Chapter 6
Sitting on the opposite side of the large desk in the curator’s office at the Egyptian Museum, I grasp the hot, brimming cup of Earl Grey tea Bes handed me moments ago with newly-bandaged hands.
“How do you not have coffee?” I demand, taking a sip and grimacing at the watery, flavorless texture that slides down my throat. “Honestly, it should be a crime.”
“Worse crimes have been committed today,” Bes argues seriously, gaze skittering across the shelves around us.
He’s not wrong.
Gripping the porcelain harder at the reminder, I blink away the haze from my drug-induced nap as I breathe in the citrusy-floral tea. If only the taste rivaled the smell. The milk and sugar I added to the tea swirl at a nauseating pace—my empty stomach turns, refusing to settle.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of telling him he’s right, either.
He runs a scarred hand through his dark hair, gripping the roots.
I sigh. After having slept for a few hours in the car and spent the rest in silence, I have a terrible urge to thank him.
He could’ve left me there to die when he realized I wasn’t at Luxor.
Instead, he came after me, knowing he’d likely be putting himself in danger as well by doing so.
Especially with the condition my right knee was in. Even with Claude’s car in working order, I have no idea how long I could’ve driven on it.
Though I’ll never admit it aloud, I likely would’ve been dead without Bes.
Was it his fault I went to the temple with Claude in the first place? Yes and no. I should’ve followed my gut, but I wouldn’t have had to if he’d been on time.
“That may be true,” I say instead, “but coffee is universally treasured and should therefore be readily available.”
He pushes his glasses up his nose. “You and Williams would’ve gotten on well.”
I scratch the back of my neck, wondering how the soldier—who thankfully had no recollection of our conversation about the amulet—is holding up. Though we asked him what happened, he couldn’t piece it together before we dropped him off at the local office.
We headed straight to the Egyptian Museum of Antiquities after that. The doors were already locked for the night; thankfully, Bes procured a key, reaffirming his claim of working at the museum to be true.
Though that still doesn’t tell me whether or not he means to harm me.
Despite my many protests of wanting to peruse the exhibits, he immediately brought me to the room we’re currently occupying.
Before I could ask him where the curator was, he went off somewhere to scrounge up a first aid kit.
He even found some vodka for our wounds.
While wrapping up my hands for me, he assured me they’re only minor scratches and should heal in a few days.
When he tried to do the same to my skinned knee, however, I fought him on it, and he grudgingly handed me the supplies to do it myself. I also tried to sneak a swig of the vodka after cleaning my wounds. The bastard snatched it away with his good hand before I could.
I offered to re-dress his bullet wound, but he declined. He merely wet a cloth and removed the dried blood around it.
Now, I breathe deeply into the cup of tea, grateful to be in a place where I can rest for a moment. Even if my thoughts remain marred by death and blood.
The Amulet of Amun—my entire reason for being here—sits heavy on my chest. I don’t wear jewelry, so the weight around my neck feels strange.
Not unwelcome, more abnormal than anything else.
I went through too much to get it, though, to let it out of my sight.
It will remain on my person until Bes pays my fee and guarantees me a flight home.
I stare at my cup of tea without truly seeing it.
The relic hasn’t warmed since I shot Claude, and the crimson inside the stone hasn’t moved a centimeter since I noticed it after the temple finally released me from its clutches.
Yet, I’m struggling to chalk it all up to the dire situation I was in, or even a lack of sleep.
I’m not one to lose my mind completely when under pressure, and I’ve certainly never hallucinated before.
Holding the cup of tea up to my chin, I breathe in the steam.
It’s strange: when the secret room beneath the Osireion had me trapped inside its walls, the water rising swiftly, some part of me thought I’d never get to see the museum.
Or anywhere else, for that matter. And despite escaping that danger with the amulet in my possession, that same part of me feels as if I’ve landed myself in even hotter water.
Every moment since I knocked Claude out to not only save my own skin but to go after the amulet instead of running has been completely out of my hands.
As if I’m no longer master of my own fate.
I hate not being in control—but I can also recognize when I’m not the most qualified person to be making the decisions.
Usually… Alright, some of the time.
I do take some comfort, though, in being surrounded by the ancient texts and priceless artifacts lining the walls of the curator’s office.
