Passage Graves

by Madyson Rush

  Thatcher stood on her own, annoyed at both of them. “Let’s get this bloody mess over with.”

  Chapter 78

  SUNDAY, 5:40 p.m.

  Wadi Musa, Jordan

  David whistled as he peered over the canyon ledge. “You think we can jump it?”

  “It’s over ten feet.” Thatcher shook her head. She’d half-expected a choir of angels to descend when they reached the entrance into Wadi Musa. Instead, there was the distant rumble of thunder. Asor led the way as they hiked the floor of the narrow, v-shaped rift. Their pace slowed when the canyon path turned onto a steep switchback along a ledge. Navigating the twists and turns, they kept a close watch on their footing near the gulch. Eventually, the trail lowered again, back onto the canyon floor, which was topped with arched ribbons of red rock.

  Asor looked across the rift then up at the clouds blowing in overhead. “Hurry.”

  Unbothered by the drop, she kicked sand off the ledge and watched it fall onto an outcropping thirteen feet below. “Looks like there used to be some sort of natural bridge here.” She turned to David. “Let’s give it a go with the rope.”

  He opened the backpack and handed it to her.

  She tied one end around her waist and the other end around David. “Give me slack when I say so, got it?”

  “Sure.” By the sound of his voice, she could tell David wasn’t wild about the idea.

  She sat on the edge and dangled her feet over the cliff. “Give me another fifteen feet.” She slid down the rock cliff to the overhang. David loosened his hold as she leaned over the lower ledge to judge the distance. Blowing into her hands, she pressed her back against the cliff, and taking a two-step run, she leapt off the ledge and caught the opposite wall. Pain shot up her injured leg like a knife severing a nerve. She clung to the wall, trying to regain her breath. Scaling the rock face, she made it to the top and pulled her body over the opposite ledge onto the path.

  “Who’s next?” She looked over her shoulder. Both men were stunned. “Well, come on.”

  David tied his end of the rope to Asor and helped him down the ledge to the outcropping below.

  Thatcher anchored her feet behind a boulder. “Swing over and I’ll lift you.”

  Asor stepped off the ledge, dangled over the chasm, and met the other wall. He tried to climb as Thatcher pulled him up. He reached the ledge and climbed over.

  Shaking out her arms, Thatcher moved beside him. She untied the rope from his waist.

  “Hidden talents.” Asor clicked his tongue at her.

  She ignored him and tossed the rope to David.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hold you,” she warned, bracing herself.

  “Plant yourself, and I’ll do the rest.” David slid down to the lower ledge.

  She kicked the front of her boot deeper into the dirt, creating a rut for more traction. She grabbed the boulder and signaled for him to jump. “Okay.”

  He took a flying leap from the ledge and landed hard against the rock. Scrambling to find a crevice, he slipped down the wall instead. The rope went taut. Thatcher’s body slammed into the boulder that separated her from the ledge. She groaned, fighting to hold his weight.

  David flailed, knocking her further off balance.

  The rope twisted down along the side of the boulder and to the canyon floor.

  “David!” she yelled as the rope pulled her to the ground. Its coarse fiber scraped up her back, caught under her shoulder blades and dragged her toward the ledge.

  Dangling too far from the wall, David resorted to climbing the rope. The shift in his weight jerked her closer to the ledge. He dropped down another foot.

  “Stop moving!” she screamed. Her body teetered over the edge. She stopped short as Asor grabbed her feet. The momentum slammed David into the wall. This time he found a niche large enough for a finger hold. His feet met a subtle shelf and he scrambled up and over the top.

  “Brynne, are you okay?” He untied the rope around her shoulders.

  Rope burns zigzagged up her back in striations of torn tissue. “I’m fine,” she lied, sitting up slowly. She tenderly pulled her shirt down over the burns. “Pain gives me power, eh?”

  Asor’s eyes flashed with anger. He wiped himself off and continued down the trail.

  David wound up the rope. “What’s going on?” he asked once Asor was out of earshot.

  “I saw the same spiral tattoo on Asor,” she kept her voice low. “The same thing that was on my uncle.”

