Page 44 of The Slug Crystal

My mouth tastes like I've been licking the bottom of an ashtray, and my tongue feels three sizes too large. As I attempt to roll over, my foot connects with something that clinks across the floor. It’s an empty wine bottle, scattering across the room like a fallen soldier after a particularly brutal battle.

"Oh god," I groan, pressing my palms against my temples as if I could physically contain the throbbing pain.

Fragments of last night float back to me through the haze.

Midnight in the kitchen, Ben's lips on mine, his hands exploring beneath my shirt, the cold marble counter against my thighs.

Then Marco's voice cutting through it all, his scholarly tone somehow making the interruption more mortifying.

Twenty minutes after leaving Ben, I snuck back downstairs to bring a new bottle of wine upstairs. To drink in my room. Alone .

I pull the pillow over my face, as if I could smother the memory along with myself. What was I thinking?

The answer is obvious. I wasn't. Between the stress of our failed witch-hunt and the complicated feelings brewing between all of us, my judgment has taken a vacation.

A soft knock at my door makes me jump, which sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through my stomach.

"Emma? You alive in there?" Jake's voice is gentle, concerned rather than judgmental.

"Debatable," I croak, reluctantly removing the pillow from my face. "Enter at your own risk."

The door opens slowly, and Jake's face appears, his own eyes slightly bloodshot but otherwise looking unfairly put together.

He's holding a glass of water in one hand and a bottle of aspirin in the other like offerings to a vengeful deity.

His light brown hair is damp from a shower, his blue eyes soft with sympathy.

"You look like I feel," he says, approaching the bed cautiously.

"Charming as always." I push myself into a sitting position, wincing at the effort. "Please tell me everyone else is as miserable as I am."

"Ben hasn't emerged from his room yet. Luca's wearing sunglasses indoors and talking in whispers. Marco's the only one functioning at full capacity, but even he's on his third espresso." Jake sits carefully on the edge of my bed, offering the water and pills. "Thought you might need these."

"You're a saint," I mutter, accepting both gratefully. I down two aspirin and half the water in one go, hoping they'll work quickly.

Jake's eyes drift to the wine bottle splayed across the floor. "You look like you also had quite a night."

"Something like that." I avoid his gaze, unsure how much he knows about my kitchen encounter with Ben. "I should probably never drink Italian wine again. "

"Luca says that's blasphemy in this country." A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "Punishable by more wine, apparently."

I groan, pressing the cool glass against my forehead. "No more wine. Not for at least... twelve hours."

Jake laughs, the sound gentle enough not to aggravate my headache. "I think the rest of us can agree after Luca made us all sample several wines while you slept after our swim yesterday. Think you can manage some breakfast? Or would you rather hide in here all day?"

The thought of facing everyone, especially Ben and Marco, makes my stomach clench. "Is hiding an actual option?"

"I was thinking we could escape for a bit," he suggests, his voice casual, though something in his expression feels more deliberate. "There's a museum in town that's supposed to be pretty good. Quiet. Air-conditioned. No reminders of last night's... activities."

The offer is tempting. Time away from the villa, away from the tension, away from the constant reminder of our failed quest. Just Jake and me, like it used to be before all this started.

"Give me fifteen minutes to make myself look less like a walking corpse?"

"Take your time." He stands, squeezing my shoulder briefly. "I'll be downstairs."

Once he's gone, I drag myself to the bathroom, confronting my reflection with a wince.

My eyes are bloodshot, dark circles beneath them making me look like I've gone ten rounds in a boxing match.

My chestnut hair is a tangled mess, sticking out in directions that defy gravity.

I splash cold water on my face, brush my teeth twice to banish the taste of stale wine, and attempt to tame my hair into a messy bun that I hope looks intentional rather than desperate.

Sunglasses are non-negotiable. I slide them on, instantly feeling slightly more human, if not exactly ready for a fashion runway. A loose sundress, sandals, and minimal makeup complete my I'm totally fine and not hideously hungover ensemble.

When I finally make my way downstairs, the villa is quiet except for the gentle clink of coffee cups from the kitchen.

I follow the sound, pausing in the doorway at the sight that greets me.

