“Dépêchez-vous, mes amis,” the man inside bids us. Perched atop a backless bar stool, he’s wrapped in an oversized black cloak. A deep hood shields his features, his figure lit only by a low, lone lightbulb. “For evil never rests.”
Once the door behind us shuts, we find ourselves standing at the edge of a plunging staircase. Staring down into the murk, I feel like Dante before he entered hell. I half expect to see a sign above me reading the full inscription to the Gates of Hell in the original Italian.Abandon all hope, ye who enter here…
I turn toward Cec. “Your people have an affinity for the dramatic and the macabre, don’t they?”
“Put it this way,” he says. “There’s a reason Shakespeare set some of his most dramatic plays in Italy.”
My heart hammers inside my chest. I want to believe this isn’t a trap, not just for me, but for Bes and Cec.
For some reason, I recall a line in Canto II of theInferno, where Virgilio claims that their journey cannot be stopped because of the force that set them on it: ‘Non temer; ché ’l nostropasso / non ci può tòrre alcun: da tal n’è dato.’ Or, do not fear, no one can hinder our passage / One so great has granted it.
I glance up at the ceiling.God, if you’re up there, don’t let us die in this place.
Wrapping Cec’s arm in mine once more, I follow Bes down the narrow staircase.
The stairwell isn’t as tight a fit as the alleyway we came from, but it’s not wide enough for my liking either.
Naked, glowing bulbs hanging along the walls light our way. Cec marks each step below us with his cane. My hand tightens around his arm reflexively the further we descend. He reaches over and squeezes back, reassuring me.
Guilt wracks me whenever I underestimate Cec. Without him having to say it aloud, he reminds me constantly how his disability doesn’t define him. Simply by being himself. Yet, I always assume he needs my help.
If anything,weneedhim—he can hear things, smell things, taste things Bes and I can’t. We might’ve gotten caught by those Blackshirts outside, or Mussolini’s foot soldiers in Alexandria, if it weren’t for him.
Before long, the stairs drop us off into the middle of another corridor. To the left, I find only darkness. Thankfully, Bes heads to the right. The cool, stale air wraps itself around me, the stone walls now bathed in fire instead of electricity, though I have no idea why.
I swallow. “Down the rabbit hole, eh?”
My voice echoes along the empty passageway; I wince at the sound.I should learn when to keep quiet.
Cec’s milky gaze slides up to the ceiling wistfully. “We’d be lucky to see a fraction of the things Alice saw.”
“There’s still a chance we will,” Bes mutters.
I press my thumb along the spot against my chest where the Amulet of Amun once rested, recalling the way it heated up at the Temple of Seti I. Like it was warning me. Perhaps I’ve grown used to it, but it hasn’t warmed much since then…
“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” I say, quoting Alice.
Cec grins just like the Cheshire Cat. “Oh, you can’t help that, we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
My smile matches his. “How do you know I’m mad?”
“You must be,” says Cec, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”
I break character. “In that case, I’d rather stay in our world, thank you. There’s plenty to fear here.”
Bes glances back at us. “Afraid, Miss Hawkins?”
I don’t hesitate, squaring my shoulders. “Never.”
“I’m a little frightened, thanks,” Cec says. His calm demeanor refutes it.
Now that we’re no longer out in the open, my curiosity reignites. “So, once we get the information on the God Men, we’re going straight to Genoa?”
Bes takes a moment to answer. “If everything goes to plan, yes.”
I huff in frustration. “What do you mean if everything goes to plan?”
“The same way things didn’t go to plan for you at the Temple of Set the First. Or for any of us at the museum in Cairo, of the port in Messina.”
