by JG Faherty
“I’ll feel safer if I can keep an eye on you,” he’d said, and while part of her cringed at the thought of them being together day and night, she had to admit it made her feel better too.
“Just for the first month,” she’d told him. “Then you have to get a real job.”
He handed her the coffee, gave her a kiss and then grabbed his keys.
“I’ll get out of your hair for a while. Bank and then post office. I’ll be back in an hour.”
He paused at the door to her office.
“Try to stay out of trouble while I’m gone.”
“Yes, Dad.” She rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t worry. This place is as safe as Fort Knox.”
He started to say something, then shook his head and left.
A month of working together? Leah, what were you thinking?
Still, it was nice to have him around. Security details or not, it was John who’d kept her safe longer than anyone. And at least he was a visible presence.
Of Marsh’s team there was no sign, but she knew it was out there, thanks to the daily email reports she received. That, plus the new video security systems at the house and clinic, really did provide as much safety as your average bank. There were only two rooms with no camera coverage.
The examination room and the operating theater.
It was into the former where she led her first patient of the day, a six-year-old boxer with a massive growth on the side of its neck. Based on the pulsing green glow surrounding it, Leah was pretty certain it was cancer.
“We’ll have to keep him overnight, Mrs. Weston,” she told the dog’s distraught owner. “It may be a tumor, but it might also be nothing more than a fatty deposit or an inflamed lymph node. I’ll do an aspiration and an ultrasound this afternoon, and you can pick him up tomorrow.”
Once out of sight, she guided the dog up onto an examination table and placed her hand on the tumor. There was the familiar electric shock and the dog gave a startled yip.
When she took her hand away, the lump was gone.
“Definitely cancer,” she whispered as a throbbing pain started in her neck. She gave the dog a treat and then opened a nearby closet. Inside were four dozen portable radios John had picked up from various discount stores. She took one and placed it in the sink. Holding it with both hands, she concentrated on transferring the pain in her throat to the radio.
A second later there was a sound like bacon frying and a shower of sparks exploded out from the casing, leaving melted plastic in their wake.
Tossing the radio in the garbage, Leah looked at the dog and smiled.
“Congratulations. You’re my first guilt-free Cure.”
As she led the dog away, she marveled at how the road of her life could go from hell to heaven in only two weeks.
For the first time in far too long, she was looking forward to seeing what lay down that road.
Chapter Nine
“So, that’s all you’re going to do is watch her?”
Michael Smith jumped inwardly at the sound of Tom Niagara’s voice. He’d been so engrossed with the live feed of DeGarmo curing a cat with a mangled back leg that he hadn’t heard his boss enter the room.
Careless. That’s the kind of thing that can get you demoted.
Or killed.
“For now, yes,” he said in a casual tone, as if he hadn’t been caught unawares. “The idea is to give her a lot of rope. Let her think she’s safe so she returns to a normal routine. Think of it as a primate study. We’re observing her in her natural habitat so she won’t be hiding anything from us. We’ll learn a lot more this way. Gradually, we’ll step things up. Put her in potentially dangerous situations and see how she reacts.”
“Won’t that make her suspicious?”
“A random mugging in the mall parking lot? A dog or cat that suddenly goes berserk in the exam room? I don’t think so. And if they do, we’ve got our man on the inside to smooth things over.”
“You mean the man who almost ruined everything,” Niagara said, his voice filled with scorn.
Smith turned in his chair.
“None of us could have foreseen the unexpected events we had to deal with. A rogue employee? Religious fanatics? Kidnappers? DeGarmo becoming some kind of Grim Reaper? All things considered, our man’s done a damn fine job of staying in DeGarmo’s good graces.”
“Speak of the devil.” Niagara pointed past Smith to the video monitor where John Carrera and Leonard Marsh were entering the clinic through the back door.
“See?” Smith didn’t try to hide the satisfaction in his voice as Leah greeted them. “The more trust he builds now, the easier it will be for him to manipulate her later.”
“And what about the other one?”
Smith smiled. “Carrera has no idea he’s a walking surveillance unit. We have teams watching him twenty-four seven. Trackers and bugs in all his clothes. Cameras in his office, car and house. We hear everything he hears, and see practically everything he sees.”
“Let’s hope so.” Niagara turned and headed for the door. “There’s a lot riding on this. More than you can imagine.”
Smith waited until he was sure Niagara was gone before getting up and closing the door. He didn’t want to be surprised again. He had a pretty good idea just how much was riding on Leah DeGarmo. Someone like her was worth more than any top-secret weapons research. Certainly worth more than the lives of a few spies.
