Chapter 22
As I sit on the bed, lacing my last boot, a knock sounds at the door.
Bes. My pulse quickens.
“Hawkins?” Cec calls out through the door. “I’ve come to fetch you.”
Galling disappointment floods me. But at least I’ll get the chance to give Cec grief for hiding the truth about himself from me.
“I’m not a dog bone, Cec,” I call back. “Just give me a damn minute.”
His soft chuckle breaches the door.
I pull my wet hair back into a loose braid—if I don’t, it’ll get these annoying waves I can’t do a thing with.
Sighing, I think, I don’t want to do this right now. I have no idea what Ansaldo will want with me now that I’ve gotten the rest he seems to think I needed. Will he even answer my questions? Will he force me to join the order? Will he kill me in some sort of cult sacrifice?
Will Bes and Cec protect me if he tries either of those, like they promised?
Pressing my sweaty hands into my dark-blue pantlegs, I graze my father’s switchblade in my pocket. At least I have something to defend myself with.
I take a calculated breath and pull open the heavy door.
Cec stands on the other side, already flashing me a roguish grin.
I smirk. Bastard. His wild hair has been tamed as best it can, half of it braced atop his head with a leather strap.
The untucked, mustard yellow short-sleeved button-down and dark olive pants fit him well, the final touch a pair of pristine brown leather Oxfords.
His cane is nowhere in sight. He must know this place so well that he doesn’t need it.
He smiles, his milky eyes settling near me. “Assuming you clean up well, you look fantastic.”
I rub at my eyes, the skin around them raw and likely puffy from crying.
“I do clean up well, but not today. Let’s admit we both look like shit and move on.”
Widening his grin, he holds out his arm. I hesitate only a moment before taking it.
“I never figured you for a liar, Hawkins.”
Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black. “If you could see what I look like right now, you’d think differently.”
“Oh, I have no doubt. However, this isn’t about you. I know I look fantastic; therefore, you’re a liar.”
I can’t help chuckling. “You’re a cocky one.”
“Always.” He pats my hand hooked through his arm. “Ah, how I’ve missed you.”
“I wish I could say the same.” I tighten my grip on his elbow, cutting him off before he can ask why.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that Bes’s uncle—the man in charge of this whole operation—is your father.
All that time, I thought we were…” I pause.
I’m not sure why Cec’s betrayal hurts more than Bes’s, but it does. “That we were becoming friends.”
Cec guides me effortlessly around the corner, leading us back in the direction of the great hall. The last time I saw him there, he sat at the right hand of who I now know to be his father, the leader of the Order of Cavendi. The man that Nonna trusted my life with.
“First off, I never called him my uncle. Second, I didn’t lie—I neglected to mention it.
If you’re going to rightly accuse someone of being a shit friend, get your terminology straight,” he teases fondly.
I’m not buying it. “And third, of course we’re friends, Hawkins.
The best of them, in fact. But Bes was right to stay my hand.
As much as I wanted to tell you about the order and my role in it, about who my father is, I would’ve broken my oath by doing so.
And while my father may be in charge, he has no control over the punishment of breaking a real and true blood oath. ”
Just like Bes said…
“I know that now,” I say, still not willing to believe wholly in this blood oath without proof. “But you could have at least told me Arturo was your father. You called him Bes’s uncle, for Christ’s sake.”
He holds up a finger. “Technically, that’s true.”
I scoff.
He remains vague. “If only it were as simple as merely trusting you. I couldn’t even tell you his real name, much less anything more.
Besides, trust is a two-way street. I may not be able to see facial expressions, but I can hear hesitancy in someone’s voice.
And there were more than a few times when I could tell you didn’t trust us. ”
“And that’s alright,” he amends before I can speak to defend myself. “I wouldn’t have trusted us either, and I told Bes as much when we docked in Messina. Which I know you were awake for, by the way. I heard your breathing change.”
I scowl. “Damn your heightened senses.”
“All I’m saying is: I know we kept things from you before, even lied to you outright. But we’ve been through a lot together, and I hope you can find it in your heart to trust us again now that everything can be out in the open.”
As he says this, we pause at the edge of the threshold to the great hall, empty now. Thank God.
