Chapter 16 #3
Cec clears his throat. “Since neither of you have bothered to answer my question, I take it our Hawkins has transformed and we’re gawking in pleasant awe, yes?”
Bes steps back and I glance over my shoulder at Cec. He sends a look of wonder in my general direction.
I can’t help laughing, lessening the tension in my shoulders.
Bes bumps Cec’s cane with the heel of his left shoe. “Best crack on, or we’ll be late.”
Cec holds up a hand. “Wait, I haven’t sufficiently gawked yet.”
He squints, continuing to focus in my direction. Laughter sticking in my throat, I grab my switchblade from where I left it beside my clothes. Gliding over to him, I thread my arm through his. Meanwhile, Bes heads for the front of the shop.
I lean into Cec. “Come on, Casanova, let’s get out of here.” I hand him my switchblade. “You can even keep this safe for the night.”
Cec’s smile is warm, genuine as he slips it into his pocket. “As you command, milady.”
I already feel naked without it on me. But I’ll endure it.
Bes holds the front door open for us. He watches me intently through the rims of his glasses, his expression pained. Bes must believe those thin pieces of glass hide his emotions from people. For me at least, they tend to amplify them.
Before I can read him fully, however, he pushes the bridge of them back up his nose and into place.
Once we’re outside, Bes stalks off into the night, pulling his shoulders up near his ears. Giving the wooden door of the store one last look, I catch up to him quickly, dragging Cec along with me.
Now we’ve moved into the main square, I expect it to be abuzz with nightlife. Somehow, it’s quieter than it was during the day.
“Cheer up, Bes,” I murmur, wincing when my voice echoes slightly along the cobblestone beside our footfalls. “You look like you’re ready to throw in the towel and we’re not even at the club.”
“I’m not worried about the bloody club,” he says distractedly, matching my tone. “There’s a greater chance we might not even make it there. If what Francesca says is true, about her proverbial Guardiani Notturni, then we need to be very careful.”
As if we haven’t been careful up to this point. I don’t press him, though, not when he’s likely to burst from this bout of hysteria.
None pass us as we stride down a maze of alleyways and widened streets, keeping to the shadows as much as possible without raising suspicions.
The night has come alive around us—in it, I find shadows lurking around every corner and alcove.
Strange sounds reverberate off the old buildings.
I keep my eyes on the street ahead so I don’t look for the source of every single one of them.
Cec doesn’t even attempt to carry on a hushed conversation with me. That worries me more than anything else.
I’m not afraid, exactly, but I am acutely aware of my surroundings.
Of the Amulet of Amun strapped to my back.
I attempt to track the streets we pass, but it’s nearly impossible to tell them apart.
I’m also distracted imagining Blackshirts and God Men hiding in wait behind each darkened storefront, the moment Bes and I had in the costume shop completely forgotten.
As if on cue, the faraway sound of uniformed footsteps echoes at our backs. When I glance behind us, though, no one’s there. Not yet, anyway.
“Here, quickly.” Bes pivots on his heel sharply, leading Cec and I into a shallow alley, where the only cover is a pile of empty crates stacked precariously in the corner beside a back door.
Searching for an opening behind them, Bes helps Cec inside as hastily and quietly as possible, then squeezes through himself.
Crouching down, I look toward the street, listening to the footsteps draw nearer. They’re so close my palms dampen with sweat.
The fear of what these ordinary men given extraordinary power could do to someone like me, or Bes, or Cec, sits heavy in my stomach. I’m not easily frightened, but Francesca’s anxiousness has taken root in my mind and made me paranoid. Better paranoid than dead.
By the time they reach the alley, I’m tucked safely inside the makeshift hideaway.
There’s not much room and my right side is forced to be flush with Bes’s.
His presence comforts me, though. I place a hand over my mouth to quiet my breathing and Bes gently grasps my arm, his hand warm on my exposed skin.
Our eyes meet and something unsaid—unthought, even—passes between us.
The pair of Blackshirts don’t even miss a step as they pass by our hiding spot. Through the thin slats, the rifles tucked in at their sides slap against their thighs and hips. I swallow hard at the sight, my heart hammering inside my chest.
Conversing with one another in Italian, their voices eventually disappear into the night, completely unaware of our presence.
“How close are we to the club?” I ask after enough time has passed and I’m certain they can no longer hear us.
Bes finally pulls his hand from its place on my arm. “Too close. We’ll have to wait another minute to make sure they’re gone.”
