“That’s it?” he asked, barking a laugh.
Anger boiled. “Oh, sure, easy for you to say! You’re not the one more likely to get diseased or end up with a kid!”
Still laughing, he shook his head and held up a hand for truce. With difficulty she settled, eyes still narrowed to slits. He had about thirty seconds to either treat this with the appropriate concern or explain why he wasn’t—to her satisfaction.
“I’m not human,” he said at last, grinning. “First off, I’m clean, and second, if I weren’t—we can’t give each other diseases without some mutating germs and probably a blood exchange. As for children—while it’s not impossible I could get you pregnant, it would take a whole lot of trying.”
She rolled her eyes. “And virgins can’t get knocked up the first time.”
He slid off the log, rolling up to his knees to look her in the eyes. “If I got you pregnant, then we’ll decide what to do and do it. But it’s not likely. Cross breeding is almost unheard of.”
Most of the heat spilled out of her gaze, but she glared at him anyway. That knowledge did make her feel better. She wasn’t sure she believed him entirely, given that—as far as she knew—he didn’t have a medical degree with an emphasis in cat-god and human procreation, but it helped.
If he’d grown up with people like himself, they’d probably know. “Are the other people in your camp like you?”
He nodded, moving back to sit on the forest floor, one leg propped up. It left nothing to the imagination. She admired the view. “They’re all Tezcatlipoca. We all change.” He hesitated, then added, “Except for my grandmother, who says it’s hard on her old bones and refuses to go human again.” He smiled and shrugged with his good shoulder.
But the smile was strained, and despite the intense awareness Meg was feeling at his nakedness—she kept remembering the touch of his hands on her skin—he seemed completely unaffected by being watched. Well, stared at, really. And he was pale. And sweatier than he should have been, even given the heat.
She leaned forward and put the back of her hand to his neck, just under his jaw. “You’re hot.”
His half smile faded. “Infection,” he said quietly. “We should be at my village soon.”
Nodding, she stood. “Tell me if I can help.”
Santiago stood as well, cradling his injured arm against his chest. “Not unless you can manage a sling.”
***
Her heart leapt into her throat as she reached out a steadying hand to help Santiago through another stumble. She hadn’t realized how graceful he was until, over the course of the evening, that grace had eroded. It frightened her more than she cared to admit. If his motor control was being affected, he was worse off than he wanted her to think. Infection spread fast in the heat and damp.
“Come on,” she said, edging beneath his uninjured arm and supporting his weight until the jungle demanded they separate. “We’re almost there.” She had no idea where they were, or how far they had to go, and kept praying that one of the last things he had said—he knew where to go, and his people would catch their scent if they got even remotely close—was right.
Despite her ignorance, she kept spouting the reassurances. The lie spilled from her lips, offering encouragement, hope, and a gentle prod.
A branch scratched across her bare upper arms, her shirt having turned into a sling when the infection had gotten worse and the pain had increased past the point of his ability to manage it. She doubted very much the sling helped other than as a mental balm, but if it kept him going…
He staggered again, nearly sending them both to the forest floor. “Santiago!” she yelped, stumbling hard under his weight. “Come on, ’Tiago, you’ve got to get up.” Not that he was down—not entirely—but she was pinned between a tree and a very large man.
“’Tiago?” a voice echoed curiously.
Meg jumped, bashing her head against moss-covered bark and staring furiously into the darkness. Images of more armed men superimposed themselves in her mind’s eye, sending her heart racing.
Then Santiago spoke. It wasn’t Spanish. Something she didn’t recognize, something with a great many consonants. Then she heard her name mixed in, and a shape stepped out of the shadows.
“You speak Spanish?” a man asked, bending to take Santiago off her.
Meg started to caution him that Santiago was heavy—taller than this new person, and with more muscle—but in the next moment she realized it didn’t matter. Lifting him didn’t seem to bother the stranger.
“I—uh—yes,” she said finally. “Please tell me you’re from his camp.”