  He met her eyes. “Vanderkam said something about a group that protected the seals. Abaddon. That they are all seeking the power of horseman for themselves.”

  Before she could respond Asor reappeared around the corner. “It’s this way!”

  Thatcher followed Asor into a wide opening within the canyon. The trail split into twelve separate pathways, each extending in twelve different directions. Asor studied the walls and frowned. He turned back to where they had entered. His face looked darker than usual, his eyes gloomier than the storm clouds converging overhead. Raindrops splashed onto the parched rocks. The water evaporated before it could seep into the ground.

  “We’d better hurry,” David said, looking at the sky.

  “I don’t remember!” Asor burst with anger.

  Thatcher turned to David, her brow furrowed. “Well, we’re not going back,” she said. Sweat broke across her forehead. Chills pimpled her skin. Crossing that wide fissure again was not an option.

  Asor ran his fingers along the canyon wall. He stopped over a pale Bedouin handprint.

  The ancient graffiti had been painted on the fossilized stone centuries earlier. Five spindly fingers ascended from a misshapen palm. The impression had faded over time. Weather, wind, and sand had lightened the print to a coral color distinct from the blood red canyon.

  Without warning, Asor spun around and shoved David’s palm against the print.

  The wall darkened and in contrast the hand began to glow. Beneath David’s hand, the rock turned molten white, each fingermark glimmering with light. The light spread across the wall and soon hundreds of handprints were aflame inside the circle. The fingers reached in all directions along the rock.

  “David?” Thatcher froze in place. What was happening?

  Asor gasped as blisters bubbled along the back of his hand. Smoke wafted from where he held David in place, as if David’s hand itself was burning. With his hand up, Asor’s sleeve slid down, revealing the metal twine wrapped around his arm. The tiny razor wire seemed to hold his bones in place—he had no muscle or ligament tissue. It continued beyond his shoulder and underneath his jumpsuit. Beneath the wire on his arm, his skin blackened into charred crust. David seemed immune to the heat, but holding David’s palm to the handprint was burning Asor alive. Unable to hold him any longer, Asor let go of David and cradled his arm. He stumbled back, falling to the ground.

  David stepped away from the wall in shock.

  Almost all of the blazing Bedouin prints began to cool. They quickly covered over with ash and lost their glow. One single line of prints remained incandescent. They pointed to one of the twelve paths.

  Asor hissed at them. “After all you’ve seen, how can you not believe?”

  Chapter 79

  SUNDAY, 6:01 p.m.

  Wadi Musa, Jordan

  Rain fell in random, infrequent drops. The light precipitation cooled her skin and wetted her shirt, soothing the rope burns on her back. She stared at Asor’s hands as she followed him along the twisting path. Unlike his other wounds, the blisters from when he had forced David’s palm against the wall had not healed. What did that mean? Everything about the repulsive, emaciated man was unbelievable. The handgun from the church was tucked against her hip. It was a cold comfort, but if Asor was no longer impervious to injury, the weapon might come in handy.

  The path began to wind inward, and Asor quickened his pace. At each bend, the trail curved more and more tightly, and at times Asor would disappear altogether. />
  They were close. Thatcher could feel it. Judging by the flattened look she had seen on David’s face, he probably sensed it, too. There was an electric pulse stirring the desert air. An almost imperceptible friction made her hair stand on end. The path felt like a twisting seam separating earth from hell. Wadi Musa was a fitting place to find an apocalyptic key.

  Asor vanished around the path, and she whispered to David. “Keep walking. Don’t look back at me.”

  Asor came into view again.

  Thatcher quieted until he rounded the bend. “Brenton was here when he died. Look at the sand.” It was the same color and texture of what she’d seen inside Brenton’s lungs.

  They could see Asor again, so David couldn’t respond. She wished she could see his face.

  The path narrowed.

  She had a moment to speak again. “Sound killed Brenton. Sand killed Brenton. But who shot him?”

  David stopped. His face was pale.

  “He was here with Asor,” she said. “If Asor killed your father, what happens to us after we find this seal?”

