Whit glared at me. “I’m not going to let it go.”
Panic pricked my body from my head down to my feet. I’d ruined my mother’s plans, her wish to keep Ricardo from dismantling and destroying Cleopatra’s final resting place.
“I can’t explain,” I whispered. “Please give me more time—”
“To do what, exactly?”
Footsteps sounded from the staircase hidden within the column. We both froze. “Whit,” I said in a panicked whisper. “Someone’s coming.”
Whit rushed back to the entrance of the antechamber with me at his heels. He stopped so abruptly I crashed into him, and he reached out to steady me. When I tried to step around him, he swung an arm to block me. He kept us inside the treasury, but still within sight of the staircase. Whit pulled out his gun, keeping it trained on the last step. I moved the candle farther into the adjoining room. Darkness engulfed the antechamber.
“Smart,” he said in a hushed voice.
Someone descended, the sound of harsh breathing growing louder and louder. I locked my breath inside my chest, afraid to make any noise. A small glow of blue light appeared, slowly crawling forward, corresponding with the soft scuffle of shoes against stone. Scuffed leather boots appeared first. Then long legs encased in loose trousers, stained with dirt and grime, and then a slim waist, and at last a grizzled, weathered face, at once familiar and dangerous, followed.
Tío Ricardo.
I’d led him straight to Cleopatra. My mother would be devastated, horrified. His knees bent and he staggered backward as he gazed into the antechamber. He barely held on to the guttering torch in his hand.
“Dios,” he murmured. But then he straightened and in a panicked voice said, “Inez!”
I stepped around Whit, the light following my movement. I was shaking, remembering that I had a role to play. “I’m here, Tío.”
My uncle swerved in the direction of my voice, squinting. Whit’s arm brushed against mine as he holstered his gun. Upon seeing me, my uncle stepped forward, and then abruptly stopped at the sight of Whit at my elbow. Tío Ricardo’s dark brows slammed together.
“Explain,” he said in a hard voice.
Whit inhaled, opened his mouth—but I was faster, immediately turning the tables on him.
“Were you spying on us?” I demanded.
Whit slapped his hand over his eyes, groaning.
“Spying on you?” Tío Ricardo asked in a voice edged in ice. “No, I was not spying on you. What the hell is going on here? How long have you been down here?”
“We only just found her,” I cut in. Whit exhaled, an exasperated huff that sounded like the loud clamor of an alarm bell. Tío Ricardo stiffened, but at least his attention was on me.
“When I went deeper inside the temple, I felt the magic. It was overwhelming. I followed that magical pulse and Mr. Hayes had no choice but to assist me.”
“No choice,” my uncle said faintly.
I threw my hands wide. “It wasn’t his fault.”
“I don’t need you to defend me,” Whit drawled.
“That’s what friends do.”
Tío Ricardo fixed his attention solely on me. He inhaled so deeply, his shirt strained at the buttons. “Don’t ever go down into a tunnel or a tomb or a dark cavern without me, Inez. Understand?”
“Fine.”
“Whitford, will you go and bring Abdullah? Be discreet, please.”
I glanced at Whit as he left but he didn’t meet my eye. He disappeared up the hidden staircase, taking my candle. My uncle and I stood several feet apart, a small stretch of light dancing between us. There were only a handful of times in which we’d ever really been alone. Goosebumps flared up and down my arms. Not for the first time, I wondered how treacherous he really was.
But . . . he’d sounded relieved to see me.
“You found her,” he murmured.
“The magic from the golden ring did.” I shifted on my feet, glancing around the antechamber, half covered in gloom. The antechamber didn’t have the same amount of artifacts as the other, smaller room Whit had named the treasury, but there were still a fair number of priceless objects. Figurines and furniture, pots of honey, and jewelry boxes. The truth swept over me in a towering wave and I couldn’t breathe once the thought took hold.
My uncle eyed me shrewdly. “You’ve come to the same realization, then.”
My voice came out breathless. “Papá found this room before he . . . died. He must have, because Papá took something of Cleopatra’s from here and then mailed it to me.”
“The golden ring. Which is how you were able to find this place at all. He ought to have given it to me.”
Tension seeped in between us, poisoning the air. A whisper of fear pressed close. I was alone, underground, and without resources, facing a man I barely knew at all.
A soft thudding noise drifted down from the direction of the hidden stairs. More light married with ours, and Abdullah appeared, an excited smile on his face. He squeezed through the opening, followed by Whit, the both of them holding slim torches.
Abdullah’s jaw dropped and tears gathered in his dark eyes. My uncle strode toward him and they embraced, laughing and chattering quickly in Arabic.
It disconcerted me, seeing my uncle fool his brother-in-law so completely. My uncle was a snake, lying in wait for the perfect opportunity to strike. He would double-cross Abdullah just like my poor parents.
Whit sidled up next to me. “Are you all right? I ran the whole way.”
I glanced at him, noticed how the tuft of hair that laid at an angle across his brow was damp with sweat. The tension I’d felt earlier lifted.
“You ran the whole way?” I murmured.
He shrugged. “It’s what a friend would do.”
Abdullah and Tío Ricardo explored the antechamber, marveling over every little thing. They touched nothing, and stood in stunned awe as they examined every detail, every carving, every statue. I itched for my sketchbook. I wanted to capture the paintings on the wall, wanted to draw all of the various objects strewn all over the room. A part of me wanted to sit in the luxurious couch, but I followed Abdullah’s example. They were careful to keep their distance, not wanting to disturb anything.
“It’s been looted,” Abdullah said.
“Most certainly,” my uncle agreed.
I didn’t need to look in Whit’s direction to see his smug smile.
“Look at this,” my uncle exclaimed as he studied a stretch of the wall. We all gathered around him and peered up. It was an interesting scene depicting soldiers with weapons.
“The battle of Actium,” Whit said.
Abdullah clapped a hand on Whit’s shoulder. “So you do pay attention when I talk. You’re correct. This is when Cleopatra lost everything—family, rank, her throne, lover, and life.”