Chapter 29 #3
Pivoting before I can respond, he leads me away from the great hall, leaving only our footsteps to keep us company.
He guides me down half a dozen passageways in silence, until we finally pass through a high-arched threshold into a room of metal and wood and war.
The order’s weapons cache lives in a hold about the size of the first edition room, which, again, is impressive. Armaments from all over the world hang on its walls, or sit inside wooden shelves snaking across its stone floor.
“So many different ways to kill someone,” I mutter.
Bes taps the sharp point of an arrow with his right thumb absentmindedly. “Everyone has their specialty. Normally, we’d have more time to suss out which weapon fits you best.”
“I’m perfectly fine with my own weapon, thanks.” I reach inside my pocket for my father’s switchblade, knowing I’d never trade it for any of the weapons in this room. Not even the miniature crossbow hanging in the corner…
He shakes his head. “There were too many instances in the past week where a gun proved more useful.”
My chest aches at the memory of stabbing the Blackshirt with my switchblade. “I’ll remember that the next time I’m saving your life.”
He sucks in a long breath. “I never did thank you for that. For what you did in the desert and at the club.”
“You’ve saved my life enough times now,” I admit, concluding to both him and myself. “We’re even.”
He clears his throat, hands clenched at his side. “Right then, let’s get this over with.”
For the next hour, Bes goes over all the discreet weaponry the order keeps stocked in its arsenal and their origins. While it’s truly fascinating, it’s also a lot of information. Especially since I’m having trouble focusing from a lack of sleep.
By the end of it, I tell him to pick whichever one he thinks is best. I don’t have the energy to consider the pros and cons of which weapon I might need, and Bes is clearly more experienced at this. He nods, any discord between us put aside for the moment.
Without much deliberation, he hands me a strange-looking silver pocket pistol, a bag of bullets, and a leg strap with a holster.
“A Remington Derringer,” he explains. “One of our rarer guns, but it’ll be the easiest to carry.
It’s a double-barrel with short .41 caliber bullets.
” He glances at my thighs, a spark of heat from last night returning to his gaze.
“You’ll have to wear tighter pants to better accommodate the strap and holster, but it’s doable. ”
Heat travels up my neck as he continues.
“I saw you eyeing this one as well.” He plucks the tiny crossbow from its hook and hands it to me, along with a small canvas bag of arrows.
I nod to hide my conflicted pleasure. “I was.”
“It’s not very practical. But it is one of the only weapons here that’s quiet from a distance. The other is a dart gun, though I don’t recommend it. You’d be surprised how many people suck the darts straight into their mouths instead of blowing them out the other end.”
I grimace. “I hope they weren’t poison darts.”
He raises a brow. “Why do you think we switched to tranquilizers?”
I can’t help laughing. Bes, too, allows a small smile to slip past his defenses.
It’s nice to see him smile again.
He sobers. “Hopefully, you won’t have to use either of these weapons.”
“Hopefully is a bit optimistic, don’t you think?”
“I don’t want—” He stops, then tries again, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I don’t want what happened outside the Temple of Seti—or the museum or the club—to happen again.”
All of that feels like a lifetime ago. As much as I wish neither of our hands had been forced, the fact is they were. And I’d do it again, if it meant we both lived.
“I’m not sure we’ll have much say in it,” I argue. “If there are Blackshirts or God Men or Nazis, and they threaten you or me or Cec, I won’t hesitate.”
He watches me for a moment, and I’d pay good money to know what he’s thinking.
“Now that you’ve had a chance to get to know him, what do you think of Ansaldo?” he asks.
Not what I was expecting him to say.
“He’s a power-hungry man—nothing I haven’t encountered before.”
“I ask because I’ve been endeavoring to wrap my head around what he imparted on us yesterday,” he admits.
“As you rightfully called him on, he claimed he assigned me to you after your tita made contact with him, to ensure you retrieved the amulet for the museum without getting killed or captured. Then, he sent Cec after both of us, to warn us about not being able to trust the people at the museum, and to bring us back here.”
I brush my neck with my fingers thoughtfully, catching Bes’s eyes lingering on the movement. He swallows hard and looks away, jaw clenched.
“Right,” I agree. “It would stand to reason, then, that he wanted the amulet for the order, not the museum. Which is no great surprise.” The amulet warms against my chest, reminding me of its presence and its supernatural abilities.
“When he took it from me, he didn’t seem particularly interested in it beyond me no longer possessing it. ”
“A means to an end,” Bes mutters before meeting my gaze. “The Amulet of Amun may have merely been his way of getting you here. But why?”
I consider this. A couple days ago, I would’ve been equally as flummoxed. But, barring what Nonna may have initially asked of him and what her own intentions were, Ansaldo made the mistake of showing me his hand when it comes to my mother.
“How serious is the order about their other oaths, the ones with the tattoo?”
Bes breathes in deep through his nostrils. “Fairly serious. Once you’re in, the only way out is—”
“Death, or the removal of layers of flesh,” I finish.
“I get it. My mother did too, but she was still willing to risk the punishment to protect her family from them.” I glance away at the ceiling and back again.
“Is he exacting some sort of revenge on her through me? He seemed irritated when he spoke about her, and said I could fulfill her oath since I’m of her blood. The question is: why now?”
“I’m sorry about your mother,” he offers after a moment.
I sigh, exasperated. “That’s what you got from all that? Jesus Christ, Bes, have some perspective. We’re talking about a conspiracy about my being here, with Ansaldo at the heart of it.”
In the blink of an eye, he takes up my entire field of vision, placing a finger over my lips. My core warms traitorously at his nearness, remembering all too well the last time we were this close. His proximity, his touch—I can’t stand what it does to me.
He glances down at his finger and, seeing I’ve taken the hint, pulls away, gaze lingering.
“We cannot speak of this to another soul,” he murmurs. “Not even Cec. Promise me.”
Even though his finger no longer presses against my mouth, I don’t speak, merely nodding in understanding.
To my surprise, he doesn’t put any more distance between us. I’m transported back to last night—to his hand on my waist and beneath my chin, his lips against mine, his tongue inside my mouth—wishing more than anything that Cec had never interrupted us in the first place.
When he grips the back of his neck, I know he wants to talk about what happened.
But I’m not ready for that conversation.
Not yet, anyway. It’s easier for me to pretend nothing happened than to face the fury and embarrassment I felt then.
When I allowed myself to be vulnerable in front of Bes and he chose to call what we were doing “nothing important” and “peace and quiet for five bloody seconds”.
It’s not the first time I’ve overreacted, and it won’t be the last. But here, now, is not the place to sift through those emotions.
I don’t have to choose anger, but I don’t have to choose forgiveness so quickly either. Not when my very existence is at stake.
I grip my two new weapons tightly in each hand, understanding the burden of them and the lives they might take at my command. “Is that all?”
Bes’s hand falls back to his side, his expression full of disappointment. “Yes, that’s all, Miss Hawkins.”
I nod once. “I’ll see you at dinner, then.”
Promptly, I turn on my heel, stemming the urge to look back. Even when I know he’s out of sight.