  “Vanderkam said Brenton died to protect me.”

  “To protect you from the seal or protect you from Asor?”

  The old man reappeared around the corner. His eyes were glowing. Ten feet ahead, the canyon path ended at a stone archway. The archway opened onto a sandy mound covered with human bones.

  Asor pointed to the mound. “It’s there.”

  Thatcher took David’s arm and whispered. “Tell me you have a plan.”

  He nodded nervously. She could tell his mind was racing.

  They joined Asor at the arch entrance. At the center of the mound, a clay pot protruded from the earth. The white seal lay beside it on the sand, scuffed with age. It hardly looked like a gemstone key capable of destroying the world. The pot leaned towards the seal as though unsettled by their separation.

  Asor’s lips were quivering.

  Wind blew up the canyon, sending chills down Thatcher’s spine. David looked at her, unsure what to do. She felt for the handle of the gun at her hip. Warm raindrops pricked her face.

  Asor sensed their hesitation. “Go,” he said to David. “It’s yours.”

  Thunder crashed in the distance. Large, splattering droplets pelted the ground.

  Stepping through the archway, David climbed up the mound, leaving deep footprints in the sand. His face was utter confusion. He knelt beside the seal, brushed its surface. Large gemstones formed a spiral. Rounded at the edges, flat and dull in color, the seal fit in his palm. He scooped it off the ground, and wind whistled off the canyon walls.

  “Come back quickly!” Asor yelled.

  David turned and froze. He stared at the ground.

  His footsteps disappeared. Sand filled in each indentation, from the arch entrance to his feet, as if erasing his intrusion.

  Asor leaned through the archway and reached for David. “Give it to me.”

  A mind-numbing roar shook the canyon walls, and the sky released a downpour. Wind roared up into the circle. Thatcher grabbed her ears. Just like the human cochlea, the canyon was a funnel for sound. Her eardrums pulsated like that night outside of Stenness. The pressure made her head spin. The canyon floor flipped upside down. The sky became the ground.

  Helicopters appeared overhead. Their throbbing rotors stopped her heart.

  From out of nowhere, men poured over the sides of the canyon, rappelling down the walls.

  Asor grabbed the twine around his wrist.

  Thatcher shoved the gun against the old man’s head. “Stop!”

  Asor lashed out in desperation. His jagged fingernails sliced through her shirt. She doubled over. Asor caught her arm and twisted the gun to her head. He screamed at David. “Give me the seal!”

  The prickly rope surrounding Asor’s bones tore at her throat.

  Confused, David stumbled backwards across the mound in the opposite direction. His back hit the wall. A rumble erupted down the path like an approaching herd of beasts. A flash flood swept through the canyon. Its tidal wave swallowed Thatcher and Asor in a single, explosive gulp.

  Thatcher’s lungs filled with water. She choked, struggling to escape Asor’s iron grip. The current forced them apart and flipped her upside down. She kicked toward the surface, wherever the surface was—gasping as she broke through. The whirlpool sucked her body down. She spun passed David, who was reaching for her as he climbed the canyon wall. One of the uniformed men was pulling him up the cliff. The seal was in David’s hand. Rushing water swelled over his legs.

  Some of the men were swept off the rock. A body slammed into her, knocking the remaining air out of her lungs. She gulped bubbling quagmire until the swarming waves sucked her under.

  Someone grabbed her ankle and pulled her deep into the abyss. She reached for the surface, stretching, begging for air, but her body twisted downward. Her brain tingled. A burning sensation flooded her mind. Movements became slow. Everything sluggish.

  The hand grabbed her throat and pulled her to the canyon floor. Asor stared at her, his eyes ablaze in the dark water, delight on his wiry lips. The current coiled and entangled their bodies together. She felt the prick of his twine on her arms. The edges of his bony cheeks were pinned against hers.

  Thatcher tried to scream.

  He forced his mouth over hers.

  The wintry kiss froze her throat, her lungs, and then her heart.

