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#### PTOLEMY'S TABLET

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shadownotes: book one

by

L.J.K. Oliva

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# - _Before_ -

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Fountains Abbey

North Yorkshire, United Kingdom

Oblate Emil Stone resisted the urge to fuss with the sleeve of his black suit jacket yet again. He didn't know how long he'd been standing in the Magister's office. Long enough for the solitude to start playing tricks on him. The portraits on the dark paneled walls all seemed to be watching him, assessing him. He'd been unnerved by that the first time he stood here. And the second time. And the third.

Now? Now he just wanted to get what was coming over with.

It felt like years since the last time he was tested, in this exact spot, on the same ornate Oriental rug, in front of the same heavy wooden desk. He could still remember the Magister's grave tone, could still hear the exact words that had sentenced him to yet another cycle of solitude.

Anyone can acquire knowledge, Emil. We deal in deeper things. We seek the truths the human world tries to hide. That requires more than knowledge. To be a Minister, you must attain wisdom.

Emil closed his eyes briefly, but the Magister's voice continued to play back in his head.

The oblates you studied with have all been paired. Something is holding you back.

He'd be damned if he knew what that something was. Gods knew he'd had more than enough time to think about it over the years. It wasn't lack of ambition. Traveling the world, tracking down arcane knowledge, paired with his very own knight? He'd worked harder for that than anyone he knew.

But here he was, the oldest oblate at Fountains, forced to one undeniable conclusion.

He was unworthy.

By the time The Ministers found him, the mundane world had marked him in ways he tried not to think about. Perhaps they'd reached him too late. Maybe the damage ran too deep. Somehow, he would have to make his peace with that. There would be no Peer, no pairing, no hunting down artifacts in far and distant lands.

Emil clenched his hands, unclenched them again. If he played his cards right, maybe he could land a placement at the Central Collection in Prague. Book knowledge might not count for everything, but in an organization like The Ministry of Unknowable Knowledge, it certainly counted for something.

Besides, even a life of solitary research was better than the one he'd come from.

The heavy office door creaked open behind him, interrupting his train of thought. Emil stiffened, but kept his eyes trained forward. Footsteps clicked against the floor. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and Emil fought back a reflexive shudder. No matter how much time passed, he still couldn't bear the sensation of someone behind him.

The new arrival stepped into his peripheral vision, and Emil let his shoulders relax. Instantly, he hated himself for the tell. Magister Jacob Pierrepoint didn't speak right away, merely studied him, arms crossed. Emil forced himself to remain still.

"How long has it been since we were last here, Emil?"

Emil lifted his chin. "A year and a day, Magister."

"A year and a day," Pierrepoint repeated, his voice thoughtful. He said nothing else. Emil succumbed to temptation and turned his chin just enough to allow him a peek at the other man's face.

As always, it was impossible to read. For a moment, Emil thought he saw something flicker in Pierrepoint's eyes – amusement? – but then it was gone.

Emil quickly faced forward again. "I've learned much over the past cycle, Magister. I spend most days in the library. My esoteric knowledge is second to none." Of that, at least, he was confident. He took a deep, fortifying breath. "I think I could be of service in Prague."

"In Prague," Pierrepoint echoed. "You wish to work in the Central Collection."

Something in his voice made Emil forget propriety. He turned and met the other man's hard, gray eyes. "Is that a bad thing?"

Pierrepoint sighed. "You have more to offer than sitting behind a desk your whole life, Emil. I've always seen that. It's why we took a chance on you, even though you were older than our usual oblates." His brow furrowed. "It seems the only person who has failed to see it is you. And I confess, that concerns me as much as it confuses me."

Emil didn't know how to answer.

Fortunately, Pierrepoint didn't force the point. He motioned for Emil to follow him with a jerk of the chin. "Come. I have an alternate proposal for you to consider."

His heart in his throat, Emil followed the Magister out of the office. Their footsteps beat an odd rhythm against the ancient stone floors in the hallway. To Emil's surprise, Pierrepoint headed in the opposite direction of the oblates' quarters. They passed the study rooms, the library, the dining hall. Soon, they were in a part of the Abbey Emil rarely had reason to visit.

He cleared his throat as politely as he could. "Excuse me, Magister. Where are we going?"

Pierrepoint didn't slow. "The Cellarium."

Emil's heart stopped. The Cellarium. He'd sneaked in there with other oblates on occasion, marveled at the open, expansive floor, the training equipment kept ready for visiting Peers. He'd watched with envy as one after another of the oblates made the trip one final time, in Pierrepoint's company.

There was only one reason an oblate was called to The Cellarium.

Emil shook himself. No. Pierrepoint must have something else in mind. Three times, Emil had been tested for a Peer. Three times, he had failed. He was a scholar. There was no shame in that. Not every Minister was meant for a pairing.

Pierrepoint stopped outside The Cellarium door. He turned to Emil. "Do you know why you're here?"

Emil forgot to breathe. This was real. This was happening. His tongue felt thick. He nodded.

Pierrepoint inclined his head towards the door. "Go inside. Consider your options."

Emil swallowed hard. He'd been preparing for this moment his entire life – at least, the entire part of it that mattered. Still, his hand felt like lead when he placed it on the door handle. He aimed one last look at Pierrepoint, then pulled the door open and stepped through it before he could lose his nerve.

Shadows cloaked the walls of the room inside, somehow making The Cellarium appear both larger and smaller than it really was. The vaulted ceilings furthered the trick, drawing the eye upward, adding height where none existed. Small, arched windows lined the far wall, allowing thin beams of outside light to illuminate the dirt floor.

The room was empty.

Emil moved away from the door and onto the floor. He searched the shadows, but saw no one. His heart sank, even as rage boiled up inside of him. He clenched his hands into fists.

He should be introducing himself to his Peer right now. That was how it was supposed to work. One went into The Cellarium an oblate and walked out a Minister. A paired Minister, at that. Was this Pierrepoint's idea of a joke? One last humiliation before sending him off to pasture?

Heat stung Emil's cheeks. Magister or not, no one had the right to mock him like this. He tightened his jaw until it clicked and turned back to the door, already rehearsing the various ways he could invite Pierrepoint to go fuck himself.

One of the shadows behind him sprang to life. Emil had a brief second to register the hand that closed around his throat. His feet flew out from under him. An instant later, he was on his back, lungs empty, a weight bearing down on his chest.

A cloud of dust rose around him. Emil coughed and fought to regain his bearings. Several things quickly became apparent.

The weight on his chest was a knee. A man's knee, connected to a muscular, well-constructed leg.

The hand around his throat was rough, patterned with oddly placed calluses.

The dust settled, and Emil found himself staring up into the fiercest brown eyes he'd ever encountered. He blinked. It wasn't just the man's eyes that were fierce. Everything about him seemed primed for a fight, from his build to his posture to his expression. In fact, the only softness Emil could find in him were his lips. Wide and full, they should have looked out-of-place in such a rugged face, but somehow, they fit.

No, more than fit. The contrast of hard and soft in one man was a thing of beauty.

It took Emil a moment to realize the man was staring at him, too. Those fierce eyes raked over his face, and Emil swore he could feel the marks they left behind. The man's gaze pinned him to the ground. He didn't move even after the hand disappeared from his neck.

They were still frozen in the same position when the door to The Cellarium opened. Pierrepoint's low chuckle echoed down the length of the room.

"I see your first meeting went well." Footsteps approached, then Pierrepoint was standing over him. He reached down a hand. Emil clasped it and allowed the Magister to haul him to his feet. Pierrepoint clapped him on the back, ignored the cloud of dust that rose from Emil's black jacket.

"Misha, this is Reverend Emil Stone. He will be your Minister. Emil, meet Misha Kaslov, field name 'Puzzle'. Your safety is now in his hands."

Emil couldn't speak, wasn't even sure he remembered how to breathe. He could only stare at the man in front of him. Puzzle. Misha. His Peer. Misha stared back, his expression more of an enigma than Pierrepoint's ever was.

Pierrepoint was still talking. "From this point forward, the two of you will be partners. Welcome to the field, gentlemen. General Darviche and I expect great things." He looked from one of them to the other. "The world needs you."

#

# -I-

#

" _Chyort vozmi_ , I hate Egypt in the summer."

Emil kept his mouth shut and trailed Misha down the garbage-strewn Alexandria backstreet. Sweat beaded on his temples. In front of him, Misha's short dark hair was plastered to his neck. He had removed his jacket, and his damp black t-shirt clung to his muscular back.

Emil flicked his tongue over his lips. Oh, yeah. He hated Egypt in the summer, too.

"I still don't understand why we're here. Not with things the way we left things in San Francisco."

Emil winced. He'd been trying not to think about San Francisco, or the fact that he'd entrusted the wellbeing of his oldest friend to a mundane detective who'd only just started believing in ghosts.

He shook the thought off yet again. He'd known Lena Alan long enough to know she could look after herself. If his suspicions were correct, there was more at play than appeared on the surface. "It's not just San Francisco."

Misha stopped. Emil barely managed to avoid running into him. The Peer glanced back, a crease in his forehead. "What do you mean?"

Emil blew out a breath. "Hell. Haven't things felt off to you lately? I mean, more than usual?"

The crease in Misha's forehead deepened. "Off?"

"Yeah, you know. Off. Remember Basque, a few weeks ago? And Marrakech, last August? I'm telling you, something's not right."

"Marrakech is never right in August," Misha muttered. He fell silent. Finally, he nodded slowly. "Fine. I'll bite. You told the Alans you had an idea."

"I do." Emil hesitated. "Well, sort of."

"Sort of?"

"It's less an idea. More a feeling." Emil shifted. "I know that's thin."

Misha rolled his eyes. "Booking it halfway across the world on a feeling? That's not thin. That's skeletal."

Emil hiked the strap of his battered leather duffel further up his shoulder. "But what if I'm right?"

"If you're right, then we're in serious shit." Misha faced forward again and picked up the pace. "Come on. Let's get this over with."

Their destination was surprisingly close to Alexandria's natural harbor. A short distance away, cars rocketed along the old Corniche in both directions. The dizzying smell of unfiltered exhaust mingled with the spicy Mediterranean air.

Misha looked up at their building, then back down at a scrap of paper in his hand. "You're sure this is it?"

Emil stopped beside him and followed his gaze. "This is the address Pierrepoint gave me."

The building had clearly been stunning once, with classic colonial architecture and a surreal view of the glistening bay. Now it was borderline derelict, the front facade gritty and weathered. Misha scowled. "Nice of your boss to spoil us."

Emil snorted and started forward again. "Are we doing this, or not?"

The inside of the building looked even worse than the outside. Emil kept his mouth shut and his eyes forward as they rode the prehistoric lift up to the seventh floor. Misha slid the gate back and swept a hand in front of him. "After you."

Emil hefted his duffle. "Pearls before swine?"

Misha's expression didn't change. "Shit before the shovel."

"Asshole." Emil smirked and stepped into a dingy hallway. He waited until he felt Misha's presence behind him, then headed for the only door in sight. "This must be it."

"Wait." Misha stepped around him and opened it a crack, waited. Nothing happened. He nodded sharply. "Okay. Go ahead."

Emil shook his head and opened the door all the way.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but whatever it was certainly didn't resemble the Château Triomphe. The lobby consisted of a large, badly lit room. A single television sat on a table at the far end. A crowd of gray-headed men clad in dusty galabeyas occupied the rickety chairs clustered around it. Heavy clouds of cigarette smoke hung over them.

Puzzle cleared his throat. Emil didn't look at him. "Don't say it."

"Say what? I'm sure the accommodations are... lovely."

Before Emil could answer, a middle-aged man with a full black beard materialized from a hallway he hadn't noticed before. He caught sight of them and approached, a wide smile on his face. " _Ahlan wasahlan_! Welcome to the Château Triomphe. You honor it with your presence."

Emil dipped his head. " _Ahlan bika_ , and the honor is ours. I believe we have a reservation here. We'd like to check in."

The man's smile widened still further. "You are American? America is good! Please, come with me." He led the way to a small desk wedged into the furthermost corner of the room and flipped open a large book. "Your reservation, what is the name?"

Emil cleared his throat. "It's, uh, Thomas Jefferson."

He could feel Misha's incredulous stare on the side of his face. The man simply grinned. "Like the American president, yes?"

Emil struggled to maintain a nonchalant expression. Pierrepoint and his strange sense of humor. "Yes, exactly like that."

The man wrote something in his book, then reached below the desk. He came back up with a room key. "Very good, Mr. Jefferson. Follow me." He strode towards the back hallway, spoke over his shoulder. "This is your first time in Alexandria?"

Emil nodded. "It is."

"Excellent. Welcome." The man turned down another, narrower corridor. "What are your plans? The catacombs? The palace? The Roman amphitheater, perhaps?"

Emil shrugged. "Not entirely sure yet. We thought we might visit a museum or two."

He could feel Misha stiffen behind him. Their host gave no sign he'd noticed. "Well, whatever you decide, enjoy Egypt, my friends. Here is your room." He handed Emil the key. "I am Tamir Saleh, the owner. If you require anything further, please do not hesitate to ask."

Emil nodded again. "Thank you."

Tamir beamed and retreated back the way they'd come. Misha watched until he disappeared around the corner, then turned to Emil, a severe look on his face. "You shouldn't have mentioned the museum."

Emil set down his duffel and slid the key into the lock. "Relax. I was just being friendly. Besides, it's not like I said which one."

The lock clicked. Emil retrieved his duffel and pushed open the door before Misha could stop him. He stepped inside.

Misha blew out a frustrated breath and stepped in behind him. He glanced around. "Well. This is... functional."

"Functional" was right. What little paint remained on the walls was a pale, institutional yellow. The beds consisted of two twin-sized brick platforms with mattresses on top. Drab brown curtains framed an expansive window. Beneath it sat a wobbly-looking table. Emil dropped his duffle on one of the two chairs pushed under it.

Another brown curtain hung over a narrow doorway. Misha strode across the room and flicked it aside. He turned back to Emil. "At least we don't have to share the bathroom with anyone."

"See? Quit worrying." Emil flopped on the bed farthest from the door and folded his arms behind his head. "It's not like we haven't stayed in worse places."

Misha didn't answer, just stared at him. Emil propped himself up on his elbows and met his gaze. "Don't look at me like that unless you're going to do something about it."

Misha's eyes darkened. Before he could speak, a knock sounded on the door. He muttered a curse, stalked back across the room and yanked it open.

A young man who couldn't have been more than sixteen leaped back. Eyes wide, he looked from Misha to Emil, and raised his armful of towels. "Fresh linens."

Emil sighed. "Jesus, Puzzle, take it down a notch. It's just a kid."

Misha hesitated a moment longer, then stepped to the side. "Towels. Of course."

The teenager eyed him warily and quick-stepped through to the bathroom. He set the towels inside, turned and hesitated in the doorway. "You are Americans?"

Emil sat up. "I am."

The boy nodded. "I like America. Good music. I like your punk rock."

Misha raised an eyebrow. "You like punk rock?"

"Yeah." The young man gave him a hesitant smile. "Marquee Moon, Psycho Killer, Heart of Glass..."

Misha crossed his arms. "Blitzkrieg Bop?"

The young man's face lit up. "Of course! Joey Ramone is the sickest!" He pumped a fist to an imaginary beat. "Hey-ho, let's go!"

Emil looked from one of them to the other. The rare lightness on Misha's face warmed his chest. He settled his gaze on the young man. "Thanks for the towels. I'm Emil. This is Puzzle. What's your name?"

"Mamdouh." The teen smoothed his hands down his long galabeya and glanced out the open door into the hallway. "I should go. My father will wonder where I am."

Misha's forehead creased. "Your father?"

"You met him. Tamir." Mamdouh smiled weakly, then started towards the door.

Misha moved aside. Emil raised his hand in farewell. "Nice to meet you, Mamdouh."

Mamdouh smiled again and ducked his head. He stepped outside, and pulled the door shut behind him.

Emil shifted his attention to Misha. The Peer was staring at the closed door. Emil chuckled. "I'm surprised at you, Puzzle."

Misha's eyes jerked to his. "What are you talking about?"

Emil grinned. "I can't remember the last time you were so—what's the word— _friendly_. If I didn't know better, I might think you were going soft."

Misha scowled. Emil grinned wider, and the scowl morphed into something completely different. "I am never soft."

His dark brown eyes burned in his face. Emil shifted under their intense weight. Misha blinked, shook himself. He climbed onto the other twin bed, his movements just erratic enough to be noticeable.

"Okay. Let's go over your plan one last time. I don't want any trouble."

#

# -II-

#

Misha was taking too long.

Emil fiddled with his mug of sahlab and peered down the street. The Graeco-Roman Museum was just a few blocks from the coffee shop where he'd set up position. Misha had gone inside nearly forty-five minutes earlier. Normally, he would have been back by now.

Which meant something must have gone wrong.

Emil closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. It didn't help. A list ran through his head of everything that could have possibly happened. An over-vigilant guard, a particularly well-placed security camera, a tourist in the wrong place at the crucial moment... or perhaps someone had noticed their counterfeit.

He shook away that last possibility. No one had ever discovered one of his reproductions before. It was a source of pride, of personal satisfaction.

Too bad he couldn't brag to anyone.

Emil checked his watch. Forty-eight minutes. A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. He downed the last of his drink.

At that moment, a familiar figure strode through the doors of the museum. Emil let out a relieved breath. Misha slung his beat-up backpack over his shoulder and strolled down the sidewalk towards the tea shop. He caught Emil's eye, and kept walking past his table.

Shit. Something had gone wrong.

Emil stood and left twenty _piastres_ next to the saucer. He fell into step behind Misha. "What happened?"

"Not sure. Mukhabarat, I think."

