Chapter 18
The young man’s dark eyes widen, mouth falling open in surprise as blood spurts from his mortal wound.
My breath tumbles from my mouth at the sight of him. Christ, he’s not much older than I am.
His gun falls from his hand, clattering to the slick ground. I yank out my blade then, holding his gaze until he collapses to the floor, utterly motionless.
No longer in immediate danger, nausea swings through me.
I slam my hand down on the table and bend at the waist to dry heave.
Nothing comes out, though, which is both a blessing and curse.
Images of me shooting Claude crop up in my mind, but I shut it out.
We do not have time for me to suffer from a nervous breakdown.
Chest heaving, I glance up to see if there are more coming for us—when I notice something out of place among the chaos.
There’s one other blonde head here besides mine.
Their face comes into view, and… it might be the fear infecting my mind, but I could swear it’s Ingrid.
I knew I saw her earlier: she’s here, she’s found us.
Fear freezes the blood in my veins. The chances of the Blackshirts choosing this night to raid the club can’t be coincidental. Especially if the one member of the God Men who’s been chasing us since Cairo came with them.
Or, more likely, led them here.
Either Gino or Francesca betrayed us. There’s no other explanation. If we make it out of this alive, I’m never letting Bes hear the end of it.
When I blink, though, Ingrid is gone. My gaze searches the room frantically, yet I can’t mark her again.
“Miss Hawkins—” Bes starts. But I can barely understand him over the renewed ringing in my ears, the pounding inside my chest, the thrumming of my pulse.
I grab the edge of the black tablecloth beside me and wipe off my blade with trembling hands.
I have no idea if I got it all off or not.
Flicking the mechanism to hide it once more, I place it into the pocket of my jumpsuit, no longer caring if I stain it.
I’m certain I have the Blackshirt’s blood on me elsewhere; I have neither the time, nor the stomach, to worry about it now.
“You can thank me later,” I croak out, grabbing the hand he offered me before. It’s warm and reassuring and the only thing keeping me on my feet. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Bes wordlessly leads us around the booth to the space between it and the edge of the stage, without argument from me or Cec.
Cec, who hasn’t spoken a single word since the murder of the Maestro.
I glance over at him, but it’s impossible to tell whether or not he’s gone catatonic, or if he’s just blindly following Bes’s lead.
If we live through this, I’m going to have to tell Cec that joke.
Stooping, Bes presses his fist into a few of the stones in the wall without any luck. I glance behind me, heart in my throat. Luckily, we’re hidden enough that no one pays us any mind. Hopefully Ingrid doesn’t find us…
Finally, one of the square stones gives in at his touch. A short, thin opening leading into complete darkness appears. I grimace. Don’t care for that. But it’s either stay here and die, or risk the dark.
Grasping Cec’s hand and slipping through first, Bes follows after us. With the tight fit, I hold my breath as my hips attempt to keep me out, flesh pressing into the jagged walls. I quickly squeeze into a larger area beyond the opening, pulling Cec with me.
Squinting into the dark, a cold, dim passage surrounds us. I let out a breath, realizing I’ve been holding it since before the opening.
With all of us inside, Bes pulls a lever on the wall—the stone wall closes resolutely.
A quiet obscurity envelopes us.
There’s no electricity here, no fire either. Only the vague possibility of moonlight somewhere down the tunnel. Before I can panic even further, Bes grabs my hand.
“Nowhere to go but forward, Miss Hawkins.”
Not daring to speak aloud, I nod. Even though he can’t see me.
The three of us continue on through the dingy tunnel.
Without the light of the club, it takes time for our eyes to adjust, and we’re forced to feel our way along the grimy walls and uneven ground.
If it weren’t for the adrenaline pumping through my veins, I wouldn’t even be on my feet right now.
Not after what I did. Not after taking another man’s life.
Nothing but the sound of our labored breathing and quickening footfalls keeps us company.
Bes finally breaks the silence. “At least tell me we got the information before…”
“Before the Maestro was gunned down in the booth beside me?” Cec wonders, his voice breaking.
Poor Cec. “Yes, I got it. As we feared, the German Third Reich is utilizing the God Men in an official capacity to go after known mythic artifacts. But something worse is on the horizon—something we’ve been anticipating since the end of the Great War.
” He pauses. “But we shouldn’t get into it here. ”
Bes hastens. “Agreed.”
I have no idea what any of that means. Some part of me is desperate to ask more questions, but I can’t think beyond getting out of this place alive.
