Chapter 28
The first edition room of the Archives is almost as imposing as the library at the University of Michigan.
Which is saying something. All that’s missing are the stained-glass windows and lofty chandeliers, lighting the long days and longer nights of relentless studying.
It makes me homesick in a different way, for the academic life I left behind.
For a room with books in them, there’s not nearly enough light. A few unlit lamps rest on small tables pushed against one of the walls, surrounded by brown leather reading chairs.
It’s also completely empty—except for the books, of course—and has been since I first stepped down into the sunken space.
Bes showed me the way and told me to go on without him so he could put the texts we were using back in their place for now, in case anyone else from the order came by. I’m not sure why he wants to hide our findings from them, but I’m not complaining. The less people who know about it, the better.
I also slipped the Amulet of Amun back over my neck, for safekeeping. Bes didn’t say a word.
My fingertips graze the shelves, bursting with old leatherbound books. They’re not carved out of the rock here like they are in the main room. Instead, they’re built out of rich mahogany. Dozens of dusty rows with wooden ladders line the room, lit only by the soft lamplight.
Head tipped back toward the high ceiling, I feel as if I’ve traveled backward in time: firelight, romantic castles, dastardly villains, ancient magic, good versus evil. It’s all so improbable. Completely inconceivable until only very recently.
My gaze falls back to the book spines. God, I’ve missed books.
I miss how good people often prevail over the bad, no matter how bleak things appear; how every problem has a solution.
Most of all, I crave the unchangeable plots.
The words written on these pages will never change, never surprise you after having read them once, twice, or a dozen times before.
Whether you’re reading it for the first time or the last time, the endings are inevitable.
My stomach tightens—despite having a few bites of my dinner, anticipation of Bes’s return has tied my stomach in knots.
Anticipation and everything that’s happened.
I hope our discovery of the incantation for the Amulet of Amun will stay between the four of us, though I never said as much.
I imagine rumors fly around this place like wildfire in a windstorm.
I’m also not sure what the order plans to do with the information about the Ahnenerbe—the new and improved God Men. About Gurlitt and the Arma Christi. They’re sending a team after him, but what do they actually expect him to admit?
A sick, twisted part of me wants to be included on that mission. To be the first to know if the Arma Christi can be found and if they do in fact hold any magical properties. To be the one to beat the God Men at their own sick game.
The mere notion of the Holy Grail being real is radical, much less it wielding any kind of tangible power when combined with the other Arma Christi—a concept I’m still having trouble wrapping my mind around, despite what happened with the Amulet of Amun.
And in the hands of the Third Reich, I have no doubt they’d be used as a deadly weapon.
“I’ve read nearly all of these,” Bes says behind me.
I whip around and practically jump out of my skin at his abrupt appearance. He said he’d meet me here once he was done shelving the books, but he moved quicker than I expected. I thought I had more time. More time to what, though, I can’t say…
“Only nearly all? I’m disappointed.”
Bes grins softly from where he leans against the high-arched threshold of the room.
The flickering firelight warms his relaxed features: his unruly hair is somewhat tamed and partly tucked behind his ears, allowing the jagged edges of his jaw to emerge.
The lighting and the angle I’m at allow the taut lines of muscle beneath his shirt to emerge, forcing my gaze to shift lower.
I yank my attention away from his waist, where it unwittingly drifts to his arms. This shirt is tighter than the ones he wore while we were running from the God Men, and he’s more toned than I realized. Although it could simply be the shadows playing tricks. Whatever it might be, I can’t look away.
He’s dressed no different than he was in the Archives room, but, with no one else around, he’s more relaxed. Confident, almost. It’s terribly attractive.
I force myself to look elsewhere, to regain my composure, even as perilous heat splashes onto my cheeks.
Bes continues, unaware of my internal struggle. “My mother used to read One Thousand and One Nights to me when I was little, the same one her parents brought home for her at my age. Aladdin was obviously a favorite, but I most enjoyed The Vizier and the Sage Duban.”