"Damn it." The last thing they needed was to end up on the radar of the secret police. Emil tamped down the tension rising in his chest. "Did you make the switch, at least?"

Misha slowed until they were walking side-by-side. He let the backpack slip off his shoulder and opened the zipper a crack. Emil peered inside. The corner of an ancient-looking tablet greeted him.

Emil gave a quick nod. Misha zipped the backpack shut again and slung it back over his shoulder. He looked behind them. Air hissed through his teeth.

Emil followed his gaze. A trio of men in nondescript, Western-style clothes were coming down the front steps. At first glance, they appeared just like everyone else on the street. A closer look, however, and their military bearing gave them away.

One of them, the apparent leader, broke away from the other two. He trotted between the museum's impressive columns to the sidewalk and scanned the street both ways. Emil didn't look away fast enough. Their eyes locked.

Emil quickly faced forward again. " _Damn_ it."

Misha didn't look at him. "Run?"

Emil glanced back again. The three men were starting down the sidewalk behind them. He nodded. "Run."

Abruptly, Misha cut out into the busy street. A symphonic accompaniment of horn blasts filled the dusty air. Emil swallowed a curse and followed him into oncoming traffic. Tires squealed. Brakes screeched. He steeled his nerves and kept moving.

By some miracle, they reached the other side in one piece. Emil looked back once. The three men were already starting across the street after them.

Misha looked over his shoulder. His lips thinned. He jerked his head in a _follow-me_ motion and sprinted into a narrow side street. Emil struggled to keep up. Weather-beaten buildings rose on both sides of them, plunging the street into sudden shade. The air cooled.

Footsteps echoed off the walls around them. Emil looked behind them, swore. How had the men caught up so quickly? He didn't have a chance to dwell on it. Misha ducked down another, narrower street. Emil followed.

They stumbled into the middle of an open-air souk. Tiny storefronts lined the dusty backstreet, packed to bursting with vibrant silks, antique furniture, glistening copper coffee pots and brass shisha pipes. The heavy smell of spices and animal dung filled the air. Misha plunged ahead into the attending crowds without breaking speed.

It was all Emil could do to stick to his heels. Even with the backpack weighing him down, Misha was the faster runner. He wove through the hordes of people without breaking stride. The back of his head grew steadily smaller as he pulled farther and farther ahead.

Emil called to him, but his voice disappeared into the bustle. He looked back. He couldn't see all three men anymore. The face of the leader appeared in flashes through the marketgoers. Emil looked ahead again.

Misha was gone.

Alarm tightened his throat, but he couldn't stop. Not with the man gaining ground behind him. Emil redoubled his pace, constantly scanning the full street. He told himself Misha couldn't have gotten far, but he knew better. Puzzle was like a wraith when he wanted to be. He could already be halfway back to the Château Triomphe.

Emil gritted his teeth. Suddenly, a vise-like hand closed around his arm from behind. Alarm threatened to morph into full-fledged panic. Emil tried to yank free. The hand tightened and dragged him backward towards one of the street vendors. Emil fought the entire way.

Suddenly, he was on his knees in the dirt. Brightly colored galabeyas and kurtas on hangers flapped around him, blocking his view of the street. "What the—"

The hand disappeared from his arm, only to clap over his mouth. At the same time, an arm snaked around his chest, yanked him back against a hard, familiar body. Warm breath tickled his ear.

" _Bozhe moi_. Shut the fuck up, Emil. You'll get us caught."

Emil sagged back and released a breath against Misha's hand. Misha stiffened, but didn't move. Emil closed his eyes. Misha's heartbeat drummed steadily against his back. Outside the walls of their impromptu shelter, the bustle of the market faded to a dull drone. The air felt thicker. Emil told himself it was just dust.

Minutes ticked by. Still, Misha made no attempt to move. Emil forced himself to keep breathing evenly. The hand splayed across his chest felt like a brand. No sooner had the thought flashed through his head than his body started to tighten.

His next breath was downright painful. Emil fought down the giddy lightness in his belly and rocked forward onto the balls of his feet. Misha hissed. "What are you doing?"

"One of us has to check if they're gone." It was the best excuse he could come up with. Any longer in Misha's arms and he'd... well, that was the problem, wasn't it? He didn't know what he'd do.

He reached out to flick aside the hem of an extra-long kurta shirt. Misha's hand came down hard on his wrist. "Stop."

Emil turned to look at him. Mistake. Their heads were too close together. If he took a deep breath, he'd be able to taste–

Misha's eyes were almost black. A vein leaped in his forehead. "I'll do it."

Emil couldn't speak. Misha released his wrist, reached out and teased back a corner of the kurta. He scanned the street outside, and Emil pressed his lips together. The other man's neck was a mere hairsbreadth away. He closed his eyes.

"Okay. I don't see them."

Emil opened his eyes again. Misha had moved back and was watching him, forehead creased. "Are you all right?"

His first reaction was a dry laugh. Emil swallowed it and nodded. "Must be the heat."

Misha leaped to his feet in a fluid, catlike motion and reached down a hand. "Come on. Let's get back to the hotel." He patted the backpack. "You can rest up before you start translating this thing."

#

# -III-

#

The lobby of Château Triomphe was deserted when they got back.

Emil allowed himself a small breath of relief. He wasn't sure he could face Tamir's indefatigable exuberance, not when each innocent brush of Misha's shoulder or hand made his chest lurch and belly tighten. Emil clenched his jaw. Damn it, he'd promised himself he wouldn't do this. Not again. He just needed to—

"Are you sure you're all right?"

— _get a grip_. Emil finished the sentence in his head and bit back the snappy retort that sprang to his lips. "Yeah. Course."

He didn't have to look to know Misha didn't believe him, but the Peer didn't say anything else. They walked the rest of the way to their room in tense silence. Emil started to reach for the door.

Misha grabbed his arm. "Wait. Do you hear that?"

Emil strained his ears, but couldn't hear anything. "No. What...?"

Misha raised a finger to his lips, held out his other hand for the room key. Emil gave it to him. Misha slipped it soundlessly into the lock. He caught Emil's eye and gave a short nod. In one seamless sequence, he turned the key and threw the door open. He disappeared inside. Someone yelped.

"I'm sorry! It was just lying on the bed, and I—"

Emil groaned and stepped into the room. "Mamdouh? What are you doing in here?"

The young man lay sprawled on the floor, Misha's hand around his throat. Emil raised an eyebrow at the black Ramones t-shirt pulled over his galabeya.

Misha seemed to notice it at the same time. "Is that my shirt?"

Mamdouh's eyes were wide. A deep blush stained his cheeks. "I wasn't going to keep it, I promise! It was just so... and I've always..."

Misha released him and straightened. Emil glanced out at the hallway. "Where is everyone? Is it always this quiet here?"

Mamdouh clambered to his feet, tugging the shirt over his head as he went. "It is the evening _salat_. Everyone is praying."

"Everyone except you." Misha crossed his arms.

Mamdouh's blush deepened. "Don't tell my father. Please."

Emil sighed. "We're not here to get you in trouble. Just answer the question. What are you doing in here?"

"Besides trying on my clothes," Misha grumbled.

Mamdouh's face glowed red. " _Baebae_ \--my father--told me to clean the room." His eyes dropped to the floor, and he held the shirt out to Misha. "I am sorry."

Misha traded glances with Emil. He rubbed the back of his neck and turned back to Mamdouh. "Why don't you... I mean, I've never really liked that shirt. Maybe you should keep it."

Mamdouh's jaw dropped. "Really?" His outstretched arm wavered. "You are sure?"

Misha shrugged. "Why not?"

Mamdouh's face split into a grin. "Wow, dude! I... dude!" A long stream of excited Arabic poured out of his mouth. Over and over, he repeated the same word: " _Šokràn_ , dude! _Šokràn_!"

Misha grinned, glanced up and caught Emil's eye. A strange, unreadable look crossed his face.

Suddenly, the room felt too small. Emil swallowed hard, tore his gaze away and forced a smile. "You know, on second thought, I think I'm rested enough. What I really need is to go out. Decompress." He looked at Mamdouh. "What do people do for fun around here?"

Mamdouh looked up from studying his new shirt. "Well, there are the cafes along the beach. And the coffee shops." He paused. A secretive smile spread across his face. "But I think I know something you would like better."

What felt like only a few minutes later, Emil was tailing Misha down a garbage-strewn backstreet.

Mamdouh had begged off after giving them the address. Walking down the darkening street, Emil wished he'd been more insistent the teenager join them. Nothing good ever came of being alone with Misha. If anything, the opposite was true.

Emil locked his jaw. This was ridiculous. Puzzle was his partner. How were they supposed to work together if he couldn't even handle a simple drink? Emil squared his shoulders.

Partners. That was all they were. Just partners.

Farouk's was only a short walk from the hotel. Before long, they came to the unmarked door Mamdouh had described. Emil glanced at the backpack slung over Misha's shoulder. "How's the tablet?"

"Fine." Misha punctuated the word with a roll of his shoulder. The backpack shifted.

Emil nodded. "Good." He started towards the door.

Misha didn't move. "Something's wrong."

Emil stopped, made a show of watching the cars edge down the narrow street. "I don't see anything."

"No." Misha crossed his arms. "I mean, with you."

Emil turned and started to protest. The words died in his throat. Blue neon light from the sign next door hit Misha like a spotlight. Under its influence, he looked somehow... more. More severe. More rugged. More potent.

More dangerous.

Emil worked to keep his expression flat. "Are we going in? We shouldn't stay out in the open." He nearly cringed at the way he sounded. Like he was strangling, or like someone had punched him in the stomach. Come to think of it, a blow to the gut would have been less painful.

Misha nodded. His too-sharp eyes didn't leave Emil's face. "Sure." He hesitated, then opened the door and held it. "After you."

Emil reminded himself to breathe through the sudden flutter in his chest, and went inside.

He looked around, waited until he heard Misha step in behind him. "I thought Mamdouh said this was a club."

Misha snorted. "An officer's club, maybe."

Emil's lips twitched in spite of himself. He looked around at the cafe tables, the woven chairs, at the black-and-white pictures on the walls. There wasn't a soul in the place who looked younger than fifty. White-haired men sat engrossed in front of backgammon boards, drinking what smelled like mint tea. A young woman in fashionable clothes and a brilliant turquoise hijab moved between the tables.

Misha let go of the door. It banged shut behind him, and the woman looked up. She made her way over. " _Ahlan_ , gentlemen. How may I assist you?"

Emil cleared his throat. " _Ahlan biki_. I'm sorry, I think we may be in the wrong place. A friend of ours gave us this address, but—"

"Your friend. What is the name?"

"Mamdouh. He works at the Château Triomphe hotel, a couple blocks—"

"I know where it is." The woman gave them a hard look. "You are friends of Mamdouh?"

Emil nodded. "That's right."

The woman pursed her lips, then abruptly turned on her heel. "Come with me."

Emil shot Misha a wary glance. Misha's face was tight, but he nodded. Emil shrugged and fell into step behind the woman. She led them through the cafe and into a small, dark hallway. Without turning, she said, "Mamdouh's friends are welcome here. You will have a corner booth and a private pipe."

Emil blinked. "Pipe?"

The woman glanced at him over her shoulder. "Just what did Mamdouh tell you about this place?"

"He didn't. He only said to mention his name."

The woman snorted.

Emil spoke to the back of her head. "Is he friends with the owner?"

The woman didn't turn again. "I am the owner. Farouk was my father." She inclined her head. "And yes. I suppose you could call us friends."

She didn't say anything else. Soon, they came to a small door at the end of the hallway. Something had been building in the air around them. It took Emil a moment to recognize what it was: music. He felt the bass in his belly before his ears registered anything.

The woman motioned for them to stick close, and pushed open the door.

#

# -IV-

#

A sudden blast of sound slammed into Emil like a shockwave. He caught his breath, barely aware it had knocked him backwards until he felt Misha's hand between his shoulder blades. The other man's voice rumbled in his ear. "You stepped on my foot."

Emil muttered an apology. Up ahead, the woman was rapidly disappearing into the crowd behind the door. He hurried to catch up.

A few steps into the room, he started to feel warm. By the time he was halfway across what he quickly recognized as a dance floor, his forehead was damp, and the inside of his collar felt sticky. A disco ball overhead refracted light in crazy, erratic patterns over the crowd.

The air seemed to get thicker the further they went. After a moment, he realized it wasn't his imagination; clouds of scented smoke hung heavy all around them. His head started to feel light. He shook the sensation off.

True to her word, the woman ushered them to a private booth in the corner. Emil sank onto one of the black leather cushions with a relieved sigh. He tensed again when Misha plopped down beside him.

The woman scanned the room, raised one arm and signaled someone. She turned back to them. "A waiter is on the way with your pipe. Tonight, you pay nothing. I am Noura Shaarawi. Ask for me if you need anything else."

Emil started to thank her, but she was already making her way back through the crowd. He settled back and tried to relax. He might have managed it if not for Misha's eyes on the side of his face. "What?"

"Stop brooding."

"I'm not—"

At that moment, the waiter appeared carrying their pipe. Emil kept his mouth shut while the man set up the complicated-looking contraption on the floor in front of them.

He briefly disappeared again, only to return moments later with a small hopper and a pair of tongs. He plucked out one, two, three glowing coals and laid them carefully on a tiny square of foil atop the pipe. Emil watched curiously as he picked up one of the two attached hoses and took a couple long draws.

Satisfied the pipe was fully functional, he replaced the plastic mouthpiece with a fresh one and passed the hose to Misha. Without a word, he melted back into the crowd.

Misha picked up the other hose and handed it to Emil. "Well?"

Emil took the hose and imitated the waiter's technique. The first deep inhalation made his head swim. He quickly blew out the stream of rose-flavored smoke again.

Misha was watching him. "So?"

Emil opened his mouth, closed it again. After the initial rush, the experience was actually quite pleasant. Suddenly, he couldn't quite remember why he'd been so tense. He took another draw, this time let the delicious smoke marinate in his chest before releasing it.

Misha chuckled, and took a drag of his own. He made a noise deep in his throat. "Never smoked anything like this before."

"Me, neither." Emil leaned back. His muscles felt languid, his mind quiet for the first time all day. Misha leaned back, too. Emil closed his eyes and let himself enjoy his presence. Heat hummed in his veins.

"Mind if we join you?"

Emil jolted back out of his thoughts in time to see two women in Western dress smiling at them from the edge of the dance floor. Or rather, smiling at Misha.

Emil tried to scowl, but his hyper-relaxed state wouldn't allow it. Instead, he could only stare dumbly as Misha scooted over and patted the cushion between them.

Before he realized what was happening, Emil found himself perched on the edge of the booth. He tried and failed to ignore the constant stream of idle chatter. Within a few minutes he knew the women were from the UK, that they had come to Egypt on a Nile cruise and were in Alexandria until the end of the week. They also wore too much perfume and weren't drinking enough water, judging by the massive amounts of cherry-scented lip gloss they continually slicked on.

Misha didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't care. The backpack sat, forgotten, at his feet. It wasn't long before his hand wandered onto the knee of the woman closest to him. Emil scowled. He'd somehow surrendered his hose, and his buzz was rapidly wearing off. The second woman said something. A slow smile spread across Misha's face.

Emil jerked his gaze to the dance floor. This. This was why he'd been tense. This was why spending time with Misha was a bad idea.

He lost track of how long he sat there. White smoke started to billow from the pipe. Their waiter returned and removed one of the coals. The women stood and tugged Misha out to the dance floor. Misha turned, tried to catch his eye and wave him over.

Emil pretended not to notice.

Soon, he couldn't feel Misha's eyes on him anymore. He sighed and teased the backpack closer with his foot. He considered taking up one of the now-vacant hoses again, but the shisha held little appeal now. He sighed again.

Awareness pricked the fine hairs on his arms. Emil sat up a little straighter. Someone was watching him. He glanced at Misha, only to find him sandwiched between the two women, a wide grin on his face. Emil cringed and looked away again. Not Misha. But if not him, then who?

He made a quick scan of the club, let his eyes pass casually over the two men standing near the door. Two more hovered on the outskirts of the dance floor. Their clothes were black and expensive looking, their faces cold. They didn't carry themselves like security police. They didn't even look local.

Emil edged the backpack still closer and surveyed the club again. Finally, he found something encouraging: another door, even smaller than the first, half-hidden behind a large potted palm. Probably led to a side alley of some sort. He shifted around in his seat and looked for the men again.

They were gone.

Definitely time to get Misha. Emil turned to where he'd last seen him. His blood frosted. Misha was barely visible between the two women. They gyrated against him shamelessly, either oblivious or indifferent to the disapproving looks the local crowd was giving them.

Emil tightened his jaw. The women formed a formidable blockade of hair spray, hormones, and sparkling body powder. He had no intention of trying to break through it. His mind made up, he snatched the backpack off the floor and slipped the strap over his shoulder. Then he slid off the end of the booth and let the crowd hide his escape.

Sure enough, the smaller door opened into a narrow alley.

Emil ducked outside and took a deep breath. Even the smell of garbage was an improvement to the smoke, sweat, and cheap perfume that clogged the interior of the club. He looked up and down the street. In the dark, it was impossible to tell which way he needed to go. He took a deep breath and picked a direction.

He'd only made it a few meters when he heard the door open behind him. Emil firmed his grip on the backpack straps and sped up.

"Hey, you! _'E'af_!"

Emil bit the inside of his cheek and didn't slow.

"Did you hear me? I said stop!"

Emil spoke through clenched teeth. " _'Emši_. I don't want any trouble."

"No trouble." Footsteps started after him. "All we want is the backpack."

Emil bolted.

