by Lisa Kessler
Reaching his destination, he reached out with a shaky hand to touch the cold stone of the pyramid. He had forgotten the beauty of his ancient world. The artisans and architects had worked together to bring their culture to life. None of them would have believed the architecture would outlive the civilization.
Once more seeing his home, touching his past, overwhelmed Issa. His chest ached, and a single crimson tear slid down his cheek as his fingertips traced over the ancient carvings.
Wiping away the tear, he swallowed the tightness in his throat, straightened his shoulders, and made his way inside the pyramid to the gathering place.
Deep inside the hidden catacomb, he found the Guardian. The torchlight flickered, casting long shadows on the walls around them.
“The God of the West is the first to answer the call.” The Guardian’s deep voice echoed through the chamber. “It is good to see you again.”
Issa bowed his head slightly, greeting the massive sentry who he and his immortal brothers created using blood and magic. “My brothers have not arrived?”
“Yes, we have,” a voice answered before the Guardian could reply.
Kan. He’d know that voice anywhere. Issa spun around to find the God of the East.
“My brother, Ik, God of the West.” He crossed the room and embraced Issa. “It has been a long time.”
“It has.” He released Kan, taking a step back. “In the desert where I live, I took the name Issa. It means god saves.”
His brother met his gaze. “Issa it is, then. I hope we can all live up to that name.”
Issa nodded and turned as the God of the South rounded the corner, a smile on his face that added light to the chamber. Issa embraced him. “Cauac, my brother.” Issa stepped back, his dark eyes on his brother’s hair. “I forgot how pure the color red could be.”
Cauac laughed with a grin so typical of him, in spite of the impending danger. “No one has called me Cauac in a millennia. Call me Colin.” He added in a conspiratorial whisper, “and on the isle I chose to call home, my hair color is not so unique.”
“You have been living on an island?” Issa inquired.
Colin nodded. “In Ireland.” He tilted his head toward the blond God of the East. “And our brother Kan is now Kane Bordeaux, a businessman extraordinaire in Paris, complete with a stunning immortal bride. A few years ago, I started searching for all of you. Kane is the only one I could find.”
Issa turned to Kane. “You made another?” His shoulders tensed.
Kane’s eyes narrowed in response. “My life in Paris will remain far from this place. She has no part in our pact with the Guardian. I intend to keep it that way.”
Colin laughed, breaking the mounting tension. “Our brother who used to fight first and ask questions later now lives like a prince, Issa.”
Kane shook his head. “Colin finds my lifestyle amusing.”
“Colin finds most things amusing, no?” Issa felt a tug at the corner of his mouth. A smile, foreign to his lips after countless years alone.
Their shared laughter eased the burden weighing on Issa’s shoulders, but not the ache in his heart. His brothers lived in the modern world.
Why had he assumed they’d kept to the shadows as he did?
Grinding his teeth together, he turned to the Guardian. “Where is Mulac?”
The Guardian kept his focus forward. “I do not know.”
The smile faded from Colin’s face. “We cannot contain the Demon without all four of us. She must be banished by North, South, East, and West.”
Kane’s jaw clenched. “Surely he heard the Guardian’s call as we did. He must know she has awakened.”
The Guardian crossed his large arms over his chest. “And already she feeds.”
“What?” Kane frowned. “Impossible. She is still imprisoned in the earth.”
“Yes,” the Guardian’s deep voice rumbled. “Yet her power increases. She is drinking in human death once more. I can feel it. She has grown stronger during the thousand years she’s slept.”
Kane shook his head, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. This was the hot-headed brother Issa remembered.
“How can she feed when she cannot walk among the living?” Kane asked. “She cannot take in blood.”
The Guardian’s emotionless gaze fell heavily onto Kane. “It was never the blood that fed her.”
“What?” Issa interrupted, his pulse racing. He’d seen the Demon feed all those years ago, watched her voraciously drink the life out of hundreds of mortals without ever quenching her thirst. The Demon had earned the name Camalotz as sure as she had brought about the end of the Mayan race.
“She drank the blood, but it was the mortal life that fed her,” the Guardian replied. “It is the spirit, the life force of her victims, that grants her power. Not the blood.”
“Regardless, how can she hunt without walking the earth?” Issa asked.
The Guardian remained silent for a moment. “She does not need to hunt. Death feeds her now. Human death.”
Chapter Four
As soon as the sun came up, Gretchen got back to work. Of course, Lukas was already gone. Typical. She wrapped a band around her long tresses, without taking her attention off of her notations. Once her hair was off of her neck, she grabbed her pen, jotting another note in her notebook. She shook her head with a disgruntled sigh.
Missing a piece of the puzzle drove her nuts.
With a huff of frustration, she left the tent. Swatting at the hungry mosquitoes, she pushed her way through the thick foliage. The morning air already felt heavy on her shoulders, stifling, but she hardly noticed. Her mind raced with possibilities of translations for the last Mayan glyph. But before she made any real determinations, she needed to get back to the site of the small altar, to see it and feel its energy.
