What the River Knows (Secrets of the Nile #1)

by Isabel Ibañez

That was the trouble with most magic-touched things. Any traces of the original spell cast were faint, fading slowly anytime it passed hands.

I took a step back, and his lips parted in surprise. His shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. He rolled my belongings a few inches forward, somehow not managing to hit the person in front of him waiting in line to board. The stranger with no name beckoned me with a crook of his finger. A surprised laugh burst from my lips. No, I mouthed. Yes, he mouthed back. He didn’t know me well enough to understand that once I’d made up my mind, there was no changing it. Mamá called it stubbornness, my tutors thought it a flaw. But I named it what it was: persistence. He seemed to recognize the decision on my face because he shook his head, alarm tightening the lines at the corners of his eyes. I spun around, melting into the crowd, not caring a fig about my things. Everything was replaceable, but this chance? It was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of opportunity. I snatched it with both hands.

“Stop trying to tell me what to do.” He walked around the bed and stood in front of me, a mischievous glint hidden in the deep well of his blue gaze. The subtle scent of smoky liquor on his breath swirled between us. “Would you rather I flirt with you?” His confidence, bordering on arrogance, must have come from having never been told no in his entire life. My expression remained unimpressed. “I wouldn’t bother.” “Right. You’re off-limits.” He smiled down at me, dimples bracketing his mouth like parentheses.

Mr. Hayes stared straight back at me. And he was furious. “Go, please! Yallah, yallah!” I yelled to the driver. “Rápido!” My transport lurched forward, the momentum pushing me backward. We moved quickly through the thickening traffic, making a turn and then another. I looked out the window, the breeze rustling my curls as my stomach dropped to my toes. Mr. Hayes was running after us. He nimbly dodged donkeys and carts, skirted around people crossing the street. When he cleared a tall stack of crates, I let out an impressed whistle despite myself. The man could hustle. It seemed no obstacle stood a chance against Mr. Hayes, even willful donkeys and stray dogs yipping at his heels. Miércoles.

Lol

He caught me staring. “Do I have something on my face?” I tapped my finger against my mouth. “I’m thinking.” Mr. Hayes waited. At last, it came to me. “You’ve dropped the cynicism.” “What?” He looked at me warily. “I’m not cynical.” I stepped closer to him, and he stiffened at my deliberate approach. “You’re not fooling me. Not even for a minute.” Mr. Hayes straightened away from me, and his demeanor changed with every subtle correction. Retreating behind the wall he used to keep the demons at bay. His tanned hand reached for his flask and pulled a long sip. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, darling,” he drawled. A smirk pulled at his mouth, his blue gaze became several degrees cooler.

At one point, he reached behind me and took hold of my hand. I looked down, stunned at the gesture. His calloused palm engulfed mine. It struck me that in the midst of such delightful pandemonium, he was a steady and calming presence. I walked past a storefront not unlike its neighbors, but a whisper of something reached me. A burst of energy enhanced by a supernatural element. It sizzled down my spine, made my fingers tingle. My body recognized the distinct flavor of the magic, filling my mouth with a taste of flowers. Mr. Hayes felt the vibration in my palm and immediately stopped. “What was that?”

“Why don’t you just sit there and look pretty and admire the surroundings?” I waited a beat, heart fluttering in my chest like a wayward butterfly. “You think I look pretty?” Mr. Hayes regarded me lazily, his eyes hooded. “You know you do, Señorita Olivera.” He said it so breezily, a compliment for all women everywhere. I wondered how he’d feel if someone gave it back to him. “Well, you quite turn my head. You’re so handsome.” His expression turned to one of profound wariness, as if I were a coiled snake about to pounce. “Thank you.”

“You have no idea, Mr. Hayes. How long were you in the military?” “Since I was fifteen.” “Do you have siblings?” “Two; I’m the youngest son.” “Fated to be a soldier.” I struck a nerve. The sharp line of his jaw hardened. “We seem to have strayed off topic,” he said. “I was telling you about Cleopatra. Unless you’d like to ask me any more invasive questions?” I’d learned enough. Mr. Hayes was the spare in his family, probably twice over if the wary bitterness that had crept in his eyes were any indication.

So he's royal?

I returned his smile, despite myself. A peculiar expression swept across his face. Impossible to decipher. His eyes darkened, and then he swooped down and brushed his mouth against my cheek. It was over and done with before I could say a word, before I could blink.

Dark curls framed her face, and a smattering of freckles peppered the bridge of her nose, her cheeks, her eyelids. I’d looked down into her changing eyes, green then brown then gold, eyes that held alchemical magic, and had one crystallized thought in mind. Oh, shit. It was absurdity that had made me lean down to kiss her. It was annoying to still feel the soft curve of her cheek, to remember her sweet scent swirling in my nose. Thank God she was leaving.