I stare down at my watch. The seconds tick by achingly slow, the minute going on for far longer than it should. My calves start to cramp up from the position I’m in, and a section of the wall has been digging into my upper back since I slid inside.
Finally, Bes motions for me to move, helping his cousin out after. We stand still together for another moment, straining to listen. Eventually, Cec nods, and we hurry out of the alley.
We go only a couple more blocks before Bes stops again. Wordlessly, he grabs my hand and pulls us down a slim, deserted passage, where he continues on, unruffled. As if he’d meant to turn down this alleyway so abruptly.
It’s a bit of a tight fit, and the three of us have to turn to the side in order to move through unscathed. It stinks here too, like sewage and rotten meat, and it only gets worse the further in we go. A deterrent, perhaps? I gag. Well, it’s working.
I’m all too familiar with finding myself in tight, unpleasant spots, even though it makes me uncomfortable. Peering beyond Bes, however, I see this alley ends at a brick wall.
One way in, one way out.
A slight panic fills my chest. I glance over my shoulder around Cec: no one has followed us, thank God.
It doesn’t mean I like the idea of being trapped like this between buildings.
I want to ask Bes where he thinks he’s going, leading us down a dead-end.
But I don’t dare speak. Otherwise, I might bring the wrath of Mussolini’s militia down upon us.
We finally come to a door on our left, tucked into the shadow of the building. It appears to be centuries old, the dark, splintered wood carved painstakingly with intricate designs. When Bes doesn’t immediately open it, however, I realize something important is missing.
“This door has no knob,” I whisper.
“And why would it?” he mutters.
I blink at him. “Yes, I suppose that was a ridiculous question.”
Bes reaches up a curled fist and knocks: the first one near the top of the door, the second to the right, and finally the third to the left.
He cups the back of his neck, fingers flexing. “The man at Gino’s said… the sparrow searches the skies for the gates of hell?”
I glance over at Cec, who must anticipate my confusion because he shrugs.
“I find it exhausting to question everything. It helps that I can’t see, so I’m forced to rely on blind trust.”
I wish he could appreciate the look I’m giving him. “I truly hate you sometimes.”
He grins. “There’s a fine line between love and hate, amore mio.”
My attention unconsciously shifts back to Bes, who’s now caressing the door intently for a purpose which eludes me.
“How true that is,” I mutter.
“Ah-ha!” Bes exclaims softly, a bit loud for my taste.
Before I have the chance to reprimand him, he presses his right thumb through the eye of an indistinguishable bird whittled into the wood.
To my surprise, it gives in at his touch.
A mechanical click sounds on the other side, where a hole about the size of my fist appears at my eye level. Warm electricity hums through it, along with the distinct smell of cigars, red wine, and a hint of limoncello and sweat. Bes stoops down.
“Det ?r som morkast innan gryningen,” Bes recites.
There’s that phrase again: it is always darkest before dawn.
It’s what Ailsa said to Bes and Cec in Alexandria.
A part of me thought this club might be a secret meeting place for the God Men, but instead it’s connected to Bes’s uncle.
I’m not sure whether I’m disappointed or relieved by the thought.
Whoever’s inside repeats the phrase. Then the lock mechanism releases and the door swings open halfway with a creak.
“Dépêchez-vous, mes amis,” the man inside bids us. Perched atop a backless bar stool, he’s wrapped in an oversized black cloak. A deep hood shields his features, his figure lit only by a low, lone lightbulb. “For evil never rests.”
Once the door behind us shuts, we find ourselves standing at the edge of a plunging staircase.
Staring down into the murk, I feel like Dante before he entered hell.
I half expect to see a sign above me reading the full inscription to the Gates of Hell in the original Italian. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here…
I turn toward Cec. “Your people have an affinity for the dramatic and the macabre, don’t they?”
“Put it this way,” he says. “There’s a reason Shakespeare set some of his most dramatic plays in Italy.”
My heart hammers inside my chest. I want to believe this isn’t a trap, not just for me, but for Bes and Cec.
For some reason, I recall a line in Canto II of the Inferno, where Virgilio claims that their journey cannot be stopped because of the force that set them on it: ‘Non temer; ché ’l nostro passo / non ci può tòrre alcun: da tal n’è dato.
’ Or, do not fear, no one can hinder our passage / One so great has granted it.
I glance up at the ceiling. God, if you’re up there, don’t let us die in this place.
Wrapping Cec’s arm in mine once more, I follow Bes down the narrow staircase.