After a week I'm itching to get going. I'll feel better once we have all of this behind us. I think I'll feel better just walking among cities long dead. Living cities are sometimes too much for me. I worry about withdrawals, but it's not as bad as it was coming down from the painkillers after my leg was broken. Sam has the same worries, since she watches me like a hawk.
I spend most of my time in my father's study, poring over my notes and his notes and his journal. I need to know if there are easier ways to interrupt the transference ritual. And I need to know if there's a way to draw the power out of something without pulling a soul out, too. Because I have some suspicions about Sam that I haven't yet voiced to her and can barely stand to voice to myself. I hope I'm wrong, but I want to be prepared in case I'm not. I can't lose Sam to something that happened nearly three years ago. Three years that sometimes feels like just a fortnight ago.
There are several numbers that keep coming up in our combined research. My father kept finding one-hundred and eight. I've seen a lot of seven, and thirteen. Seven of course is a very common number among many religions and cultures, and thirteen has it's own significance. One-hundred eight is less well known but pretty important in some parts of the world as well. I think there are seven skulls, thirteen powerful artifacts, and one hundred and eight all told. Combining the theories actually solves several issues I have with them when they're separate.
I'm scribbling down my new theory when a pair of bare legs obstructs my view as Sam sits on the desk. She's wearing incredibly short shorts and a tight t-shirt. I admire her before I look up at her face. "Can I help you?"
"Get your nose out of your books, we're going out." She has this determined look on her face, but I open my mouth to protest anyway. It'll be a losing battle, I already knowm but I have to put up a token resistance or she'll think she can get away with anything.
"I'm working! I think I have a theory about the artifacts and I need to get it down."
She whips out an envelope and waves it in the air. "Blood test came in! We're going to celebrate you being healthy as a horse!"
I grab it out of her hands. It's already been opened, of course, but I want to see it with my own eyes. I sink into my chair with a relieved sigh as a weight in my stomach lightens. "Oh thank god. You have no idea..."
"I don't?" She leans forward, which gives me an amble view down her shirt. "You keep waking up, you haven't been eating well…"
"That happened after Yamatai too," I point out, her fingers on my ear distracting me. "But I'm adjusting much faster, thanks to you and Winston."
"He's Ticket Jesus. He got our trip to Cairo taken care of while you were in here geeking out. We're taking a boat, and I know you want to get there quickly but I think Shaw'll be expecting us to go by plane, and Soraya knows a person who knows a person so we're taking a boat and the bastard won't even know we're gone until we've already swept in under his nose!"
I stare at her incredulously, trying to make sense of all that. "And how is taking a boat that'll take an extra week going to ensure we get anywhere first?"
"Because you're a genius and we both know Shaw doesn't know where exactly to look." And from the expression on her face she thought I knew where to look. I didn't, really, but I don't disabuse her from the notion. I need to get there first before I could figure out what direction to head in.
"And this has nothing whatsoever to do with any desire to sun yourself on deck? You realize it might be a little chilly until we get closer to Cairo right? You'll freeze your toes off."
She laughs, and it raises my spirits. "Hey, that's only a bonus! I'm taking this seriously, you know. Now finish writing your thingie and put on something a little more revealing."
I indulge her, because this is her way of coping. I enjoy our night out too.
It feels like blasphemy when I step onto the deck of a ship that's not Roth's, but here we are. I'm dragging three gigantic suitcases behind me, mostly filled with Sam's things. This explains the boat, she didn't want to make the airliner crash from her luggage. These things weigh a ton. It's like she's packed for a world tour!
Sam has her camera out and is filming everything. I stash our things and come onto deck to watch her. She's stronger than I am, or maybe she's just more resilient. Either way, she has my back and that means everything to me.
Most of the faces are unfamiliar. I spot Soraya talking to a broad-shouldered man, then decide I need a better view. I want to see everyone. So I effortlessly scramble up to the top of the wheel house, and then plop myself down. Winston said there is a crew of twelve, plus the two of us and Soraya.
The man she's talking to is tall, with wide shoulders, dark skin and a weathered face. He has a jacket covered in patches. I crane my neck to see what flag we're flying since he has about three dozen on his jacket. Ghana. The Four Winds is well taken care of and seems pretty new, or at least she has been recently refitted.
The rest of the crew comes and goes as supplies are loaded. We're really just hitching a ride as little more than well-paying cargo. I plan to stay out of the way and let them do their jobs. And keep Sam from getting in the way too much too. I grimace. She probably packed some skimpy suits for us, like this is some kind of holiday. It's cold enough to consider a long-sleeved shirt, but that probably won't stop her when we're farther south.
