Ghosts of Karnak

by George Mann

  Behind her marched upwards of ten ebon statues, dragging themselves through the splintered remnants of the doors. They stormed out onto the steps, implacable faces upturned to their goddess in the sky. Black-robed cultists swarmed around them, numerous and deadly, their curved blades drawn and glinting in the reflected light.

  “Ready?” said the Ghost, turning to Donovan.

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  “Then give them hell.”

  He leapt from the cover of the trees, barreling forward, flechette gun erupting. The explosive rounds showered the first wave of statues as they reached the foot of the steps, detonating with a sound like machine-gun fire and flensing hunks of stone from their heads and upper torsos.

  One of them hissed as it saw him coming, its jackal-shaped jaws hinging wide, before the upper half of its head exploded and it crashed to the ground, still and lifeless.

  The police officers had heard the opening salvo and were now emerging from the other side of the museum, effectively pinning the cultists from behind. Their handguns barked, and black-robed men went down, showering the sidewalk with splashes of crimson blood.

  Donovan, too, was striding from the tree line, weapon raised, snapping out shots at cultists, dropping them like dead weights where they stood.

  A grenade went off close to the Ghost, and he boosted off the ground to avoid the shower of shrapnel caused by two more exploding statues. Flames guttered, the asphalt melting into sticky puddles.

  Above, the avatar of Sekhmet watched events unfolding, her face contorted in fury. Shapes were beginning to gather in the light beneath her outstretched hands. The lions were coming.

  The Ghost came down again, loosing another barrage of flechettes, one of which ricocheted off a baboon-headed statue and struck a cultist in the shoulder. He winced, his hand going to the wound just as the flechette blew, taking his head and shoulders with it.

  The cultists had now dispersed, trying to close the gap with Mullins and his band of police officers. The police were holding their own, however, shots still ringing out as the cultists charged, their guns proving far more effective than the enemy’s swords at this range.

  The crump of a second grenade reduced another lumbering statue to a shower of dust, leaving a crater in the museum steps in the process.

  Arthur was not going to be happy.

  The Ghost looked round, searching for Astrid. She was standing beneath the cover of the trees, hurling little fragments of bone into the fray, which she’d painstakingly inscribed with runes that afternoon in his apartment. He had no idea what they were supposed to do, but they appeared to be having some sort of effect on the remaining statues, causing them to stumble unsteadily, as if dizzy or confused. He guessed they must be somehow disrupting the control being exerted over them by the goddess, but whatever the case, it was making them easier targets, and he took another two of them out with his explosive rounds.

  The Ghost fell back, looking to the skies.

  Sekhmet faced him, glaring down at him with burning eyes. He could feel the power radiating from her; feel the searing hate, as if the light of her was causing him to shrivel in her presence. The ghostly lions had now fully formed beneath her palms, straining against their phantasmal leash, and she flicked her wrists, setting them free. They roared, and the Ghost fought the urge to run.

  He planted his feet, standing his ground as they rushed him, their jaws widening as they swooped in for the kill. Simultaneously, they burst across his chest, the force of them causing him to stagger back, dropping to one knee. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to cry out. The light radiated around him, hot and angry, as if his body itself was a shield and he was trying to hold back a gale.

  After a moment, they dispersed, dissolving away into the night. He stood, trembling but alive. The runes that Astrid had scrawled across his body in her workshop that afternoon—carefully removing and replacing the strapping over his ribs—had worked, protecting him from whatever life-stealing magic the goddess had employed.

  He could see now that a handful of police officers had fallen to the cultists’ blades, but that they still had the upper hand, and the cultists’ numbers were thinning. Only one remaining statue lumbered at the base of the museum steps, too, already missing one of its arms and a hunk of its hip.

  It was time to take the fight to the goddess. Astrid had assured him that the same runes that would protect him from her magic would allow him to land a solid blow upon her ghostly form. Now was his chance to put it to the test.