It reminds me of sitting in Nonna’s study when we used to talk long into the night, the musty aroma of old paper and ink keeping us company.
A bout of homesickness pierces my stomach with a sharp blade. I’ll be back soon.
I sip my tea and grimace again. What is this garbage water? “I would even take whole coffee beans at this point. Perhaps I can chew on them.”
Bes folds his arms over his chest. He dressed in a clean set of clothes while I was wrapping up my knee: beige slacks, a white button-up, and a light gray vest popped open.
I managed to change as well, far more comfortable in clothes that haven’t been on a transatlantic flight and soaked in aquifer water for eight hours.
I can’t help thinking Bes cleans up well.
In fact, if he wasn’t so infuriating, I might find him attractive.
Dark hair tame, his newly-cleaned glasses, looped snuggly around the back of his ears, glint in the low light.
The setting sun threatens to cloak him in shadow, a dark contrast to the bright rays of the midday sun when we first met.
It’s dusk in Cairo, and the city is awakening.
“As much as I believe a good cup of tea fixes everything, it would be better if you consumed water,” he tells me. “Caffeine desiccates, you know.”
I tap my fingers against the desk. His concern endears me to him, even if I can’t trust it—or him—wholly.
“This isn’t bog water?” I ask, holding up the ornate, gold-leafed teacup.
He narrows his gaze at me and I grin. One of the few joys I’ve experienced since coming here is burrowing my way under Bes’s skin.
“Plus,” I add, “it’s technically not the caffeine that desiccates, but the act of relieving oneself afterwards without properly hydrating.”
He doesn’t refute it.
In truth, I’d be better off if I drank an entire gallon of water instead of this disgusting leaf liquid. But I’m already having withdrawals from going without any caffeine for nearly twenty-four hours. Any longer and I might’ve hurt someone.
The only true good it’s done me is momentarily alleviate the pressing ache between my brows. Telling Bes everything that happened at the Temple of Seti I once we settled down in the museum took a toll on my constitution.
Bes, however, makes it worse by intermittently pacing in front of the grime-streaked window facing the front courtyard of the museum.
“Now that you’re appropriately caffeinated, let me see if I’ve got this right.
” He stops his pointless patrolling and flattens his hands against the desk, frustration tainting his words.
“You get off an airplane in a foreign country, are approached by a strange man claiming to be from the museum, and you decide to go with him, no questions asked.”
Well, when you say it like that… I set my cup down harder on the saucer than I mean to, attempting to temper my anger before answering. The sound of the porcelain clangs between my ears.
“I had my suspicions, but no one else was waiting for me. He knew my name and the curator’s, knew about my nonna, knew why I was in Egypt. I had no reason not to go with him, despite my admitted misgivings.”
I tuck a bothersome strand of hair behind my ear. Bes’s eyes follow the movement. “Besides, I’d just weathered a transatlantic flight—I wasn’t wholly in my right mind.”
He ducks his chin and eyes me over the rounded metal rims of his glasses. “This isn’t your first flight across the pond, princess. That much, I know.”
“Don’t start the princess crap with me,” I warn him. “I’m not some damsel in distress, and you’re no knight in shining armor. If anything, I saved you.”
His fingers flex on the wood.
“You’re right—you’re no princess. You’re…” He casts a searching gaze to the ceiling. “A complication. And I can’t decide whether or not you’re going to be a worthwhile one or the absolute death of me.”
I grin. “Both. I’m always both.”
His dark eyes flash and my grin widens. Oh yes, I definitely enjoy getting under his skin.
Wordlessly, he leans toward me until we’re mere inches apart. The sandalwood I recognized in the desert wafts over me at his proximity.
“Let me make one thing perfectly clear: you wouldn’t have made it out of the desert alive without me.”
I sit back in my seat to put some distance between us and regard him. “If you’d been on time, we wouldn’t have gotten into this mess in the first place.”
He scoffs. “Well, if you’d kept your wits about you, you wouldn’t have placed yourself at the mercy of a murderous fascist.”
How dare he?
I lean toward him once again. “If you had done your job, I would’ve been forced to put my trust in the wrong man. Don’t blame me for your foul-up.”