He could already tell from the cadence of their footsteps he wouldn't be fast enough to outrun his pursuers. A rickety metal fire escape clung to one of the buildings in front of him. Emil doubled down and sprinted towards it. If he couldn't outrun them, maybe he could out-climb them.

He took one more running stride, planted his front leg and jumped. His hands closed around the bottom rung of the ladder. He hauled himself up to the second rung. Then the third. He stretched for the fourth.

A hand closed around his ankle, and suddenly he was falling. At the last minute, he managed to twist so he landed on his stomach. The heavy tablet landed square on his back. His lungs decompressed with a _whoosh_. He hauled in just enough air to dart away from the hands grabbing for the backpack.

"Damn it, don't make this difficult. All we want is the tablet."

Emil rolled onto his feet the way he'd seen Misha do, and backed down the alley. "What do you know about the tablet?"

The four men from the club circled in front of him. One of them sidled forward. His lip curled. "You Ministers. Always thinking you're the only ones in the market for esoteric objects. Do you have any idea how much I can get for that prehistoric paperweight you're carting there?"

"It's Ptolemaic, asshole, not prehistoric." Emil's lip curled too. "So, you're mercenaries, then. And here I thought I was in trouble."

The mercenary peered at him a little closer. Emil sneered, hoped his face didn't betray the dread churning in his gut.

No such luck. A slow, predatory smile spread across the man's face. "Shit. You're not a fighter at all, are you? Put up a good show, I'll give you that. You almost had me convinced."

Emil brought his fists up. "Don't underestimate me."

The mercenary shook his head. "Don't be stupid, kid. Just hand over the tablet. Trust me, you don't want us to take it from you."

Emil didn't answer.

The mercenary nodded to the man on his left. The man nodded back and swaggered forward, a smug expression on his face.

Emil took a deep breath. He'd watched Misha enough to pick up a few things. He waited until the second man reached for the backpack strap, then caught his thumb and twisted hard. The joint dislocated with a dull pop. The man let out a sharp, startled bark of pain. Emil folded his elbow to a point and cracked him in the temple.

The man slumped to the ground without another sound.

The first man stared at his motionless form. "You know, I was going to give you a chance to walk away from this." He looked up at Emil. His face was cold. "I think that offer's off the table."

Emil didn't have time to react before the other two men sprang forward. A fist soared into his peripheral vision. He dodged, only to bring himself into the path of a second one he hadn't noticed. Pain exploded in his jaw. Dimly, he felt someone trying to tear the backpack straps off his shoulders.

He mustered his strength and lashed back. His attacker swore. He glimpsed another fist a split second before it caught him in the eye. Emil staggered, curled into himself and braced for the volley of blows he knew was coming.

"Hey! Over here, fuckers!"

Misha.

Emil wheezed. Liquid trickled from his nose. The head mercenary shouted something. Emil couldn't make it out above the ringing in his ears, but one of the men pummeling him vanished.

Echoed grunts filled the alley, accompanied by a sickening, repetitive crunching sound. The last man holding him up swore, then disappeared. Emil's knees buckled.

Someone caught him before he hit the ground. On reflex, he started to struggle.

"Calm down, Chuck Norris. They're gone. It's me."

Emil snorted, winced. "Took you long enough, Sylvester Stallone."

Misha helped him over to the wall. Emil sagged against it, winced again. Misha swore. He touched Emil's bruised jaw, gently turned his head. Rough knuckles dusted the swollen flesh around his eye.

The tenderness behind the gesture was too much. Emil reached for the backpack strap. "The tablet..."

"You held onto it." Misha's voice was harsh. "A miracle. What the fuck were you thinking, leaving like that? If I hadn't gotten here when I did–"

Misha's hand was fisted in his shirt. Emil shook it off. Pain flashed in his side. He ignored it. "I was managing."

"Managing?" Misha stared. "Do you know what you look like right now? You're bleeding, Emil. You're fucking bleeding. And when I got here, one of them was about to _kick_..." He broke off and rubbed a hand over his mouth. "If this is your idea of managing..."

Emil eased away from the wall and started walking. "Yeah, well. You were a little busy when I left. I didn't want to interrupt."

Misha kept pace easily. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." Emil cringed. Damn it, what had made him say that? The last thing he needed was Misha thinking he was jealous. Which he wasn't. Obviously. He walked a little faster, forced himself not to limp. "Look, everything's under control, okay? Just go back inside, relax, have a good night. I'll see you at the hotel."

"Are you serious? Wait a minute..."

Misha's hand came down on his shoulder. Emil shrugged it off. "I'm fine. Seriously. I'll see you later."

Misha didn't answer. A couple seconds ticked by, then he finally muttered a curse. He whirled around mid-step and stalked back towards the club. The side door opened, then slammed shut.

Emil squared his shoulders and kept walking.

#

# -V-

#

Thank god for hot water.

Emil stood under the shower head and breathed in the steam. Gradually, his various aches and twinges dissipated. He stuck his face into the spray, watched as the water swirling around the drain turned red, then pink, then clear again. He'd thought Misha was exaggerating about the blood.

Not that Misha was usually prone to exaggeration.

Emil gave himself a mental shake. He didn't want to think about Misha. Not right now. Not at all. Try as he might, though, he couldn't escape him. Misha's hand on the woman's knee. Misha on the dance floor.

Misha cradling his jaw. Misha caressing his cheek.

Emil groaned, reached down and cupped himself. He debated stroking one off, quickly, just to dampen the edge. It wasn't like it would be the first time.

He willed his hand away again. No. Damn it, no. This was how it always started. How many times did he have to fall into the same trap to learn better? Misha Kaslov was his Peer. His partner. If they stood any chance of keeping things professional, that was how he needed to start seeing him.

Outside, the door to the room opened, then closed. Emil stiffened. He stuck his head back under the water and let the shower drown out all other sounds.

He didn't hear the bathroom drape flick aside, didn't hear the pad of bare feet over the grungy tile. He didn't hear it, but he felt it. Even after everything, his stomach turned a slow flip. His chest constricted painfully.

"I shouldn't have let you come back alone." The words filtered through the opaque shower curtain.

Emil closed his eyes and pulled his head back out from under the spray. "I wanted to come back alone."

"It doesn't matter." Misha's voice sounded strained. It was getting louder too, like he was moving closer. "After what happened to you... what if something else had–"

"Nothing happened." Emil rubbed his face. "Anyway, I needed the walk."

"Like hell you did." Only the thin curtain separated them now. "It's my job to protect you."

Emil tried to muster some righteous indignation. He couldn't quite manage it. "I can take care of myself."

Above him, the shower curtain rings screeched along the rod. Then the curtain was gone. Misha closed a hand around his upper arm and yanked. Emil stumbled out of the shower with a yelp. "Jesus Christ! What the fuck are you–"

Warm lips closed over his.

Emil reeled, but only for a moment. Then his hand was at the nape of Misha's neck, dragging him closer.

Partners. Partners. Partners.

Emil ripped his lips away. "Wrong," he rasped.

Misha bit his neck. "Don't care."

Emil groaned. They shouldn't do this. _He_ shouldn't do this. But with just those two simple words, his self-control evaporated. He firmed his grip around the back of Misha's neck and hauled him into the shower.

Misha snarled as water soaked through his clothes. " _Rasputnitsa_. You'll pay for that."

Emil shivered. "Yeah? Why don't you put your money where your mouth–"

Misha growled and kissed him again. Emil's back hit the wall. Air exploded from his lungs. He gasped for breath. Misha took advantage of his open mouth and swept his tongue inside. Emil lost his breath all over again. His head swam. Mindless, he teased Misha's tongue with his.

"Fuck." Misha dragged himself back and buried his face in Emil's neck, his voice ragged. "You have no fucking – _bozhe moi. Ti takaya strastnaya_."

Emil's dick gave a jump. He groaned. "I love it when you talk dirty in Russian."

Misha gave him a look that made his blood sizzle. "Too bad. I don't want to talk right now."

He lowered his head again. Emil caught his face between both hands and guided it the rest of the way to his. Misha sank into his lips with a moan. He splayed one broad hand over his chest, traced lower.

Emil caught his wrist. "First things first," he murmured.

Misha stepped back just enough to pull his sopping black t-shirt over his head. A small, wickedly curved karambit on a black nylon cord rested just above his belly. Emil shivered. Misha took it off, too. He arched an eyebrow. "Better?" His gaze swept over Emil's naked body, and his eyes darkened. He started to reach for him again.

Emil tsked. "Quid pro quo, Kaslov."

Misha smirked. He flicked open the top button on his fly, looked back up. "Now?"

Emil hissed. "Quit being a tease."

Misha slipped his fingertips just inside his waistband. "You like being teased."

Two could play at that game. Emil lifted his shoulder and let it drop again. Then he fisted a hand around his cock. "I guess I could always just take care of this on my own." He gave himself a long, exaggerated stroke.

Misha's eyes went black. His fingers fumbled. His zipper went down with a sharp snick. Emil had a brief second to register he wasn't wearing underwear, then his jeans dropped to the floor of the shower in a wet heap.

He sucked in a breath. He still wasn't prepared for how beautiful his partner was. The man was a work of fucking art, all corded lines and cut muscle. Emil's mouth went dry. "God, Misha, you're so–"

"Don't."

Emil stopped. Misha's face was red. He ducked his head. "I mean, don't say it. Show me."

Emil ignored the twinge in his chest and stepped forward. "Okay."

He dusted a kiss over Misha's lips, followed his lead and splayed a hand over his chest. Misha melted a little. His heart drummed a steady rhythm against Emil's palm. Emil resisted the urge to replace his hand with his ear. Instead he skimmed downward, gloried in the twitch and jump of muscle and flesh, committed each dip and ridge to memory.

Misha groaned. "Who's teasing now?"

Emil grinned. He tweaked Misha's nipple, quickly leaned forward and muffled the resulting yelp with a kiss. The yelp turned to a growl. Misha moved to pin Emil against the wall of the shower.

But Emil was already working his next coup. He shifted so his arm was between them, reached down and ghosted his fingers over the head of Misha's cock. Misha stopped. A feral sound rumbled deep in his chest. Emil smiled against his lips, broke off the kiss and dropped to his knees.

Fuck, he'd missed this. He dragged in a deep breath. Misha's scent flooded his senses: soap, mixed with something intensely, thrillingly male. Any other notions of subtlety fled. Emil leaned forward and took him into his mouth.

Misha choked. His hand came down on Emil's head, tightened in his hair. Emil hummed his approval, and Misha choked again. His hips rocked. Emil relaxed, breathed around the sudden fullness in his throat. He glanced up. The face above him was splotched with color, hard with concentration. Primal. Beautiful.

Not that he could tell him.

He did as he was told and showed him instead. His eyes drifted closed. The tightness in his chest dissipated. Moments like this were the closest to worship he ever came, like kneeling at the altar of some profane church. And fuck if Misha wasn't the perfect idol.

Emil's hand was moving before he realized it. It wandered over Misha's hip, worked his way between his ass cheeks. Misha hissed, jolted. Emil froze.

"Why are you stopping?"

Thank god. Emil would have grinned, but his focus was somewhere else.

At the first questing brush of his finger, Misha gasped. "Emil. Holy fuck..."

His name sounded like a prayer. Emil groaned and came back for another pass. Misha's legs quivered, but held. Emil swirled a finger against his hole.

Misha caught his wrist. "The bed."

The bed? Of course, they had a bed. Emil nodded. Misha hooked a hand under his arm and helped him to his feet, reached past him and turned off the water.

Emil didn't remember stepping out of the shower, didn't remember toweling off or retreating into the room. His entire world – his entire universe – consisted of Misha. Misha kissing him. Misha's battle-hardened hands cupping his face, burrowing into his hair, skating down his chest. Misha pressing close, rubbing their cocks together.

Somehow, they made it to the bed. Emil paused beside it. "Last chance to change your mind. I'll be fine if you do."

It was a lie. His world would crumble if Misha pushed him away now.

The brown eyes that met his were hot with need. Misha didn't say a word. He didn't need to. He merely clasped the back of Emil's neck and drew him in for a kiss.

Then he turned to the bed and lay down on his belly.

Emil had to remind himself to breathe. He reached out and traced the taut lines of Misha's ass, still scarcely able to believe he was allowed. Misha looked back over his shoulder. The expression on his face was Emil's final undoing. He knelt on the floor, spread the other man's firm cheeks and dipped his head.

At the first touch of his tongue, Misha breathed out a curse. Emil tucked the sound away, deep in his subconscious. Later, when he was alone again, he would remember this moment. Misha's unique, musky scent invaded every part of him. His hips rocked, his fingers curled and uncurled in the sheets.

Emil reached up and caught one of his hands. Misha stilled, then gave his fingers a brief squeeze.

Emil finally gave quarter. He rocked back on his heels and checked his handiwork with his thumb. Misha made a noise like he was strangling. His hole was softer than before, slick and supple.

Emil tested it with a finger. Misha bore down, and Emil bit back a hiss as his first knuckle was suddenly wrapped in silky heat. He slid deeper, gave an experimental stroke. Misha clenched instinctively.

Emil was already prepared for that. He rose to his feet, leaned over and pressed his lips to the sensitive spot between Misha's shoulder blades. Misha sucked in a breath. Emil gave another stroke, at the same time grazed the spot again with his teeth. Misha arched into him. His inner muscles clenched, unclenched, clenched again.

Emil bit back a groan. "Fuck, you're tight."

Misha only grunted. What little of his face Emil could see turned a deeper shade of red.

Right. Emil's chest twinged again. Again, he ignored it. _Just stay in the moment_. At the moment, he needed friction, needed to fuck. He spread his free hand between Misha's shoulders and pushed his face down to the bed. Misha's breath hitched. Emil took advantage of the momentary distraction and slipped a second finger to join the first.

The muscles in Misha's back rippled. Emil bent over until his lips were next to his ear. "Not a sound. We don't need anyone getting curious."

Misha didn't answer. Emil took his silence as agreement, and focused back on the task at hand. Judging by the increasingly ragged cadence of his breathing, Misha needed to fuck as badly as he did, but his body wasn't ready.

Not yet.

Emil opened his fingers, closed them again in a scissor-like motion. Misha squirmed forward into the bed. Emil firmed his hand over his back and repeated the exercise.

Gradually Misha relaxed. His hips started moving another way. Emil swept his fingers downward, unable to contain his grin when he found the raised bump he'd been searching for. Misha gasped. His back arched.

Emil stroked again. This time, it was like a switch flipped. Soon Misha was grinding against his fingers, head thrown back, the cords straining in his neck. Emil caught his breath. Fuck, he was beautiful like this. Misha, unbound. Misha, undone.

Just one last thing. Emil reluctantly pulled back and straightened. Before he could move any further, something landed in the sheets in front of him. He picked it up. A condom. Something else hit the sheets: a travel-sized packet of lube. He looked up to find Misha watching him.

Emil shook his head and tore the condom wrapper open. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you planned this."

Misha didn't confirm or deny it. He jerked his chin. "Just hurry up and fuck me already."

Emil almost fumbled the condom. His cock went impossibly hard. He protected himself in record time, tore open the second packet and slicked up his shaft. Then he dropped to the bed, arms pillared on either side of Misha's head. Misha didn't flinch.

Emil leaned over for a kiss, at the same time reached down and guided himself home.

Misha's breath choked in his throat. Emil swallowed the sound, pulled back and sank deeper. He reached around and clapped a hand over Misha's mouth just in time to muffle his moan.

He leaned over until his lips grazed Misha's ear. "Remember. Not a sound." He caught Misha's earlobe between his teeth. Misha's tortured groan disappeared into his hand.

Emil shifted his hips and sank deeper. Misha's hot passage slicked tight around him. Even in its loosened state, his body clenched; instinct and pain. Emil bowed over him and pressed his lips to the back of his neck, trailed openmouthed kisses as far down as he could reach. He pressed further. Misha huffed into his hand.

He could feel when he breached the final barrier. Misha released a labored breath. His body slackened. He started to move, to meet each thrust with an equal and opposite motion of his own.

Emil bit his lip. Perfect. So fucking perfect. Raw, unrelenting pleasure mixed with something else, something infinitely more profound. It would send Misha running if he even suspected it.

Just for the moment, Emil let himself feel it anyway.

He didn't need to see to know when Misha fisted a hand around his own cock. The jerk of his body, the jump of his muscles, was enough to tell him that. Emil tugged him back until the other man rested on his haunches. He dug his fingers into Misha's hips and drove him ruthlessly, made sure to hit that one precious spot, deep inside, again and again and again.

Misha quivered, gasped. He reached back with his free hand and clung to him. Emil reached for his other hand and entwined their fingers. Misha's head fell back as together, they stroked him hard and fast.

He broke apart with a hoarse grunt. Liquid heat streaked over Emil's wrist. Misha's inner muscles clamped around him. His balls tightened. It was too much. Just enough. Not enough at all.

He wrapped an arm around Misha's chest and buried his face in his neck. His insides liquefied. The temperature in the room spiked, then the world around them melted away.

#

# -VI-

#

"This was the last time."

Emil lay on his bed and watched while Misha got dressed. He didn't answer.

Misha paused from buttoning his fresh pair of jeans and looked up at him. "Did you hear me? The last time."

Emil folded his arms behind his head. "I heard you." He wet his lips. "I heard you in Beirut, too. And Dublin. And of course, there was Rio..."

Misha moved in a blur. An instant later, his hand was around Emil's throat. He brought his face down close. When he spoke, his voice was dangerous. "You think this means anything? It doesn't. I like what I like. It's not like I'm–" He broke off.

The hand around Emil's throat trembled, and there was a haunted look in his eyes that made Emil's chest ache. He struggled to speak. "I never said you were."