It’s impossible to tell whether we’ve spent minutes or hours stealing through the murk, with no end in sight. My only solace is that Bes appears to know what he’s doing; at least, he pretends he does. Has he taken this passage before? How did he know of its existence in the first place?
Will he answer me with another half-truth if I ask him?
Right as I’m beginning to wonder where the hell he’s taking us, he leads us around a corner. A couple dozen more paces and he immediately stops in his tracks. The light I noticed us walking toward is brighter here, illuminating a stone wall—and metal rungs going up it.
“Thank God,” I breathe.”
Shucking his jacket, Bes clicks his tongue. “I can’t believe you’re still thanking him, after all I’ve done for you.”
Cec chuckles, and the sound lightens my heart. I worried that what happened in the club had destroyed him.
“You mean, after all you’ve put me through? You’re lucky I even tolerate you,” I say, smirking.
Bes doesn’t respond to me. Instead, he hands Cec his cane back and leads him to the rungs. “Cec, you go first. At the top, there should be a grate. You’ll need to push it up with all your strength.”
Cec taps his cane on one of the metal rungs. “Noted.” Then he flexes his right arm muscle. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”
God help me, I laugh.
“Once you’re topside,” Bes continues, “help Miss Hawkins up, and then I’ll bring up the rear.”
Now Cec snickers.
“I will sock you if you make an arse joke right now.”
Cec clicks his tongue. “You’d deny me humor in this time of uncertainty?”
I gather my wits. “He’s right, Cec. The more time we spend standing in one place, the likelier we are to get caught.”
“Now, I’ve heard everything,” he mutters. “The two of you actually agreeing on something.”
I snort softly. “Don’t get used to it.”
Cec starts to climb, and Bes and I stand side by side, watching him go.
“I don’t hear anyone up there,” Cec announces quietly, elation lightening his tone.
The weight on my chest lightens. Thank Christ.
A moment later, he grunts and swears. “It won’t budge.”
Fear rises up inside me again. “Goddammit.”
“Maybe don’t damn God while we’re trying to escape murderous fascists.” Cec grunts. “Just a thought.”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t dilly-dally,” I argue.
“Contrary to popular belief, Hawkins,” he tells me between quickened breaths, “I neither dilly nor dally.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
Another grunt releases from Cec’s throat, followed by the sound of heavy iron loosening its hold. The scrape of metal against cobblestone reverberates loudly from above—I wince when it echoes worse through the tunnel.
Wait… that’s not metal.
I glance down the tunnel—finding a shadow moving toward us swiftly.
“Bes—” I start, but he’s already lunging toward the person, procuring a switchblade from his pants pocket. I go to reach for my own, but he pushes me aside; I slam into the bars Cec just climbed up, the metal bruising my ribs and hip.
Instead of words, I’m answered with a grunt—a fist hitting flesh—another grunt—then a third. The two men exchange blows, neither knocking the other to the ground.
Even with the grate open and the low moonlight shining through, our attacker remains a shadow in the dark. I grip my switchblade tighter. I don’t attempt to join just yet. We’re in such close quarters, there’s a good chance I might stab Bes instead.
Gaining the advantage, the man steps into the light more.
I gasp. I recognize him as the one I danced with briefly.
Betrayal strikes into my heart—when he lands a punch on Bes that knocks him out of the way for a moment.
He then lunges for me with a knife, his other hand reaching toward my midsection. Is he trying for the amulet?
Before I can think to move or shout, Bes steps in front of me.
The blade sinks partway into the flesh between his shoulder and his heart. He collapses into me, groaning and gasping.
Fuck, fuck.
I move to charge at the man with my own weapon—instead, Bes thrusts his switchblade between the attacker’s ribs and into his heart. Surprise flits across his face and he loosens his grip on his weapon before collapsing to the ground, lifeless.
Now the fascist no longer poses a threat, Bes leans into me completely, his breath low and rapid.
“Shit,” I mutter as I grip his shoulders, my chest clenching. “Not now, Bes. You can’t die. Not like this.”
“Fear not, Miss Hawkins. It missed my heart,” he manages to say, confirming my earlier deduction. “But good God, it really fucking hurts.”
Tears bite behind my eyes, taking his swearing as a good sign. “If you hadn’t stepped in front of that knife, you wouldn’t be hurting at all.”
His glasses glint in the low moonlight. “Physically, no.”
Cec’s voice carries down from above before I can respond. “What’s happening?”