He blinked at her out of black eyes. Family trait, she supposed, and yet somehow his eyes didn’t seem quite as fathomless as Santiago’s. Black, sure, but more like coffee and less like a promise.
He nodded once, then turned and started off through the forest. That was when she realized he was naked.
Well, hell. Santiago was naked except for a sling, and Meg only wore pants and a bra. It wasn’t like any of them were particularly modest.
She hurried to catch up.
Chapter Six
The stranger moved faster than a normal human, but he didn’t turn into a jaguar and run off so Meg didn’t complain. She stumbled over and around bracken and brush, doing her best to follow the stranger’s non-existent trail. He carried Santiago easily, tossed over broad shoulders like a sack of flour. Santiago wasn’t objecting and that, more than anything, alarmed her.
The stranger didn’t speak. She didn’t have the breath to try. All her energy went toward fighting past trees and brush. One branch in particular seemed to have it out for her, and she struggled with it furiously until it at last gave way, spilling her into a tiny meadow. She staggered to a halt when she saw a fire.
People poured out of the jungle, melting free of shadows. Most of them were naked. A few had lengths of cloth wrapped around them, tied above shoulders or around waists. The material was filmy and gauzy, always looking half ready to fall off though none of it did.
Voices babbled in a language she didn’t recognize, something that wasn’t Spanish, wasn’t English—wasn’t even Latin-based, as far as she could tell. Small fires dotted the ground, people rising from seats near them.
Someone—no, some jaguar—landed softly ten feet away, muscles rippling as it stalked forward. Strength gathered as it prepared to pounce, sinew bunching under a sleek coat. Meg squeaked, and a moment later the stranger who had carried Santiago was between her and the cat, and the jaguar was a man, and the man was glaring at her. The stranger spat out several words, and both men looked at Santiago.
Meg looked, too.
They’d stretched him out beside the logs surrounding the small blaze. A teenager held his head in her lap, carefully dribbling liquid from a wooden mug down his throat. An old man with gnarled flesh and twisted bones crouched next to him, muttering to himself. Grizzled gray hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, his bare skin painted with tattoos, while beads and claws hung around wrists, ankles, and neck—protective amulets or some such, she supposed. As she watched he took a flask made from what looked like a giant nut and poured water over Santiago’s injured shoulder.
Santiago shouted and pushed upward, but the old man practically sat on him, chattering away angrily.
Meg’s memories of scolding grandparents merged with scenes from The National Geographic Channel, and she had to stifle the urge to giggle. She suspected it might sound a little hysterical, anyway.
It seemed everyone had arrived. There were maybe fifty people, including two women—one barely more than a girl—with babies. Still more people waited above, at ease in the branches over the jungle. It was then that she noticed the—well, the term houses certainly didn’t apply. Constructions meant for sleeping, she supposed, banged together between boughs. In some cases they were only held together with rough rope, and they all looked terribly impermanent. Despite appearances, moss draped across the closest ones she could see, proo
f that they’d lasted long enough for the jungle to grow up around them. Paths wound from branch to bridge to tree, claw marks on all the trunks. Here and there jaguars stretched in the shadows, eyes glowing yellow with reflected light. She shivered and looked away.
None of that was as important as the man beside the fire. With a final glance upward, she tore her eyes away from the darkness and started toward Santiago, who mumbled in the language she didn’t know.
Someone stepped into her path, and she recognized the man who’d stalked her in cat-form a moment before. He snapped words at her, canines too long, his eyes holding a threat.
Meg stared at him. Funny, she was pretty sure he’d said something dangerous or rude—maybe both—but it didn’t have much impact when she didn’t understand. “I have no idea what you just said to me,” she replied in Spanish, “but I’m going to make sure Santiago’s all right.” They were probably pouring tepid water on him, adding bacteria to infection. She didn’t know what she was going to do if that cynical thought was true.
She strode past the short, stocky man, feeling his gaze burning into her back, knowing she’d just become the focal point for the entire village.
Village, she realized faintly, not a camp like she’d thought.