Misha stared at him for a moment, then muttered a curse and released him like he'd caught fire. "Good. You ever do, and I'll break every bone in your face."

And here they were. Emil resisted the urge to rub his throat. "Fine."

"Fine." Misha slipped his neck knife over his head, then tugged a black Dee Dee Ramone t-shirt over it. He glanced back at Emil, and his cheeks colored. "Put some clothes on, would you?"

Emil rolled off the bed with a wince. Adrenaline had numbed the pain from his injuries, but now it was wearing off. He eased his feet to the floor and bit back a grunt. Awareness prickled the back of his neck as he picked his way over to his suitcase. Sure enough, when he turned back around, Misha was watching him.

He looked away quickly, but not before Emil spotted the flash of concern on his face. He didn't look over again until Emil had pulled on a pair of gray slacks. "Looks like you got one in the ribs."

Emil shrugged, cringed. "Guess so."

"Do you want me to, ah..."

"No." The last thing he needed at the moment was Misha's hands on him. "I'm good."

He fished a black shirt from the suitcase, shrugged into it and started on the buttons. Misha sat down on the edge of his bed facing the other direction. Emil fought off a sigh as the all-too-familiar post-fuck detachment settled between them.

A knock sounded on the door before he had the chance to feel sorry for himself. Misha hopped to his feet and strode over without looking back. "You decent?"

"Yeah." Emil left the last button at his throat open. "I'm decent."

Misha opened the door. He barely had a chance to step back before Mamdouh burst in. His usual galabeya was gone. In its place he wore jeans, sneakers, and Misha's Ramones t-shirt. He looked between them wildly. "You both must leave here at once!"

Misha closed the door, and Emil raised his hands. "Whoa, hold on. Why don't you tell us what's going–"

Mamdouh shook his head vehemently. "You don't understand. There are men in the lobby. They are asking about you. You must go!"

Misha swore and yanked his boots from under the bed. Emil jammed his feet into his oxfords and attacked the laces. He glanced up at Mamdouh. "Did you see who they were? The Central Security Forces? Mukhabarat?" He shook himself. "I'm sorry, of course you wouldn't–"

"Not Central Security. And not Mukhabarat." Mamdouh shrugged, seemingly oblivious to Emil's stunned expression. "They pulled up in a Mercedes. Central Security always drive SUVs. And their weapons were different from what the Mukhabarat carry. I didn't recognize them."

Emil gaped. Misha chuckled darkly and hopped to his feet. "Don't look so shocked, Reverend. Remember where we are."

Mamdouh shifted from one foot to the other. "We must hurry! My father won't be able to hold them off for long."

Emil blanched. "Your father is..."

"Don't worry." Mamdouh tip-toed back across the room, cupped his ear and pressed it to the door. "He knows how to deal with this kind of thing."

Emil blinked. Perhaps Pierrepoint had placed them at Château Triomphe for a reason, after all. "Is there another exit?"

"A few halls down. We will have to run."

Misha grabbed the backpack off the floor and handed it to Emil. "You two go. I'll lead them away."

Emil was already shaking his head before he finished speaking. "No. Absolutely not. We're not splitting up. And you're sure as hell not using yourself as bait."

"Are you telling me how to do my job?" Misha pressed the backpack to Emil's chest. "The most important thing is the tablet. You have to get it away from here."

Emil opened his mouth. The sound of heavy footsteps the next hallway over cut him off. Mamdouh hissed. "They are almost here."

Misha nodded sharply, reached into his suitcase and pulled out a sleek black revolver. Emil's face darkened. "Misha..."

Misha flicked off the safety and chambered a round. "I'll go out first. Mamdouh, where's this other exit?"

Mamdouh stared at the revolver, eyes wide. "To the left."

"Good. I'll go right. Once I've drawn them down the hall, you and Emil get out of here. Can I count on you?"

Mamdouh's face was serious. He nodded. "You can count on me."

Emil slipped the backpack straps over his shoulders and caught Misha's eye. "I hope you know what you're doing."

Misha flashed him a quick grin. "I always know what I'm doing."

He motioned Mamdouh away from the door, then stepped forward and closed a hand around the knob. After one final look at Emil, he closed his eyes and took two deep breaths. Then he yanked open the door and disappeared into the hall.

Mamdouh shut the door behind him just as a shout echoed from somewhere outside. Emil clutched the backpack straps until his knuckles turned white. No matter how often this scenario played out, he never got used to it. He could hear Misha's footsteps heading to the right. More footsteps pounded after him.

Several dull pops sounded in quick succession. Mamdouh's eyes grew even wider. "M4," he whispered. "Who did you guys piss off?"

Emil didn't answer. Ice filled his veins. What if Misha...

He shook himself. No. He couldn't afford to think like that. He turned to Mamdouh. "Are you ready for this?"

Mamdouh squared his shoulders. "I was born ready."

Emil bit back a snort, and Mamdouh grew serious again. He turned the doorknob slowly, cracked open the door and peeked out. He motioned for Emil to follow him.

They crept out into the hallway. It was deserted. A few shell casings lay scattered on the floor. Emil tried not to look at them and followed Mamdouh to the left.

Château Triomphe was bigger than he'd realized. Mamdouh led the way through the labyrinth of hallways with the skill of a professional scout. Emil made a mental note to ask him about it later.

They came to one last corner. Emil braced an arm across Mamdouh's chest and motioned for him to wait. He peered around the corner. The exit was directly ahead, just past the entrance to another hallway. He took a hesitant step forward.

A cascade of bullets erupted from the other hallway and splintered the floor in front of him. Emil leaped back again. Mamdouh grabbed his arm and pulled him flat against the wall. "I thought your friend said he was taking care of those guys!"

"He was." Unless Misha was... Again, Emil refused to think it. Another possibility only slightly less horrifying sprang to mind. "It's possible they aren't the only ones after us."

Mamdouh paled. "Police?"

Emil nodded and peered back around the corner. The door was so close. He glanced at Mamdouh. The kid was no more a fighter than he was, but maybe if they worked together...

He didn't have a chance to finish the thought. A series of shots rang out from further down the other hallway. Someone shouted something in Arabic, and an answering burst of gunfire shattered the air. Emil flung an arm across Mamdouh and flattened him against the wall, but the shots weren't aimed at them.

Just as suddenly as it had started, the gunfire ceased. Footsteps echoed down the hallway, paused at the end and started towards them. Emil motioned Mamdouh to stand back and readied a fist. The first glimpse of a head rounded the corner. Emil let fly, his whole body behind the punch.

Misha deflected it inches before he made contact. Kinetic energy carried Emil through the full swing, and he toppled forward. Misha caught him, quickly set him back on his feet. " _Bozhe_. You really are Chuck Norris, aren't you?"

Emil made a face, hoped it masked the sick relief that flooded his system. "Whatever." He started towards the door. "Glad to see you're still in one piece."

Misha snorted, and fell into step behind him. "Whatever."

Mamdouh trailed behind them. "What happened to those other guys?"

They reached the door. Misha paused to check the revolver's magazine while Emil tested the lock. "Lost them a few corridors back. How big is this place, anyway?"

Mamdouh opened his mouth to answer. Misha glanced over his shoulder, abruptly grabbed his arm and hauled him into the doorway. A hail of bullets shredded the air where he'd stood before.

Emil clenched his teeth and bent over the lock. "I thought you said you lost them!"

"Guess they found me." Misha brought the revolver up and fired two cover shots. He glanced over his shoulder at Emil. "What the fuck is taking you so long?"

"Don't look at me." Emil frowned at Mamdouh. "Why didn't you say this door was locked?"

Mamdouh had both arms covering his head. He peered through them sheepishly. "I figured you could break through it. Don't all secret agents know how to pick a lock?"

Emil groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. Another burst of gunfire pinned the three of them flat against the door. As soon as it stopped, he stepped back and placed a hand on the doorknob. " _Anoiktó_."

Mamdouh peeked down at his hand. "What are you doing?"

Misha fired off two more shots. "Don't distract him, kid."

Emil firmed his grip. " _Khula_. _Oscailte_. _Fosgailte_." The metal started to heat in his palm. The lock didn't budge.

Misha's shoulders were tight. "Anytime now."

"Stop distracting me." Emil took a deep breath. " _Ptach et ha delet_. _Iftaḥ yā simsim_."

Misha barked out a tense laugh. "Did you just say 'open sesame'?"

Emil continued through clenched teeth. " _Fàng kāi_. _Otvoreno_."

More gunfire. He didn't move until Misha forced him to duck. Still, he kept hold of the doorknob. The metal sizzled against his skin. He breathed through the pain and wracked his brain. There were infinite overrides he could use, but they were running out of time.

Sure enough, Misha fired off two more shots, then turned to him. "I'm out."

Emil dragged his free hand down his face. He glanced at Mamdouh, and his stomach twisted. Usually it was just him and Misha on the line. Now they were responsible for the teenager, too. He'd put himself out there to help them. It shouldn't cost him his life.

Emil took a deep breath. There was one override he still hadn't tried. All the Ministers he knew avoided it whenever possible, said it was the equivalent of using a broadsword to cut through butter.

The sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway, and Emil made up his mind. He could use a broadsword at the moment. He leaned in close to the doorknob and lowered his voice to a whisper. " _Patû_."

Tumblers clicked inside the lock, and the doorknob turned. Emil didn't stand on ceremony. He yanked the door open and shoved a gaping Mamdouh through it. Then he turned to Misha.

The Peer didn't look at him. "Go."

"But what about–"

"I said get out of here, Emil." Misha did look at him then. His face was set. "You need someone to cover your escape. I'll meet up with you later."

The footsteps were growing louder. Emil shook his head. "What are you going to do? You're out of ammo."

Misha flipped the revolver around so the butt stuck out like a club. "Since when did I need bullets to get the job done? Trust me." He checked to make sure Mamdouh wasn't watching, then leaned in and pressed his lips to Emil's. He pulled away before Emil could kiss him back. "I'll see you soon."

"Fine." The word came out a croak. Emil shook himself, swallowed the sudden knot in his throat. "The Bibliotheca Alexandrina. Be there tomorrow, early."

Misha nodded and pushed him through the door into the stairwell beyond. He turned back just as a group of five men in assault gear burst around the corner. Emil saw the revolver arc through the air. It struck one of the men in the forehead with a sickening crunch.

Then Misha kicked the door shut.

#

# -VII-

#

"Are you sure this is all right? I don't want anyone else in danger because of me."

Emil scanned the dark street. At first glance, it was deserted, but he had learned long ago not to trust first glances. With nightfall, a stiff breeze had blown in off The Mediterranean, and the smell of salt mingled with the ever-present aroma of garbage.

Mamdouh studied the tall tenements that surrounded them. Finally, he made an almost inaudible noise of triumph. Up ahead, a small, shabby-looking villa sat sandwiched between the concrete buildings. Mamdouh jammed his hands in his pockets and casually strolled up to the cast-iron gate that surrounded it.

Emil blew out a sigh. "Mamdouh—"

Mamdouh raised his finger to his lips, then pushed the gate open. The rusted iron screeched irritably. The sound echoed the full length of the street. Emil gritted his teeth and ducked through it. "What is this place? Are you sure we should be here?"

Mamdouh trotted through a small, derelict garden to the front door and rapped his knuckles against the wood. He answered Emil over his shoulder. "Trust me, she would be more upset if we didn't come."

Before Emil could ask who "she" was, the door cracked open. Noura's familiar face peered out at them. She opened the door a little wider. "Were you followed?"

Mamdouh shook his head. "I do not think so."

"Good." Noura opened the door all the way, and motioned them in. "Come inside. Hurry, before you are seen."

Emil trailed behind Mamdouh without a word, followed suit when the young man toed off his shoes in the front entryway. Noura waited, arms crossed, mouth drawn in a thin, firm line. Emil finally straightened again, and she caught his eye. "Where is your friend?"

"We were separated." Emil forced himself to sound nonchalant. He lifted a shoulder, dropped it again. "He'll be all right."

Noura studied him for a moment, her dark brown eyes a bit too discerning. Just before Emil started to squirm, she jerked her head in a follow-me motion. "Come. We are just sitting down to eat."

Emil opened his mouth, but before he could answer, a loud rumble erupted from Mamdouh's belly. Mamdouh's cheeks reddened. Emil swallowed a chuckle. Noura snorted.

She led the way down the dimly lit hallway, further and further into the house. Ornate brass plates gleamed from the walls, and the echoes of their footsteps disappeared into an embroidered runner spread over the tile floor. They passed several open archways that presumably led to other rooms, but Emil couldn't make out what was inside.

The hallway ended in a comfortable sitting room. Persian rugs covered the floor. A pair of antique armchairs and a matching couch graced one corner, clustered around an impressive, intricately carved coffee table. In the opposite corner sat a large wooden dining table. It was set for four.

Emil cleared his throat and turned to Noura. "Excuse me, but how did you know we were..."

Before he could finish, a tiny, wizened old woman dressed head-to-toe in black shuffled in through another archway. Her claw like hands gripped the handles of a food-laden tray.

" _Teta_ , what are you doing?" Noura rushed over to her, and the woman surrendered the tray with a grateful sigh. Noura placed it in the center of the table, then turned to where Emil and Mamdouh still stood. "Please, sit. This is my grandmother, Hedaya. She will be joining us."

Emil hesitated, but Mamdouh was already on his way to the table. After a moment's pause, Emil joined him. Hedaya had taken the seat at the head. Emil sat down next to her. Her bright black eyes settled on his face. " _Menawwara_."

He nodded awkwardly. " _Šokràn_."

Mamdouh sat down opposite him, his eyes fixed hungrily on the assorted mezze on the tray. Noura had vanished but reappeared through the archway holding a bottle with a white and orange label. Mamdouh''s eyes lit up. "Zibib?"

Noura tsked. "Not for you. You are too young."

Mamdouh scowled. Noura came around the side of the table, stopped next to Hedaya. She twisted the cap off the bottle and splashed a measure of clear liquid into the older woman's glass. An anise-spiked wave of alcohol fumes made Emil's eyes tear. Noura turned to him. "Have you ever tried zibib?"

Emil blinked hard. "No. I haven't." Without thinking, he glanced at her headscarf.

Noura's lips twitched. "We are not so terribly observant here that we would turn down a drink every now and then."

Hedaya spoke, her Arabic too fast for Emil to understand. Helpless, he looked to Noura.

Her lips twitched again. " _Teta_ says it is good for the digestion."

Emil looked at Hedaya. She raised her glass and nodded towards his. He nodded back. "Far be it from me to argue with such wisdom."

Noura humphed and splashed some of the zibib into his glass. Hedaya beamed and raised hers in a toast. " _Fe sahetek."_

" _Fe sahetek_." Emil clinked their glasses together. Breathing through his nose, he took an exploratory sip. The zibib streaked a fiery trail all the way down to the pit of his stomach. Emil exhaled hard and glanced at Hedaya. She sipped her own drink without as much as a flinch.

Mamdouh glared at them. "Maybe _my_ digestion needs help."

Noura rolled her eyes. "Your digestion is fine. Pass me your plate."

Mamdouh's face brightened, and he did as directed. Noura filled it was an assortment of mezze. Emil was next. She took his plate and filled it too, narrating out loud as she went. "This is hummus bi tihina, and this is just basic tabouleh. You use the baladi like a scoop." She pushed a plate of aromatic flat bread towards him.

Mamdouh reached out and plucked one off the top of the stack, ignoring the dark look Noura gave him. Emil followed his lead, took the flat bread with his right hand and scooped up some of the hummus. It was fragrant with garlic, and when he bit down, his taste buds lit up with lemon and a subtle sesame sweetness.

Noura and Hedaya were both watching him expectantly. Emil chewed and swallowed quickly, and nodded. "Delicious. _Teslam iidak_."

A wide grin split Hedaya's craggy face. " _Wa-iidak_." She took another sip of zibib, then tucked into her tabouleh.

Noura watched her for a moment, a fond expression on her face. Then she turned to Emil. "So. I think it is time you told us why you are here."

Emil swallowed his next bite hard. The baladi bread lodged in his throat. He washed it down with a sip of zibib, ignored the tears that sprang to his eyes. "With all due respect, I'm not sure that's such a good—"

"With all due respect," Noura cut him off, "my grandmother and I have brought you into our home, even knowing you are a fugitive. Mamdouh and Tamir risked their lives to help you and your friend."

At the mention of Puzzle, Emil's chest tightened.

Noura didn't stop. "All we ask is the truth." She glanced at Mamdouh. "Mamdouh seems to think you are spies. Is this true?"

"No."

Noura arched an eyebrow.

Emil took a deep breath. "No, we're not spies. We don't serve... governments. We answer to a higher calling."

Noura's face froze. "We do not hold with extremists in this house."

Emil shook his head. "We're not extremists. We're..." He trailed off. What was he supposed to say? _Puzzle and I are members of two secret organizations, working to find and safeguard magical knowledge and protect humans from creatures of myth and legend._

That would go over well.

Mamdouh spoke up. "Back at the hotel, Puzzle said something about a tablet."

"A tablet." Noura pursed her lips. "You stole it? Is that why you are being hunted?"

"It's not what you think." Emil resisted the urge to loosen his collar. He couldn't remember the last time a mundane had interrogated him. "Yes, there is a tablet. Yes, we...confiscated...it from the museum where it was displayed. But the tablet is dangerous. Misha and I intend to take it someplace safe."

"Dangerous." A look of faint amusement flickered over her face. "An ancient piece of stone? How dangerous could it be?"

"If it fell into the wrong hands?" Emil thought back to the mercenaries and tightened his jaw. "Very." He locked eyes with Noura. "There are things this world isn't equipped to handle, Ms. Shaarawi. Things it doesn't want to handle."