Which was why he had his own plans for the veterinarian. And why he was keeping an ace up his sleeve. Having a man on the inside was a good idea.
Having two was even better.
Especially if one of them didn’t even know it.
He watched Leah talking with the only two people in the world she trusted, and he allowed himself a smile.
Soon, Ms. DeGarmo. Soon the entire world will know about your powers.
And I’ll be the one controlling them.
About the Author
A life-long resident of New York’s haunted Hudson Valley, JG Faherty has been a finalist for both the Bram Stoker Award® and ITW Thriller Award, and he is the author of six novels, seven novellas, and more than 50 short stories. He writes adult and YA dark fiction/sci-fi/fantasy, and his works range from quiet suspense to over-the-top comic gruesomeness. He enjoys urban exploring, photography, classic B-movies, good wine, and pumpkin beer. As a child, his favorite playground was a 17th-century cemetery, which many people feel explains a lot. You can follow him at
www.twitter.com/jgfaherty
www.facebook.com/jgfaherty
http://about.me/jgfaherty
and www.jgfaherty.com.
Look for these titles by JG Faherty
Now Available:
Castle by the Sea
Thief of Souls
Fatal Consequences
Legacy
Cult of the Black Jaguar
Winterwood
In the depths of the jungle lie mysteries drenched in blood.
Cult of the Black Jaguar
© 2015 JG Faherty
Ethan Foster has spent a lifetime as a guide and bodyguard for archeologist Heathcliff Pascal. They’ve survived more adventures than they can count, but now, deep in the jungles of Central America, they discover a secret hidden from the world for centuries: the Cult of the Black Jaguar, presided over by an immortal goddess whose beauty is matched by her cruelty. She needs the blood of a virgin to bring her army back to life, and she’s found one in Heathcliff’s daughter, Jenny. It’s up to Ethan to stop her. It might seem an impossible task, but Ethan has secrets of his own. Dark secrets.
Before the night is over, blood will be shed, and only one man—or monster—will survive.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Cult of the Black Jaguar:
Ethan Foster smiled as a tortured, undulating wail shattere
d the relative stillness of the sultry jungle night. On the other side of the fire, Elton Harrison’s cup fell from his hands, spilling hot coffee onto his boots.
“Bloody hell! What was that?” Harrison stared into the darkness, his eyes wide.
“Jaguar.” Hector Veracruz nonchalantly tossed another branch into the crackling campfire.
“Jaguar? It sounded like someone being murdered.” Harrison mopped a thin, shaking hand ineffectively at his pant cuffs.
“Balam,” whispered Popi from the smaller fire he and his brother, Luz, had made for themselves off to one side of the main group. Ethan wasn’t used to having porters sit separately on his expeditions, but he figured it was their choice if they wanted to be anti-social.
“Eh? What?” asked Harrison.
Ethan, who’d been humming the latest song by Glenn Miller, put down the long-barreled, pearl-handled Colt .45 he’d been cleaning and wiped his long fingers on the front of his pants, leaving streaks of oil that quickly blended into the myriad stains on the fabric.
“Balam is Mayan for jaguar,” he informed the expedition’s diminutive physician. Lighting one of the foul-smelling black cheroots he preferred to cigarettes, Ethan continued his explanation, the cigar bobbing between his lips as he spoke.
“The Mayans revered the jaguar the way the Egyptians worshipped the sun, or that big dog-headed thing that guarded their temples.”
“Anubis.”
At the sound of Dr. Jennifer Pascal’s voice, Ethan paused so he could watch her emerge from the tent she was sharing with her father. His body instantly responded to her presence, the same way it always did when she was near.
As the only woman in a months-long expedition comprised of eight people, it was inevitable that all eyes would follow her every move in camp, but even if they’d been in the middle of Manhattan, Jenny Pascal would command the interest of every man around her. Like a glowing light calling to love-starved moths, she couldn’t help drawing attention to herself.
Completely unaware of the effect her presence had on the rest of the party, she reached back with both hands and untied her hair from its usual ponytail. Long, curling waves of flaming red cascaded around her thin shoulders like molten lava flowing down a hillside. In the fire’s light, each strand glowed as bright as the embers themselves.
Ethan felt his heart come to life, his pulse speeding up and thumping like war drums in his veins. During the day, her field vest and pack had done an adequate job of hiding her womanly assets, but now her plain t-shirt and hiking shorts accentuated her pinup-girl figure to its fullest.