The old man looked up as she neared the fire, then looked back down at his charge and kept lecturing, his bony knees pressing into the strong chest below him.
Santiago was flushed, his sweat-drenched hair sticking to his forehead, eyes glazed. Still, he managed to grumble something that earned him a nose pinched between the swollen joints of the old man’s index and middle finger. Meg suspected “All right, all right, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” translated pretty well in this case. The old man let go. Then he looked up, rheumy eyes narrowing, and spat out a long string of consonants.
Meg threw her hands up. “I don’t understand you!” she said in frustration. He said the same string of consonants, very loudly and very slowly. She sighed.
“How long has he been sick?” a soft, female voice asked in Spanish.
Meg jumped and looked around. The barely-a-woman waited, holding a fussing baby. “Oh,” she said. “Uh, a few days. He was shot.”
The woman translated, and the old man nodded before dribbling more liquid on the wound. Meg started to protest, then froze. Alcohol fumes wafted up.
Santiago cursed. A lot. At least, Meg was pretty sure that was what it was. The old man’s gray eyebrows rose, and the teenager holding Santiago’s head giggled and turned pink.
Meg crouched, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the prone man who, just twenty-four hours before, had been healthy and strong. “Will he be all right?”
“Hector thinks so,” the girl-woman said, crouching as well. “The people don’t like you being here, though,” she added, dark eyes catching and holding Meg’s gaze. “Who are you?”
Meg stopped a wince. How was she going to explain tourist?
***
A child stared at her across the rough wooden floor, watching her eat. His big black eyes were framed by thick lashes, his pudgy cheeks pressed firmly by the hands bracing his head up. “Do you know Brittany Spears?” he asked in halting Spanish.
A wooden spoon stopped halfway to Meg’s mouth. They’d understood L.A. a lot better than she’d expected. “I think she might be on a different coast,” she pointed out gently.
The six-year-old rolled his eyes. “You don’t know anything,” he complained, and slid off the chair to skulk away.
She paused, re-examining what she did know, and finally had to admit very little of it involved Brittany Spears. She ate another spoonful of soup, or at least the soup-like substance, before Frieda came in.
Frieda, who had cheerfully confirmed her name wasn’t remotely Spanish, was just as young as she looked. Despite her age, she had two children, was one of the best Spanish-speakers in the group, and the person most comfortable with Meg. A long discussion the night before had sent Meg’s assumptions about their culture out the window; the people in this village were not only in touch with the outside world, but happily used what modern conveniences they could, and even traveled abroad.
“How’s Santiago?” Meg asked, food forgotten.
Frieda smiled, dark eyes creasing, and dropped several dead rabbits. Meg scooted quickly out of the way. “Fever’s broken,” Frieda said. “Hector thinks he’ll be just fine. Santiago did more damage to the wound than he needed, what with changing, but it’ll heal now.”
Meg relaxed, finding a smile, her stomach flopping. “Thank God,” she sighed in English. Not that she really cared. Hell, she barely knew the guy and he was some strange not-human/cat-thing, so really it didn’t matter—
She stopped. She couldn’t even lie to herself convincingly. But whether or not she cared, it didn’t matter. He had family, a life here, and—
She chewed on her lower lip. She wouldn’t mind living here. Okay, she decided, eyeballing the dead rabbits, she might mind some of it after a while. She was no Jane to his Tarzan.
She shook her head at herself. She was completely jumping the gun. Overreacting. Aside from a few nice moments and pretty good sex—okay, really great sex—he hadn’t said he liked her. So…
So, nothing. Her circling mind just kept running around those same thoughts over and over again, worrying at them but not giving her anything else.
“Are you all right?” Frieda asked, hair falling to one side as she tipped her head to catch Meg’s gaze.
Meg smiled, but it felt small and painful. “Fine. I think I’ll just get some air.”
“All right.” Frieda offered a reassuring look.
Meg wondered what she needed to be reassured about. Then she was outside of the little cabin-like tree house, swinging around and down on branches carefully grown into a ladder shape.