Noura chewed her lower lip. "But you and this Misha, you are _equipped_?"

"Yes." Emil answered without hesitation. "We are."

Noura fell silent. She held his gaze a moment longer, then tore her eyes away and stared down at her food. Mamdouh took another bite of baladi and chewed silently.

Hedaya drained the last of her zibib and set her glass down next to her empty plate. She pushed back from the table, stood, and shuffled behind Emil. She disappeared through the archway into the next room.

Noura stood too. "Excuse me." She picked up the empty mezze tray and ducked after her.

A few minutes later, the two of them returned. Hedaya appeared first, bearing a platter of steamed vegetables. Noura was right behind her, a covered tagine in her hands. They arranged the dishes in the center of the table, and Noura removed the lid from the tagine. The briny-sweet scent of baked fish filled the room.

Emil took a deep, indulgent breath. "That smells delicious."

Noura glanced up at him. "It is called Sayadeya. White fished cooked with rice and tomato sauce, then baked." She nodded at Hedaya. "A specialty of _Teta's_."

Emil nodded at Hedaya too. The older woman motioned for him to pass Noura his plate and reclaimed her seat.

Emil waited until they had all been served, then used another piece of baladi to pinch up a piece of fish. He popped it in his mouth, closed his eyes as flavor danced over his tongue. He swallowed, opened his eyes and smiled at Hedaya. "Wonderful."

Hedaya smiled back and said something in Arabic. Again, Emil turned to Noura. She didn't meet his eyes. "It's an old saying we have. 'A good bite is good for one hundred.' It means..." She paused, gestured helplessly.

Emil dipped his chin. "I think I understand. We have a similar saying in English: 'the more, the merrier.'"

"Exactly so." Noura looked up. Their eyes met, and she quickly looked back down.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Emil tried to ignore the twisting in his belly. Where was Misha now? Had he found someplace safe? Had he gotten anything to eat?

Had he gotten out of the hotel at all?

Emil's gut churned. He settled back in his chair. "So, how do you and Mamdouh know each other?"

Mamdouh stopped mid-bite, and Noura studied the remaining crumbs on her plate. Emil looked from one of them to the other. His stomach soured. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean "

"It's all right." Noura laid a hand over Mamdouh's.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "Go ahead. Tell him."

Noura's face softened. She gave his hand a squeeze, then looked up. "I knew his mother."

_Knew_. Past tense. Emil winced. "I'm sorry." Noura seemed to be waiting for him to ask more. He took a deep breath. "Were you close?"

Her mouth twisted in a humorless smile. "We only met once." She looked back at Mamdouh and lowered her voice. "Are you sure you want me to...?"

He nodded. "Yes."

Noura squared her shoulders. "It was during the protests after the revolution. Everything was very fragile, and people were on edge. It felt like the whole country was falling apart." She tossed her chin in the direction of the outside. "You have seen the garbage in the streets?"

Emil nodded.

Noura winced. "It was never like that before. The government dissolved, and the entire system dissolved with it. The elections should have made things better, but they didn't." She sighed. "I voted for Morsi and the Muslim Brotherhood. After the way Muslims were repressed and cut out of the last regime, I thought finally we would have a voice."

Mamdouh watched her, his face unreadable. Emil watched them both and waited for her to continue.

Noura swallowed visibly. "Then Morsi was deposed. I was upset. And I was not the only one. Those of us who had supported him felt betrayed, like our votes had meant nothing. So we took to the streets again."

She paused, swallowed again, and reached for the bottle of zibib. She splashed a heavy measure into her glass. Emil didn't speak while she took a drink.

She set the glass back down and blew out an anise-soaked breath. "Those protests were different than the earlier ones. During the revolution, it had been the people against the government. We were united behind the cause of freedom. After, it was the people against themselves. Some of us who had stood shoulder-to-shoulder before found ourselves face-to-face on opposite sides of the street. It was ugly. Violent."

She reached for her glass again. Her hand shook. Mamdouh gave her other hand an encouraging squeeze. Noura closed her eyes briefly.

"There was a series of bombings at different police stations throughout the city. The interior ministry blamed the Brotherhood." She opened her eyes again. "Maybe they were right, maybe not. I still don't know. Many people who came to the protests simply had a taste for blood. Whose blood, didn't matter."

She pulled her hand away from Mamdouh's and rubbed her face. "We had no idea how bad it was going to get. The police wanted revenge. I was at a protest the week after the bombings. The police were there in riot gear. People were shouting, some people started throwing stones. It escalated from there."

Emil shifted.

Noura stared, unseeing, over his shoulder. "The stones turned into Molotov cocktails, and everything went crazy. The police fired tear gas into the crowd. Then they started shooting. I thought they were rubber bullets at first, but then a woman in front of me fell."

Mamdouh looked down at his plate. "My mother."

"Your mother." Noura took his hand again. "I and the people I was with carried her off the street and into a nearby sandwich shop. She was—" Noura stopped, glanced at Mamdouh, then started over. "There was nothing we could do for her. I held her head in my lap. She looked up at me and told me she had a son. She asked me to find him... after... and to tell him she loved him." Noura's voice wavered. She cleared her throat and sat a little straighter. "So I did."

Mamdouh squeezed her hand. Emil looked from one of them to the other and tried to think of something to say. Couldn't. He wasn't used to this kind of pain. He saw violence every day, but that violence was cosmic. Remote. He was trained to deal with that kind of violence.

Human violence? He didn't understand human violence at all.

The rest of the meal passed in silence. Hedaya finally stood and began clearing the table. Noura took them down another hallway to a small, sparse guest bedroom. Two freshly made twin beds waited for them inside.

Noura stood in the doorway and crossed her arms. "If you like, I may still have some of my father's clothes."

Mamdouh had already flopped down on the bed farthest from the door. Emil shook his head. "I don't think that will be necessary. Thank you." He paused. "Just how did you know we were coming?"

Noura's lips twitched. "Tamir called. He knew Mamdouh would come here." She glanced at the teenager. "He knew I would watch after him."

Emil kept his voice quiet. "I will, too."

Noura met his eyes. A fierce expression flickered over her face. "See that you do." She hesitated, then ducked her head and retreated back into the hallway. She pulled the door shut behind her.

Emil sat down on the edge of the other bed with a sigh and shrugged out of his jacket. He draped it over the nightstand, then reached over and turned off the light. He rested his head on the pillow. "Goodnight, Mamdouh."

A few minutes passed, and his eyelids started to droop. Misha's face swam into his thoughts. Where was he now? Someplace warm, with a bed? Doubtful. Emil's throat tightened.

Mamdouh's voice filtered through the darkness. "I want to go with you."

Emil swallowed, then swallowed again. "What?"

"When you and Puzzle leave. Take me with you. I want to go."

Emil rolled onto his side and peered at the shadowy figure on the other bed. "I don't think you realize what you're asking. What about your father? What about Noura? You have a life here."

"My life." Mamdouh's voice dripped with disdain. "What life? Ever since my mother died, _Baebae_ barely lets me leave the hotel. He takes away my music, he doesn't want me wearing Western clothes. I have to beg him to let me see Noura."

Emil's forehead furrowed. "He's trying to protect you."

"He's smothering me!" Mamdouh lowered his voice. "Do you know what I remember about my mother?" He paused. "Nothing. I used to hear her voice in my head, but not anymore. It's like I didn't exist until the day she died."

Emil didn't speak.

Mamdouh's voice thickened. "Her life meant something. I want my life to mean something, too. I need it to mean something. It's the only connection to her I have left."

#

# -VIII-

#

The Bibliotheca Alexandrina gleamed like a beacon in the morning sunlight.

Emil paused on the outer edge of the surrounding plaza. Already, lines of students and tourists were forming outside the front doors. A gentle breeze floated in from the bay, bringing with it a welcome dose of fresh air.

Mamdouh tugged at his arm. "Come on. We should get in line."

Emil followed him slowly, eyes locked on the building in front of them. The massive, disc-shaped glass roof was angled towards the Mediterranean like a sundial. A wedge-like granite wall loomed steadily larger as they approached. Emil squinted at the letters carved into it.

Mamdouh looked at him curiously. "Can you read that?"

Emil shrugged. "Most of it."

"Typical." A familiar voice spoke behind them. "Once a nerd, always a nerd."

Mamdouh whirled with a delighted shout. Emil took a moment to school his face to a neutral expression, then turned too. He swallowed hard.

Dark circles ringed Misha's eyes, and a fresh bruise stained his cheek. His Dee Dee Ramone t-shirt was faded with dirt, and a tiny cut marred his upper lip. His gaze tracked over Emil. "Are you two all right?"

"Yeah." Emil gave himself a mental shake. "Yeah, we're fine." He paused. "You look like shit."

Misha snorted. "Thanks." He nodded to the backpack slung over Emil's shoulder. "How's the tablet?"

"Fine." Emil forced his eyes away from the other man's battered face. Guilt churned in his gut. He squared his shoulders and mustered a scowl. "Typical is right. You're late, as usual."

Misha smirked. "Whatever, Professor. Let's go in."

Mamdouh trotted ahead towards one of the increasingly long lines. Misha waited until he was out of earshot, then leaned closer to Emil. His voice dropped. "I missed you too."

Emil's stomach felt light. His cheeks heated.

Seemingly oblivious, Misha loped off after Mamdouh. Emil took a moment to collect himself, then followed.

From the back of the line, Mamdouh craned his neck and peered over the endless trail of heads in front of them. He made a mournful sound deep in his throat. "We should have come earlier. By the time we get inside, the library will be closed!"

Misha groaned and turned to Emil. "I hate to say it, but he's right. Why did you want to come here, anyway?"

"It wasn't my idea." Emil scanned the crowds. "Pierrepoint arranged it. He said we would meet someone who could help us."

On first inspection, he couldn't pinpoint just who that might be. Tourists of every race and nationality milled around the plaza, snapping photos of the various statues, the library, each other. Snatches of conversation filtered through the air; Arabic, Spanish, German, English.

Emil sighed. He didn't even know who he was supposed to be looking for. Pierrepoint hadn't exactly been specific.

Suddenly, Mamdouh stiffened. Emil looked down at him. "What's wrong?"

Mamdouh nodded towards the library doors. Emil followed his line of sight.

A tall, straight-backed man was striding towards them. He wore a long, dusty blue galabeya, a white keffiyeh wound around his head and neck. His aging face was sharp, his mouth drawn in a thin line. Fierce black eyes locked on Emil's.

" _Badawi_ ," Mamdouh breathed.

_Bedouin_. Emil raised his eyebrows. The man drew closer, and a flash of sunlight caught the long, curved dagger tucked into his belt. Misha stepped forward, muscles tensed. Emil laid a hand on his arm. "It's all right." He looked back to the man. "I believe he's who we're waiting for."

Sure enough, the man stopped in front of them. Emil forced himself not to step back. The man scarcely matched him in height, but something about him seemed to take up all the surrounding space.

Misha crossed his arms. "Can we help you?"

The man replied to Emil. "I was told to take you to The Library."

Misha gestured to the gray granite wall of the Bibliotheca. "What do you call this?"

The man scowled. "Not this library. _The_ Library." He glanced around. "Were you followed?"

_The_ Library. Did that mean what he thought it meant? Emil grasped for his voice, finally shook his head. "I don't think so."

The man considered that, then gave a short nod. "We must get out of the open. Please follow." With that, he turned on his heel and started back the way he'd come.

Emil traded glances with Misha and Mamdouh. Misha shrugged, then fell into step behind the man. Mamdouh followed. After a final glance at the waiting tourists, Emil broke from the line and hurried to catch up.

The man led them through the main doors without stopping. Emil glanced nervously at the security guards, but no one spared them even a glance.

They trailed single file into the main reading room. Natural light flooded the immense space. Emil caught a brief glimpse of colossal pillars, of a sweeping, asymmetric ceiling, of multiple terraces cascading down both sides of the room. He slowed slightly. His lips parted.

The man turned down a small hallway without breaking speed. Misha cleared his throat. Emil blinked out of his reverie and hurried after them. Bookshelves lined the corridor, and the natural light was replaced by an artificial glow. It took Emil a moment to realize the lights were set into the shelves.

The man finally slowed, then stopped. He leaned towards the shelf beside them, lips moving as he skimmed each title silently. Finally, he made a small sound of triumph. He cast a quick glance around, then, once he'd confirmed they were alone, placed one finger on the book's spine and pushed.

Something behind the shelf clicked. The man turned. "Please follow," he said again. He turned back to the shelf and gave a small shove. A narrow section rotated inward like the wing of a revolving door. He walked through it without looking back.

Emil stared, then glanced at his companions. Mamdouh gaped at the shelf. Misha looked grim. He met Emil's gaze. "I don't like it," he murmured. "How do we know what's waiting back there?"

Emil shrugged. "How do we know what's waiting out here?"

Misha grimaced, then nodded. "Fine. But I'm going first."

Emil smirked. "Greedy bastard. You hog all the fun."

Misha rolled his eyes, followed their guide's lead and pushed on the book. He stepped forward and disappeared into the wall.

Emil turned to Mamdouh. The younger man looked paler than usual. His hands were fisted at his sides. Emil laid a hand on his shoulder. "Hey."

Mamdouh jumped a little, then looked up at him, eyes wide.

Emil jerked his head towards the shelf. "You don't have to do this, you know. You've already helped us more than we had a right to expect. More than you had reason to. You could leave now, and we wouldn't think less of you for it."

Mamdouh hesitated. His eyes flitted back down the hallway. Emil followed his gaze. Back in the reading room, college-age men and young women sporting hijabs sat hunched over desks, perused the stacks, spoke in quiet hushed tones.

Mamdouh took a deep breath and turned back. "No." He squared his shoulders. "I want to go." A mischievous grin brightened his face. "I mean, secret doors? Hidden passages? Dude!"

Emil chuckled. "Easy does it, Indiana Jones." He motioned him forward. "Your turn, then."

Mamdouh's grin widened. He pushed on the book and ducked through the revolving shelf.

Emil shook his head and bit back a grin of his own. He waited a couple seconds for Mamdouh to get clear, then pressed the spine of the book and stepped through after him.

The space behind the shelf was unexpectedly claustrophobic. Narrow walls closed in on both sides. Emil squeezed his shoulders together and edged forward.

The passageway curved after a few steps. He followed it around and saw Mamdouh, Misha, and the man waiting in a startlingly modern elevator. The man had one hand splayed over the doors. He beckoned Emil inside. "Come, come. Hurry!"

Emil double-timed it the rest of the way. No sooner had he stepped in than the man withdrew his hand and punched a button. The doors slid shut, and the elevator began a steady descent.

The man visibly relaxed. He turned to them. "Now we can speak. I am sorry for my abruptness, but the mundane world is no place to be discussing Library business."

Emil blinked. "Mundane. So The Library is..."

"Subversive? Not quite." The man shook himself. "But first, proper introductions. I am Yehya Jaber Jawarky, of _The_ Bibliotheca Alexandrina." He shook first Emil's hand, then Misha's, then Mamdouh's. "I have worked at The Library all my life. Anything you wish to know, you have but to ask."

"Thank you." Emil resisted the urge to shift. "I'd heard rumors of this place, but never expected to see it for myself." Excitement fluttered in his chest. He took a deep, calming breath. "I take it you're the Librarian?"

"Me? No, no." Yehya ducked his head. "I am... what is the English word..." He thought for a moment, finally turned to Mamdouh. "How do you say it? _El-Mradj_."

Mamdouh nodded. "The Auditor."

"Yes! The Auditor. Clever boy." Yehya patted Mamdouh's shoulder. "I follow in the footsteps of Callimachus, of Demitrius of Phaleron. It is my job to study the texts, then sort them according to their content."

_Study the texts._ Emil cleared his throat. "How many texts do you have, precisely? And by whom?"

"How many, it is difficult to say. Much of what The Library once contained was lost in the early days." Yehya tapped his lower lip. "Fortunately for us, not everything. We have tragedies by Sophocles, Aeschylus, and Euripides. Scientific works by Eratosthenes, Hipparchus, Euclid..."

Emil licked his lips. Misha glanced at him and rolled his eyes.

"...And of course, we have some of the final notes of Hypatia, written just before her death. All in all, quite a collection." Yehya beamed and crossed his arms over his chest.

Quite a collection, indeed. Emil felt lightheaded. Half those names were missing even from The Ministers' Central Collection in Prague. What they did have was piecemeal; fragmentary at best. How many answers to how many mysteries lay buried beneath the streets of Alexandria?

Impatience swelled in his chest. He looked around at the elevator's stainless-steel walls. "How much further?" He paused. "And just how far down are we going, anyway?"

Yehya glanced at the floor numbers above the doors. "The new Bibliotheca has eleven floors—plus one." His lips curved. "We are going to the plus-one."

Emil jammed his hands in his pockets. The elevator crept down what felt like at least five floors—maybe six. By the time it finally came to a stop, Emil was itching under his collar. He tensed as the heavy car settled.

The doors slid open. Emil took an enthusiastic step forward, abruptly stopped again. A young woman stood in the dark hallway outside. She looked only a few years older than Mamdouh, and was clad head-to-toe in black. A black shawl with pale blue lining was draped over her head and around her shoulders. Keen dark eyes studied them from her handsome face.

"Welcome to the Library of Alexandria," she said. Her voice was deep and lyrical. "I am Haja Shenouda, Chief Librarian."

Emil blinked. If Haja noticed, she gracefully ignored it, extending a hand. Emil shook it. His eye fell to a small Coptic cross tattooed on the inside of her exposed wrist.

She caught him looking. " _Al-Masih-qam_."

Emil inclined his head politely. " _Hakkan qam_."

Her smile widened. "You are a brother in Christ?"

