Where the Library Hides (Secrets of the Nile #2)

Capítulo Doce

CAPíTULO DOCE

I eyed our surroundings in distress. We were in an alley, several blocks away from the hotel, the moon blocked by tall stone walls enclosing the narrow path. I hadn’t thought to bring a candle, and anyway, something told me Isadora would have protested.

We were, after all, attempting to be stealthy.

“Are you sure you know where we are?” Farida asked with another quick glance over her shoulder. She was dressed in a dark skirt she had borrowed from Isadora, and my mother’s scarf was wrapped twice around her neck.

Isadora didn’t break her stride, easily navigating muddy puddles, her dress somehow repelling all manner of dust and dirt. Magic , I thought again. “Yes, for the tenth time,” she said. “Hurry—we don’t want to be late.”

My corset was an iron cage around my ribs, and I profoundly regretted not shedding the awful contraption before we had set out. I thought we still had plenty of time before the auction began, but Isadora kept us moving at a brisk pace. An awful stitch worked its way deep in my side, and I let out an exasperated huff.

“It’s not like the market is going to suddenly change its mind and move again,” I said between breaths.

“No, but I don’t want our arrival to distract from the proceedings,” Isadora explained. “Here—I think it’s down this way.”

“You think ?” Farida asked, aghast.

“Strongly believe,” Isadora amended. She made a hairpin turn, and the street widened, providing enough space for me and Farida to flank Isadora, the three of us walking alongside one another. At a distance, the sound of music playing and the odd yip of a stray dog joined the clamor of our steps against the packed dirt. This particular stretch of street remained dark, no sight of lamps anywhere, and a heavy gloam seemed to coat every surface. We were in a part of town where it didn’t pay to be negligent.

“Where is this place?” Farida asked, clutching her side. “A warehouse?”

“No, it’s a—” Isadora broke off sharply. Her eyes narrowed at the sudden movement at the end of the street.

I followed the line of her gaze as three shadowed figures materialized. An uneasy feeling scraped against my skin. The scent of sweat and alcohol wafted into my nose as they drew close. There was just enough moonlight to make out their features. They were pale skinned and mustached; one had a pockmarked face, another was balding, and the last was short and built like a barrel.

Isadora stopped, holding out her hands. “Step behind me.”

Neither Farida nor I moved. I was in too much shock, my mind only beginning to understand the extent of the danger we were in. It was only when I caught the glinting edge of a knife that I gasped. The barrel-shaped man grinned at me, waving his weapon as if demonstrating that he knew how to use it.

“Not one pace closer,” Isadora warned.

In a blink, her sleek little handgun was in her palm, aimed at the apparent leader of the group. He stood a foot ahead of the others, his head angled down, thick brows curving in amusement as he inched forward.

“What are you going to do with that?” he said in an American accent.

“Take another step forward, and you’ll find out,” Isadora said sweetly.

The short man laughed. “I bet it’s not even loaded,” he said, taking one exaggerated step.

Without a single tremor, my sister fired.

The noise exploded everyone into action. Isadora’s target dove out of the way while Farida scooped up a rock and threw it at one of the assailants racing toward us. She hit one of the bald men square in the chest, and he floundered.

“Bitch,” the pockmarked man spat.

Another American. They must have come to Egypt by the boatload. He’d spoken only once, but that word alone told me he’d enjoyed several rounds of drink. My heart escalated as he swerved in my direction. I let out a gasp and stumbled back a few steps. From the corner of my eye, I saw Isadora sidestep one of the taller attackers, whose blond curls gleamed in the moonlight.

“Shoot him,” Farida yelled. She had found another rock, which she clutched in one hand, and the other hand was tucked into the pocket of her skirt. I knew she was feeling to make sure her shrunken camera hadn’t gotten lost in the scuffle.

Isadora took aim as my assailant went for my throat.

The sound of someone running filled the alley, footsteps thundering like a battering ram. My sister spun around, eyes widening at the sight of a young man running at full tilt toward us. My gaze chased the blur of movement rushing past. A cannonball intent on destruction.

Whit.

But not the roguish Whit, who could charm a smile from even the most dour of personalities, but Whit the brawler, unrefined and furious. He bent and struck the man in his belly and somehow managed to flip him up and over, until the pockmarked man roughly hit the ground with a reverberating smack. Isadora fired her gun again, this time narrowly missing Whit, who took a second to flick a contemptuous glance in her direction before ducking the fist of the mustached man.

My sister loaded her gun and aimed—

“For the love of Christ,” Whit shouted. “ Stop shooting .”

Farida edged closer to me, her eyes wide. My erratic heartbeat had slowed, and I found that my earlier fear had all but vanished. “Isadora, come watch the parlay from over here,” I said in a pleasant voice.