The tall, sandy-haired guide smiled to himself as he noticed the way the other men, even the native help, stared at her. Most guides believed bringing a woman on an expedition was bad luck. And he had seen instances where that was the case; a woman could be a dangerous distraction in the field. As far as Ethan was concerned, though, if you had to have a woman in your camp, you could do a lot worse than Jenny Pascal, with her long, toned legs and innocent, Midwestern girl-next-door looks.
Of course, if the girl next door happened to be a double-Ph.D. and an expert on ancient Central American civilizations, like Jenny, then you were doubly lucky.
Taking a seat by the fire, Jenny continued her impromptu lecture. “The Mayans held great reverence for the jaguar. Jaguar spirits, called balamobs, guarded the people from harm.”
The tent flaps opened again and Dr. Heathcliff Pascal, senior archeologist of the expedition and one of the world’s greatest authorities on paleo-Indian civilizations, emerged to join his daughter. The gray-haired historian might as well have been invisible for all the notice anyone paid him. Jenny Pascal’s beauty held peoples’ attention with its own mystical gravitational field, allowing nothing to escape. Only Jenny paid him any mind, scooting over so he could take a seat next to her.
The two-week hike through the jungles of Guatemala had left Heathcliff tired and weak. But Jenny had a way of energizing him. She always had. His eyes took on a hint of their old energy as he sat down.
“The jaguar played a very important role in the city we’re searching for.” Jenny’s normally soft voice became stronger, more animated, whenever she spoke about the subject most dear to her heart. Her eyes, green as summer grass, reflected the red flames as if they were windows to the burning passion inside her.
Unfortunately, Ethan reminded himself, that passion was for history.
“The cult of the Black Jaguar began in this area around five hundred A.D., and Ah Puch, the City of the Dead, remained as its capital throughout its entire reign.”
“Quite right, my dear,” said the elder Pascal. He removed the battered straw hat he habitually wore in the field, a gift from Ethan many years and many expeditions ago, and fanned himself. Sweat stains created dark swaths under his arms and across his back, but he gave no indication of discomfort.
“And this Ah Puch is where we’re supposed to find the Temple of Blood?” Harrison asked.
“Yes. For the Cult of the Black Jaguar, the Temple de Sangre was the focal point for their most sacred religious ceremonies. Including,” Heathcliff added, “their blood sacrifices, which continued until the Spaniards wiped them out four hundred-odd years ago.”
“Ah, yes. Cutting out the hearts and whatnot. Good thing that’s done with.”
Hector directed an angry glare at the doctor.
“Do not be so sure, Señor Harrison. The people of my village still fear the Temple de Sangre.”
“Surely you don’t believe that superstitious muck?” Harrison shook his head, a condescending smile spreading under his pencil-thin mustache.
“I do not disbelieve, Dr. Harrison. There are many tales of the Balamob, the Jaguar God. Tales of great cities hidden in the jungle, where the priests and priestesses are able to turn into jaguars. Places,” he said, his dark eyes matching his serious tone, “where curious men and women disappear forever.”
“Hmph.” Harrison sipped at his cup, which Ethan suspected held more than just coffee. Not that it mattered. As long as the doctor could shoulder his pack in the morning and keep up, he could drink whatever he wanted. “Well, I for one…”
Another ululating scream sounded from the depths of the jungle, cutting short the latest in Harrison’s unending string of pompous remarks. In the humid, dense air and near-impenetrable tropical forest, it was impossible to tell which direction the wail originated from.
“Balamob!” Luz, a short, thin local with coal-black hair and eyes, crossed himself in Christian fashion. Popi, who looked so much like his brother they could have passed for twins, swiftly repeated the gesture.
Ethan rose to his feet, gun in hand, as a third high-pitched cry, this one much closer, filled the air. Veracruz stood up also.
“What’s wrong, Ethan? I didn’t think jaguars would attack the camp.” Heathcliff Pascal closed the notebook he’d been writing in.
“That wasn’t a jaguar,” Ethan said in a curt voice. He peered into darkness, wishing the presence of the others didn’t limit his options for ensuring their safety. If it was just him and Heathcliff…
“Then what…oh!” Jenny Pascal’s hand flew to her mouth. “Mr. Amos is still out there!”
Ethan nodded. “Hector, come with me. The rest of you stay here.”
Veracruz was still reaching for his rifle when they heard a loud noise, as if something heavy moved within the ropey tangle of vines and trees surrounding the camp, just past the light thrown by the fires.
eBooks are not transferable.
They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entir
ely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B
Cincinnati OH 45249
The Cure
Copyright © 2015 by JG Faherty
ISBN: 978-1-61922-686-9
Edited by Don D’Auria
Cover by Kanaxa
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: May 2015
www.samhainpublishing.com