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Wings, she realized with a distant and terrible shock. It had sounded very much like wings.

?

Thirty

As Adam set backout with the caravan that morning, the atmosphere was decidedly grim. Word had spread about last night’s attack. Bones, the foreman, had ordered Pacheco, Ram, and three of their companions to dig a pair of graves for the bodies of the slaughtered men.

It had been tough work. The ground was root-bound and rocky. Adam had picked up a pickax and strode in to help, Staines’s muttering complaints be damned.

He’d spent another ten minutes after that trying to scrub the blood from his shirt, and failing. He’d finally just thrown the ruined garment in the river and let the current take it.

It had been Aurelio Fajardo, of all people, who had given Adam a replacement. The muleteer tossed a spare at him as Adam walked past the corral. The shirt was a bit short in the arms—but since when had Adam bothered to wear his sleeves down?

Aurelio had answered Adam’s thanks with a disapproving grunt as he turned his attention back to his animals.

The delay imposed by the burials meant that the caravan didn’t get rolling until nearly half past nine. Bones drove them at a harder pace to try to make up some of the time. The men endured it in taciturn silence.

The ground grew steeper and rockier, wending along the ridge as they progressed. The air was thick, and the sky grayed with haze. The air remained thick and humid, despite the fact that they were gradually working their way to higher ground.

As the expedition halted for lunch, Adam eyed the rocky ledge that rose beside them and curved toward the south.

“I’m going to climb to the ridge,” he announced.

Staines startled.

“What do you want to do that for?” he protested. “There is perfectly nice ground right here.”

“I know,” Adam agreed—with feeling—as he eyed the high, steep slope. “But I should probably make sure we’re actually going where I think we are.” He shot a wry glance over at the guard. “Didn’t say you had to follow me.”

“Of course, I don’t have to follow you, you crazy bakra,” Staines retorted. “I could just shoot you instead.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Staines.”

Adam turned toward the source of the reply.

Jacobs stepped from the trees.

Unlike Dawson, Jacobs hadn’t purchased a special wardrobe for their trip into the bush. He wore sturdy boots and plain trousers with a shirt and waistcoat that would have looked perfectly acceptable on a London street.

Also unlike Dawson, Jacobs was not perpetually covered in sweat.

“Your rifle,” Jacobs ordered, extending his arm to Staines without taking his eyes off Adam.

Staines handed Jacobs the gun without hesitation, eyeing him a bit like he might look at a tiger on an unreliable leash.

Jacobs swung the rifle over his shoulder and let it hang there. That he didn’t bother to point it at Adam felt remarkably like an insult.

“Lead the way,” Jacobs said, gesturing them up.

They climbed in silence. Adam supposed it was better than being forced to maintain a conversation. He focused on the landscape instead, picking out the most likely path up the steeply rising ground.

Which was fine—as long as all he did was look up.

Jacobs was barely breathing any harder, even when Adam’s route required them to scramble over the rocks, using both hands and feet to haul themselves upwards. The real boss of the expedition was clearly nothing like the soft, red-faced Dawson. Wherever Jacobs had come from, it was a place that bred men of a different ilk than his complaining, hive-stricken partner.

The man wasn’t doing a damned thing but following in Adam’s wake, and he somehow still made it feel threatening.

“I gather you agreed to assist the professor with securing the artifact,” Jacobs said.