When he doesn’t come up with an answer for that one, we stare at each other a moment.
Annoyance flickers in his deep brown eyes and flares his nostrils.
God, he’s fascinating. I skim his features to try—and fail—to understand him.
It’s one thing to avoid blame, and another thing entirely to place it all on me.
Though perhaps he’s just frustrated that things didn’t go exactly to plan.
Especially if the British soldier he brought with him wasn’t even supposed to know about our purpose at the temple.
That’s not what fascinates me about him, though.
Nonna is the only person in my life who challenges me, who’s not afraid of me or thinks I’m too crass for a woman.
Or too crass in general. Bes, however, takes no issue with calling me out.
He doesn’t even question my deviant use of the English language.
It’s… refreshing. And very unlike my experience with the Brits, who are nothing if not proper.
How and where did he obtain his accent? I nearly ask him, but bite my tongue.
Instead, I hold his gaze. He doesn’t flinch. Likely, he’s trying to figure me out just as much as I am him. Good luck. I’m not saying I pride myself in being unreadable, but a girl has to have her secrets.
Bes’s eyes eventually soften. My anger softens with them. He swallows hard and I swear his gaze flicks to my lips before he pulls back.
“Bloody arrogant Yanks,” he says, but it doesn’t have the bite to it I expect.
I reach for the teacup out of habit, hiding my smile.
“All I’m saying is, there’s no excuse for tardiness. You’re on time for tea, but not to pick up a stranger you hired from the airfield?”
He shakes his head. “Not all of us drink tea so religiously.”
“That wasn’t my point and you know it.”
Instead of replying, he focuses on the oil lamp beside him, busying himself with lighting it. At first, the mechanism clicks uselessly. A soft growl rumbles through the room.
Undoing my braid, I run my fingers through my sandy, tangled mess of blonde hair and pull it back into a loose ponytail, wiping a fine sheen of sweat from my forehead.
I always forget how hot it is in this part of the world, and with no air conditioning in sight.
Knowing it’s a luxury doesn’t make me miss it any less.
When I settle, I catch Bes looking at me again.
“We can sit here and insult each other all night,” I tell him. “The fact is, I brought you the Amulet of Amun—now pay me what the museum owes me so I can catch the first flight out of this hell-hole.”
Bes grimaces. Though whether it’s at me or the lamp he still can’t light, I’m not certain.
“Don’t worry yourself, you’ll get your money and your ticket home.” Finally getting the oil to ignite, he nods to himself. “I’m sure your tita will be glad to see you after your first successful solo expedition.”
How the hell does he know this is my first solo expedition? My empty stomach hollows, feeling wholly violated by his knowledge about my private life. I’m an open book about most things—Nonna would say too open—but only when I wish to be. And her telegram to him mentioned nothing about this.
“I don’t like how much you know about me when I haven’t told you a damned thing.”
“Your nonna is a bit of a chatterbox,” he explains, “especially when catching up with an old friend.”
I scoff at the admission. “Don’t tell me you’re the old friend.”
“Of course not. My Uncle Arturo Belzoni is.”
That name sounds so familiar…
I was too distracted when he told me his last name at the Temple of Seti I that I nearly jump to my feet now. “No relation to the Giovanni Belzoni? The same man who first uncovered the Temple of Seti the First in October 1817, among many other archaeological sites?”
Bes nods. “Giovanni is my great great uncle, something like that. I don’t acknowledge him.”
“That makes sense,” I admit, recalling some of the more unfavorable things about the man.
Though his methods weren’t unusual for the nineteenth century, Giovanni stole a significant number of Egyptian antiquities that he excavated for the man who hired him, Henry Salt, the British consul in Egypt at the time.
Some archaeologists now call what he did colonial collecting: Europeans taking Egyptian artifacts back with them to Europe with formal permission from the Egyptian rulers, without being bound by our current ethics.
My nonna says his techniques lacked preservation; instead, they caused irreparable damage to each archaeological site he visited and their unearthed relics.
“He was a modern-day pillager,” I continue, “but he’s still one of the most renowned archaeologists to walk the earth.”
Bes wrinkles his nose. “Suffice is to say, he was offered a chance to be different and chose—”
A booming knock at the door behind me cuts him off.