“If by us, you mean you and Bes, then yes,” I admit, “I believe I can trust you again, even though I probably shouldn’t. But don’t expect me to trust anyone else here. They didn’t save my life and help me escape from the God Men.”
Cec shifts his focus to me. “The Order of Cavendi has probably saved you more times than you can comprehend. Don’t write them off so quickly.”
Without allowing me any further prodding, he strides into the great hall, forcing me to stumble alongside him.
The moment we breach the threshold, I recognize that the hall isn’t exactly empty.
Ansaldo and Bes stand at the far end, behind the head table.
At their backs, a white-gray ash tree the size of a gigantic sycamore towers over them, half-embedded into the stone.
Its thick branches spread out along the wall and the ceiling like thousands of white, protruding veins.
Awe strikes me mute. How did I not notice that earlier? I must’ve been so focused on maintaining my composure in front of the entire order that I didn’t see it.
“Miss Hawkins,” Ansaldo thunders from his place beside the tree. “Come join us.”
“I’d rather not,” I mutter while we’re still out of earshot.
“Nervous?” Cec whispers beside me.
I stand up straighter and lie, “Not anymore.”
“Lucky,” he mutters.
At first, I think the tree must be carved from marble; there’s no possible way it could be alive down here without sunlight.
Yet, the closer I get to it, the more I recognize the living texture of the bark and even beads of amber sap.
I stop breathing for a moment, eyes widening at the sight. How is this possible?
Bes shifts on his feet in the corner of my eye, forcing my attention to him.
He looks good, as always. Like his cousin, his nearly-black hair is slicked down, though it’s not long enough to be tied back with anything; the ends of it curl around his ears and flutter out slightly along his newly-shaven jawline.
The smudges have been wiped clean from his glasses, the lenses reflective in the abundant firelight.
He wears an off-white button-down with the cuffs rolled up near his elbow—the contrast between the light shirt and his darker skin takes my breath away.
I recognize the bandaging over his stab wound beneath the material, but nothing over the bullet wound. It can’t have healed that quickly.
When I meet his eyes, he’s watching me too, caught somewhere between captivated and concerned. I duck my head slightly, hoping my eyes aren’t still puffy from crying.
Choosing to steer clear of Ansaldo, I stop in front of the tree beside Bes, my neck arching back to search for the top branches.
Bes steps toward me, his chest brushing against my shoulder. “How are you?”
It’s three simple words; logically, I know this. And yet, at his nearness mingled with his concern about my well-being, my heart tumbles furiously, filling my head with foolish notions. Have I been so deprived of intimacy? Or is it because it’s Bes?
I glance up at him, the warmth in his eyes trapping the breath inside my throat as I remember how he touched me outside my room. Definitely Bes.
“Could be better, thanks for asking,” Cec whispers loudly from my other side.
Bes flinches at the intrusion, but I close my eyes and purse my lips to hold in a laugh.
Cec winks when I turn toward him. As if he knew what was going on between Bes and I.
And he was right to intervene. I don’t need Ansaldo disliking me more than he already does, considering he holds my fate in his hands.
Ansaldo clears his throat, and the three of us regard him.
He’s dressed exactly the same as before, though I didn’t give him more than a fleeting glance at our first meeting: a brown leather tunic laced up his chest covers the loose-fitting beige tunic underneath, which is tucked into black pants.
A golden dagger rests on his hip along his belt.
His nearly-black eyes stare back at me coldly, his nose reminiscent of those found on ancient Roman statues.
His dark hair, cut close to the scalp, reveals a deep white scar that runs from his right temple down past the back of his ear and nearly touches his spine at the base of his neck.
Who—or what—gave him that mark, I wonder.
“Miss Hawkins, thank you for coming,” he says, a note of unkindness in his words.
I bite my lip to hide my grimace. I’m not sure why, but I hate the way he says my name.
Maybe it’s because Ansaldo bears an awful resemblance to my nonna’s priest, who I swear is old enough to have fought during the Civil War.
And not on the right side. Discomfort wraps around me and rots whatever’s left in my stomach.
You do all you can to escape your religion, and it simply manifests itself into another form.
“It’s not as if I had much of a choice,” I start, “but I appreciate the hospitality all the same.”