  Chapter 80

  An approaching helicopter startled Ian and he stopped digging. Rotors cut through humid air with a rapidity that resonated off the lush overgrowth. Even at night, the jungle swelter was unbearable. Dettorio walked by, a cigarette hanging crookedly from his lips. Ian waited for him to disappear inside Javan’s tent, and then returned to unearthing the rock.

  He dug furiously around the obsidian bacab in the floor of his cage. The stone pointed out by Javan would work as an effective weapon. Beneath the dark topsoil, the mountain dirt was leached, compact granite mixed with quartz grit. It was abrasive and difficult to dig through. It cut open his fingertips, but he didn’t stop. He pried it up with both hands and held it into distant light. The rock was chipped on the underside, and had a sharp, jagged edge. It would work.

  The helicopter lowered into the canopy a short distance from the encampment.

  Javan rushed from his tent. Dettorio followed with three men from the local village. Dressed in filthy rags, the men carried lanterns and machetes. They looked like local farmers—hardly the type that Javan would associated with.

  Because of the brush, it was impossible to see what was happening by the helicopter.

  After a minute, Javan yelled to Dettorio.

  Ian tucked the rock under his palm as Dettorio approached the cage. The henchman unlocked the door and tossed Ian outside.

  “We’ve got it.” Javan yelled as he ran over. He clutched a small box. He opened it and smiled.

  David’s Mayan ring was clasped to the felt cushion.

  Ian had no time to comprehend the significance of what that meant. Dettorio picked him up off the ground and they were on the move.

  ****

  Javan unbuttoned his shirt and folded up his shirt sleeves. Scar tissue stretched from his missing ear down his neck and then branched off in two directions. One keloid vein extended along his arm down to the wrist, the other wrapped across his chest and stopped directly over his heart. It was a hideous wound, in some places pitted and in others tumorous. The purple, necrotizing tissue had splotches of cankerous black that spread like tiny branches off the initial injury. He unclipped David’s gun from his side holster and attached it to his belt, away from his irritated skin. He threw the side holster into the jungle and then turned to the native leading them. “How much further?”

  Two of the villagers led the way, trailblazing through the undergrowth. The third brought up the rear as protection. They conversed in Spanish in a local colloquialism and too quickly for anyone to understand. The men didn’t answer Javan. They had the
ir own way of doing things.

  Everyone just continued forward. Dettorio forced Ian into step behind Javan.

  Even after the men cut their path, there was still not much of a trail—only prickly brush. The thick canopy squelched the moonlight. Branches and dead leaves crackled underfoot as they climbed one hillside, and then another.

  Certainly, there were simpler ways to get to Chichén Itzà. During the day, it was a tourist attraction with crowded dusty roads. A highway ran along the northern end of the ruins. Javan had purposefully set up a remote camp and wanted to approach the ruins from the less populated southeast. Whatever he was planning to do, no one was meant to see it.

  Lanterns swept across the ground as the guides searched for the easiest path. Dettorio shoved him forward, and Ian tightened his grip on the stone. They stopped again at the foot of a tabletop plateau while the men argued. When the discussion ended, the first guide scrambled up the rocky ledge. Ceiba roots protruded from the steep embankment like ladder rungs. The second guide followed, and then Javan, single file up the cliff. Dettorio pushed Ian onward.

  Ian slipped, sending a rockslide of gravel into Dettorio’s face. With a grunt, Dettorio grabbed Ian by the shirt collar and flattened him against the dirt. He climbed past, forcing Ian to the rear by the last guide.

  Ian stared at the back of Dettorio’s head. It was such an easy target, the balding, bulging cranium. Compact with lead, his brain contained no meaningful intelligence. Ian clutched the rock. Holding it made the climb more difficult. His timing would have to be perfect.

  During his stay in the cage, Ian had regained his bearings. Valladolid, the City Built of Stone was the closest inhabited area. Once the group reached the ruins, if he found the main road and headed east, he could find the village and disappear. He clung to a root and looked back at the guide below. The man was ten feet away and Dettorio was an arm’s length ahead. When should he strike?

  “Estamos aquis!” The first guide reached the precipice.