by Julie Leto
Mariah tossed a bag onto the dirt beside him before she exited the airplane. “A little airsick?”
“Is that what you call it?” he asked.
She laughed and continued to unload. “Not everyone loves a bumpy ride. But we need to make this quick. Take our supplies over to that trail,” she said, pointing toward a thick line of trees. “I’ll take the plane into that hut of a hangar and get her secured.”
Rafe did as she instructed. The weight of the packs tempted him to use Rogan’s magic, but he resisted. After the second trip to the forest edge, hauling the supplies Mariah had insisted they’d need to reach the remote area where she’d dropped the coins, the sweat that soaked down his back and the pulling pain in his arms and neck invigorated him even as the effort exhausted him.
“Ready for another adventure?” she asked, carrying two bags on either shoulder when she joined him.
The moon overhead, a crescent of incredible brightness, threw a silver glow over the field and the adjacent forest. Rafe took a moment to breathe in the unfamiliar air and register the scents of verdant trees. The sun-baked earth beneath his boots seemed to drink in the moisture of the night. While the sensations of this place were completely unlike Valoren, they seeped into his blood and immediately became part of who he was.
He was Romani.
Gypsy.
One with the earth.
“Rafe?” she asked.
“This place has magic,” he decided.
“This place has you,” she replied, patting the bag where she kept Rogan’s marker. “And the stone. Where you go, magic goes.”
“No,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her close. “This is a new magic. One that may make Rogan’s evil sorcery utterly useless.”
Twelve
Rafe intended to explain to Mariah what he meant, but angry voices from the south spurred them to grab their things and thrash into the forest for cover. The trees and thick foliage provided an instant blind of shadow, blocking them from a half dozen men, dressed in what appeared to be nightclothes, running toward them with crude but still dangerous weapons. Long blades and thick broom handles. A rusted old rifle. They cursed and spat in a language Rafe had never heard before, but judging by the way Mariah curved tighter into an invisible ball and grabbed his hand to encourage him to do the same, they were not spouting salutations.
Only twenty paces into the brush, he and Mariah were invisible to their pursuers. Rafe caught his breath and squeezed Marian hand tighter, not surprised that her anxiety matched his own. He would use the magic if necessary, but he could not allow the constant pull of the evil sorcery to become second nature. His soul was already infected. Willful command of the dark powers would send him down a path more perilous than any in this foreign jungle.
Mariah remained perfectly still beside him. The slice and chop of the swords against the leaves and branches that surrounded them sent them scurrying farther into the foliage, abandoning their belongings. They ducked low to avoid exposure from flashlights, but after a quarter of an hour of searching, the incensed group seemed satisfied with their disappearance and went back in the direction they came.
He and Mariah waited another ten minutes just in case. Once the silence was filled with the buzzing, cawing and rustling of what Rafe assumed were the native animals, they retrieved their belongings and eased back onto the path.
“What language were they speaking?” he asked.
“Spanish, mostly,” she said, moving their packs around to equally distribute the load. Rafe grabbed a haversack she’d intended to take herself and slung it over his shoulder. “The dialect was hard to place, though. Around here, there are quite a few natives, descendants of the Mayans, whose coins I’m after. The plane is probably walkabout,” she grumbled. “There’s an outpost of sorts not too far from here. I bought supplies from them last time, and I paid a more than fair price, so they should be somewhat happy to see me.”
Clicking on the light she’d attached to her shoulder, she illuminated the narrow dirt alley that would lead them to their first destination. She started walking with surprising speed. Despite having flown for hours on very little sleep, despite the danger and uncertainty she’d faced over the past several days, Mariah’s voice hitched higher with excitement the deeper they went into the jungle. She was in her element—the uncertain and unknown.
Though the atmosphere quickly grew steamy and sweaty, Mariah kept up a steady pace. Unlike the dry forests of Valoren, this jungle hung on to moisture like a sponge, then dripped it onto his skin. They’d hiked for what Rafe guessed was over two miles when she finally declared they should stop for a rest and a drink.