"No, ma'am." Emil released her hand. "Just a worldly traveler."

That answer seemed to please her even more. "Many years I have worked at The Library, but never have a Minister and a Peer set foot inside it." She extended her hand to Misha next. "Welcome. This is an honor."

Misha clasped her hand, his eyes never leaving her face. "The honor is ours."

Emil tried to ignore the sudden prick of envy. Haja chuckled. "You knights, always so chivalrous." She turned to Mamdouh, as if seeing him for the first time. "I was not aware you were bringing a third."

Mamdouh looked down, and Emil straightened. "This is Mamdouh Saleh. He's already proven himself to us."

Mamdouh looked up, his expression painfully grateful. Emil kept his eyes on Haja.

She studied Mamdouh for a moment, head tilted. Gradually, her face softened, starting with her lips, moving up to her forehead. She held out her hand. "Forgive me. Of course you are welcome, Mamdouh."

Mamdouh took her hand gingerly, as though afraid he might break it. He clasped it briefly, then quickly released it again. " _Šokràn, aanesa_."

Haja waved off the title. "Please, call me Haja. We are not so formal around here." She turned and started down the darkened corridor outside the elevator. "This way. I understand you have work to do."

Misha quickly jockeyed into position behind her. Emil gritted his teeth, but let it slide. Instead, he distracted himself trying to make out their surroundings through the darkness. He couldn't see much, just the faint outline of a crumbling stone colonnade. The sweetly organic scent of earth saturated the still air.

Misha's voice cut through his thoughts. "Just how old is this place?"

Emil rolled his eyes. His Peer was certainly interested in The Library now. Haja answered over her shoulder. "The Library has been in Alexandria since just after the time of Alexander the Great. After Al-Iksander's death, rule of Egypt was given to Ptolemy, one of his generals. It was Ptolemy who commissioned the original library."

Emil's curiosity won out over his baser feelings. "But how has it survived all this time? All the stories I've heard say The Library was destroyed during Roman times."

Haja nodded. "It is true, a series of disasters severely damaged it. The Chief Librarian at the time saw – what is the phrase? – the 'writing on the wall'. He began moving the most precious scrolls to an underground vault, built deep beneath the Museion." She caught Emil's eye and let slip a sly grin. "By the time the exposed structures were destroyed, the core of the collection was already safely hidden away."

Emil shook his head. "Remarkable." He tipped up his chin. "What about you and Yehya?"

"Before the Chief Librarian died, he appointed a successor. Each subsequent Librarian appoints a replacement when they can no longer perform their duties. As for the Auditors," Haja aimed a fond look back at Yehya, "they have enjoyed noble standing here since the poet Callimachus first catalogued the collection. Their appointments work much the same way: when one is ready to retire, he chooses another to take his place."

Emil shook his head again, but before he could say anything else, they came to a pair of tall, heavy doors. Haja pulled a large, ornate key from the folds of her clothes. She turned to them. "The original library had ten great halls, each devoted to a different branch of Hellenic knowledge. This vault was built according to those original designs."

She turned back and slipped the key into the lock. Tumblers clicked, and she pushed the doors open. "Gentlemen, welcome to the eleventh hall."

#

# -IX-

#

Everything else faded away as Emil took in the scene before him.

He'd been anticipating a dark, dank, dungeon-like space. The vault of the Museion was anything but. White marble columns lined all four walls. Brightly hued mosaics tiled the floor. Electric sconces glowed from the walls. Long tables claimed the center of the room.

Emil took a step inside, then another. He was half afraid he was dreaming, that any second the entire thing would disappear in a puff of smoke. His eye settled on an inscription etched into the wall opposite the door: _Psychés Iatreíon_. His throat tightened.

Misha stepped up beside him. "What does it mean?" His voice was a reverent whisper.

Emil swallowed, then swallowed again. "Roughly translated, 'place of the cure of the soul'."

Mamdouh came to stand on his other side. He looked around, eyes wide. Finally, he blew out a breath. "This really is like Indiana Jones."

Misha snorted, and Emil bit his cheek against a chuckle. He slung the backpack down from his shoulder. "Well, I'd better get to work."

"Good idea." Misha moved closer to Haja. "Maybe our Librarian will agree to give me a tour."

His eyes didn't leave Emil's face. Emil refused to react, merely inclined his head stiffly. "Have fun." He hefted the backpack and started towards one of the center tables.

Mamdouh looked from one of them to the other, then finally trotted after Emil. "What are you doing?"

Emil set the backpack down, took out the tablet and gently placed it on the table. "Translating."

Mamdouh peered over his shoulder. He let out a low whistle. "Are those hieroglyphics?"

"Close. Hieratic. At the time this tablet was carved, it was used mainly in religious texts."

Mamdouh _hmm_ ed. "And you can read it?"

"Not exactly." Emil pursed his lips. Yehya joined them, peered over his other shoulder. Emil spared him a quick glance, then retreated back into his own thoughts. "Maybe if I walk it through Demotic and Greek first..."

His voice was amplified in the narrow hall. He could feel the weight of Misha's eyes, and allowed himself a peek up. Sure enough, his Peer was watching him from the opposite corner of the room, scarcely paying attention to the painting Haja was showing him. Emil swallowed hard.

Mamdouh was saying something. Relieved for the distraction, Emil turned to him. "I'm sorry. What?"

"I said, what makes this tablet so special?" Mamdouh cocked his head. "Puzzle told me you made a copy of it. Why did you have to steal this one if you had a copy?"

Before Emil could answer, Yehya spoke up. "Some artifacts are more than just words, young one. Some are created with magic, filled with magic. Those of us who know of such things have a duty to protect these artifacts, and to protect the world from them."

Emil nodded. "Exactly."

Yehya straightened. "I have something that may help: a key in Coptic. If you use that, it may not be necessary to use both Greek and Demotic."

Emil raised his eyebrows. "Thank you. That would be fantastic."

Yehya turned to Mamdouh. "You could help me, perhaps. I am getting old, _Ya Allah_ , and my sight is not as good as it once was."

Mamdouh's eyes went wide. "You want _my_ help?"

Yehya waited, a twinkle in his warm black eyes. Mamdouh's face split into a wide grin. He turned to Emil. "May I... I mean, would it be all right if I...?"

Emil pursed his lips against the smile tugging at the corners. "I'm not your father, Mamdouh. You don't have to ask my permission."

Mamdouh bobbed his head, then set off after Yehya. Emil watched them go, then his gaze drifted to where Haja was showing Misha a drawer full of scrolls. She gently picked up an aging roll of papyrus, gesturing to it as she spoke. Misha leaned in for a closer look.

Emil stood abruptly, and called to Yehya's retreating back, "Excuse me, Mr. Jaber Jawarky, do have a place to get some water down here?" He cringed at the question. "A kitchen, or restroom?"

He couldn't fathom why they would, but if he had to keep watching Misha and the pretty Librarian, he was going to lose his mind. As it was, he was well over halfway there.

Yehya paused, and to Emil's surprise, nodded. "The vault was expanded sometime during the twelve-hundreds to include a dining hall, a smaller model of the oikos of the original Museion. Now we use it as a storeroom." He took in Emil's expression, and his lips twitched. "The hours here often turn into days. We keep well-provisioned."

Emil nodded stiffly, deliberately avoided looking at Misha again. "Thank you. I won't be long."

He followed Yehya's pointing finger to a door at the end of the hall. On the other side, a short hallway led to a cramped, dimly lit room. Shelves lined the walls, packed with enough nonperishables to feed a small army. A heavy table sat in the center of the floor.

Emil took a few steps forward and sagged against it. He let his head drop down, squeezed his eyes shut while he forced himself to breathe.

Christ, he was in trouble. The Ministers had been his lifeline, his escape from a mundane life and worse. All he'd had to do was put his head down and do his job, but no. He'd managed to take a good thing – the one good thing he'd been given – and fuck it all up.

He could practically hear Pierrepoint's low, level voice in his head: _There are rules for a reason, Emil. A Minister must never fraternize with his Peer. The potential damage is just too great._

He hadn't listened. He'd never listened. Why? Stubbornness? Pride? For all his frustration, he could hardly blame Misha. His Peer had never lied to him about who he was or what he wanted. As far as he knew, his Peer had never lied to him about anything.

That profound something he wasn't brave enough to name surged in his chest. Emil tried to swallow it down.

His throat stuck.

"I was wondering where you'd run off to."

Emil jumped, whirled. Misha stood propped against the door frame, arms crossed. Emil's stomach hollowed at the sight of him. Instantly, he kicked himself. This. This was the problem _._ He looked away. "Fuck off, Puzzle. I don't need babysitting down here."

Misha didn't answer. Emil held out for as long as he could, then sneaked a peek at him again. Misha hadn't moved. He stared past Emil and mused out loud. "I wonder what she looks like underneath all those clothes."

Emil balked. "Excuse me?"

"Our librarian." Misha straightened, then leaned against the other side of the door. "I mean, sure she dresses like a nun, but you can't hide a body like that."

Emil stiffened. "Don't be crude. She's—"

"—Delicious. I know." Misha trapped Emil's gaze in his. "You wouldn't believe how good she smells."

He was baiting him. Emil knew it, hated it. Hated even more how well it was working. He pushed away from the table. "Whatever." He debated making a break for it, but Misha was still blocking the door. Instead he retreated further into the room, made a show of studying the shelves.

Misha's taunting laugh followed him. "What's this? Is the Professor jealous?"

Emil ground his teeth, but didn't turn. "Fuck you."

"Been there, done that, got the brochure." Misha's voice was moving closer. "No, I need a woman under me. Maybe that's my problem."

Emil could barely breathe. He forced himself not to clench his hands. "What are you talking about?"

"Women." Misha's voice was right behind him. "All the time I spend in the field, I've forgotten how much better I like them."

Emil's lips peeled back in a snarl. He whirled before he realized what he was doing. His fist arced towards Misha's smug face.

Misha caught it just before impact. His touch made Emil see red. He lashed out with his other fist. Misha caught it, too, and twisted his arm behind his back. Emil bit back a wince.

Misha's face was so close he could taste him. Emil struggled in his grasp. Sweat beaded on his forehead as Misha twisted his arm still further. The other man's face was cool, contemplative, but his eyes blazed hot. "Do you know how easy it would be to break you right now?"

Emil didn't answer. Misha tweaked his arm again, and he grimaced. "So do it, then."

Misha's eyes burned into his. "What?" His voice was deceptively quiet.

Emil didn't look away. "Do it. See if you feel better."

It shocked him how much he suddenly wanted Misha to hurt him. When had he gotten so fucked up? He didn't know. Didn't care. Of all the mistakes he'd made in his life, this was by far the worst. He'd taken everything they had, everything they were supposed to be, and twisted it into something else.

Worse, he couldn't even bring himself to regret it.

Emil leaned forward without breaking eye contact. Tendons wrenched in his elbow. "Didn't you hear me? Do it." _Please_. The word echoed in his head. _Please_.

He barely registered when Misha released his other wrist. Then a warm, rough hand clasped the back of his neck. Emil caught his breath, suspended between agony and bliss. Misha's eyes dropped to his lips. " _Rasputnitsa_ ," he whispered, "what are we doing to each other?"

The air strangled in Emil's chest. He shifted, all too aware of the hard-on straining behind his fly. Misha shifted too, a silent acknowledgment of the matching ridge in his jeans.

Footsteps echoed in the hall outside. Misha abruptly released him and stepped back. Emil stayed frozen in place as Mamdouh burst into the room.

"There you are! We were wondering what–" He broke off, looked from one of them to the other. "Are you guys all right?"

Emil opened his mouth, but Misha spoke first. "Fine. We were just..."

"Brainstorming our next move." Emil pretended not to notice Misha's pointed look. "How are things going out there? Did you and Yehya find that key?"

Mamdouh nodded. "That is why I came to find you. Everything is ready." He hesitated. "There is just one thing. You may not like it."

#

# -X-

#

"What do you mean, we can't take it with us?"

Haja stood planted between him and the tablet. She met his glare without flinching. "That tablet is a piece of Egyptian history, part of our heritage. You may study it as much as you need, but according to anti-looting Law No. 117 of 1983, as amended by Law No. 3 of 2010, you may not remove it from the country."

" _Looting?_ " Emil spluttered. "Are you out of your... what, are we supposed to just put it back? Do you have any idea how dangerous that thing could be?"

"The tablet will remain here." Haja folded her hands in front of her. "Yehya and I will determine how great a risk it poses and safeguard it accordingly."

Emil looked from her to Yehya, then to Misha. The Peer arched an eyebrow. The message was clear: _your call_.

Emil glanced at Mamdouh. The young man stood stiffly to the side, eyes down. Emil sighed.

"Fine." He took a deep breath. "We'll do this your way. I assume you have no objection to my making an etching, at least?"

Haja inclined her head. "No objection at all."

Emil mustered a sense of professional detachment and stepped around her to the table. "I'll need some paper. And a pencil."

"I will get them." Yehya strode off towards the supply room.

Haja's eyes flicked from Emil to Misha. Then she turned to Mamdouh. "Come. There are some things I want you to see."

Mamdouh blinked. "Me?" He glanced at Emil, then squared his shoulders and nodded. "Very well."

Haja beamed, and the two of them wandered off together.

Emil watched them go, released a breath and leaned over the tablet. To his surprise, Misha leaned over next to him.

"Any ideas?"

Emil wet his lips. "Ah...no. Not yet." He pulled out the bench tucked under the table and sat down. "I just need to spend some time with it." He leaned closer and squinted at the narrow lettering.

Misha made a sound in the back of his throat. "That reminds me." He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a pair of black-rimmed glasses. He passed them to Emil. "I managed to get back into the room, not for long, but long enough to get these."

Emil took the glasses. A warm feeling spread through his chest. His fingers brushed Misha's. He quickly brought his hand back and cleared his throat. "Thanks."

"No problem." Misha surprised him again. He swung a leg over the bench too, then lay down, arms folded behind his head. He closed his eyes. "Let me know when you get something."

Emil stared down at him, but his eyelids didn't even flicker. Gradually, his breathing evened. Soon he was snoring softly.

Emil slipped his glasses on and tried to focus back on the tablet, but he couldn't seem to tear his eyes off Misha's face. The bags under his eyes looked deeper, and his shiner was beginning to purple. Dark stubble coated his jaw. The hollows of his cheeks seemed more pronounced than usual.

Emil's chest ached. He hadn't asked Misha where he'd spent the night, and he knew better than to think the other man would offer the information. From the sag of his body, though, he hadn't slept well. Maybe at all. And when was the last time he'd eaten? Emil mentally kicked himself for not asking sooner, made a note to find him something when he woke up.

Yehya returned with a large sheet of paper. He glanced down at Misha's sleeping form, and wordlessly passed Emil a pencil. Emil nodded his thanks and laid the sheet over the tablet. Yehya watched as he ran the soft edge of the pencil over it. Gradually, the symbols began to take shape.

Emil straightened and stretched his back. He turned to Yehya. "Do you have the key?" he asked softly.

Without a word, Yehya passed him an ancient-looking scroll. Emil nodded again and took it. He raised his eyebrows, and said aloud without thinking, "Papyrus?"

Yehya nodded, and Emil gently unrolled it. Two words leaped out at the top of the roll: _ek museiou_. From the Museion. Emil looked up at Yehya. "Is this...?"

"An original? Yes. Produced by scholars of the Museion." He caught Emil's eyes. "Please take care."

"Of course." Emil took a deep breath and got to work. The Coptic key turned out to be just what he needed. He quickly settled into a comfortable groove. Everybody had a happy place. Language was his. Minutes dragged by. He glanced up at Yehya. "I hope you won't mind my asking, but how does a Bedouin end up in a place like this?"

Yehya didn't answer right away. A faraway look filled his eyes. Finally, he sighed. " _Dum butlab dum._ "

Emil paused. "I've never heard that expression."

Yehya's lips twisted. "It is a debt. This is how the _bedawi_ deal with murderers. If a man kills another man, his family has the right to demand blood."

Emil stilled. "Did you—"

Yehya shook his head. "Not I. My brother." He sighed again and eased himself to the bench on the other side of Emil. "When I was a child, my elder brother killed a man. Knowing the price to be paid, he fled."

Emil didn't speak.

"According to our law, if the original murderer cannot be found, another male member of his tribe must die in his place. The blood debt must always be paid."

" _Dum butlab dum_ ," Emil murmured. "Blood begets blood."

Yehya nodded. "I was ten years old when the brothers of my brother's victim came for me. My father was doing business in town, so I was the only man in our camp. They dragged me out of my mother's tent, and the eldest of them took me into the desert."

Emil stared. "To kill you."

"To kill me." Yehya shrugged. "But he couldn't do it. Perhaps because I was so young, but more than that, I suspect he had no real taste for blood. He was only there because the law and his honor as a man demanded he avenge the death of his brother."

"He just let you go?"

"He told me to flee. To never come back. That he would tell his family he killed me, so no more blood would be spilled. So I ran. That was," Yehya thought for a moment, "sixty years ago now."

Emil whistled under his breath.

Yehya rubbed his chin. "It was the last Librarian who found me. I was living on the streets of Cairo, eating garbage and picking pockets to survive. To this day I do not know what he saw in me, but he brought me back here. He and his Auditor raised me. When the Auditor retired, I took over. I have been here ever since."

Emil shook his head. "You were lucky."

"Lucky?" Yehya smiled bitterly. "I am a Bedouin without a tribe, without a family. I am like a dead man who breathes."

Emil couldn't think of a single thing to say.

Yehya visibly shook himself and stood. "Ah. I am sorry. Forgive an old man his resentments. Please, return to your task. I will see to some food for your friend."