Whit threw me a dirty look and then narrowly avoided the jab of a knife aimed at his midsection. The barrel-shaped man had his arm outstretched, and Whit latched on to it, using the man’s momentum to yank him forward, knocking him off-balance. With his elbow, Whit slammed down into his back, and the man slumped onto the ground.

Farida nodded in approval. “Well done.”

Whit spun around, blue eyes blazing. “We had an agreement, Olivera.”

I raised a brow. “I haven’t broken it.”

He gestured to the three men moaning on the ground. “Oh? Care to explain this to me?”

Farida pointed to one of them. “That one is trying to stand, Whit.”

My insufferable husband turned and aimed a kick at the mustached man—who groaned and fell silent. Whit bent into a squat, one muscled forearm draped across his knee, and said cheerfully, “If anyone thinks about moving, I will feed the lot of you to a crocodile, bit by bit.”

The three assailants stilled.

Then Whit stood, hands on his hips, and waited with an air of impatience. When I stayed quiet, he muttered a curse under his breath and said, “What does saving your life get me?”

“Excuse me?”

“I think I’m entitled an answer to three of my questions.”

I narrowed my gaze. “One.”

“Two.”

“Fine.”

Whit crooked a finger at me, and I rolled my eyes as I walked to him. I would have ignored the gesture, but my companions were openly staring in bemused fascination at our interaction. Since I didn’t want to answer any of their questions, I allowed Whit to lead me off to the side.

“We really must move on,” Isadora called out in warning.

“This will only take a minute,” I said.

Whit scowled. “I only get a minute?”

I feigned looking at a pocket watch. “Less now.”

“You are the most…” Whit’s voice trailed off. “Never mind.”

“This is why you wanted to talk to me?” I asked coolly. “To insult me?”

“I wasn’t thinking of an insult,” Whit said softly.

I ignored the way his voice sent a shiver down my spine. For the hundredth time, I reminded myself that he had betrayed me. That I didn’t care about his sister, a woman I’d never met, that he ought to have been honest with me from the start. I repeated this over and over until I was able to return his stare without flinching, without blushing, without feeling anything at all.

“What are your questions?”

“Where are the three of you going?”

“You could have asked them.”

Whit dipped his chin, the moonlight casting silvery shadows across his face. He stood not even a foot away from me, looming tall and broad shouldered. He wasn’t even panting from the exertion of pummeling three people to the ground. “I’m asking my wife .”

The only reason why I bothered to reply at all was because he had saved my life. At least, that was what I told myself in the constant argument I had in my mind to stay firm, to not give in to any admiration for the way he had rescued us. “Isadora was able to discover the location of the gate.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Is that your second question?”

He nodded.

“If I can do something without you,” I said simply, “I will.”

His face turned to stone, his expression inscrutable, and I gave up trying to read someone who had no compunction about robbing me.

“Fine. And what were you going to do when you arrived?”

“Farida’s camera is magic touched,” I said, then explained the rest of our plan quickly.

“The developed photographs will show what’s behind walls?” he asked. “That’s astounding. And useful.”

“I know,” I said dryly. “Hence the plan.”

Whit watched me narrowly. “Well, I also discovered the location of the gate,” he said in a testy voice. “And it’s in another part of the city. Were you thinking to get there by tomorrow?”

“Oh,” I said. “Were we lost ?”

“Damn it, Inez.”

I stiffened. “Isadora must have gotten confused. She can be quite stubborn once she gets an idea in her head.”

“Can she.” His implacable look returned. “Well, I’m on my way there. Would you like to come with me?”

I managed to hide my surprise, but only just. “Lead the way, Mr. Hayes.”

It was at that moment when one of the men lurched to his feet—the bald one—and lunged toward us. A shot rang out, and his body fell in a downward arc, blood splattering across my feet. He was utterly still, a dark puddle growing under his chest. One of his arms was reaching toward me, his index finger brushing against the toe of my left boot.

Whit dropped, peering into the man’s face. His eyes were open. Somehow, he still looked angry. “Dead.”

Isadora lowered her smoking gun. “One less for the crocodile.”

Whit led us to a dilapidated building he explained was rather close to the hotel. Not even half a mile away from Shepheard’s entrance. Isadora blushed and apologized profusely, again and again, for her error. I got the sense that she hated to be mistaken—about anything.

“It’s all right,” I said for the fifth time. “I would have gotten turned around, too.”

She walked alongside me, Farida accompanying Whit farther up ahead. Every now and again, he looked over his shoulder to make sure I was still trudging after him like a well-behaved dog. I ignored his glances, focusing instead on learning where not to go in Cairo.

