“That wasn’t my point and you know it.”
Instead of replying, he focuses on the oil lamp beside him, busying himself with lighting it. At first, the mechanism clicks uselessly. A soft growl rumbles through the room.
Undoing my braid, I run my fingers through my sandy, tangled mess of blonde hair and pull it back into a loose ponytail, wiping a fine sheen of sweat from my forehead. I always forget how hot it is in this part of the world, and with no air conditioning in sight. Knowing it’s a luxury doesn’t make me miss it any less.
When I settle, I catch Bes looking at me again.
“We can sit here and insult each other all night,” I tell him. “The fact is, I brought you the Amulet of Amun—now pay me what the museum owes me so I can catch the first flight out of this hell-hole.”
Bes grimaces. Though whether it’s at me or the lamp he still can’t light, I’m not certain.
“Don’t worry yourself, you’ll get your money and your ticket home.” Finally getting the oil to ignite, he nods to himself. “I’m sure your tita will be glad to see you after your first successful solo expedition.”
How the hell does he know this is my first solo expedition?My empty stomach hollows, feeling wholly violated by his knowledge about my private life. I’m an open book about most things—Nonna would saytooopen—but only when I wish to be. And her telegram to him mentioned nothing about this.
“I don’t like how much you know about me when I haven’t told you a damned thing.”
“Your nonna is a bit of a chatterbox,” he explains, “especially when catching up with an old friend.”
I scoff at the admission. “Don’t tell meyou’rethe old friend.”
“Of course not. My Uncle Arturo Belzoni is.”
That name sounds so familiar…
I was too distracted when he told me his last name at the Temple of Seti I that I nearly jump to my feet now. “No relation totheGiovanni Belzoni? The same man who first uncovered the Temple of Seti the First in October 1817, among many other archaeological sites?”
Bes nods. “Giovanni is my great great uncle, something like that. I don’t acknowledge him.”
“That makes sense,” I admit, recalling some of the more unfavorable things about the man.
Though his methods weren’t unusual for the nineteenth century, Giovanni stole a significant number of Egyptian antiquities that he excavated for the man who hired him, Henry Salt, the British consul in Egypt at the time. Some archaeologists now call what he did colonial collecting: Europeans taking Egyptian artifacts back with them to Europe with formal permission from the Egyptian rulers, without being bound by our current ethics.
My nonna says his techniques lacked preservation; instead, they caused irreparable damage to each archaeological site he visited and their unearthed relics.
“He was a modern-day pillager,” I continue, “but he’s still one of the most renowned archaeologists to walk the earth.”
Bes wrinkles his nose. “Suffice is to say, he was offered a chance to be different and chose—”
A booming knock at the door behind me cuts him off.
The sound echoes through the empty room jarringly and jabs me between the eyes. I flinch, certain we were alone and would remain so until we left for the airport.
Who the hell would knock on the door of the curator’s office after hours?Bes appears to have a similar curiosity, although a considerably less-worried one as he makes for the door. I follow him intently with my gaze, paranoia swarming me.
When he grasps the large handle and opens it without a care as to who might be on the other side, I shove my hand into my pocket to grip my switchblade. The Amulet of Amun warms slightly against my chest, but that could just be nerves.
For a moment, I imagine Claude on the other side of the door, covered in blood and sand, back from the dead to exact his vengeance upon me.
It’s not, of course—this person is too tall and too thin to be Claude, though not as tall as Bes.
Despite it not being Claude’s rancorous spirit, I don’t appreciate Bes’s cavalier attitude. He may be comfortable in his own museum, but comfort never stopped fascists.
Standing outside the threshold, our guest is barely visible in the half-light cast by the oil lamps, the dark museum a literal tomb looming behind him.
After a moment, he takes a step inside.
His first words come out in a similar accent to Bes’s, with a slight lilt I can’t place, his tone completely at ease. “There you are, Bes, where have you—”
