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“Take out two Al-Saboors?” Neil returned in a hiss, ducking down a bit as he heard the voices of the pair of thugs rise in another exchange below.

“Connie?” a new voice called out from across the salon.

Julian Forster-Mowbray stood at the top of the stairs, his profile gilded by one of the low-burning lanterns. His expression shifted from confusion to dismay as his gaze moved to Neil. “But what are you doing here? Withhim?”

Constance straightened as she faced him. “I am sorry, Julian. But needs must.”

“Needs must what?” Julian pressed back. “I thought we had anunderstanding!”

Constance rolled her eyes. “I was using an established method of interrogation!” she retorted. “It’s nothing personal. Just a classic case of espionage.”

“Espionage?” Neil echoed with skeptical surprise.

“Be quiet, Stuffy!” Constance retorted crossly.

Julian’s expression hardened. “I see,” he said tightly. “Then I suppose I am sorry as well.”

He reached down to snatch something from the coffee table nearby. Neil vaguely recognized the leather bundle as a belt and scabbard.

“If you’ll forgive us, we’d prefer not to overstay our welcome.” Constance held out her dagger in one hand. With the other, she shoved Neil back until the low railing bumped against his thighs.

Holding the tablet to his chest, Neil looked down over the back of the boat.

The Al-Saboor below him—a third who had joined the original pair—flashed him a gap-toothed grin and waggled his sword in a friendly wave.

Neil jolted back upright, his heart leaping into his throat as the railing pressed into the back of his legs.

“Connie, please be reasonable,” Julian pleaded. “I’m sure we can talk this through! We’re going to be married!”

“When did I ever give you the impression that I was going to marry you?” Constance retorted with a note of exasperation.

“But why wouldn’t you?” Julian returned, obviously bewildered. “My grandfather was a duke!”

“Nobody cares!” Constance shot back.

Julian’s expression hardened, and he set his hand to the bone-white hilt protruding from his scabbard. “I’m afraid I can’t let you make off with my tablet.”

“I’m not asking for your permission,” Constance asserted stoutly.

She shifted into a posture of dangerous readiness that reminded Neil of his recent encounter with the floor, and he realized this was very likely going to end in a fight—one that he was utterly unqualified to take part in.

Then the official representative of the British Athenaeum for Egyptological studies pulled out his weapon—and Neil’s world tipped upside-down.

In the space of a breath, his scholarly brain automatically registered that the sword his former employer now held in his hand was an excellent example of Anglo Saxon iron twist welding.

His scholarly brain stopped registering things as the sword burst alight with a whirl of blue flame.

Constance raised her dagger. Julian stepped forward. The flickering glow of his patently supernatural weapon danced over the gleaming surface of the bar and drew Neil’s eyes up to something that loomed in the rafters above him.

He found himself staring up into the leering yellow grin of a ten-foot-long crocodile.

When he lowered his gaze again, it halted on the even more terrifying sight of Mr. Jacobs.

He stood at the top of the stairs, a gloom-shadowed presence behind Julian’s shoulder. He did not look cross or even particularly determined. His expression was rather one of tired exasperation as he took in the scene—and pulled a pistol from the flap of his coat.

Clasping the cuneiform tablet to his chest, Neil felt his options wink out, one after the other, until only a single possible course of action remained.

He hated absolutely everything about it.