by Ann Charles
A harsh laugh burst from her throat as she stood. “Please, Dad. Jared’s only ever been in love with Jared.”
He sat up, lowering his feet to the floor. “We’ll see.” He reached for his work boots. “But I bet if you asked, he’d go to the ends of the earth for you still.”
“Maybe you’re right,” she smirked at her dad. “But would he promise to stay there?”
* * *
As far as Saturdays went, the day had gone like every other one in this steaming, bug-infested overgrown greenhouse. But tonight Quint was in for a treat according to Juan. After almost getting bit by a venomous coral snake this afternoon while paying a visit to the latrine, he could use a little pick-me-up.
“How long will Teodoro go on like this?” Quint asked as he lowered himself into a dilapidated lawn chair that looked like it had been rescued from a junkyard compactor at the last minute. Teodoro had been chanting for several hours already according to Juan.
“Throughout the night,” the older Dr. García answered, and then took a long hit from his cigar. “The Chachac ceremony is used to ask the saints and the Chacob—the Rain gods—to bring the rains.”
Across the sunburned grass, Teodoro sat behind a small, narrow table made of saplings and cluttered with bowls and cups carved from green, orange, and yellow gourds. Over his head was an arch made of tree branches covered with leaves.
Juan had set up chairs for the two of them about thirty feet from the main attraction. Smoke from musky-scented incense filled the twilight, adding a surreal fog to the purple-tinged sky. The smell of baked corn cakes tickled Quint’s taste buds as drafts of heat wafted their way from the underground pits dug earlier that morning.
Several of Angélica’s crew sat scattered around on the grass. A few of them, including Fernando, had dragged pieces of firewood over and were using them as makeshift benches.
As Quint’s gaze drifted from face to face, he nodded at those he’d worked with at the Owl Temple over the last couple of days.
Esteban lifted a hand in return, waving as he dropped into his chair with a full gourd cup, and then somehow managed to overbalance, falling ass-over-teakettle onto the ground. His cup landed on his shirt, upside down.
Quint looked away, choking back a chuckle. “What’s in the gourds?”
“Saca,” Angélica answered from behind him. She came around and graced him with a quick smile. “How’s it going here?” She squeezed her father’s shoulder.
Juan patted her hand. “You made a good decision.”
“I hope so.”
Quint watched as she settled in at her father’s feet, catching a whiff of citrus. She sat cross-legged, looking relaxed with her hair unbraided and tumbling down over her shoulders, her brow smooth in the flickering firelight. Something settled inside of him, something that made him feel content in spite of the mystery he’d yet to solve. “What’s saca?”
“Maize gruel.” Juan absently stroked his daughter’s hair, as he probably had since she was a child. “Gatita, have you seen Jared?”
“He’s back in his tent, fighting a migraine. He says it happens when he experiences a climate change, which was news to me.” She looked up at Quint. “How’s your arm?”
He held his arm out for her to inspect. She leaned closer, running her fingers alongside the faint scar that remained, tickling his skin. Goosebumps rippled clear up to his shoulder.
“It looks great.”
“Teodoro says I’m mostly healed. That green jelly is some kind of miracle medicine.” He sat back in his chair, his arm still tingling from her touch. Focusing on Teodoro, he reminded himself of the reasons he needed to steer clear of the siren sitting near his feet. “What’s he singing?”
Juan crushed his cigar out on the chair arm. “Rosaries. It’s all part of calling the Chacob and asking for rain.”
“Do we need rain? I thought the dry weather was normal for this time of year.” At least that’s what the guidebook had said.
“It wouldn’t hurt. They’ll plant corn in their milpas—their fields—in another month or so. If the rains don’t follow soon, the crops will fail.”
A young man with a pencil-thin mustache, who Quint was pretty sure had helped dig the holes for the ovens this afternoon, began handing out gourd cups to several members of the group. Quint watched as each one took a drink and then passed it to another. Just then, the youth noticed Angélica had joined the group and brought her a gourd cup filled to the rim. The liquid splashed over the sides as he carried it.