I breathe out a soft laugh. “That’s one of my favorites too. And a good lesson: even after death, books can inflict the pain intended by their creators.”
“No matter how much pain their pages inflicted upon me, reading was the one thing I had for myself. I spent no less than eight years of my adolescence here, and, except for Cec, the books in this room are the only reason I survived.” Bes’s voice comes out smooth and unhurried, like velvet, softening the blow of his words.
“Besides, there’s not much else to do when you’re not allowed outside. ”
He recalls his childhood like it’s a story he heard, as if he wasn’t the one who lived through it. I know a little something about that. Bes and I are more alike than I realized.
I concentrate harder than I need to on the shelves—anything to distract me from the shortening distance between us.
I press my fingers against the cracked leather spines, many of which feature titles in other languages.
Assuming they’re arranged alphabetically by author, the pair of ancient books directly in my line of sight should be The Iliad and The Odyssey in the original Greek.
The hero’s journey has always been one of my favorites.
I wonder if a library like this would have something as recently published as Brave New World.
“That must’ve been difficult,” I finally say, “never being able to go outside, to play with children your own age.”
“I’m used to being alone,” he says after a moment.
I don’t stop myself from looking at him now. Though his words came off as indifferent, a kind of tortured shadow plagues his features, darkening him. I have the overwhelming urge to press my thumb between his brow to smooth out the lines there.
“I am too. I think we sometimes choose to be.” I swallow. “But we don’t have to. Be alone, that is.”
He clenches his jaw and straightens.
“What if I like being alone?”
I smile a little. Oh dear, sweet Bes. I once thought the same way, and then I recognized it was more about disliking the company I was with. I needed to find my people. And Bes… Bes is my people. And I’d like to think I’m his.
“No, you don’t. At least, not all the time. Just like I don’t like being alone. Or always being right.”
He closes his eyes for a second and shakes his head, chuckling. The sound sends a pleasant quiver up my spine and along my limbs.
His lips pull up on one side, and his gaze sparks. I’m mesmerized by him, struck again by how Bes is sort of beautiful. More than sort of.
“Come now, Miss Hawkins. Things would be quite a bit different if you were always right.”
He hops down the steps and heads in my direction.
Turning away, I focus on the books to hide my warring emotions.
Books make sense. They never change, their pages forever inked with the same words and phrases they always have, ones the author chose with purpose.
Bes, however, is an unpredictable, ever-changing constant.
Perhaps he’s not the one changing, I consider. Perhaps it’s my perception of him that’s changed.
He’s not the same man who hit a British soldier over the head with the butt of a gun, nor is he the man who shot one of the God Men in the head point-blank.
He’s the person who saved me from going overboard at the Port of Messina, who fought with me when we docked near Rome, who took a knife in the chest for me outside the secret club, who brought me dinner in the Archives despite eating none himself, who has risked his life for mine enough for a dozen lifetimes.
Bes is not the villain but neither is he the hero; he’s something else. He is everything else.
Throat unbearably dry now, I measure the distance between us without daring to look his way.
I hate what he does to me: all I want is for him to come closer, when I should push him away.
Anything that might happen between us, it wouldn’t be sustainable, not with my precarious situation with the order.
Who says it has to be sustainable? a part of me wonders.
But I know in my heart, if Bes and I gave in to this—whatever it is that’s been between us since we first met—I’d fall for him completely, body and soul.
And that frightens me.
I clear my throat and temper my maddening pulse.
God, Bes frustrates me. Despite the constant brooding Cec claims is all in my name, I have no idea how Bes truly feels about me.
Yes, we’ve almost kissed multiple times, and saved each other’s lives just as often.
Were those almost-kisses something he only felt in the moment?
And why he hasn’t attempted anything since?
When we passed that seal, he claimed that, out of all the lies he told, he never pretended to care for me, but what does that mean exactly?
Ever since we discussed the true purpose of the Amulet of Amun, I feel utterly bonded to him. Bonded in secrecy, and something else I can’t put a name to.
I take a quieting breath. “Is there a specific book you wanted to show me?”