Emil looked down. Sure enough, Misha was watching him. Emil waited until Yehya had passed out of earshot, then met his eyes sheepishly. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't." Misha paused. "Well, you did, but it's all right. We need to talk, anyway."

Emil's stomach plummeted. "About what?"

"Oh, I don't know. How about how we're going to leave this place?" Misha sat up with a wince. "Last I checked, we were being hunted by mercenaries, Mukhabarat, and god knows who else. We're safe down here, but we can't stay forever." He jerked his chin at the tablet. "How are you doing with that? Is it what you expected?"

Emil tugged his glasses off and rubbed his face. "Actually, it's worse."

Misha spread his hands. "All the more reason we need to get back to San Francisco."

Emil's forehead started to throb. He slipped the glasses into his breast pocket and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Maybe The Library has a labyrinth—"

"It doesn't." Misha shook his head. "I already checked, back when you were off having your shit fit. A couple dead-end tunnels, no wormhole. It's mundane travel for us, _malysh_."

_Malysh_. Baby. Emil's lips parted.

Misha turned red. "Fuck. I don't know why I – forget it. The point is, we're going to have to do this the old-fashioned way."

"Do what the old-fashioned way?" Haja and Mamdouh joined them at the table just as Yehya returned with a tray of food. He set it down, and Misha instantly reached for it. Haja looked from him to Emil. "What seems to be the problem?"

Emil kept his voice even. "No problem."

Misha snorted into his bowl. "Unless you consider being trapped like rats a problem."

"Trapped?" Haja turned to Emil. "You are free to leave anytime you wish. We are not—"

Emil raised a hand. "Please. It's not that." He hesitated. "Since we've been in Alexandria, we've managed to make some clingy friends. They'll probably try to keep us from leaving."

Haja looked at him askance. "What does that mean?"

Emil hesitated again. Misha set down his half-eaten piece of baladi bread and looked Haja square in the eyes. "It means they will do everything in their power to make sure we don't get out of this city alive."

Haja paled, and Mamdouh swallowed. Emil hissed. "Jesus, Puzzle."

Misha shrugged and resumed eating.

Yehya had remained silent while they spoke. He tapped a finger against his lip. "Perhaps there is a way."

Emil raised his eyebrows. Misha stopped, baladi halfway to his mouth. "We're listening."

Yehya's dark eyes were bright. "I have a friend, a captain. He has been docked in the Western Harbor for the last week. It is a small walk from here." Intrigue suffused his weathered face. "His ship sets sale for the Port of Beirut tonight."

"The Western Harbor." Emil glanced down at Misha. "Well?"

Misha frowned. "We would be exposed."

"You would stay here until dark." Yehya crossed his arms. "I can get word to my friend. He will wait for you."

Emil kept his eyes on Misha and waited. Misha's lips thinned. Then he gave a short nod. "It's our best option. Do you have a map? Show us where the Western Harbor—"

"I can take you there."

Emil, Misha, Haja, and Yehya looked at Mamdouh. The teen's face colored. "I mean, there will be people watching the main roads. I can take you through the backstreets."

Misha nodded slowly. "That could work, actually."

Emil started to shake his head. "It's too dangerous. Mamdouh, why would you—"

Mamdouh shrugged. "We ate together." He turned to Haja. "What we talked about... did you really mean it?" He caught the curious looks Emil and Misha aimed at him and ducked his head. "Haja and Yehya suggested I come back here. To learn."

Emil grinned. "That's wonderful."

"Yes. I mean, I never..." Mamdouh stopped. Emotions warred over his face.

Haja tilted her head. "Something is still bothering you." Her voice was quiet. "What is it?"

Mamdouh met her gaze. Uncharacteristic gravity clouded his eyes. "It's just... are you sure? I mean, look at me. I'm not so special." His eyes dropped to the floor. "Maybe someone like me does not belong in a place like this."

Haja spoke gently. "You are Egyptian, yes?"

Mamdouh nodded.

She laid a hand on his arm and waited until he looked up again. "Then this library is your birthright. This is exactly where you belong."

#

# -XI-

#

"Small walk, my ass."

Emil rolled his eyes into the darkness and tried to ignore his aching feet. "Shut up. It hasn't been that long."

Misha let out a low growl and shifted the backpack straps. "It's been an hour."

"Exactly." Still, Emil called up to Mamdouh in a stage whisper. "How much farther?"

Mamdouh slowed until they were walking side-by-side. He responded in the same tone. "Just ahead. We are almost to the El Rokab/El Bahareya Station. The entrance to the port is just behind it."

Emil pursed his lips. "Okay. Yehya said there's a shipyard to the right, and his friend's ship will be just past it. Simple enough."

Misha made a skeptical noise. "Everything's simple until it starts going wrong."

Emil scowled. "Thanks, Pollyanna."

Up ahead, the narrow street opened up. Bright lights from the road beyond illuminated the surrounding buildings. Misha motioned for them to stick to the few remaining shadows, and the three of them jogged the last stretch.

Emil's heart sank. "Holy shit. How the hell are we supposed to cross _that_?"

In front of them stretched a tangle of roads, ramps, and tram lines. On the other side, what might have been a train station sat in the center of a massive roundabout. The nighttime lights of the port glared behind it, casting the entire mess in sharp relief.

Mamdouh shrugged weakly. "It is the way Yehya said to go."

"It's a fucking _freeway_." Misha all but snarled the word. He grimaced, then looked at Emil. "Your call, Professor." He lowered his voice. "Are you up for this?"

Emil stared at the cars buzzing past. There were doubtless fewer now than during daylight hours, but they still seemed to be coming at too short intervals, still moved too fast for comfort. He kept his face carefully blank. He wasn't sure, not by a long shot, but he wasn't about to tell Misha that. "Let's do it."

Misha's lips thinned, but he only nodded sharply and cinched the backpack straps as tight as they would go. "All right, then. See you two on the other side."

Emil glanced at Mamdouh. "You don't have to do this, you know."

Mamdouh's face was set. "I said I would get you to your ship." He met Emil's eyes. "Ready?"

An SUV jetted past, and a gust of air knocked them all back a step. Emil recovered, gritted his teeth and nodded.

The three of them sprang forward in unison.

A cacophony of horns and screeching brakes filled the night air. Emil barely heard them. He didn't see the road. He didn't see the cars, or the ramps, or the tram lines. He kept his focus squarely on Misha's back.

They hopped a divider of some kind, and he dragged a quick breath. Then they were moving again. Emil doubled down and sprinted like he'd never sprinted before. His lungs burned. His vision tunneled.

Misha was the first to reach the other side. The instant his feet hit sidewalk he whirled, reached out and seized Emil's hand. He yanked him out of the street a split second before a battered Toyota barreled past.

Emil gasped. His head was spinning. He searched wildly for Mamdouh, wheezed with relief when he saw him bent over a few feet away, hands on his knees. Finally, he allowed himself to relax.

The adrenaline crash turned his legs to rubber. He wobbled, and Misha's hand hooked firmly under his arm. "Easy," he murmured. "Just breathe through it. I've got you."

Emil did as ordered. He followed Mamdouh's example, planted his hands on his knees and sucked breath after greedy breath through his nose. Then he looked up at Misha. "Promise me we never, _ever_ do that again."

Misha's lips curved. "What fun would that be?"

Emil straightened with a groan. He turned and glanced at the building behind them, turned back when Mamdouh came over to join them. "This is the El Rokab/El Bahareya Station?"

Mamdouh nodded and motioned for them to follow him. He led them around the side of the building, checked both ways, and jogged across the roundabout. Once they were all on the other side, he pointed down the road. "That leads into the port. If you follow it, you will see the passenger terminal at the end, and a storage yard on the right."

Misha gave him a strange look. "How do you know all this?"

Mamdouh ducked his head. "My uncle used to work in shipping. My friends and I would visit him here." A smile dusted his lips. "We would play tag between the storage containers."

Misha snorted. "I bet you did."

Mamdouh grew serious again. "Yehya said his friend was in berth number ten. To get there, just go through the storage yard. You will see the cargo ships docked on the other side." He paused. "Once you get on the water, you should be safe."

Emil blew out a breath. "That seems pretty straightforward." He took a couple steps down the road, then turned back to Mamdouh. "Well, I guess this is—"

Misha cut him off with a sharp curse, then snatched his arm and jerked him out of the road.

Emil bit back a surprised yelp. "Jesus! What are you...?"

Then he saw them. Ten, maybe fifteen men, milling around the entrance to the port. They paid rapt attention to their surroundings, to the cars driving by, to the occasional passing dock worker.

Misha inched his way to the edge of the sidewalk and took quick stock. He quickly retreated back to where Emil and Mamdouh were waiting. Emil raised his eyebrows. "Well?"

Misha rubbed his mouth. "I count twelve. And judging by the combat boots and the AR-15-shaped bulges under those jackets, I'd say they're not here to wish us a pleasant trip."

Emil groaned. "Great. Do we have a Plan B?"

Misha's lips twisted. "This was Plan B."

Mamdouh looked from one of them to the other. He drew his shoulders back. "What do you have in that backpack?"

Misha blinked. "It's just your standard survival kit. Why?"

Mamdouh waited.

Misha sighed. "Right. Blankets – two – water purification tablets, weatherproof matches, Tinder-Quick, button compass, signal mirror, QuikClot, sewing kit—"

"Martha Stewart," Emil muttered.

Misha glowered at him. "For suturing, smartass."

Emil smirked. "Sure."

Misha gave him a black look, then turned back to Mamdouh. "Look, I don't know what you have in mind, but if you think you're going to MacGyver something out of nylon thread and a survival blanket—"

"Give me the matches."

Misha didn't move. "Mamdouh—"

"On the other side of the passenger terminal, there is another storage yard." Mamdouh met his eyes. "Cement, coal, fertilizer..."

Misha's eyebrows climbed higher and higher.

Mamdouh held out his hand. "Give me the matches, and five minutes. I will create a diversion." A flash of boyish excitement flickered over his face. "It will be like James Bond."

Emil rolled his eyes. "That had better not be your way of saying you're taking up vodka martinis. Noura would kill me." He studied the younger man for a moment. Then he sighed. "I don't like this. You've done nothing but help us, and in return—"

"In return, you have introduced me to parts of my city I never knew existed." Mamdouh looked him square in the eyes. "You have given my life hope, possibility. Meaning." He shook his head. "I can never repay you for that, but I can do this. I _want_ to do this."

Emil looked at Misha. Misha shrugged. "Do you have a better idea?"

Emil cringed. He didn't. He turned back to Mamdouh. "Okay. So how do you want to—"

"I'll go in first." Mamdouh peered out at the men around the entrance. "I'll tell them I saw two men going into the train station. If we are lucky, most of them will go check. You two will go and hide in the storage yard. Once my diversion goes off, you can run to the boat."

Misha chuckled. "I'll be damned. Kid's a natural tactician." He swung the backpack down from his shoulder, unzipped it and fished out a hard plastic container. He passed it to Mamdouh. "Here are those matches. Don't strike one until you have a place to put it. Once they're lit, you can't just blow them out again."

Mamdouh nodded and curled his fingers around the container. "I'll remember."

The three of them stood looking at each other. Finally, Emil cleared his throat. "I guess this is it."

Mamdouh nodded. "I guess so."

Emil extended a hand, and Mamdouh clasped it. Emil gave a firm squeeze. "It's been an honor. The Library will be lucky to have you."

Mamdouh managed a smile. "Šokràn." He paused. "You know, I still don't know what you guys actually do."

Misha stepped forward and shook his hand too. "Trust me, kid, it's better that way." He clapped him on the shoulder. "Take care of yourself. Emil's right. You're going to make one hell of a Librarian."

Mamdouh flushed. "Yehya wants me to take over as Auditor."

Misha shrugged. "Either way."

Mamdouh stepped back. His gaze lingered on their faces. "So long, dudes. _Fi umman Allah_." He started down the sidewalk, paused, and gave Misha a quick grin over his shoulder. "Gabba gabba, hey."

Misha saluted. "Gabba gabba, hey."

Mamdouh broke into a jog. Emil watched as he approached the cluster of men. His chest tightened. "Think he can sell this?"

Misha's voice was grim. "If he can't, we're all fucked."

Emil swallowed hard and kept his eyes on Mamdouh. The teenager certainly looked the part of frightened, concerned citizen. He curled in on himself as he addressed the men. He turned and pointed to the train station. An overhead streetlight illuminated the fearful expression on his face.

Misha let out a low chuckle. "If this whole Library thing doesn't work out, he should consider acting."

Emil held his breath. Several seconds ticked by, then the men peeled away from the entrance and started towards the train station. Mamdouh waited until they disappeared around the side of the building. Then he raised his hand, both signal and farewell, and disappeared into the port.

Misha grabbed Emil by the arm and towed him into the street. "That's our cue."

They sprinted through the entrance, then veered left like Mamdouh had instructed. Sure enough, a massive storage yard stretched before them, packed to bursting with rusted blue shipping containers.

The sound of voices filtered up the street. Without a word, Misha slid his grip from Emil's arm to his hand and tugged him into the sea of metal. They wove deeper and deeper into the yard. Gradually, the voices faded away.

Misha finally released Emil and dropped into a squat. Emil squatted beside him. He looked around at the containers towering over them. "Do you think we'll see Mamdouh's diversion from here?"

"Something tells me it's going to be hard to miss."

Misha's voice sounded strange. Emil peered at him through the darkness. "What's wrong?"

Misha's lips thinned. He shook his head. "This whole thing is fucked."

Emil blinked. "I thought you said Mamdouh—"

"Not Mamdouh." Misha wouldn't meet his gaze. "Us."

Emil swallowed. The pit of his stomach suddenly felt hollow. "Oh."

"We should talk."

Emil pretended to scan the docks, finally gave up and looked back at him. "Probably."

"I'm an asshole."

Emil snorted. "Definitely."

"Damn it, Emil." Misha turned to him. His eyes were troubled. "Don't you see what's happening here? I'm going to hurt you. And when I do, I can't promise I won't enjoy it."

Emil didn't answer.

Misha shifted, and their shoulders brushed. His eyes darkened. When he spoke, his voice sounded hoarse. "You should stay away from me."

Emil shrugged slowly, relished the way their arms slid against each other. "Maybe."

No sooner had the word left his mouth than Misha's lips were on his. Something imploded in Emil's chest. Misha's lips moved, and stubble razed his face. The little bite of pain simultaneously grounded him and shot him higher. Emil reached up, brushed the coarse dark hairs coating his jaw.

Misha caught his wrist and held him still. At the same time, his other hand closed around the back of his neck. Emil groaned. A shiver raced down his spine. Misha tightened his grip, then cranked his head back. Emil parted his lips without a second thought. Misha seized the invitation and slipped his tongue between them.

Then, unexpectedly, he slowed. His lips softened. His tongue coiled, stroked, sampled. It was a neat trick, and the instant Emil relaxed, he took the kiss deeper.

Emil's head swam. His hands fisted in Misha's t-shirt. He didn't realize he'd wrenched him closer until Misha's hard chest bumped his. Misha dragged his lips back and nuzzled Emil's ear, then blazed an openmouthed trail down his throat.

Emil choked. His dick was throbbing, the confinement of his trousers a brutal torture. Against every impulse in his being, he eased back. "Wait."

Misha let out a growl and followed him. "No."

Emil's heart kicked hard. He met Misha's eyes, instantly began to sink into their heated depths. He reeled himself in. "Wait. Stop."

Lust turned Misha's face to stone. All the same, he sank back on his heels.

Emil dragged a shaky hand over his still-sensitized mouth. "Do you even see what a mess you are? You blow hot, you blow cold. You treat me like a fucking leper, then kiss me when no one's watching. You flirt with everything in a skirt that crosses your vision, then turn around and beg for my cock."

Even in the dark, Misha's cheeks glowed red.

Emil ignored the dangerous expression on his face. "You say you like what you like. Fine. Fucking own it then."

Misha's jaw ticked. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Emil ground his teeth. "It means quit dicking me around. I'm not your goddamn blow-up doll. You don't just get to use me when you feel like it, then shove me under your bed when you're finished."

" _Bozhe_ , Emil, what is it you want, exactly?" Misha raked a hand through his hair and rocked backwards. "Wine? Roses? Fucking fireworks?"

Emil ignored the sneer in his voice and met his gaze without flinching.

_Everything_.

He didn't say it. Couldn't say it.

_I want everything_.

A magnificent BOOM made them both jump. Emil's eyes shot wide. Off in the distance, a massive fireball lit up the dark sky. Smoke gusted into the air, carrying with it the pungent smell of burning fertilizer.

Misha breathed out a reverent curse. "Would you look at that. The kid really did it."

Emil chuckled.

Misha looked back at him. His eyes narrowed. "What?"

Emil just smirked and shook his head. He stared at the smoldering wreckage raining down over the water.

Fireworks.

#

# -After-

#

" _'Aqlah_!"

Emil kept to the shadows near the control room as the crew of the _Ezadeen_ prepared to set sail. Beside him, Misha was silent. He hadn't said a word since they'd boarded the old cargo ship. Emil stifled a sigh and wrapped his arms around himself. It was three days' sail until they reached Beirut.

If Misha's mood stayed the same, it was going to be a long trip.

The captain was a weather-beaten old man with skin like charcoal, who wore his salt-stained sweater and PVC bibs like a uniform. He stuck his head out of the control room. "I suggest you two keep out of sight, at least until we are past the breakwaters."

Emil nodded. "Of course. Thank you."

The captain nodded back and resumed his task. The engine churned to life, and the ship's metal hulls creaked. Slowly, the _Ezadeen_ lumbered out into the harbor.

Emil kept his eyes fixed on the fire still smoldering on the docks. "Do you think Mamdouh made it out of there okay?"