  He fired his boosters, surging up on a plume of flame, heading directly for Sekhmet. She saw him coming and tried to swing out of the way, but he was too fast, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, sending them both spinning skywards.

  She felt warm and solid beneath his hands, despite her ghostly aspect, and as she struggled in his grip, thrashing at him with her ankh, he twisted, looking her properly in the face for the first time. Their eyes met.

  A cold sensation spread through his gut. He felt bile rising, panic stirring. He froze, unable to act, surging higher and higher into the sky. The face that was now staring back at him had been etched into his mind a thousand times; he’d cupped it lovingly in the bedroom, watched its lingering smile from across the room, traced it in his dreams as he’d longed for her to return.

  “Ginny?” he said, in disbelief. “Ginny!”

  It was her, right there in his arms, spinning through the air, glowing with the caustic light of her possession. She’d tried to kill him only moments earlier, and even now, this close, there was no hint of recognition.

  Ginny had become the vessel of Sekhmet. It explained everything, of course it did, and the realization hit him like a lead weight. If he was honest with himself, he’d suspected it from the very first moment Astrid had explained her theory, but had refused to admit it, even to himself.

  He didn’t know what to do. He held onto her as they spiraled lower again, on a direct collision course with the trees.

  “What have they done to you?” he called over the screaming wind, but it was too late, and they hurtled into the upper branches of a tree. He let go of her as the trailing limbs struck him thick and fast, whipping his face, and the last thing he saw before unconsciousness snatched away all thought was the sight of her, drifting away again on a carpet of light, lost and out of reach.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Ginny…

  Ginny…

  Ginny…

  Ginny…

  Sekhmet…

  Waking.

  Pain.

  Darkness.

  Adoration.

  Sekhmet.

  Ginny woke with a start.

  Her breath was ragged.

  It was dark, and the air was cold and still. She’d been here for some time. She could tell by the way her body ached; how the muscles in her lower back had begun to seize. She tried to move, but she felt lightheaded and nearly swooned.

  She could hear voices—no, a single voice. She tried to speak, but her lips wouldn’t move. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth.

  The voice… it was in her head. She couldn’t understand what it was saying, but it wanted her to get up. She stirred, slowly moving her legs.

  “Easy, now.”

  This was a different voice. A familiar voice. Amaury.

  “What…?” she managed to stammer, dizziness causing the entire world to spin on its axis.

  “Careful,” he said, coming to her aid, taking her by the shoulders. “It’s just the aftereffects of the drug. You’ll be fine. Better than fine! You’ll feel renewed.”

  The voice in her head was pressing her to move again—an incessant, impatient buzzing. She ignored it.

  “Where…?” she said.

  She felt a cup touch her lips, and she thirstily gulped at the cool water within. A match flared. She watched it bobbing in the darkness for a moment, until it started to grow, becoming a fist-sized ball of flame. Someone had lit a torch. She recognized the stink of bur
ning pitch.

  Slowly, the room resolved around her, the shadows banished by the warm glow.

  She was back in the tomb, deep beneath the ground. She tried to sit up, but the world lurched again, and she fell back, resting her head against the hard surface. Above her, she could see the hands of Sekhmet, fingers splayed. It was the idol she’d seen on her first visit here. She was lying on the concave table, deep inside the tomb.

  She rolled onto her side, feeling nauseous. Amaury was standing in the doorway, holding the torch. They seemed to be alone.

  “Why am I here?” she said. And then her mind slowly caught up, and she realized that it was only Amaury who could have brought her here, only Amaury who’d had the opportunity to drug her drink on the terrace. It was him. He’d done this. “What have you done?”

  Amaury smiled. “Don’t worry, Ginny. I’m not going to hurt you. In fact, no one is ever going to hurt you again.” He stepped closer. “I said I had a gift for you.”

  “The ring.”

  “A mere trinket,” he said. “The real gift was far greater.”

  Was. What did he mean?

  She tried to sit up again, and winced at a sudden pain in her head.