Quint opened his mouth to ask, but Angélica beat him to it. “Jorge is passing balche.” She took the cup from Jorge and thanked him. “It’s a ceremonial wine Teodoro made from the bark of the balche tree. He mixes honey from his own hives with it and ferments it.”
She took a sip and held it in her mouth a couple of seconds, closing her eyes. Then she swallowed and sighed in pleasure. Eyes open again, she held the cup out to Quint. “Try some. It’s one of Teodoro’s specialties.”
Juan reared away from the cup as Quint grabbed it. “Be careful with that stuff.”
Quint hesitated with the cup halfway to his lips. The look on Juan’s face was almost comical.
Angélica laughed low and velvety. “Don’t listen to him. The last time he drank too much balche, he shaved a strip of hair off the top of his head, duct-taped crow feathers to his chest, and tried to pierce his ear with a pocket knife.”
“I was trying to reenact an ancient Maya rain dance, thank you very much. And those jade ear plugs just wouldn’t fit in the hole Teodoro made with the bobby-pin.”
Quint grinned, picturing the scene.
Angélica nodded at the cup. “Go on, try a sip. It will spark a fire in your belly.”
Like he needed any more heat on top of the warm blasts drifting around him, making him sweat in his T-shirt and khakis. He took a sip expecting it to be bitter. But the lukewarm liquid coated the inside of his mouth with a sweet honey taste, leaving a warm trail as it slipped down his throat.
“Smooth.” He took another sip before handing it to Juan. “Tasty.”
Juan took a quick swig and then bumped Angélica’s shoulder with the cup. “Believe me, after three cups of this stuff, you’ll be singing and dancing for your own gods.”
Quint licked his lips, savoring the remnants of the peculiar sweetness. Judging by the warmth still coating his throat, he didn’t doubt Juan for a minute.
Angélica grabbed the cup and motioned to Jorge to bring them more. The easy-going relationship between her and her crew showed as she laughed at something Jorge mumbled when handing her another cup. She handed the drink to Quint, still smiling from the private joke.
With the firelight glowing on her cheeks, he couldn’t stop staring.
“More?” she asked when he didn’t take the cup.
Of what? Oh, right, the balche. Quint plucked the cup from her grasp and looked at Juan. He needed to get his mind back on the task at hand—the disappearance of Dr. Hughes—and off the images of a certain green-eyed temptress. Maybe if he got Juan a bit tipsy, he’d start telling tales about the site’s past. “Another drink, Juan?” He offered his cup.
“No way! I’m still rubbing that goop on my tooth. With my luck, mixing the two will turn me into a frog again.”
Quint had started to look over at Teodoro and did a double take. “Again?”
“Of course, the notorious frog episode,” Angélica said, her voice soft with humor. “Best not to talk about that one after sunset.”
“That’s it.” Juan stood and stretched. “I’ve taken enough abuse for this evening. I’m going back to my tent to read and rest my tooth.”
Angélica clutched his pant leg. “Come on, Dad, not already. The ceremony is just getting its rhythm.”
“Sorry, gatita. These old bones need a soft cot right now.” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Be good.” To Quint he warned, “Be careful. Don’t let her trick you into drinking too much balche or you’ll end u
p swimming in the cenote at midnight, and I can tell you from experience that the water will freeze off your tiddly bits.”
“Gotcha.” Quint liked his tiddly bits still attached and hoped to use them again someday.
“It’s not that cold,” Angélica said.
“It’s cold enough.” Rubbing his lower back, Juan limped off into the darkness.
Darkness? Quint looked around. When had twilight turned into night? Was the balche already messing with him?
“I worry about him sometimes.” Angélica’s voice was quiet, meant for his ears only.
“Because he works too hard?”
“No, because he’s lonely.”
Are you? The question sat on the tip of his tongue, but instead of asking it, he swallowed more drink.
The chair next to him creaked as Angélica lowered onto it. She leaned back, stretching her legs out in front of her. He could imagine how they’d feel wrapped around his …
Crikey! What was wrong with him? He grunted inwardly and looked in Teodoro’s direction again, watching as he poured a dark liquid into one of the gourds. That did not look like saca. “What’s he doing now?”
