They walked fast, and Jess became horribly aware that all of the war-god statues they passed were turning their heads to stare. Behind them, Horus stepped down from his pedestal in the alcove on the wall and took a long stride down the hall. Then another. Behind him, Menhit descended, that hissing, sharp flail cutting the air before her.
It was all bluff. When Jess attained the end of the corridor, he looked back to see Horus stepping back up to his pedestal in an eerily smooth, flowing motion. Threats, he thought. Intimidation. The Artifex’s stock in trade—and the Archivist’s. Extremes of emotion colliding inside him made him feel sick.
The rest of the squad stood clumped at the end of the hall, looking one step from running as Glain and Jess caught up.
“Why did they do that?” Violet Bransom sounded utterly shaken. “Why would automata come for you?”
“They didn’t,” Glain said. She sounded brisk and matter-of-fact, and if he hadn’t known her well, he might have believed she hadn’t been frightened at all. “It was likely some malfunction. If they’d meant us harm, someone would be mopping our remains off the floor right about now.”
“Then why—”
“I don’t know,” Glain said, cutting Bransom off, with the definite subtext of and I don’t care. “You heard the High Commander. The squad passed. We’ll receive individual commissions by Codex. This may be my last opportunity to say it to all of you, but I’m proud of you. Very proud.” Her gaze touched each of them in turn, and last of all, Jess. He nodded.
“Thank you, sir,” Wu said, and Jess echoed it. “Oh hells, Bransom, stop cringing like a child. You’re a soldier now!”
“I wasn’t cringing!” she said, and glared at Jess, as if it were somehow his fault. “What about Helva?”
“Helva will be on Medica duty until she’s well enough, but I imagine she’ll pass, too. They say she’ll make a full recovery eventually.”
Jess drifted slowly away and let the group talk, as their good fortune slowly began to sink in. He continued to stare back down the hall, where the eight-foot goddess Menhit relentlessly swished her golden flail, her leonine jaws baring in a grin that showed sharp, cutting teeth.
Jess went back to his room and tried to go back to sleep, but his heart was pounding, his hands clammy, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that the jaws of a trap were slowly, slowly closing around him. He couldn’t lie still. Finally, he rose, dressed in common clothes, and paced his room restlessly as he tried to still the anxiety inside. He didn’t want to wake up Glain, and Dario and Khalila didn’t deserve to be rattled awake at this terrible hour, either, but he felt more alone than he ever had.
He sat down and picked up his Codex and turned to the page where Morgan’s messages appeared. He knew it was useless, but he took up his pen and wrote, I need to talk to you. Please. I need you.
He watched the page, waiting for her familiar handwriting to appear, but it didn’t come. Of course it wouldn’t. She could reach out to him, but he couldn’t do the same to her. He didn’t even know if she was reading it. So he kept writing, almost against his will. I feel very alone tonight. And I miss you. It’s stupid, I know, but I miss the touch of your skin, the smell of your hair. The weight of you in my arms. Horus help me, I sound like a lovesick poet. I should thank the God of Scribes you’ll never read this, because I don’t deserve to write it. You still hate me. You might not ever want to see me again, and, even if you do, you might never feel the same as you did before. I know that. I just . . . I miss you, Morgan.
Then he reversed the stylus and brushed it all out, erased as if it had never been, and felt more alone than before.
He needed the comfort of someone familiar. I want to go home, he thought, which was strange; he had few happy memories of London, really. And it had hardly ever been safe. Still, in this moment, he desperately wanted to walk in the door of his family’s town house, to see the wan smile of his mother and see his father busy at his massive desk.
A bit of home.
After a moment of debate, and knowing it was bound to backfire on him, Jess gave in to temptation and went in search of his twin brother, Brendan.
The sentries posted at the gate asked where he was going, and he told the truth: visiting relatives. I’m not a child running for comfort, he told himself. Father’s been pestering me to find out what Brendan’s up to, anyway. Because Brendan should have left Alexandria long ago, headed back to London, but Jess had learned his brother had taken up residence in the city instead.
Maybe his brother had broken with the family business. Maybe they were both outcasts now.
Leaving the compound this time felt like shedding a giant load from his shoulders; he wasn’t on a mission, wasn’t under pressure to dodge, avoid, not be found out. He had been allowed off the grounds without argument, and now he walked into the cool, misty night of Alexandria with his hands in his pockets.