“Our entire existence is antiquated, mate,” Cec counters. Bes shoots him a look he can’t appreciate.
“Well?” I prod, not letting my question go unanswered.
Bes swallows hard, his brow furrowed, gaze refusing to meet mine. “I don’t know any more about the amulet than you do. We’ll have to see what Arturo’s collection of literature might tell us when we get there.”
For Christ’s sake.“Then why bring it up at all?”
He finally meets my eyes, gaze hooded. “Because there’s so much more to this world than you realize, and you deserve to know everything. Iwantto tell you.Wewant to tell you,” he explains softly. “But it’s not our place.”
I don’t believe him. Perhaps Bes and Cec are deflecting to hide something else from me. Something worse.
“Let’s say magicisreal, that the amulet has the ability to summon the power ofhekawith the appropriate incantation. No amount of magic in this world can account for how cavalier you both are about death,” I argue. “Bes, you watched me kill Claude, and you murdered Klaus without hesitation. And Ailsa…”
I cut myself off, throat thickening at the reminder.
Instead of responding, Bes glances back at his cousin. “Cec? A moment?”
Cec follows the sound of his voice to his side, and Bes places his hands on the wheel. “Just keep it steady.”
Cec nods, a seriousness I’ve never seen before evening his brow and his lips, his chin jutting out slightly.
When Bes leaves the helm for the stern of the boat without another word, disappointment lingers inside me. Then, he glances back over his shoulder and cocks his head to follow.
After giving Cec one last worrisome look, I come up beside him. He places the length of his arms on top of the safety railing. I mimic his stance, leaning on the sturdy metal for support. I recall how he saved me from going over this same railing earlier, how he held me in his arms…
Now’s not the time to be thinking of such things.
Looking out at what I can still see of the Port of Messina, the shoreline ripples alongside all the hustle and bustle of the seaside town. Despite being wholly tainted by today’s events, this place is gorgeous. If I had a lick of artistic talent, I’d paint it.
From this vantage point, I can’t quite mark the spot where we were docked in the small, crowded crook of the teeming port. In the distance, smoke tumbles gently from the high peak of Mount Etna, an active volcano. Closer, I spot a church’s belltower, its base invisible behind colorful old buildings with clay tile roofs crowding the skyline.
The only thing ruining the image is the far-off stench of sulfur from the volcano—and remembering that Ailsa’s blood currently stains the Strait of Messina.
God, poor Ailsa.No one deserves to die like that—well, maybe some people do, but not her. The people who did that to her, on the other hand, deserve a much worse death. Not that I want to be the one to exact that justice—I may have shot at those OVRA soldiers and killed one of them, but it’s only because I couldn’t stand by and do nothing.
My hands tremble at the reminder that I killed another person today. And while some part of my soul regrets it, they killed Ailsa. A life for a life.
Lord, do I actually believe that?In only a couple of days, I’ve become entrenched in so much death. And, just like with Bes and Cec, it’s getting easier and easier to stomach.
To my surprise, Bes lifts a hand and reaches toward my face. His calloused thumb wipes away a hot tear from my cheek I didn’t notice until now. His warmth and unexpected kindness pushes through my skin, burying deep.
“Death is, unfortunately, a prominent figure in Cec and I’s lives,” he says finally. “Has been for some time now.”
My next words come out thick. “And you’re alright with that? Why aren’t you angrier about this? Or dejected? Any emotion would besomething.”
He doesn’t answer me at first. Trying to read Bes is like reading a book in English that was translated from English into another language and then translated from that language back into English: most of the words are there, but they’re in the wrong order and therefore make no sense.
“Ailsa’s death is gutting me,” he admits quietly, his voice deepening with sadness. “I’ve known her since I was a boy, and though I’ve barely seen her in the last ten years, I never forgot her.”
He meets my eyes. “But death is unavoidable in this life—ourlife, Cec and mine’s.”
“Your life as a museum errand boy?” I ask, only half in jest.
He mirrors the tight smile. “Yes, exactly.”
“You should quit,” I say, glancing away from him. “It sounds like a terrible job. Long hours, hazardous work.”
I feel his gaze lingering on me. “It has its moments.”