Misha gave a short nod. "I'm sure he did." He followed Emil's gaze. "Got to give him credit. Kid has a real flair for destruction."

Emil's lips twitched. "Kind of like someone else I know."

Misha didn't answer. Emil released the sigh he'd been holding and listened to the throaty rumble of the engine. Waves lapped gently in the ship's wake. Behind them, the port grew smaller and smaller. All around it, the city lights twinkled against the blackened sky.

Misha's voice punctured the quiet. "So, what do you think? Was it worth it?"

Emil curled his hands around the railing and stared at the receding city. "Is it ever?"

Misha didn't answer.

Emil was about to head below when something warm brushed his wrist. He looked down to find Misha's hand resting next to his. Emil caught his breath. Something small and hopeful flared in his chest.

He looked up again without a word. Misha didn't speak either.

Together, they watched Alexandria fade into the horizon.

*◊*♦*◊*

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Keep reading for short excerpts from THICKER THAN WATER, A WORLD APART, AND SEASON OF THE WITCH, plus some fun bonus content...

## Excerpt from _Thicker Than Water_ (Shadownotes, #2)

Emil and Puzzle's newest assignment takes them to New Orleans, Louisiana, but this is no party weekend. A vicious attack aboard a riverboat cruise has left the city in shock, and Emil and Puzzle enlist the help of their friend, Cyrus Alan, to investigate. Blood runs cold and passions run hot as a figure from Emil's past makes a play for his affections, and Puzzle is forced to face his own growing feelings. Blinded by his internal struggle, he doesn't see the danger closing in around them.

_There's something far more sinister than monsters at work in The Big Easy. By the time Puzzle realizes the truth,_ _it may already be too late..._

At first appearances, the back of the Quarter looked like the least likely place for a vampire club. It occurred to Misha that was likely the point.

Kidwell parked, and they all got out. Misha resisted the urge to tug at the crotch of the leather pants Kidwell had loaned him. He'd insisted on keeping his Ramones shirt and work boots, and his neck knife rested just above his navel. Those small pieces of familiarity were the only things gluing together what remained of his composure.

He glanced at Emil, and his belly tightened. His Minister was decked out in leather, too, and looked far more comfortable in it than he was. His jacket was open, revealing nothing but pale, smooth skin beneath. A small silver cross dangled from one of his ears. Misha's gaze locked on it. Since when had Emil had a pierced ear?

He tore his eyes away, and forced himself to assess the rest of the street. It was quiet, lined with stately old homes. The entire neighborhood looked so utterly respectable it was almost possible to miss the dark undercurrent of energy humming through the air.

Almost.

Misha felt it in the pit of his stomach. His skin prickled, and a flutter whispered through his core. He glanced at Emil again, then at Kidwell. Neither of them seemed affected.

Kidwell led the way to an old brick house on the corner. It was four stories high, with intricate iron balconies ringing each floor. Hanging ferns swung gently in the night breeze, packed so close together they looked like living walls. Kidwell stepped up to a heavy wooden gate. With a flourish of his wrist, he produced an ornate, ancient-looking key from the pocket of his leather duster.

Misha scowled at the back of his head as he unlocked the gate. From his confident, practiced motions, this wasn't the first club like this the other Minister had visited. Misha's eyes flicked back to Emil. Was this the sort of "studying" the two had engaged in? Emil's posture was relaxed, but his fingers drummed against his leg. They'd been partners long enough for Misha to know what that meant.

Emil was excited.

The gate swung open, and Kidwell went through first. Emil was close on his heels. Misha took one final look back at the street, then followed.

The courtyard they entered was a masterpiece of greenery and old brick. Dim, flickering light poured from a single strategically-placed streetlamp in the center of the space. As they drew closer, Misha realized it wasn't a lightbulb, but rather a small flame inside the glass. The light illuminated the outlines of ferns, palms, banana trees. The unmistakable scent of jasmine permeated the warm, silky air.

Something pulsed in the pit of his stomach. It took Misha a moment to identify the disconcerting sensation: bass. They drew closer to the front door, and Emil slowed his pace until it matched Misha's.

"Are you all right?" His voice hit Misha in the same spot as the bass notes.

It was a few seconds before he could answer. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Emil didn't respond.

By the time they reached the front door, Kidwell had already knocked. He turned back to Misha. A strange looked crossed his face at the sight of Emil. It quickly vanished, and his lips turned up. "Remember why we're here, sir knight. Try not to get distracted."

Acid burned in Misha's stomach. Before he could speak, the door swung open. Misha opened his mouth. No sound came out.

The man inside was dressed in the tiniest pair of leather shorts he'd ever seen. Leather suspenders crisscrossed his pale, smooth chest, and a leather cap was pulled low over his eyes. His gaze lingered on Misha, and he caught his lower lip between his teeth. He turned to Kidwell. "You forgot to mention you were bringing me a present."

Kidwell chuckled, and Misha's stomach twisted. Sweat pricked his forehead. "I'm not..."

A warm, firm hand took his. He looked over to find Emil staring down the doorman. There was something in his eyes Misha had never seen before. Emil's posture had changed as well. He looked somehow taller than usual, broader. When he spoke, his voice was dark.

"Don't address my companion without my permission."

Misha choked. Emil squeezed his hand in warning.

The doorman glanced from one of them, to the other. "He's yours?" He sounded doubtful.

Emil's hand slid up Misha's arm and closed around the back of his neck. "He's mine."

At the same time he spoke, he gave a small squeeze. Sensation shot down Misha's spine. He was powerless to control the small shiver that wracked his shoulders. His cock hardened against his leathers. Mortified, he pressed his lips together.

The doorman arched an eyebrow. "Interesting." He turned his attention back to Kidwell. "So you're, what? The chaperone?"

Kidwell's eyes shot to Emil. "Apparently."

Emil's hand tightened around the back of Misha's neck. "I don't need a chaperone."

The doorman studied them a moment longer. "Of course not." He stepped aside so they could pass. "A word of advice: keep an eye on your boy. Baby looks good enough to eat."

Misha stiffened. Emil inclined his head. "I'll keep that in mind." He hustled Misha through the door and into the black marble foyer without as much as a backward glance at Kidwell.

Misha should have felt some smug satisfaction at that, but he couldn't quite manage it. Emil's hand, still gripping the back of his neck, was doing strange things to his body. He was more than halfway hard, a fact his tight leathers did nothing to hide. Anger rode low in his gut. Emil never touched him like this in public. It was all he could do not to tear himself away.

It was as if Emil knew what he was thinking, because he abruptly steered them towards a small door. Kidwell started to follow. Emil's voice brought him up short.

"Give us a minute."

Misha's stomach leaped, but before he could protest, Emil yanked open the door and shoved him through.

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## Excerpt from _A World Apart_ (Shades Below, #1)

Private investigator Jesper MacMillian is sure he's seen it all. Then he meets psychic medium Lena Alan. Suddenly, MacMillian finds himself in a world where monsters aren't just real, they're hiding in plain sight. What's more, something evil is lurking in San Francisco's dangerous underbelly, and it's going to take both of them to put it down.

For Lena, it's just another day at the office.

For MacMillian, it's the beginning of the end of everything he thinks he knows.

MacMillian took off towards The Procyon at as close to a run as he could manage. His leg wasn't built for the frantic pace, and his stump pistoned painfully in the socket. He ignored it.

Finally, the familiar brick building came into view. MacMillian waited anxiously to cross the street. The light turned, and he found himself walking next to a woman in a long white dress. She was carrying a silk parasol and pushing a tram that looked at least a hundred years old. Inside it, a glassy-eyed baby blinked up at him.

MacMillian tightened his grip on his cane and jerked his gaze forward.

He parted ways with them at the door of The Procyon. Hesitantly, he pushed it open and stuck his head inside. The lobby was empty, both of people and... whatever the hell it was he was seeing.

He stepped in and released the breath he'd been holding. Briefly, he considered stepping out again, going around the side of the building to Babylon's entrance. If ever an occasion excused drinking in the middle of the day, this was it. He glanced out the glass doors.

A young man in World War II olive drab fatigues peered back at him. His helmet had a bullet hole in the front. A trickle of blood ran down the center of his face.

MacMillian turned to face the lobby again and took a deep breath. Then another. There had to be a logical explanation for all this, one that didn't involve him losing his mind. Unfortunately, he had no idea what it might be.

A door opened at the end of the marble foyer, and a man wearing slacks and a pale blue polo stepped out. He paused to smooth a hand over his disheveled brown hair, turned, and caught sight of MacMillian. He tossed his chin and started over. "Hey, man! Thought you were going to stop by the club last night. I told you I'd hook you up with a VIP booth."

MacMillian forced a smile, some of the tension releasing from his shoulders. Thank god for a familiar face. "I know, I know. I meant to, but I..." His smile froze.

The man drew closer. "Something wrong?"

Hell yes, something was wrong. MacMillian swallowed hard and stepped back. "Nothing. It's nothing. I just... Did you do something to your teeth?"

"My teeth? No, why?" The man reached up and fingered a canine.

MacMillian stared. If he didn't know better, he'd swear it was a wolf's fang he was seeing. He shook himself. Ridiculous.

The man's brow furrowed. "Are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost."

MacMillian blew out a breath. "You have no idea." He shook his head. "Probably just stayed up too late last night."

"I keep telling you, come around the club and let us spoil you a little. Seriously, you know what they say about all work and no play." The man winked and grinned, revealing a mouthful of enormous, razor-sharp teeth.

MacMillian leaped back. "Jesus!"

The man's grin morphed into a worried look. "Are you sure you're okay? Why don't you come into the office and let me fix you a drink."

"No! I mean, I'm fine." _Grandmother, what big teeth you have._ MacMillian edged backwards towards the elevator. "I still have some work to do. I'll just lie down in my office."

The elevator dinged. He turned, squeezed his eyes shut briefly against the headache raging in his temples. He heard the doors slide open, and opened his eyes again.

"Jesus _Christ!_ What the hell?"

MacMillian stumbled back a few steps before he had the presence of mind to plant his cane down. Standing in the elevator was a man. MacMillian knew him well; Aloysius Paul had been his landlord for nearly four years. He looked the same as he always did: longish dark hair smoothed back from his temples, impeccable suit, fashionably mismatched silk tie and pocket square, glossy black wingtips.

There was just one glaring difference.

Black flames leaped and swirled around him, filling the elevator car. MacMillian started to raise his arm over his face, paused, and lowered it again. There was no smoke, no heat to shield against. And Aloysius didn't even seem to realize he was on fire.

He glanced up from the paper he was reading like he hadn't noticed MacMillian's outburst, and inclined his head. "MacMillian." He stepped out into the lobby, still engulfed in flame. MacMillian turned with him. Aloysius nodded to the other man. "Daniel. I'm glad I caught you. Do you have a moment to go over some numbers?"

Daniel nodded, his eyes still glued to MacMillian. "Sure thing."

Aloysius started for the office. Daniel hesitated. The look he shot MacMillian was heavy with concern. "You know, you can still take me up on that drink."

"Ah..." MacMillian worked a finger between his shirt collar and his throat. "Thanks. I think I'll just, you know, go lie down."

Daniel shrugged. "Suit yourself." He turned on his heel and headed the same direction Aloysius had gone.

MacMillian took a moment to collect himself, then edged towards the open elevator. He peered inside. No sign of any charring. The walls, the ceiling, the floor all looked normal. He exhaled heavily, held his cane across one of the doors before it could close, and stepped in.

He was hallucinating. That was all. Probably something he'd eaten. It might take a few hours—or a few days—but eventually, whatever it was would work its way out of his system. MacMillian jammed a knuckle to the "three" button. The doors dinged, and started to slide shut.

A small figure in a bright red coat slipped inside a split second before they closed. Her face was mostly hidden behind a pair of oversized red-frame sunglasses. She looked up at him expectantly.

MacMillian shifted closer to the wall. "Can I help you?"

She sighed loudly and pulled the glasses off. It was the woman from Cross Your Teas—what was her name again? MacMillian gaped. "You."

Something suddenly occurred to him. He took two large steps forward and corralled her in the corner of the elevator. Her eyes bugged. He leaned down until his face was millimeters from hers. "What the fuck did you put in that tea?"

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## Excerpt from _Season Of The Witch_ (Shadowlines, #1)

Georgia Clare needs help, and fast. As the lone survivor of her coven's brutal massacre, she's felt their killer hunting her. Unfortunately, there's just one man she can turn to, and he doesn't do witches. Private investigator Darius deCompostela has spent a lifetime avoiding the things that go bump in the night. When Georgia knocks on his door, however, he can't bring himself to turn her away.

_It's just one case, after all._ _It's not like it's going to change his life..._

It was her third night in a row of frozen pasta for dinner. Not that she was counting.

Georgia popped the top off yet another bottle of Corona and took a long draw. She leaned back against the counter. The microwave hummed behind her. She glanced over her shoulder at the digital clock on the unused stove. Sighed.

Nearly six o'clock, and still no sign of deCompostela. The pang of disappointment in her chest chafed at her pride. She should have known better than to believe he would stop by. He'd already made it abundantly clear he thought she was out of her mind.

Truth be told, the possibility had occurred to her. It had been a week since the new moon, and she hadn't seen hide nor hair of...it. Whatever it was. If not for the lingering scent of blood in her nostrils, she could almost believe she'd hallucinated the whole thing.

The microwave beeped. Georgia took one last drag of beer, then set her bottle down next to the two that had preceded it and opened the door. Fragrant steam rushed out; a heady blend of tomato, basil, and MSG.

Georgia reached in and grabbed the microwaveable plastic bowl, hissed and yanked her hand back again. She scanned the kitchen for something she could use as a potholder. Finally, she settled on a bunched-up paper towel.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she pulled out the pasta bowl. Georgia tensed, turned...

...Just in time to see her living room window explode inward in a hail of glass. She let out a startled shriek. A massive, dark creature suddenly occupied the space where her coffee table used to sit.

Everything else seemed to happen in slow-motion. The creature straightened, shaking shards of glass off its dull black fur. Its ears twitched towards her. Its lips peeled back from its razor-sharp teeth.

Georgia's chest seized. Recognition slammed through her. The creature snarled. Any lingering doubts she'd been harboring instantly evaporated.

It was here.

Georgia blindly hurled her steaming pasta bowl in the direction of the living room and bolted from the kitchen. She looked over in time to see it connect with a loud splat squarely between the intruder's eyes. The creature howled and clawed desperately at its face.

Georgia didn't wait for it to recover. Her altar. If she could just get to her altar, she could banish the ugly fucker and buy herself some time.

The creature was planted in the dead center of the straightest path across the living room. Georgia veered wide. She had almost cleared the front door when it flew open in a barrage of splinters. Someone barreled into her. They both sprawled to the ground.

The new intruder landed on top. Georgia hissed, bucked, clawed at anything she could reach. Her mystery assailant scrambled off her.

"Jesus Christ, would you calm down, you crazy—what the fuck?"

deCompostela. Georgia didn't let herself pause to feel relief. She rolled to her feet, grabbed his hand and dragged him after her. They dove behind her sagging couch just as the creature regained its bearings. It threw back its head and let out a roar that shook her remaining windows.

Darius sniffed. "Is that tomato sauce?"

Georgia didn't answer. Her focus was squarely on her altar again. It was still too far away. "Wait here."

"What—"

She leaped to her feet. The creature's eyes locked on her. Georgia swallowed the terror that welled in her chest and sprinted for the altar. She skidded to the floor in front of it like a baseball player sliding into home, yanked open one of the drawers and fumbled for the first items that came to mind.

The creature roared again. A blast of superheated air hit the back of her neck. Georgia braced for the feel of teeth around her throat.

"Right here, ugly!"

She turned in time to see Darius' massive fist catch the creature square in the nose. The creature yelped, then retaliated with a swipe of an even-more-massive paw. The blow swept Darius clear off his feet. He flew backwards and hit the wall with a dull crunch, then sagged to the ground with a wheeze. Flecks of paint and drywall fluttered to the floor around him.

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## Playlist

**Listen for free on** **Spotify** **!**

**1.** **Welcome to the Fire–** Willyecho

**2. Blitzkrieg Bop–** Ramones

**3. On The Desert Road To Alexandria–** Phi Thornton and Hassam Ramzy

**4. The Pharaoh's Dancer's Drum Solo–** Issam Houshan

**5. Riot (Markii Remix)–** Progressive Thrust, Fireline

**6. Way Down We Go–** KALEO

**7. Run–** Bring Me The Horizon

**8. Walk Like an Egyptian–** I Am Dynamite

**9. Illa Habibi–** Amr Diab

**10. Mystery of Egypt–** Outsider

**11. Pinhead–** Ramones

**12. Arsonist's Lullaby–** Hozier

## Also by L.J.K. Oliva

Shadownotes

Ptolemy's Tablet

Thicker Than Water

_The Patient Dervish_ (Coming Soon)

Shades Below

A World Apart

The Devil's Disease

Ghost In The Machine

Shadowlines

Season Of The Witch

If You Were My Vampire

_Hellhound At The Gate_ (Coming Soon)

## Bio

L.J.K Oliva writes urban fantasy and paranormal romance, with a heavy dash of suspense. She likes her whiskey strong, her chocolate dark, and her steak bloody. Most of all, L.J.K. likes monsters... and knows the darkest ones don't live in closets.

www.ljkolivabooks.com

Copyright © 2017 L.J.K. Oliva

All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Thank you for supporting the hard work of the author

by not participating in or encouraging the piracy of copyrighted materials.

Cover design by: L.J.K. Oliva

Smashwords Edition

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition, 2015

Second Edition, 2019

ljkolivabooks.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