  “Shhh, be still. There’s a voice inside your head, isn’t there?”

  “I… yes, I think so. I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself. You’re quite safe. You see, I had to drug you to bring you here. You might have caused a fuss, and we couldn’t have that. The thing is, you’re so perfect, Ginny. Perfect in every way. We couldn’t have asked for anyone better.”

  “You’re not making any sense,” said Ginny. This time she did sit up, swinging her legs down, and the pain in her head subsided.

  “That’s it,” said Amaury. “Listen to it. Do what it says. It’ll hurt less that way.”

  She frowned. The whispering voice was like a constant background droning, a murmuring in her inner ear. It was speaking in a strange, foreign tongue, but she somehow knew that it wanted her to stand. When she didn’t, she felt another lancing pain, just behind her left ear. She dropped down from the table, gasping for breath, and the pain subsided again.

  “You see,” said Amaury, “the sooner you let her in, the sooner you’ll be free.”

  “You bastard,” she growled. “I trusted you, and this is what I get for it.” She lashed out at him, her hand balled, and as she swung, she saw that her fist had begun to glow, taking on a strange, ethereal aspect. It struck Amaury in the chest and he fell back, stumbling, catching hold of the wall to stop himself going over. He righted himself, still smiling.

  “I see she exerts more of an influence with every passing second,” said Amaury. “This is good.”

  “Who?” demanded Ginny. “Tell me what you’ve done!”

  “Sekhmet,” said Amaury. “You are very privileged, Miss Ginny Gray. As the world turns and the heavens are reshaped, you shall be one of the first to walk both realms. Sekhmet lives again inside of you. When Thoth reclaims the world, you shall be the first to stand by his side, and all shall know your wrath.”

  “My God,” said Ginny. “You really believe it, don’t you? You really do think you can wake the ancient gods?”

  “You are living proof,” said Amaury. “Fight it if you must, but you know it to be true. You can hear her, can’t you? She’s there, inside of you, waiting to come out.”

  Ginny glanced at the idol behind her, at the table she’d been lying on. “That’s what this place is, isn’t it? It’s not a tomb at all. It’s never been a tomb. It’s some kind of… resurrection machine. That’s what you’ve been doing here in the desert. You must be insane!”

  She doubled over as another pain shot through her head, like a hot poker, right behind her eyes. For a moment she could see nothing but speckles of white light. The voice was growing stronger, louder. She knew she wouldn’t be able to fight it forever.

  “The exhibition,” said Ginny. “You’re targeting New York.”

  “What better place to begin than the Empire of Greed,” he said. “Where temples have been raised to the sky in worship of the false idol—money. Together, we shall tear it down and start anew.”

  Ginny felt a sensation building inside of her, the stirrings of something she couldn’t control—excitement, fear, anticipation.

  “No!” she cried, clutching at her head. “Ginny… Ginny… Ginny… Ginny…” Tears were streaming down her cheeks. She looked up at Amaury, pleading, but he only smiled indulgently, waiting for the moment to pass. She thought if only she could keep saying it, then it might remain true. “Ginny… Ginny… Ginny… Sekhmet.”

  “There,” said Amaury. “Now doesn’t that feel better?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Light bloomed.

  The Ghost opened his eyes. He was staring up at the ceiling. The plaster was cracked, and there were moldering patches in the corner where there’d been a leak in the apartment above and no one had ever bothered to repair it.

  Home, then. Or his New York apartment, anyway.

  He sat up, setting off a wave of dizzying pain in his head. He put a hand to the back of his neck, groaning. His broken ribs burned.

  “Careful,” said Donovan, “you’re going to have quite a lump.”

  The Ghost looked round to see Donovan was sitting in his favorite armchair, smoking a cigarette and helping himself to the whisky.

  “What am I doing on the floor?” said the Ghost, slowly getting to his feet. And then the memories flooded back, and he remembered the fight at the museum, the tree, and Ginny.

  “I brought you back here once it was over. You were out cold. Astrid said she saw you fall from the sky and hit a tree.”