The jungle heat was oppressive, settling down over her shoulders and pressing on her back. The thin length of cloth from Frieda was wrapped around Meg’s torso, tied over one shoulder. Even as light as the material was, it stuck to her damp skin, catching on her upper thigh every time she took a step.
She ignored the stares from the Tezcatlipoca as she hopped off the branch-ladder and made her way across the small clearing, boots clomping on the ground. The cat-people might think nothing about walking barefoot around here, but she didn’t want ooze squishing between her toes. Gross.
Children laughed, tossing a ball made from twisted branches around, dashing between trees. A jaguar lying in the bit of sun in the middle of the clearing snuffled and stretched, claws extending before they retracted again. One sleepy eye opened to watch Meg pass, then closed again, showing gray hairs speckling the lid.
Hector lived in one of the few homes on the forest floor, rather than in a tree. They’d taken Santiago there, laying him out on the rough wood that kept the damp from coming in. There was no door, just an opening where people came and went. Meg hesitated, then brushed aside the flap of skin that served as a screen, peering into the darkness. The old man was nowhere in sight—only Santiago, stretched end to end across the single room.
He lay on a mat, sleeping, his breathing slow and even. Thick eyelashes brushed like shadows against his cheekbones, bronze skin glowing in the stillness of the hut. Sweat pooled in dips and hollows of muscle and bone, and two fingers twitched as he dreamed. Long black hair had been washed and brushed at some point in the night, and now it lay glossy and smooth underneath strong shoulders. His lips parted, and he snorted.
Warmth unfurled in Meg’s stomach. The scene wasn’t at all romantic, yet she found herself smiling, relaxing against the doorway. It reminded her of his humanity, bringing back the nights they’d spent together, everything from the laughing conversation to the feeling of closeness to the fabulous sex. Not having to hide who she was, or pretend modesty she didn’t feel, enjoying the way his quick mind worked—all of it combined into something that simply fit. It made her comfortable. He made her smile. The realization came upon her slowly, like sunshine c
resting a hill and spilling softly into a valley below. She was in love.
Silly, since she’d barely known him a few days. She couldn’t stop the smile from racing across her face, or the way her heart began to thump in her chest, though. She was in love. She had no idea what she was going to do about it, but it was there. Imagining living without the cat-god in her life was like imagining the world would end at sunrise: theoretically possible, but an idea she couldn’t give substance. She was completely and totally head over heels.
Someone cleared their throat, and she jumped and stepped aside, still grinning like a loon.
Hector gave her a suspicious look and slid into the hut, keeping to the edge of the floor, his hands full of herbs. With one eye on her he tore the leaves and roots into small bits, dropped them in the bowl of rubbing alcohol, then put strips of cloth in to soak.
“I love him,” she told Hector, even though she knew he wouldn’t understand.
Bushy gray eyebrows drew down and he glared.
“I know,” she said, as if Hector had responded. “I don’t get it either. But I think I probably loved him the instant I saw him.” She paused, thinking. “Well, maybe not the very instant, since he was a jaguar and that would be a little sick. But the instant I saw him as a man.” She thought about that. “Okay, no, at that point I was too tired. But the first time I saw him as a man during the day.” Yeah, that covered all the bases. She grinned again. “I love him.”
Hector continued to glare at her.
Meg hugged herself—someone needed to—and realized that all was right with the world. In the face of a realization like she’d had, everything else seemed miniscule. Whistling, she turned and headed out.
She had ruins to hunt for.
*
They didn’t like her. Even with the language barrier, it became obvious when they stopped speaking if she walked up.
She didn’t really care. They’d have to come around, because she wasn’t leaving. After the brilliant epiphany she’d had two days before, she wasn’t letting Santiago go for anyone. Not anyone. Not unless he woke up—and she really wished Hector would stop giving him sedatives, no matter how much the healer insisted he would mend faster if he slept—and told her to go away. If the words came out of Santiago’s mouth, she’d do it. But she didn’t think that was going to happen.
Treasure Hunting Page 7