“If Cayo hadn’t lied to me, he would still be alive,” Tío Ricardo said in frustration. “He was a dishonest fool who knew better than to cross me when I want something.” He ducked his head, the line of his jaw hard and unforgiving. “This is all his fault.” “You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

“I think she was trying to pass the time. She seemed lonely.” That didn’t make sense. Mamá had been with my father; they were inseparable. “My mother was lonely?” Kareem nodded. “Your father studied his books a lot, or assisted with the planning. He was always off doing one thing or another. Left her by herself most of the time.” “Assisted who? My uncle?” Kareem nodded.

I tipped my head backward and looked up and met the amused blue gaze of Mr. Hayes. He folded his arms on the railing and his handsome features twisted in laughter, auburn hair gleaming like polished amber in the sunlight. “Did you swim all the way here, Olivera?” “Hilarious.” “It’s a pretty day for it, isn’t it?” “Mr. Hayes,” I said, spitting water, “I would greatly appreciate your assistance.” He examined his fingernails. “I don’t know. What’s in it for me?” “I thought you had scruples.” Without skipping a beat, he said dryly, “I only know how to spell the word.”

Lol

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said calmly. “Take a big breath.”

Mr. Hayes’s rough palm engulfed mine, his large shape curled around me. An unshakeable tether against the current. Sand billowed out and around as my lungs began to burn. I made to swim up toward the light, but Mr. Hayes held me in place, shaking his head. He cupped my face in his hands and gently pulled my head forward until our mouths met. Neither of us closed our eyes, and the contact rippled outward, an electrical current I felt in every corner of my body. Bubbles of air passed through his lips and into mine. The pressure in my chest decreased and I turned away, not wanting to take more from him. We waited for three more beats, our fingers interlocked, and then Mr. Hayes kicked off the sandy ground and we shot straight upward, his legs brushing against my own as he propelled us to the light.

He glowered at me and then began working the knot at my waist, his warm fingers brushing against me. Warmth pooled in my belly, flushed my cheeks. My mouth went dry, dryer than the golden sands surrounding us. He dipped his chin, focused on the knot, his face inches from mine. His blue eyes were lined with dark lashes, spiky with wet. A warm flush danced across my skin and I shivered. Mr. Hayes paused, raised his eyes to meet mine. It annoyed me that I found him handsome when I couldn’t trust him. I bit my lip, and he tracked the movement, his eyelids lowering to half-mast. Mr. Hayes’s expression softened, his gaze warm. “Are you really all right?”

“My God, it was you,” he said in a marveling tone. “Serving us dinner. I thought I smelled vanilla.” “What?” “Your soap,” he said, imperturbably. “I ought to have known. But I thought it impossible…” “You really ought to pay better attention to your instincts. They won’t lead you astray.”

“Let her stay,” Whit said. “I think she’s earned the right to be on the team.” I swung around to face him, my lips parting. He didn’t look in my direction. His attention remained focused on my uncle. “Have you lost all sense?” Tío Ricardo asked. “We can’t turn around, and you know it,” Whit said. “She figured out a way on board with no help from either of us; she just survived swimming in the Nile. She’s their daughter.”

His grave expression stole my breath. “I’m glad I made it to you in time,” he said softly. “Me too.”

And I don’t know what I should do. He is my brother. But he is a murderer.

And now the journal entry where my uncle had laid his hands on her. Hard enough to bruise. The truth was an iron fist around my heart, clenched tight. My uncle killed my parents.

I had too much to lose to place my faith in the wrong person. Mr. Hayes reported to my uncle, but there was a small part of me that wished he were on my team. That he would move heaven and earth to help see me through the mess I was in. Perhaps it was only loneliness that made me feel that way, but I suspected it was actually because I liked Whit, and I wanted him to like me back.

Terror gripped me in an icy hold. “What are you thinking about?” I blinked. “You had the most peculiar expression on your face,” Whit explained. For a moment, I was seized with a desire to tell him. To work through my suspicions, to not be alone anymore. But that would be reckless. I had no one I could turn to. I dodged the question by turning his attention somewhere else.

He tore his gaze away from Marcus Antonius. It occurred to me then how much Whit might identify with this soldier who had lived and fought and loved two thousand years earlier. A man who had turned against the land of his birth. Erased from his country’s memory and history, his accomplishments willfully forgotten.

“Nice scarf.” I swallowed painfully. “Gracias.” Whit walked off, joining my uncle and Abdullah in the other chamber. My pulse jumped in my throat. Did he suspect? Would he remember that it had belonged to my mother?

BRo he knows