For a moment, I consider running from Bes, like I planned to do before Ingrid foiled it. Unfortunately, her presence alone confirms what I feared most: that more God Men are in Egypt, and they know exactly who I am. They won’t stop until they have me and the amulet in their possession. Knowing that, the least I can do for myself is get out of the city.
Especially since Bes is the only person I know here with a working car. I can figure out how to get to the airfield from the docks, or steal onto a boat of my own.
“Allez, allez!” a strange man in the driver’s seat, cast in shadow, yells in French.
“That means crack along, chaps!” Cecilio translates from the backseat, poking his wavy-haired head out of the window.
I grin, and Bes breathes a sigh of relief as we close in on the vehicle. “It’s good to see you, Cec. But how did you—”
“Thankfully, our fearless curator stuck around Cairo,” Cec cuts him off.
Bes glances at the driver. “Glad to see you as well, Mr. Lacau.”
The old curator clears his throat. “Likewise, Belzoni. But pleasantries will have to wait.”
Yanking my suitcase from me, Bes tosses it unceremoniously through the open back window. Cec yelps. Not wanting to trust another stranger, but not having much of a choice, I fling the door open and launch inside, dumping my pack hastily onto the floor beside my feet.
Bes opens the driver’s side door in front of me. “As grateful as I am for this, I’ll take it from here.”
“As you will,” Mr. Lacau agrees, shifting over to the passenger seat.
I catch a glimpse of his face as he does: he’s older than I thought he would be, with a pointed white beard and a white moustache. He wears a light brown three-piece tweed suit, light brown tie, and a red Fez hat.
After slamming the door, Bes reaches for the key in the ignition and turns it. The machine rumbles to life. Without him even having to ask this time, I lean forward and shift into first. He stomps on the gas pedal. The car lurches forward with the effort and the engine sputters; the stench of burning metal wreaks havoc on my senses.
Shit.
I glance back at the museum and swear a human-shaped shadow lurks on the side of the building. Panic buoys up my throat.
Bes continues to fiddle with the car in silence—right as Ingrid rounds the corner of the museum. I recoil at the sight of her, my back brushing Cec’s shoulder.
In the pale light of the moon, blood carves down the side of her pale face from where I hit her. She braces a hand against the wall to support herself, slouching at the waist, and a crimson-stained lock of her hair comes undone. She looks wild, manic. Determined. In her icy blue eyes, I see she won’t stop until she’skilled us all. Not that I can blame her: Bes did kill her brother, after all. And I refused to give her the one thing she came all this way for—the Amulet of Amun.
Dammit. I should’ve done away with her when I had the chance.My tea-filled stomach, however, gurgles in moral disagreement.
I try and fail to conceal the fear in my voice. “Now would be a great time to get us the hell out of here.”
“You don’t say,” Bes mutters, preoccupied with pumping the brakes. I reach back to put the gear in neutral and then back into one, but it’s useless.
Bes glances out the window as I do, and I could swear he growls. “You left heralive?”
“I’ve killed enough God Men for one day,” I argue, even as I know he’ll argue the opposite.
Cec responds instead. “You can never kill too many of them.”
Ingrid pushes away from the wall and stumbles in our direction—
The engine finally catches. I slam the gear into first and it purrs as we pitch forward into motion, racing around the driveway. Mr. Lacau graciously takes over shifting the gears, and I turn in my seat to watch Ingrid struggle after us.I should’ve told Bes to run her over.But I’m just glad to be away from her.
We roll out onto the road and cut off another driver, their honks and her figure disappearing as we speed away.
“Yes!” Bes shouts.
I breathe out shakily. “Thank Jesus.”
He’s breathless too. “Perhaps you should be thanking me.”
I raise my brow. I’m not a religious person, not by a long shot; I take the Lord’s name in vain constantly and without shame, and loathe having to attend church. That doesn’t mean the vernacular isn’t ingrained into my vocabulary, so much so I barely notice it.