She climbed over the rough terrain with the grace of a dancer, never stumbling over the large exposed tree roots and ducking under vines before they tangled around her. She had always been nimble and agile. As a child, her relatives had hoped she might become a gymnast, but she loved the outdoors far too much to stay inside a gym and practice.
She used to love camping with her father. Summers of fishing and hiking filled her memories. He’d been the one to instill a love of adventure in her heart. As she moved through the dense foliage, she caught herself humming the lullaby he’d always sang to her. His sudden death five years ago had been such a shock. He would’ve loved this jungle.
Gretchen pushed the thought from her mind as she neared the site. She wiped the sweat from her brow and took a deep breath. The heat and humidity in the air intensified here. The closer she got to the altar, the heavier the tropical heat felt, until it almost seemed malicious.
Of course, that was impossible. The scientist in her could find many scientific explanations for the change in air quality. For one, the crevice carved deep into the earth probably tapped into an underground hot spring; the sulfur smell surrounding her was common beneath the tropical soil. The stench may have been part of the reason the site remained undiscovered until now. Though, a more superstitious person might believe they teetered on the bowels of Hell.
The altar’s ominous aura made Gretchen itch to run away.
Sweat dripped into her eyes while she knelt at the edge of the hole, examining the glyphs around the opening. Hot air puffed up into her face from the center of the earth, like something below was…breathing.
Chuckling at her overactive imagination, Gretchen sat down in the dirt, her brow furrowed as she leaned over for a closer look. She started to jot down a note, when the back of her neck tingled. Slowly, her gaze moved from the glyph to the blackness of the hole, and in that one moment, she felt sure something looked back at her from the depths of the pit below. Even a faint thump of a heartbeat seemed to echo up to her ears.
Gretchen’s breath caught in her throat, and she struggled to get back onto her feet. Perspiration poured down her face, but she didn’t take time to wipe it away. I
nstead, she clutched her notepad and ran.
No matter how quick her strides, she still felt that breath on the back of her neck, something stalking her. Terror dug its claws into her heart until she couldn’t force herself to check back over her shoulder.
Branches sliced into her arms. She shielded her eyes and plowed forward, through the thick jungle toward the tent. Her inner voice screamed not to slow her pace. Whatever chased her was hungry, and it was closing in. Suddenly her boot slid in the moss of an exposed root and she stumbled, her hands scraping along the ground as she scrambled to stay on her feet, to keep running.
Breathless, she burst through the door of the tent frame, covered in sweat and shivering at the same time. Gretchen reached for the flare gun and pointed it at the door. Keeping her arms outstretched, she fought to steady her trembling hands and waited. Her chest heaved, but she didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
Something lurked out there. Even if she couldn’t see it, she could feel it.
And it was pure evil.
Hal woke up hot all over, which wasn’t altogether odd for a resident of Brownsville, Texas in the summer, but this heat came from within, a ball of fire in his belly. He felt stronger today, like he had a real purpose, like he wasn’t just a no-name teller in a nondescript cubical at a nothing job at the credit union.
He stepped out of the shower and dried off. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he realized he was humming. He’d never been much of a music buff and wasn’t one of those people who sang and whistled their days away. Strange. But it was nice.
He shrugged it off and wiped the steam from the mirror. He looked good today, not the middle-aged beaten-down man he saw in the mirror last night, but a virile, strong leader.
A man with a higher purpose.
Yes, that was it.
He opened the medicine cabinet, still humming as he reached for his electric shaver. But his fingers dipped lower, and instead, he picked up his old razor. Turning it in his fingers, he saw rust on the blade. That would never do.
No, he needed the blade to be sharp. Very sharp.
A voice he didn’t recognize whispered deep inside his mind. Your blood can make you free.
Freedom. Yeah, that was what he felt: the power to free himself.
Hal rummaged through the vanity drawers when he realized what he was humming. The Doors. Did he even own any of their albums? He didn’t think so, but somehow “Break On Through” was stuck in his head.
The other side, he scoffed to himself. Yeah, right.
But the longer he searched through his wife’s toiletries, the more the song started to make sense. Hell, everything made sense now. He slammed the drawers shut with an angry growl.
Dammit, this is my bathroom, too! Can’t she keep her fucking things in one drawer? Does she have to use them all? What’s wrong with her?
He bent down and ripped open the bottom drawer of the vanity, oblivious to the sweat that now streamed from his body. He needed his goddamned razor blade. He couldn’t even remember why anymore, only that he needed it. Hal rummaged around, and the more intense his rage became, the louder he hummed, until he finally found it.
“Fucking miracle,” he declared as he stood.
“Hal?” Carol stuck her head inside of the bathroom. “Are you all right?”
He spun around to face her, his pulse pounding through his veins as he nodded. “Yeah, just looking for my razor blades.” He opened the package, and realized he had an incredible erection. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you’re in here humming and cussing like a sailor,” she said with a smirk, her gaze slowly running over his body.
He wanted to wipe the smile right off her face. Who was she to judge him? And then he remembered his purpose.
Hal grabbed a handful of his wife’s hair and jerked her into the bathroom, slitting her throat from ear to ear before she could even scream. Blood spewed forth, turning her faded pink robe instantly crimson.
Red had always been her color.
