slept. He’d divested himself of his goggles, having already lost his hat during his encounter with the baboon, and was sipping a mug of her restorative tea.
The church still reeked of smoke from their experiment with the Seer that morning, and Astrid—much to her delight—had discovered there were still cold pastries in the bag he’d left on the counter.
She’d taken a moment to clean herself up once they’d settled Ginny in the chair, and now she sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, munching hungrily.
“You’re quite handy with that thing,” he said, nodding at the gun, which she’d placed on the workbench.
“I’ve known my way around a few of those in my time,” she said. “Hate the things, but sometimes they get the job done.”
“You saved my life.”
“Mmm hmm.”
“I won’t forget it.”
She laughed. “You make it sound so grand, as if I’m the heroine in a dime novel or something. I did what I had to do. You’d have done the same. I’m sure you’ll have chance to pay me back at some point.”
“I hope so. Although I’ll be honest, I’ll be glad if I never see another baboon in my life.”
She grinned.
He glanced at Ginny. “You said you had some ideas.”
Astrid nodded while she chewed on a mouthful of pastry. “She needs to sleep the tranquilizers off for a start. Aside from keeping her sedated, they’ll be suppressing her own personality, allowing the interloper to maintain control. She needs to wake up in order to fight it.”
“To fight a goddess?”
“We can help her,” said Astrid. “There are techniques for controlling possession. Once she becomes aware of what the other personality is trying to do, instead of being pushed into the background by the drugs, she’ll be able to assert herself.” She took another bite of her pastry. “There is something else, too, but it might not be easy.”
“Go on.”
“The tomb. That’s the source of Sekhmet’s power. Remember what I told you about buildings mirroring the heavens, strengthening the links between the different realms? Well, that’s exactly what that tomb is doing. It’s like a conductor, channeling her power.”
“So if we destroy it…” said Gabriel.
“We don’t even need to destroy it,” she said. “Just disrupt it. Alter the layout somehow, stop it reflecting the design it was built to mirror. That’ll weaken Sekhmet, and give Ginny a better chance of asserting herself again.”
“Then that has to be a priority,” said Gabriel. He started to get to his feet, but felt her hand on his arm, holding him back.
“For tomorrow, yes,” she said. “Once we’ve all had some rest. We’ve got her back now. We’ll be no good to her if we’re half asleep.”
Gabriel was about to protest, but thought better of it. She was right. It would soon be dawn, and his wounds were beginning to ache again, now that the adrenaline of the raid was wearing off.
“Don’t worry. We can take it in shifts. Why don’t you get some rest while I wait for Felix to return?” Astrid didn’t have a holophone terminal, and so he’d had to head out to find one.
“You should go first,” he said.
Astrid shook her head. “I’m not the one who had a baboon on his back.” Her face creased into a wicked laugh, and he couldn’t help himself from joining in. “And besides—she’s not going to want to see you looking like that, is she?” She nodded at Ginny. “Go on, get some sleep. Take a few cushions and use the other room. I know it’s not the height of luxury, but it’s safe.”
“All right,” he said. He could feel his eyelids fighting to close. “But you wake me the moment she stirs.”
“Of course,” she said, and took another big bite of her pastry, as if to underline her point.
* * *
“You were supposed to wake me!” said Gabriel, emerging bleary-eyed from the other room to see Ginny sitting up in the chair, Astrid kneeling on the floor before her. Donovan was propped on a stool in the corner, sipping coffee. Light was streaming in though a small stained-glass window on the far wall, vibrant blues, yellows and reds pooling on the flagstones.
“Shhh,” said Astrid, waving her finger before Ginny’s face. “I’m busy.” She smirked. “And besides, you looked so peaceful.”
Gabriel knelt beside Astrid on the ground. Ginny was awake, but it seemed as if Astrid had her in a trance of some kind; she sat stock still, her back straight, her eyes wide and staring.
Astrid was moving her finger back and forth, and Ginny’s eyes were following it. He realized after a moment that Astrid wasn’t simply testing Ginny’s reactions, but was actually tracing shapes in the air—runes that she was presumably attempting to imprint on Ginny’s unconscious mind.
“These will help,” she said. She didn’t elaborate further, and Gabriel decided not to push her—he probably wouldn’t have understood anyway.
After a moment, she clicked her fingers and sat back, and Ginny seemed to suddenly snap back to life. She blinked, her eyes trying to focus. Then she saw Gabriel, and her face broke into the most sorrowful smile that he’d ever seen. She flung herself forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and squeezing him so tight that he could barely breathe. He felt her hot tears on his neck, and he just held her for a while, her body wracking as she let it out—the relief, the pain, the horror.
“Oh God,” she whispered in his ear, over and over. “Oh God.”
“It’s all right. I’ve got you,” he said. He didn’t know what else he could say.
He heard the door click shut as Astrid and Donovan stepped out, leaving them alone for a moment.
“Are you…?” He tried to frame the words. How could he ask her if she was okay? Of course she wasn’t okay
. She might never be okay again.
“It’s me,” she said. “It’s me.” She pushed herself back, her hands on his shoulders, searching his face. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I almost led them to you.”
Gabriel frowned. “To me?”
She nodded. “They wanted you. They were going to make you into one of their vessels, like… like me. But I wouldn’t tell them where to find you. I wouldn’t.”
So that’s why they’d turned over her apartment, and why they’d drugged him that first night rather than killing him outright. Suddenly it all made a terrible kind of sense.
“You have to know, whatever I did, it wasn’t me. I can’t control it. It’s as if she’s somehow able to push me out of the way, and I can see everything that’s happening, but I’ve got no way of stopping her.” The tears were still streaming down her face. “Last night outside the museum—I almost killed you.”
“No, you didn’t,” said Gabriel. “She did.” He leaned in, kissing her forehead. “We’re going to help you, Ginny. Astrid knows what to do. We’ll find a way to get that thing out of you. I won’t stop until it’s gone. I promise.”
She cupped his face in her hands, trailing her fingers down his neck. He felt them close around his throat, her thumbs digging painfully into his flesh. He tried to pull back, confused, but her grip was like a vise, and she clung on, squeezing.
Her eyes had taken on an awful, distant gleam, and the quality of the light around her had shifted, as if she were wrapped in the corona of a distant, pale sun. Her hair whipped up around her face, stirred by a breeze he could not feel. There was only the awful, constant pressure of her hands, slowly choking the life from him.
He tried to stand, his scrabbling foot kicking over a glass, which shattered on the flagstones. She was too strong. He grabbed her arms, trying to lever her off, but she just clung on to him, immovable, deadly.
The door opened and Astrid and Donovan came running in, calling his name, but they seemed to him like a distant memory, slowly slipping away, a half-remembered dream. His eyes were closing, his lungs burning as they fought for oxygen that wasn’t coming.