Of the twelve crew, three are women. One makes her way into the wheel house, and I catch her eye as she walks past. She's short, shorter than Sam and with lighter skin, but stocky. She has this gorgeous auburn hair and a pleasant smile.
Most of the crew is about what I expected. I doubt even half of them are from the same country and they all look experienced. While I don't think we'll sail into any storms, it's still a good feeling. I watch them work, and before long England disappears over the horizon and there's adventure ahead.
We're three days into the trip when I get up early in the morning, thinking I can get my exercises out of the way before anyone else is up. Our cabin is tiny and cramped, but I've slept in worse. Sam's not in bed, and as I come out from below decks I see why. She's lounging on the bow next to Soraya, and they're both wearing swimsuits that really ought to be illegal. When I see Soraya slathering lotion on Sam I decide that's quite enough and nearly storm over. But I change my mind. I can trust her.
But I can't trust the mercenary and maybe I need to remind Sam of what she has before I throw Soraya overboard, though Sam would probably suggest we wrestle in jello. I try to get that mental picture out of my mind as I change back in the cabin, because it really doesn't serve any use and is incredibly inappropriate.
My own suit is a lot more modest. I'm not fond of showing off the scar on my stomach. Or very many of my scars for that matter. They're my memories, and they're Sam's territory. I know that sounds a little crazy but each scar is associated with a memory. Once they'd been terrible memories, but over time and a lot of work on Sam's part, I've started to associate them with good memories. The sound of her breathing, the smell of her hair and the feel of her fingers tenderly stroking as we drift off to sleep.
So I wear a one piece, and stride out onto deck, realizing it's a little chilly as I do but it's too late now. I'm pleased to notice Sam turning around and staring. She pulls her sunglasses down, gaping a little as I drop gracefully down next to her.
"Oh my god you're actually wearing it!"
"Well I can't compete with the two of you," I tell her, stretching and reaching for the lotion. I give Soraya a hard look and she smirks back at me. Sam looks between us and then rolls her eyes. She hands Soraya a wad of cash and I squint at them and wonder when they'd made that bet.
Soraya is… well she's stunning. She's less marked up than I am when it comes to scars, but there are colorful tattoos running up her back and around her left hip and thigh in a myriad of patterns. She's lean and muscular, and I suddenly understand Sam's fixation on my abs. Sam, who just caught me staring and has this triumphant look on her face. I glower and then get up. This was a stupid idea, I don't know what I was thinking, but I never could stand to watch her flirt with people. Especially as we're likely to draw an audience at some point and I really don't want a bunch of sailors offering to rub things on me.
"Lara…" Sam catches my hand and I look into her eyes. Trust me, they tell me. "Relax. Please. In a week we're going to be lost in the desert, probably getting shot at."
"Romantic," Soraya quips, leaning back and closing her eyes. I can't help another glare in her direction, but Sam moves into my view and I feel a little sheepish.
"You're cute when you're jealous, but you don't have to be.." She kisses me before I can deny it. I still can't believe this gorgeous, glamourous woman wants to be with me, so I feel a little threatened when someone is hitting on her. I'm not sure what's worse - a man or a woman. A man because she might decide she wants to go back to that, or a woman because I'm supposed to be her woman.
I get to my feet, picking her up and throwing her over my shoulder, patting her on the rear as I carry her back below decks. She kicks her legs and laughs. I trust her with my heart but a little reminder never hurts. I hear someone catcall, but I don't care.
Sam is beautiful. I know the word in a half-dozen languages and none of them really do her justice. Her hair is this amazing mixture of soft and shiny, and her skin is like touching silk. It doesn't take much to get that bikini off of her and onto the cabin floor. I push her down onto the tiny bed and worship her with my hands and with my lips. I drink in the taste of her and let the sound of her voice lodge itself deep inside of me.
Just a few weeks ago I'd hurt her. The bruises are mostly gone from her throat, but as we lay there recovering, I fixate on her neck. There are two places I really like to kiss when we lay like this. Her shoulder is one, and her neck is the other, but I'm afraid to. My hand inches up towards her throat, brushing the delicate skin there. I feel her stiffen and yank my hand away, but she catches my wrist and pulls my hand back to her neck. She holds it there, shivering against me slightly, and I press my lips against the skin of her shoulder.
Baby steps. Little strokes and caresses. Just like a scar.