“Worse crimes have been committed today,” Bes argues seriously, gaze skittering across the shelves around us.
He’s not wrong.
Gripping the porcelain harder at the reminder, I blink away the haze from my drug-induced nap as I breathe in the citrusy-floral tea. If only the taste rivaled the smell. The milk and sugar I added to the tea swirl at a nauseating pace—my empty stomach turns, refusing to settle.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of telling him he’s right, either.
He runs a scarred hand through his dark hair, gripping the roots. I sigh. After having slept for a few hours in the car and spent the rest in silence, I have a terrible urge to thank him.He could’ve left me there to die when he realized I wasn’t at Luxor. Instead, he came after me, knowing he’d likely be putting himself in danger as well by doing so.
Especially with the condition my right knee was in. Even with Claude’s car in working order, I have no idea how long I could’ve driven on it.
Though I’ll never admit it aloud, I likely would’ve been dead without Bes.
Was it his fault I went to the temple with Claude in the first place? Yes and no. I should’ve followed my gut, but I wouldn’t have had to if he’d been on time.
“That may be true,” I say instead, “but coffee is universally treasured and should therefore be readily available.”
He pushes his glasses up his nose. “You and Williams would’ve gotten on well.”
I scratch the back of my neck, wondering how the soldier—who thankfully had no recollection of our conversation about the amulet—is holding up. Though we asked him what happened, he couldn’t piece it together before we dropped him off at the local office.
We headed straight to the Egyptian Museum of Antiquities after that. The doors were already locked for the night; thankfully, Bes procured a key, reaffirming his claim of working at the museum to be true.
Though that still doesn’t tell me whether or not he means to harm me.
Despite my many protests of wanting to peruse the exhibits, he immediately brought me to the room we’re currently occupying. Before I could ask him where the curator was, he went off somewhere to scrounge up a first aid kit. He even found some vodka for our wounds. While wrapping up my hands for me, he assured me they’re only minor scratches and should heal in a few days.
When he tried to do the same to my skinned knee, however, I fought him on it, and he grudgingly handed me the supplies to do it myself. I also tried to sneak a swig of the vodka after cleaning my wounds. The bastard snatched it away with his good hand before I could.
I offered to re-dress his bullet wound, but he declined. He merely wet a cloth and removed the dried blood around it.
Now, I breathe deeply into the cup of tea, grateful to be in a place where I can rest for a moment. Even if my thoughts remain marred by death and blood.
The Amulet of Amun—my entire reason for being here—sits heavy on my chest. I don’t wear jewelry, so the weight around my neck feels strange. Not unwelcome, more abnormal than anything else. I went through too much to get it, though, to let it out of my sight. It will remain on my person until Bes pays my fee and guarantees me a flight home.
I stare at my cup of tea without truly seeing it. The relic hasn’t warmed since I shot Claude, and the crimson inside the stone hasn’t moved a centimeter since I noticed it after the temple finally released me from its clutches. Yet, I’m struggling to chalk it all up to the dire situation I was in, or even a lack of sleep. I’m not one to lose my mind completely when under pressure, and I’ve certainly never hallucinated before.
Holding the cup of tea up to my chin, I breathe in the steam. It’s strange: when the secret room beneath the Osireion had me trapped inside its walls, the water rising swiftly, some part of me thought I’d never get to see the museum. Or anywhere else, for that matter. And despite escaping that danger with the amulet in my possession, that same part of me feels as if I’ve landed myself in even hotter water.
Every moment since I knocked Claude out to not only save my own skin but to go after the amulet instead of running has been completely out of my hands. As if I’m no longer masterof my own fate. I hate not being in control—but I can also recognize when I’m not the most qualified person to be making the decisions.
Usually… Alright, some of the time.
I do take some comfort, though, in being surrounded by the ancient texts and priceless artifacts lining the walls of the curator’s office. It reminds me of sitting in Nonna’s study when we used to talk long into the night, the musty aroma of old paper and ink keeping us company. A bout of homesickness pierces my stomach with a sharp blade.I’ll be back soon.
I sip my tea and grimace again.What is this garbage water?“I would even take whole coffee beans at this point. Perhaps I can chew on them.”
Bes folds his arms over his chest. He dressed in a clean set of clothes while I was wrapping up my knee: beige slacks, a white button-up, and a light gray vest popped open. I managed to change as well, far more comfortable in clothes that haven’t been on a transatlantic flight and soaked in aquifer water for eight hours.
I can’t help thinking Bes cleans up well. In fact, if he wasn’t so infuriating, I might find him attractive. Dark hair tame, his newly-cleaned glasses, looped snuggly around the back of his ears, glint in the low light. The setting sun threatens to cloak him in shadow, a dark contrast to the bright rays of the midday sun when we first met.
It’s dusk in Cairo, and the city is awakening.
“As much as I believe a good cup of tea fixes everything, it would be better if you consumed water,” he tells me. “Caffeine desiccates, you know.”
I tap my fingers against the desk. His concern endears me to him, even if I can’t trust it—or him—wholly.
“This isn’t bog water?” I ask, holding up the ornate, gold-leafed teacup.
