Stop being foolish.
Without looking up, I make myself move around him.
Snatching up my suitcase and rucksack from where I left them, I fling the doors open and hasten toward the back exit.
Bes’s voice echoes through the museum behind me: “Miss Hawkins…”
He doesn’t finish, though. And all the better.
I place my free hand on my forehead.Christ almighty, what is wrong with me?
I’m not sure what kept me in that room after Cec left. I should’ve gone with him instead, hedged my bets. Yet, I stayed, and not just because of the startling information they laid on me. All I can pin it on is temporary insanity.
The museum remains silent around me, its dark, looming halls lit only by the pale moonlight filtering in through the windows. It casts shadows along the exhibits, distorting them. I barely spare a glance at any of it.
Pushing the heavy back doors with a bit too much force, they swing out into the night.
I plop down unceremoniously on the hard ground and slump against the museum wall. The heat of the day lingers on the stone, warming my back. I release my hair from its haphazard ponytail and deftly pull it back into a loose braid, allowingmyself a moment to pout at my situation before heading back inside as I stare up at the night sky.
When I take a calming breath, however, I taste warm, rotting waste in the back of my throat. No doubt from the Nile directly beside us.Lovely. It’s no different from any other city I’ve visited with similar waterways—the canals in Venice come to mind—but it merely adds to my situation here. I’ve never been more ready to leave a place, with such little control over the ability to do so.
I’ll go back inside soon,I tell myself, and then Bes and I will head to the docks his cousin mentioned, and board a boat out of this place and then hopefully on the next flight home.After that, I’ll likely never see Bes again. Which, at this point, is for the best. His promise to protect me rings a bit hollow when he couldn’t even protect himself outside the temple.
More than anything, I want no part of whatever is going on with the museum and however many agents of the Third Reich they might employ. I doubt Bes and Cec are protecting me out of the kindness of their hearts or for the sake of their uncle.
I do, however, trust them more than I trust the God Men, considering the latter tried to kill me and the former didn’t leave me stranded in the desert.
My God, the bar for my well-being could not be lower.
In truth, I’m of two minds about it. On the one hand, it does Bes credit that he didn’t abandon me in the desert and hasn’t tried to kill me or steal the amulet. And though it’ll put him and his cousin in danger, he’s agreed to protect me. No matter the cost. Plus, they know my nonna and appear to be following orders from her, or at least a friend nonna trusts with my life.
On the other hand, the list of things I’d be willing to do to go home in one piece grows with each passing moment. Going with these two men means that I might not get to do that for some time. Until it’s safe, I assume, and by their standards instead of mine.
I’ve been caught in my share of complicated situations, but these God Men are a completely different beast. I never want to see another one of them in this life.
At this juncture, that seems unlikely.
I glance at Nonna’s watch: 2:27pm. I never changed it from Michigan time, which means Nonna will have already eaten lunch with one of her colleagues, without any idea of how much trouble I’m in. I usually avoid going to those lunches as they’re excruciatingly boring. Right now, though, I’d give anything to listen to them argue about the true cultural identity of the Phoenicians ad nauseum.
The longer I sit here in my own misery, the more restless I become.
Forget about Bes and Cecilio. I can make it out of here on my own, without their help. There’s still a chance they’re being overcautious, and might even have nefarious plans of their own for me. If I slip into the night now, when no one expects me to, I bet I can find my own way home.
Getting to my feet, I throw my pack over both shoulders and grab my suitcase. My booted heels echo in the night as I head for the back corner of the building—running straight into a tall, willowy woman. She brings with her a distinctive aromatic brew of citrus, rosemary, and lavender. It stings my nose.
I take a step back but don’t meet her eyes. “Apologies.”
Keeping my head down, I go to move around her. She steps in front of me again.
“Apology accepted, Miss Hawkins,” the woman says in perfect English and a distinctly German accent.
Fuck.What now?
Black lace-up oxfords fitted with a military heel stare up at me, followed by nude nylons, a pressed black skirt, and a white button-up. Her white-blonde hair is pulled back tight against her scalp in a curled ponytail, her lips painted as red as blood.
In case I was unsure of her allegiances, something on her right index finger glints in the moonlight: a silver signet ring with a circled black Swastika emblazoned on its flattened surface.
I shut my eyes for a moment and mutter, “I can’t catch a damned break.”
