Chapter 7
The sound echoes through the empty room jarringly and jabs me between the eyes. I flinch, certain we were alone and would remain so until we left for the airport.
Who the hell would knock on the door of the curator’s office after hours? Bes appears to have a similar curiosity, although a considerably less-worried one as he makes for the door. I follow him intently with my gaze, paranoia swarming me.
When he grasps the large handle and opens it without a care as to who might be on the other side, I shove my hand into my pocket to grip my switchblade. The Amulet of Amun warms slightly against my chest, but that could just be nerves.
For a moment, I imagine Claude on the other side of the door, covered in blood and sand, back from the dead to exact his vengeance upon me.
It’s not, of course—this person is too tall and too thin to be Claude, though not as tall as Bes.
Despite it not being Claude’s rancorous spirit, I don’t appreciate Bes’s cavalier attitude. He may be comfortable in his own museum, but comfort never stopped fascists.
Standing outside the threshold, our guest is barely visible in the half-light cast by the oil lamps, the dark museum a literal tomb looming behind him.
After a moment, he takes a step inside.
His first words come out in a similar accent to Bes’s, with a slight lilt I can’t place, his tone completely at ease. “There you are, Bes, where have you—”
He breathes in sharply and turns in my direction, though his eyes don’t quite reach me.
“Ah, you have a… visitor. Apologies, old chap.” In a loud whisper, he adds, “Didn’t you get into trouble a month ago for escorting another young lady into the museum after hours? At this rate, they’re not going to allow you to keep your post.”
In response, Bes kicks out at something near the stranger’s feet. When his shoe makes contact, I stifle a gasp. Did Bes actually strike him?
The young man lurches forward—and catches himself with a wooden cane I didn’t notice clutched in his hand.
“Your lies are going to get me into trouble one day,” Bes tells him.
The stranger chuckles, unperturbed. “We are cantankerous this evening. I take it the expedition to the Temple of Seti the First didn’t go as planned?”
Bes mutters, “That’s an understatement.” Louder, he says, “One of the God Men falsified his identity, claiming to be from the museum, and forced Miss Hawkins here to retrieve the Amulet of Amun at gunpoint.”
The stranger nods once. “That’ll do it.”
I move to stand, wariness of this new person settling heavily on my shoulders. At least Bes appears to know him well. Against my better judgement, I’m choosing to rely on him and his trust of this individual. But who is he to Bes? And how does he know about our expedition?
As I approach them, my mind tries to place the young man’s clothes, look, and accent, to deduce his allegiance. I didn’t make Claude out to be one of those fascist God Men until it was too late. Though I’ve given Bes the benefit of the doubt, I won’t make the same mistake again.
There’s some resemblance between the two of them, though I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.
His skin is darker than mine, but not in the same way Bes’s is.
His bears a warm, light-brown ocher, while the stranger’s is more olive-toned.
Light freckles dust his nose and cheeks, like he’s been kissed by the sun far too many times.
Hair lighter and thicker than Bes’s, it falls in slight curls around his face.
A brown-and-white striped short-sleeve button-up hangs across his slight shoulders, tucked into olive-green pants and nearly matching his tan oxfords.
I hold out my hand for him to shake. “My name is Amelia Hawkins. And I can assure you, I’m nothing like Bes’s other visitors.”
He doesn’t reach out in response. And he won’t meet my gaze either, even as I’m standing right in front of him. Well, that’s rude. Although, I do notice a strange, milky film over his eyes…
He regards Bes. “She’s holding out her hand, isn’t she?”
Dumbfounded, I drop said hand to my side and shift my attention to Bes as well.
Sauntering back to his worn spot near the window, Bes laughs. “Well, you can’t blame her, mate; you’re extremely lifelike.”
The stranger takes a step forward with the tap of his cane and lets the door close behind him. “I can’t help it if I have the smooth, glowing complexion of a wax figure.”
A wax figure might not be far off. I get a better look at his eyes as he moves further into the lamplight: they may have been brown or hazel at one time, but they’re faded now, the milky film I noticed before sifting across them like sand caught in the desert wind.
I scrub at my eyes to clear them. Maybe I’m sleep-deprived, because the only logical explanation is—
“Wait, he’s blind?”
Bes raps his knuckles on the table, words dripping with sarcasm. “Brilliant deduction.”
