Growing ever-desperate to leave this place, I hold out my hand to help him up. Williams stares at it, clearly torn over whether or not to take my olive branch.I wouldn’t.
Eventually, though, he gives in. His expression retains its wariness even after I pull him up with all the might I can muster with a bad knee. Bes places himself at the soldier’s other side and wraps his uninjured arm around his back for support.
“Besides, it never would’ve worked out between us.” I wink when he glances over at me with incredulity; past him, Bes shakes his head. “Cultural barrier, you understand.”
He grumbles nonsense in return.
We head for the car, but I could swear something’s missing.My bag.
“Wait.”
Letting Bes bear his full weight, I hurry over to where I abandoned my soaked pack in the sand. I shove the contents that Claude ripped out back inside—including the Luger—and swing it over one shoulder, avoiding looking anywhere near his lifeless body.
Back with the others, I wordlessly hand Williams the skin of water tied to my pack. He gulps half of it down, a few drops dribbling down his chin, before letting it fall back against the canvas.
With that, we hobble over to what I now know to be the only working car.
For a moment, I consider whether or not I should get into a car with another stranger. Their accents lead me to believe they’re more friend than foe, but Claude put on an accent too. And yet, if Bes or Williams wanted to kill me for the amulet, they would’ve done so already.
Worst case, they plan on abducting me and holding me for ransom; best case, they’re driving me to the museum to pay me what I’m owed and then promptly delivering me to the airport so I can go home. The former would be unfortunate but not unexpected, and the latter feels less and less likely.
All I can do is keep surviving.And that means getting out of this damned desert and back to civilization.
Bes opens the passenger door on the other side and takes it upon himself to dump Williams into the leather seat. I roll my shoulders, grateful to no longer bear the man’s weight. The soldier lets out a short groan, but otherwise keeps his discomfort to himself.
I extricate my suitcase from the trunk of Claude’s car—which, now I think about it, was either stolen or a gift from that Thule Society Bes mentioned—and climb into the back of Bes’s automobile, tossing my belongings onto the seat beside me.
Pressing his foot down on the clutch, Bes starts the engine without further delay. Unfortunately, this car is British, which means he needs his left hand, the one Claude damaged, to shift gears.
“Miss Hawkins, will you…?” He trails off.
I lean forward, wordlessly gripping the ball on top of the gear shaft.
He glances at me over his shoulder. “Do you know how to—?”
“Don’t insult me by asking if I know how to put this contraption into gear,” I bite out. “The sooner we leave this place, the better.”
He clears his throat. “Go on, then.”
Wordlessly, I shift the gear shaft all the way to the left and then push it into first. The car lurches out onto the dirt road back to Cairo, the engine rumbling loudly as I shift through second, third, and finally into fourth gear.
I sit back in my seat. Silence envelops us, with only the hot desert air blasting my face through the cracked windows to remind me that I’m alive.
Glancing down, my eyes catch on the amulet still showing through my dampened shirt. I take it out and hold it in my palm. The gilded wings bite gently into my flesh. The bloodstone flickers slightly in the half light, but otherwise appears to be a normal piece of jewelry. Did I imagine the warmth against my chest when I nearly drowned inside the cenotaph, or after shooting Claude? Was my mind so deprived of air that I imagined the red specks moving beneath the surface?
It had to be, I reason, realizing my lack of sleep has had more of an effect on my psyche than I first gave it credit for.
But I also recall what Claude said about the rumor that it can make a person invisible. I’m not inclined to believe it, but neither can I wholly discount it after what I’ve felt and seen.
No, Mel, you just need sleep.
Wondering still if there’s a small chance Claude could be right, I turn around and steal one last glance at his lifeless body. I shouldn’t have. My stomach roils and bile buoys up my throat from the sight: at the blood staining his shirt, at his dark eyes wide open. It’s catching up with me now, what I’ve done. That I’ve taken a life. My chest clenches with guilt.
IkilledClaude. Ikilled Claude.
I didn’t want to, but he… forced my hand. And it wasn’t onlymylife on the line—Bes’s life was in danger too. Maybe even Williams’s, who would’ve been left for dead in the desert.
That doesn’t mean I don’t regret it. Shockingly, at the ripe old age of twenty-two, I’ve never actually murdered anyone in coldblood before—technically it was self-defense, though I’m having trouble convincing myself it’s any different. There may have been another choice besides killing him, but in the moment, I could only think about doing whatever I could to survive.