She pulled out a canteen filled with cool water and offered him the first swig, which he declined. She drank greedily, swiped her mouth with her sleeve and then pressed the container into his hands. They did not speak. Between quenching their thirst and attempting to regulate their breathing, there wasn’t much energy left for chitchat.
At least, not for her. Rafe sat still, closed his eyes and listened to a heartbeat in the jungle that had nothing to do with the pounding in his chest. This place overflowed with magic. The farther into the wildness they wandered, the stronger it became. The sensation was familiar and yet utterly foreign. He had no idea whether proceeding would make Rogan’s dark magic stronger or, perhaps, defeat it altogether.
“The outpost is just down that slope,” she said, packing the water again and slugging it back into her bags.
Rafe grunted his understanding. It had been many years since he’d worked this hard. If, however, the slope proved farther than she thought, he’d call upon Rogan’s magic to, at the very least, conjure up a cart and horse.
As promised, the outpost, which consisted of a single thatch-roofed hut surrounded by a ramshackle fence that somehow managed to contain several asses, a half dozen snorting and snuffling pigs, nesting chickens and one loud, barking dog, was less than a ten-minute walk from where they’d rested. Mariah motioned for him to remain at the edge of the jungle. She draped the bag that contained the Valoren marker around his neck, and then proceeded toward the dwelling alone.
Only he knew that she had a pistol hidden in the waistband of her jeans, covered by the hem of a loose, long-sleeved shirt.
From the hut, a woman armed with a rifle emerged from behind the blanket that served as the door. Mariah held a stack of what she’d told him were twenty-dollar bills and spoke in the woman’s native tongue. The woman shouted over her shoulder for a compatriot, who came out and shone a light in Mariah’s face.
Seconds later, the rifle disappeared, the man whistled for the dog to quiet and the woman came out beyond the gate to talk with Mariah for a solid five minutes before money was exchanged and Mariah returned.
“Okay, we’ve got us a burro.”
“A what?”
She pointed to one of the asses. “We’ll move faster if we don’t have to carry all this stuff ourselves.”
“We keep traveling tonight?”
Mariah started arranging their bags so that the heavier items, like a supply of bottled water, would go with the beast. “There’s a river about a kilometer northeast of here. We’ll follow it until we’re safely away from any civilization, then set up camp. With old Pedro to do the heavy lifting, I can do most of the hiking tomorrow. Now that we’re here, it’s safer to travel in daylight. This jungle is on the edge of a preserve, so there’s a lot of wildlife. Not to mention natives who’d rather not be bothered by outsiders.”
In less than an hour, they were hiking down a slightly more traveled path. The deeper and denser the jungle became, the more invigorated Rafe was by his surroundings. Several times, he thought he caught glimpses of curious spirits trailing beside them, watching them, but by the time he turned his head, they were gone. As they walked, Mariah told him a bit about the natives of this area and their Mayan ancestors. His visions began to make sense.
“They understood magic,” he concluded, after hearin
g about their attitudes and rituals in regard to the land. Like his Gypsy forebears, the Mayans communed with the land they lived on, and in return, the earth showed them her secrets. Unlike the Romani, the Mayans did not wander. They did not comprehend the true nature of the conquistadors and were, therefore, destroyed. Of course, Gypsies never trusted the gadje, and the people of his village were just as dead.
“I don’t know much about Mayan beliefs about magic,” Mariah replied. “But I do know that while the people were highly advanced, they were also brutal and uncivilized.”
“Were they uncivilized or simply uncivil to their invaders?”
She chuckled. “Touché. Don’t get me wrong. I find the whole Mayan culture fascinating. I don’t know much about them beyond what Velez told me, though.”
“And yet you steal their… what is the word? Artifacts?”
“They’re not exactly around anymore to protest, are they?”
He held his tongue. They were here. And closer than she believed.