Isadora winced and shook her head. Her honey-gold hair gleamed under the soft light of the moon. “It’s only that I wanted to be helpful,” she explained. “I thought I knew most of the streets of Cairo, and I didn’t want you to need Whit or spend more time with him than what’s absolutely necessary.”

“Sister,” I said. “Can I call you sister?”

She smiled gratefully. “Of course, but only if I can call you hermana in return.”

Warmth spread outward from my heart. “You shot a man and saved my life. I think you more than made up for it.”

“It shouldn’t have come to that,” she said. “I ought to have known we were lost.”

I studied her. “You’re being awfully hard on yourself.”

She slanted an arched look in my direction. “Must be a family trait.”

I shrugged, averting my gaze. It was second nature to berate myself into thinking I could have done more, been better, acted faster. Sometimes nothing I did felt like it was enough. And other times, the things I did do were often wrong. Perhaps it was a family trait, and I was too much like Mamá. We’d come up to Whit and Farida by then, and I chose not to respond to Isadora’s observation, but her words stuck with me, unnerving me.

This was the most amount of consecutive time I’d spent with her, and it was galling to learn how easily she could read me, especially when I was still trying to figure myself out, considering what my mother did to me.

To my father. To Isadora, even.

But I was beginning to understand how yearning for my parents, wanting their attention, and missing them terribly when they were gone half the year while traveling in Egypt had shaped me into the person that I was now. It was why I craved a family, a sense of belonging.

To fit somewhere.

And I often blamed myself, or was too hard on myself, because maybe there was a small part of me that believed there had been something wrong with me, and that was the reason why my parents left me behind.

Every year. For months.

I felt the weight of Whit’s gaze, and I wondered if he could feel the tension radiating off me, the sudden grief coating my skin, but I kept my gaze straight ahead. The abandoned building, evidently once used by the government, was flanked by handsomely constructed homes with arched windows and paneled glass. We stood off to the side, half-hidden by lush greenery and prickly palms that overflowed onto the street. Whit studied the exterior of our destination, and then looked over to the three of us quietly waiting. I wasn’t sure why we were waiting. The entrance was clearly a large door that had once been painted chartreuse but had long since faded and chipped down to something resembling wilted lettuce.

“None of us have an invitation,” Isadora said suddenly. “How will we get inside?”

“There’s a side door,” I said. “Perhaps we can sneak in that way?”

“Let’s go,” Whit said. “Everyone behind me.”

We hustled after him as he crossed the street, glancing both ways. The side door was little more than a narrow entry, something designed for servants. Whit pushed and stuck his head around the edge; half a second later, he jerked backward and flattened his palms on the wood. He gave a violent shove, and a loud smack came from the other side. Something slumped to the ground with a loud thud, and Whit once again pushed the door, shoving until he could open it fully.

He walked inside, motioning for us to follow. When I went through, I made the mistake of glancing down at the man sprawled across our path.

Whit had hit a guard hard enough to render him unconscious.

There wasn’t time to check on him. Whit was already rounding the corner at the end of the corridor, which opened to a dusty kitchen, cobwebs in every corner, rusty iron pots and pans hanging along the wall, and shelves laden with jars filled with flour and the like. The sounds of raucous shouting drifted into the confined space, people yelling—though not in anger, but rather in palpable excitement. I glanced up to the ceiling, noting the direction of where the noise was coming from. The auction must be taking place upstairs.

We needed to locate the staircase.

The problem was the two men playing cards at the rickety wooden dining table. They turned in their chairs, gaping, one of them already reaching for the revolver at his elbow.

Whit threw one of the pans, and it spun, handle over handle, until it slammed into his face, catapulting him off his seat. His bloody tooth flew in my direction, and I scuttled out of the way with a muffled shriek. The other man reached for his gun, but by then Whit had taken the now-empty chair and swung it hard at the man’s head. He crumpled onto the table.

It was over and done within a matter of seconds.

Isadora picked up the gun and tucked it into her belt. “You are so violent.”

It sounded like a compliment.

Farida shook her head, half-amazed, half-shocked. “I’ve never seen this side of you.”

Whit went to the stove and sniffed inside a steaming pot. He smiled to himself and retrieved a cup, which he blew into to rid it of dust. “Thank God.”

“Are you having tea?” I exclaimed.

“Coffee,” he said reverently, pouring a generous serving into the mug. “Would you like some?”

I stared at him. The noise above us grew louder; sounds of chairs scraping against the floor over and over again infiltrated the kitchen.

“We ought to—” I began.

Whit downed his coffee and then turned to shove the guard slumped over the table with his boot, and the man fell hard onto the floor. Then Whit calmly picked up both chairs and walked to the door. “Let’s go.”