Hal watched her blood pour from her body and recognized the terror and disbelief in her eyes. Poor Carol. She just didn’t understand.
He was setting her free.
He bent to kiss her lips and whispered, “See you on the other side.”
He dropped her to the floor, and without hesitation, slit his own throat. Pain shot through his entire body, but he smiled as he slid to the ground beside his dying wife. Yes, he did have a purpose today. Freedom.
Waves of heat rose up from the sidewalk. Alma wiped her brow and kept walking toward the church. The Mexican town of Matamoros was no stranger to heat—tropical, stifling heat—but this felt different. At barely eight-thirty in the morning, the sun already smothered her. Between its rays beating down on her from above and the steam coming up in waves from the sidewalk, nature’s oven surrounded her, inescapable.
The skyline of Brownsville, Texas shimmered like a mirage in the distance. Only the Rio Grande River separated the two countries, and a bridge connected them. Her church stood near the bridge but the walk had never felt longer.
As she dragged herself along, she noticed a voice whispering to her, deep inside her mind. Your blood can make you free.
Sweat ran down her face. Her vision blurred. She dropped her Bible and wiped at her forehead, her cheek, her neck. She couldn’t get dry, couldn’t stop the constant perspiration. Alma looked up at the blazing ball of fire above her and gasped.
She struggled to keep upright, her hands clasping her throat. It felt so painfully dry, so raw. Her nails scratched at her skin. She needed air.
Tearing open the collar of her dress, she stumbled forward, searching the empty streets for help. Empty? Where are all the people? Her heart pounded, chest heaving as she lumbered forward through the stifling heat.
The steeple of the church rose into view, but she’d never make it. She knew it already. Her mind seemed to be in a higher state of consciousness, and she realized it wasn’t the heat causing her pain anymore, but the uselessness of her existence. Her body held her prisoner, trapped her in her skin, in her life, and she needed to break free.
She needed release from the pain and the pressure.
She dug at her throat, her fingernails scratching over and over, trying to tear through her hot skin and draw in a fresh, cool breath. Blood trickled between her fingers, her skin oozing as she gouged it open. For the first time since she’d walked out of her house this morning, Alma started to feel relief from the suffocating heat.
She dropped to her knees, gasping for breath, craving release from the tightness in her throat. She needed to be free. Free from the confines of her body.
Her flesh tied her down to an unimportant life. Her spirit yearned for freedom.
Her nails ripped at the tender skin of her throat until the scrapes became gaping wounds. Blood ran down her fingers, down her arms, and she cried out in pain. But at the same time, it was a cry of freedom.
Her vision clouded and darkened until she finally collapsed onto the hot pavement. Her clothes were drenched in blood, but her lips held an eternal smile. She was free.
The moment the sun dipped below the horizon, Lukas’s heart started to beat again, his chest rising and falling. He opened his eyes and hunger growled deep within him. A muscle in his cheek jumped as he ground his teeth together, battling back the beast inside. Gradually, he felt the thirst buckle under his will, loosening its hold over him.
It never got any easier.
Since the night he’d been changed into a Night Walker, his hunger always roared the moment he awoke. After decades of failed attempts to cure his “malady,” he’d finally resolved to search out methods to manage the blood lust until he could find a more permanent solution. A combination of eastern meditation and sheer Russian determination gave him a slight upper hand against the madness that lurked so close to the surface.
Lukas exited the cave, quickly catching the scent of a wild boar. It didn’t take long to locate the tracks in the wet soil. As
a mortal man, he’d lived as a hunter, bringing down bears and mountain lions. He’d traded the skins with the native tribes, lived a simple life.
His life had been anything but simple ever since.
After he ensured his thirst was under control, he made his way back to the research tent. To Gretchen.
Tonight he would bury his feelings and send her away. She was in danger here, and he had no right to ask her to stay. Taking a deep breath, he yanked the canvas door of the tent open.
Gretchen gasped, aiming the flare gun right at his chest.
Startled more than he cared to admit, Lukas forced himself to relax while she lowered the gun.
“Lukas. You scared me.” Gretchen trembled, her shirt drenched in sweat.
“I can see that.” His brow creased. “I’m sorry.”
The faint odor of blood filled the tent, and he tensed with worry. Her arms were cut, her hands scraped, but he didn’t see any serious injuries. He stepped closer and carefully took the flare gun from her hands. Setting it on the table, he sat down beside her. Gretchen grasped his hand, clinging to him like a lifeline in a storm.
What had happened here during the daylight?
“It was out there, Lukas. Something terrible. We found something down here that we should have left alone.”
His brow furrowed. “What happened?”
She stared up at him and a chill shot up his spine. She looked terrified, almost haunted. Her grip tightened on his hand.
“I went back to the altar today with a hunch about one of the translations. But there was”—she shook her head—“something down in that well…breathing. It watched me, Lukas.” Gretchen hesitated, her jade eyes searching his. “I know it sounds crazy, but I heard a voice all afternoon. It kept whispering about blood and freedom.”
“I’ve felt it, too.” He broke eye contact, struggling to find his resolve again. He could keep her safe by getting her far away from this place. From him.
Staring at her notes on the table, he asked, “What did you find?”