  The Ghost nodded, and then wished he hadn’t. “Did she tell you about Ginny, too?”

  “She said you were calling her name as you came down. And that Sekhmet got away.”

  “Not Sekhmet,” said the Ghost. “Ginny.”

  “What?” said Donovan, heading over to the sideboard to pour him a drink. “I think that tree’s knocked the sense out of you.”

  “No, listen to me, Felix. Sekhmet is Ginny. That’s what they’ve done to her. They’ve turned her into the vessel. When I got close…” he trailed off. He could see from the look on Donovan’s face that he didn’t need to explain any more.

  “Good God,” said Donovan. “The vile bastards. No wonder you didn’t bring her down.”

  “I froze, Felix,” he said. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  Donovan passed him a whisky. He downed it in one, and then pulled his goggles and hat off, tossing them on the sideboard.

  “At least now we know what we have to do,” said Donovan. “What it’ll take to get her back.”

  “All that power…” said the Ghost. “We don’t know what it’s done to her. She didn’t even recognize me. She tried to kill me.”

  “I saw what happened, with those… lions,” said Donovan. “Where did you learn to do that? I watched them take down two Enforcers last night, but you simply got up and walked away. It was remarkable.”

  “Astrid,” said the Ghost. “She worked her magic again.”

  “Quite literally, in this case,” said Donovan. “She’s an impressive woman, Gabriel. She didn’t seem at all phased out there. Although afterwards she just… well, she upped and ran off in the middle of our conversation.”

  The Ghost frowned. “She must have had good reason. That’s not like Astrid. She’s a valuable member of the team.”

  “Oh, so we’re a team now, are we?”

  “Well—you, me, Mullins, Astrid… Ginny,” he said. “What else would you call it?” He poured himself another drink. “Mullins did well tonight.”

  “He lost a few men, but the Commissioner will probably award him a bloody medal for the way he took down those cultists. He deserves it, too.”

  There was a rap at the door. The Ghost looked at Donovan, frowning. “Mullins?” he said.

  Donovan shook his head. “No. He’s d
own at the station, sorting out the paperwork. He won’t be done for hours yet.”

  The Ghost crossed to the door and peered through the spy hole. “Astrid?” he said, pulling it open a moment later. “What’s the matter?”

  She was leaning against the doorjamb, panting for breath. He let her in, closed the door behind her, and fetched a glass of water as she propped herself against the windowsill. She’d obviously run all the way there.

  “I know where they’re keeping her,” she said, when she’d regained her composure a moment later.

  “Who?” said Donovan.

  “Ginny!” She took another long gulp of water. “There was this… baboon, and I followed it.” She looked at Donovan. “I’m sorry for cutting out on you, leaving you to deal with… well, him, but I caught sight of it, and thought if I followed it, it might lead me somewhere useful.”

  “Astrid, I could kiss you,” said the Ghost.

  She smiled. “Maybe later.”

  “So what, you know where they’re based?” said Donovan.

  Astrid shook her head. “No. I don’t think this is their base of operations or anything. It’s far too small for that. More like a safe house. It’s a rundown apartment over a shop on Twenty-Third and Fourth. I watched them take her inside. There were about five of them, and the baboon.”

  “Was she still… well, was she Ginny?” said the Ghost.

  Astrid nodded. “She must have reverted to normal before I caught up with them. She looked drained or delirious. They practically had to carry her.”

  The Ghost looked at Donovan. “Have you got any bullets left in that gun?”

  “Enough,” said Donovan.

  “Then we’re going after her. If we strike while they’re still reeling from the ambush, we might have a chance of getting her out of there.”

  “More to the point,” said Astrid, “Ginny herself will be too weary to manifest again this soon after a battle. We’ll be safe from Sekhmet.”

  “And what do we do with her when we’ve got her?” said the Ghost. “She’s not herself. She didn’t know who I was.”

  “I have some ideas on that front,” said Astrid.