“I was just doing my job,” she continued.
“A job that is not legal,” he pointed out.
With a snicker, she hacked away at what must have been a particularly thick vine. “I can’t believe I’m getting an ethics lesson from a Gypsy,” she muttered.
Rafe smiled. “So my people still have a negative reputation among the gadje?”
“Mostly earned,” she insisted. “I’ve known quite a few Gypsies in my lifetime, and I couldn’t trust a single one.”
He adjusted one of the straps that had been digging painfully into his shoulder. “There aren’t many people you trust, Mariah Hunter. I doubt Gypsy blood makes any difference.”
She stopped. The ass—or burro, as she called it—halted and shook his head in protest of the break in his steady pace. She quieted the animal with a gentle hand on his neck.
She then turned on him with those guarded amber eyes.
“I trust you,” she said.
He stepped nearer to her. “Have you any choice? As long as you continue to possess the stone, you possess me. Our interactions are inescapable.”
“Nothing is inescapable,” she countered.”You’ve told me yourself that you have this evil entity inside of you because of the magic that traps you. Just a few nights ago, you went bonkers in a thunderstorm, but I didn’t run from you, did I? I ran to you. I helped you. If that doesn’t say trust, then I don’t know what does.”
The burro shuffled impatiently. Mariah turned and, with the animal’s bridle in her hand, continued to press forward.
Rafe lagged behind, mulling over her words and considering how, yet again, Mariah Hunter had utterly surprised him. Though cagey and suspicious by nature, she’d taken him and his wild story as truth. By coming here with him, she was risking her livelihood—her very life—on the belief that his story was true. And yet, she still erected walls around her emotions like no other woman he’d ever met—walls he suddenly wanted very much to scale.
As she’d predicted, they came upon a river soon afterward. Mariah bent down and took a sniff of the water before splashing her face, hands and neck. Rafe joined her. The night was hot and the air sultry. He was surprised when the ass refused to drink, and he tried to coax the animal to the water’s edge.
“He’ll drink when he’s thirsty,” she told him. “Burros are accustomed to this heat and humidity. We’re going to stay near the water for a while. He’ll be okay.”
“We’ll camp here?”
Mariah focused her light up the path and frowned. “This is a little too exposed for my tastes. If we go upstream about”—she consulted her map—”a quarter mile, I think we’ll be better off. Up for more hiking?”
Rafe readjusted the pack. “Lead the way.”
The river rushing beside them provided a natural music like none Rafe had ever heard. The water in Valoren had come from a spring in the mountains, which flowed down into slim streams that swelled only with the winter melt. He’d never seen a body of water quite as large as this, and upon admitting this to Mariah, she told him about the nearby Gulf of Mexico.
“Like an ocean,” he said. “My brothers were all born in England. They loved the ocean and often spoke of its hypnotic ebb and flow.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve never seen any body of water beyond the springs of Valoren.”
“You’ve missed out.” They’d left the path, and now Mariah hacked through undergrowth with a sword much like the ones carried by the villagers who’d greeted them at the airstrip, which she called a machete. “The gulf is warm, not cold like the Atlantic, which is what your brothers would have known. And the beaches here in Mexico and Florida—they can be as white as snow, with not a rock in sight. And the color—I don’t even know if I can describe it. It can be the most amazing shade of aquamarine, somewhere between a blue and a green, depending on its mood.”
Rafe stilled her hand when she moved to chop through another layer of thick, verdant leaves. The longing in her voice spawned an emotional rush he could not resist. He needed to touch her, if only for a moment, to gauge whether he alone experienced a renewed pull of attraction.
“Sounds amazing,” he said.
Entirely aware of the state of them—tired, hungry, smelling of sweat, donkey and something she’d called bug spray—Rafe couldn’t resist the instantaneous sizzle of his skin against hers. For a fleeting moment, an irrepressible yearning coursed through her. Was it from her description of the Gulf of Mexico or from his touch?
