Page 45 of Bloodstone
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Cecilio; the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
Cec considers this. “I thought it was paved with lawyers and abusers?”
I try to think of a quip when my stomach abruptly voices its discontent. I didn’t realize until now that I’m no longer nauseous—actually, I’m rather hungry. Which, if I don’t remedy quickly, will be a burden to everyone onboard.
“Do we have anything to eat?”
Cec must’ve heard my stomach moan as well because he grins. “We’re docked in Messina. Bes and Ailsa will be back soon with food and enough fuel to hold us over until our next stop.”
“Messina?” I throw the covers off and stand too quickly. Head spinning, I place my hand on the bed and give myself a moment.
He amends, “At the tip of Italy’s boot, yes.”
“Italy?” I practically scream. Immediate regret sets in when the inside of my throat burns with the effort.When the hell did we get toItaly?I glance at my watch, wishing I’d set it to the right damn time. “Jesus, how long was I out for?”
“Approximately thirty hours, give or take.”
I balk. I’ve never slept that long before.I must’ve needed it.
Gripping my throat, I say, “That doesn’t seem healthy.”
He shrugs. “You were awake for some of it.”
I blink at him. “Huh? I don’t remember that.”
“Ah, so that’s why you wouldn’t stop talking about the time your knickers—”
“Oh, do shut up a moment,” I interrupt. “Now, remind me what exactly the plan is here.”
Cec straightens. “Once we leave Messina, we’ll make one more stop to refuel before heading to the Port of Civitavecchia. There’s… something there which Arturo needs Bes and I to obtain. Then, we’ll make our way to the final port before the Dolomites, where Arturo lives.”
I press my palms into my eyes, knowing I likely won’t remember all that. “Alright, give me a moment to change and I’ll come up.”
Cane and guiltless smirk in tow, Cec heads for the stairs without a fuss.
Though he won’t be able to see me, I wait to undress until after I’m certain he’s on deck. I open my suitcase to take out a clean pair of underwear, bra, and a short-sleeve, light blue button-up; my tan pants can survive another couple of days.
First, I undo my braid, allowing my thick, blonde hair to billow out around me in long, slight waves. After stripping down, I wet a hand towel from the kitchenette to wipe under my arms and other sensitive areas before tossing it in a small bin that looks like it’s meant for laundry. I hurriedly find the Mum deodorant I packed and swipe it under my arms, then button my shirt, tucking it into my pants.
Now that I’m decent again, I take a moment to knead my fingers into the back of my neck, cocking my head from one side to the other. My neck crunches like a hard waffle does when youattempt to break it apart. I let out a short groan. Despite sleeping for thirty hours, my recent night terrors didn’t allow me a true moment of respite: I imagined myself running away from Ingrid through the streets of Cairo, the fear slowing my movements. Every time I looked back, she drew closer, but she never actually caught me.
Hopefully, that continues to be the case in real life as well.
After slipping the Luger I stole off the black-clad God Men’s dead body inside my waistband, I sit on the bed and lace up my boots—when the engine turns over unexpectedly.
Cec yells down the steps. “I hope you’re decent because we’ve got to go.”
“Dammit,” I swear softly.
Hurriedly tying my last boot, I scramble up the steps and pop my head up on deck, only to have my tangled mess of hair whip me in the eyes from the sea air. We appear to be docked at some sort of port, like Cec said. The windows of apartment buildings with their yellow-tinted plaster facades and clay tiles roofs overlook the water behind us, the walkways bustling.
I glance around the deck but don’t notice anything out of place.What makes Cec think we’re in such a damned hurry?
Then, Bes’s voice carries over to me. I squint into the rising sun, finding him at the bow of the ship leaning over the edge. He wears brown pants and a tan Henley with the sleeves rolled up, dark locks uncombed and wild.
“Staccare la pompa,” he yells, presumably to someone on the docks. “Staccare la pompa!”
They shout something back in Italian, but their voice disappears into the roar of the engine.