Marco sits at the island, reading glasses perched on his nose as he studies something on his tablet.

Alex's terrarium rests beside him, the blue snail exploring a fresh piece of cucumber.

Luca leans against the counter, sunglasses hiding his eyes, nursing what appears to be an espresso mixed with something stronger, if his wince when he takes a sip is any indication.

Ben is the last to notice me, his back turned as he rummages through the refrigerator. When he finally straightens and sees me, there's a flash of emotion in his green eyes, heat, memory, or maybe uncertainty, before he masks it with his usual easy smile.

"The dead walks," he announces, though his voice lacks its usual volume and cajoling tone.

"Speaking of the dead," Luca murmurs, raising his cup in a mock toast. "We drank all my uncle's best Barolo. I hope it was worth it."

I feel heat rise to my cheeks, unsure if he's referring to the wine itself or if he knows about Ben and I’s late night make-out session featuring a bottle of his uncle’s wine. Marco's eyes meet mine briefly over his glasses, his expression unreadable.

"I've been monitoring Alex's activity," Marco says, smoothly changing the subject.

"He seems particularly active this morning, despite the disturbances last night.

" He adjusts the terrarium slightly, ensuring it catches the perfect amount of light.

"I'm happy to continue my observations while you're out. "

"You're going somewhere?" Ben asks, his casual tone not quite hiding the interest beneath .

"Museum in town," Jake answers, appearing behind me with car keys in hand. "Getting some culture."

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Ben smirks, though there's something tight around his eyes.

"We won't be long," I say, taking a step back toward the door. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too crowded with memories and unspoken questions.

"Take your time," Marco says, his scholarly detachment firmly back in place. "Alex and I have much to discuss about the migratory patterns of gastropods."

I open my mouth to respond, then shut it, deciding against voicing my questions.

Jake's hand finds the small of my back. He exerts a gentle pressure, guiding me toward the exit. As we step outside into the merciless Italian sunlight, I feel like I can breathe properly for the first time since waking up.

"Ready for some art appreciation?" Jake asks, his voice light but his eyes searching mine with unspoken questions.

"More ready than you can possibly imagine," I reply, sliding into the passenger seat of Luca's borrowed car and leaning my pounding head against the cool window.

The villa disappears behind us as we wind down the cypress-lined driveway, and with it, temporarily at least, the complications I've left behind.

Tuesday, 8:45AM. The museum rises before us like a sanctuary of marble and glass, its pillared entrance promising cool relief from both the Italian sun and my emotional chaos.

Jake pays our entrance fee while I stand beneath the domed ceiling of the lobby, tilting my head back to admire intricate frescoes that swirl with mythological figures.

The immediate temperature drop inside soothes my fevered skin, and I can almost feel my headache beginning to retreat like an outgoing tide .

"Remind me to spend all future hangovers in Italian museums," I whisper to Jake as he rejoins me, museum map in hand.

"Noted," he says with a smile, unfolding the map with careful precision. "Though maybe we could also try not drinking an entire wine cellar next time."

I nudge him with my elbow. "Where's the fun in that? Also, I only had one bottle.” And two glasses before that. “You four drink most of that without me."

Jake just shakes his head at me in response.

Our footsteps echo against the polished marble floor as we wander into the first exhibition hall.

Glass cases display ancient artifacts, some hold pottery fragments, others bronze figurines, and quite a few contain jewelry tarnished by centuries.

Each item bears a detailed placard with information that might as well be hieroglyphics to us.

"Can you read any of this?" I ask, squinting at the Italian text through my sunglasses.

Jake leans close, his shoulder brushing mine as he examines the sign. "Absolutely," he declares with mock authority. "It says this bowl was used by Emperor Biggus Dickus to feed his favorite cat, Incontinentia."

A surprised laugh bursts from me. "Jake Martinez! Did you just make a Monty Python reference in an Italian museum?"

"I did, and I'm not sorry." His eyes crinkle at the corners, pleased to have made me laugh.

We move from display to display, inventing increasingly outlandish histories for each artifact.

A cracked amphora becomes "the world's first beer bong, used in secret Roman frat parties.

" A small bronze figure is "Lucio, the god of finding lost keys, worshipped primarily by the chronically forgetful. "