“Don’t,” she said.
“Don’t what?”
“Touch me,” she said, though she made no move to jerk out of the contact.
“Why?”
“My hands are dirty.”
“Your entire body is dirty, as is mine.”
The moon broke through the branches laced above their heads. Rafe spotted a smudge of dirt across Mariah’s nose. He’d have wiped it clean if his hands weren’t just as covered by dark grime and perspiration. And yet, the thought of not touching her simply because of the filth of a long and tiring night seemed vain and superficial. He’d gone so long without so much as accidentally brushing against her. He had not realized until now how his body ached for contact with hers.
“We’ll wash once we make camp,” she said, pulling out of his reach.
Her gaze dipped to the ground as her tongue swiped softly over her lips. A sudden breeze, ripe with attraction, blew off her body.
“You’ve labored long enough,” he said, taking the long-bladed knife from her grasp. “Allow me.”
Their hands touched, and just before she pulled away, he experienced a hint of hunger emanating from her skin. She wanted him as he wanted her—with no magic driving them except the natural allure of the dark and dangerous jungle.
He chopped down with the machete, amazed at how the sharp blade sliced through thick branches as if cutting through a single sheet of parchment. He led the way, entirely aware of Mariah following close behind, not from the muffled clop of the donkey’s hooves on the loamy ground, but from the wave of trepidation following behind him.
Mariah was not fearful of the jungle or the darkness. The man who’d threatened her life did not intimidate her, and the thieves who’d stolen into her hotel room barely gave her pause.
But Rafe—he frightened her to the core.
Thirteen
The sound of the rushing water was too irresistible to ignore.
“This way,” Mariah said, grabbing the machete from Rafe’s hand. A jolt of desire shot through her the minute their skin made contact. If she didn’t know how his reluctance to use Rogan’s magic had resulted in his carrying heavy bags far into the Mexican jungle, she might have suspected that he was using the sorcerer’s powers to enchant her.
But he wasn’t. She knew it, just as she knew that she would not be able to go another night without making love with him, especially out here in the hot, sticky wilderness after she’d removed her clothes and bathed in the freshwater o
f the Usumacinta River, which ran through this corner of Chiapas. Fed by mountain springs of the Sierra Madres, the waterway mingled with the flow from the Pasión River in nearby Guatemala.
The irony did not escape her.
With one determined slice, she opened a wall of vines that led into a small clearing. She stepped aside so that Rafe could get the full effect.
His gasp broke through the night sounds of the jungle. She dropped the bag and unhooked the light she’d attached to her shoulder, her entire body drinking in the unmapped waterfall.
It wasn’t high. The rock formation was only about a story or two above them, but the water flow was intense down the center, causing a delicious mist of freshwater to float in the soft jungle breeze. Along the edges, the tide was stemmed by a tangle of vines popping with bright pink night-blooming buds that swelled under the constant current. Under the light of the half-moon, the water sparkled as if the crests were embellished with diamonds. The effect stole her breath, as it had his.
Mariah stepped to the edge and peered into the pool that cradled the waterfall’s offering before the rapid churning pushed the water into the river. To the left, however, the water was calm, trapped still by an outcropping of rocks. She flashed her light into the tranquil water. Rocks worn round by erosion sparkled up at her. Kneeling, she slipped her hand into the billabong and cooed at the cool sensation against her skin.
Unable to resist, she ripped off her shirt and tossed it aside. She heeled out of her boots, yanked off her jeans and then touched one bare foot into the water. The rocks were slippery, and she might have lost her footing if Rafe hadn’t steadied her.
“Careful,” he said warningly, cupping her elbows.
She glanced over her shoulder. His dark, long hair curtained eyes that sparkled with hunger. His chest heaved even as his strong hands braced her against a fall.
“You have a habit of saving me from falling,” she said.
“ ‘Tis my pleasure, my lady,” he answered huskily. “Gives me reason to touch you.”