Taking a quick left into a passthrough room, my thumb slowly slides the safety switch off of the blade and hovers over the release button. Worst fears practically confirmed now, my breathing shallows. The deeper in we go, the more trapped I feel. As far as I can tell, the only direct route out of here is the way we came in.
With his back turned to me, I could attempt to make a run for it. I have no doubts that I’d outrun him. But if he has a gun stashed somewhere, I won’t get very far, and I’ll have tipped my hand. Besides, he has the keys to the car; even if I did make it there, I’d have no way of starting it.
I’m also not ready to give up on this whole endeavor quite yet—I came all this way, after all. But neither can I ignore my instincts.
I glance up at the sunlight sinking down through the small, man-made hole above me. A black and white pattern marks the bowed ceiling, and nearly every wall etching depicts Osiris.This must be his chapel.
I prod Claude, hoping I can get him to admit who he actually is. “I’m not surprised, then, that the museum has great interest in this temple.”
He turns his head as if to peer back at me, but won’t meet my eyes. “Yes, I’m sure we’ll be… pleased by your findings.”
I grimace.I’m sure you will.
As we pass into the Inner Osiris Hall, with only the sound of sand and pebbles scuffing underfoot, I nearly press the button to release my switchblade. Limbs restless, I squirm at the anticipation of what he plans to do with me. Is he going to leave me here? Does he want the amulet for himself?
I shake my head.Of course, he wants the amulet for himself. And what sort of idiot would leave you here and risk the chance of you escaping when he can simply kill you?
I hadn’t thought of that.
My pulse quickens again and I bite the inside of my cheek to focus—I’m running out of time to come up with a plan. Once we reach the entrance to the Osireion, I’ll be out of options.
“I have to tell you, Miss Hawkins, you’re not at all what I was expecting,” Claude muses. Curiously, his accent is no longer heavy with his native tongue. In fact…
Shit. I should’ve noticed it before. He barely said a word to me in the car ride, but the more he’s spoken to me in the temple, the more his throat intonations have become less French and more Germanic. I’d know it anywhere.
Following my instincts, I lean in for a closer look at his neck tattoo: it’s not anything French, like I assumed before. Instead, the beginnings of a black-circled swastika peek out from the collar of his shirt. My throat closes up and revulsion consumes me. Unless Claude practices Hinduism or Buddhism, there’s only one possibility:
Claude is a goddamn agent of the German Third Reich.
My breath stills in my chest, revulsion boiling inside my stomach. I’ve never actually met anyone who supports the growing fascist regime, but from what I’ve learned about them, I don’t have the luxury of coming up with a shitty plan.
Not knowing what else to do, I raise my switchblade and press the button—
He whirls on me quicker than I thought possible, pointing the deadly end of a German Luger at my chest with his free hand. I stop walking, hand frozen in mid-air. Swallowing hard, I stare at the glint of the pistol’s dull metal in the low lamplight.Where the hell was he keeping it?
Claude’s beady eyes glimmer beneath his dark eyebrows, grin stretching out his spotty lip hair. “How foolish of you to bring a knife when you should’ve brought a gun.”
My next breath trembles out between my lips.Oh,I’m in danger now.
Not allowing it to consume me, I straighten, hoping I can distract him—and myself—if I keep talking. “I considered it, but it didn’t go with any of my outfits.”
He clicks his tongue. “My superiors warned me that you had a sharp tongue. That’ll get you in trouble.”
How do his fascist superiors know anything about me?My sharp tongue, as he calls it, isn’t exactly a secret, but neither is it universally known. Asking him about it is pointless, though: if he tells me the truth, it means he plans to kill me; if he doesn’t tell me, I’m back where I started. And I’m not keen on staring death fully in the face yet.
I grimace. “It always does.”
After a moment of watching each other closely, waiting for the other person to make a move, my arm begins to quake. Being awake for most of the multiple flights and a God-awful car ride I took to get here, my nerves have begun to fray. Claude’s gaze falls to the trembling hand grasping my father’s weapon. He smiles again.
“Hand me the switchblade and let’s drop the pleasantries. We both know what you’re here for.”
I grit my teeth, refusing to give in. But he extends the arm gripping the gun, reminding me who holds all the cards at the moment. Letting out a breath, I reluctantly offer him the worn ivory handle of my blade.
“Then why don’t you regale me with my purpose here, Herr Claude.”
Ignoring my jab, he sets the oil lamp down and snatches the blade from my hand. My other hand clenches into a fist, uneven nails biting into my palms.I’m going to get that back from him if I have to pry it from his cold, dead hands.
He gestures at the lamp with the pointed end. “Pick it up.”