Yet, I’m having trouble believing it. He noticed I was here when he first came in, and even knew I was a woman. He must’ve… smelled me. I flinch at the chill running up my back. I’ve read about how the other senses are heightened when one disappears, but this is sorcery.
“I’m blind, not deaf. And anyway, I take offense to that. I’m only mostly blind.” He squints at me. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a rather attractive blob?”
“Can’t say they have.” I turn on Bes. “And who is he to you?”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “He’s my cousin.
My mother and I went to stay with relatives in Italy when I was a lad.
Including Cecilio.” He gestures at the intruder, Cecilio.
“From there, I left for London to finish my primary schooling, then studying at Oxford. I graduated a few years ago before starting my masters, and then I got the job here.”
“A masters at Oxford?” I squeak out, taking my seat once more. “But you can’t be more than—”
“Twenty-five,” Cecilio cuts in. “He’s always been an obnoxious overachiever. You know the type: heart of gold, brilliant athlete, whole family praises him for his high marks. Meanwhile, I’m studying right alongside him, blind as a bloody bat—”
“And just as daft.” Bes shakes his head. “You have to let it go, Cec.”
“No.” He whacks the wooden chair at the other end of the table with his cane. “Shan’t. In fact, I think I’ll have it etched on my gravestone.” He clears his throat. “Here lies Cecilio Giudice, the chap who could never let it go.”
He lowers himself into the seat beside me with embellished grace, bringing a delicate hint of orange blossom with him as he crosses one leg over the other purposefully.
A wide grin pulls at my lips. As if sensing my smile, he procures one of his own.
It’s one of those bright, easy-going smiles, infectious to a fault.
At my eye level now, I’m able to get a better look at his cane.
The head is fashioned out of dark blue agate, carved in the shape of a raven’s skull; an uneven line of the indigo gemstone flows down the black obsidian shaft like a river.
When he shifts it in his lap, the lamplight reveals drops of sparkling golden amber in the raven’s eye sockets.
I’m more than curious how he got this way. One or two of Nonna’s friends have a similar affliction, but theirs is due to the passing of time; I’ve never known a blind person as young as Cecilio. At least he appears to have a good humor about it.
Bes pinches the bridge of his nose beneath the rims of his glasses. “Not that I’m not pleasantly chuffed to see you, Cec, but to what do we owe the pleasure?”
Cecilio—Cec—drops his playful smile. “I wish it were under kinder circumstances, cousin. But it seems your… rendezvous at the Temple of Seti the First is making its way through the archaeological back channels. And not the reputable kind.”
“There are archaeological back channels?” I wonder if Nonna is aware of them. And then, if she knows about the seedy kind Cec speaks of. Or if they have anything to do with the markets Claude mentioned.
Cec winks at me. “You’d be shocked by how much we gossip.”
I recall all the rumors around school about some of the history professors. “Actually, I don’t think I would.”
“Besides, I’m sure Williams couldn’t keep his mouth shut,” Bes adds. “I’m assuming the word is that there was more than one of the God Men?”
Cec throws a hand against his chest—curiously not questioning Bes’s casual mention of the God Men, an organization I had no idea existed until today. Perhaps they’re more well known outside the United States. “Wasn’t there?”
I laugh at the abject horror in his expression. “Unless you consider your cousin to be a deranged fascist. Or me.”
“While I can’t be certain about you yet, Bes doesn’t possess the complete lack of moral fiber one needs to become one of them.”
Bes raises his brow. “Remind me never to ask you for a reference.”
“Did you also hear the soldier shot both of them?” I ask.
Cec shakes his head. “Uncanny.”
“And rather typical.” Bes shoves his hands into his pockets.
It slumps his shoulders but also puffs out his chest, which I find myself momentarily distracted by.
“The truth would wound his reputation: I knocked him out with the butt of my gun before he could work out why we were truly at the temple, and Miss Hawkins shot the only fascist there. With quick precision, I might add.”
I wince at his assessment, even as his praise brings warmth to my cheeks.
While I appreciate how he conveniently left out my amateur flirting as a distraction, I can only nod mechanically at his approval of my shooting abilities.
Once again, I fight to keep the contents in my stomach from coming up.
Precision is for tin cans, not human beings.
“We didn’t come out of it unscathed,” I remind Bes, holding up my bandaged hands. “I badly injured my knee and scraped my palms, while Bes took a bullet to the arm.”