“He’s offering the gods chocolate.” Angélica tipped back the last of her drink and then dropped the cup onto the ground. “Throughout the night, he’ll continue to make such offerings, but no bloodletting. There’s been enough of that going around here lately.”
“Bloodletting?”
She nodded, staring dazedly into the firelight.
“How is that different from sacrificing?”
“The Maya people have always believed that gods were the source of all life. But only kings could converse with the gods. A Maya’s soul is in his blood, so when a sacrifice was needed by the gods, blood was more important than bodies. On certain occasions, especially when a big sacrifice was needed, the king would give his blood to open the doorway to the gods.”
“By ‘give his blood’, you mean he’d cut his finger or thumb?” He lifted the cup and took a drink. Swirling the honey-sweet warmth around with his tongue, he wondered what it would taste like on her lips?
“No, I mean he would pierce the foreskin of his penis with the spine of a stingray.”
Quint choked on the wine, coughing. His nuts crawled up into his stomach and hid there.
She patted him on the back a couple of times. “You okay?”
“Yes,” he wheezed, “but no matter how drunk I am later, please don’t let me sign up for any bloodletting.”
Her laughter sounded like water bubbling in the stream over behind the Owl Temple. He stared at her profile while she looked on at Teodoro. What would it be like to trace his fingers along her … He reached for his cup again.
A couple of hours and several refills of balche later, he still had no new information on Dr. Hughes. To be honest, he’d stopped caring as soon as Angélica had begun to tell him her theories about what had happened at the site over a millennium ago. With the wine warming his stomach and his beautiful seatmate spinning tales of grandeur and demise, he was having trouble remembering why it was so urgent that he find out any details about Dr. Hughes’ work tonight. There was always tomorrow.
“How about I grab you another drink?” Angélica started to rise.
“I’ll get it.” He put a hand on her arm to stop her and stood. The world spun for several seconds, taking him on a bobbing merry-go-round. “On second thought, I should probably call it a night.”
Before he realized she’d risen, she was there beside him, taking his arm. Time was starting to move in fractured moments. “Can you walk to your tent?”
He tried a step, surprised his feet didn’t fly out from under him and leave him sitting on his ass. “Sure,” he said, and then stumbled into her.
“How about I walk you to your tent?”
After fighting the urge to put his hands all over her for most of the evening, he wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. “You should stay and enjoy the show.”
She shook her head. “I have some notes to write about the turkey and deer bones we found today in the Ik Temple, so it’s time for me to head back to my tent anyway.”
He looked down at her. She split into two Angélicas. That was about three more than he could handle after all of that wine. He blinked her back into one. Why did Steel’s ex-wife have to be so damned attractive?
“Okay,” he said, concentrating to keep from stumbling as they started toward his tent. “But keep your hands to yourself, Dr. García. I may be a few sheets blowing in the wind, but I’m not easy.”
* * *
Angélica smiled as she crunched through the plaza’s dry weeds. Quint walked beside her, silent. Frogs croaked in the forest, filling in the quiet gaps.
She’d managed to keep him off the subject of Dr. Hughes and his history at the site all night. Now, if she could get him to his tent without any personal questions about her own past, she could mark off another day.
She peeked at him. Maybe he really was here to see the sights and sounds of a dig in process. She could be wrong to distrust him. She’d been wrong in the past. Look at the mess she’d gotten into with Jared.
A warm breeze trickled across her skin. The smell of the dried grass was mixed with smoke and incense from the ceremony. The flavor of Teodoro’s wine still coated the back of her tongue. She crossed her fingers that tonight’s ritual had taken care of her crew’s fears about the curse, or at least dulled them with the help of the balche.
They reached Quint’s tent too soon. Walking next to him in the moonlight had been comforting in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.
He paused outside the tent flap and looked down at her, his eyes hidden in the shadows. “Thanks for telling me all of those stories, Angélica. I enjoyed them. Except for that bit about stingray spines and foreskin.”
The memory of his reaction to that part of the tale made her chuckle. It was kind of him to thank her considering how she’d babbled on all night, well aware of the alluring guy periodically bumping knees with her the whole time. “You were a great listener.”
“I like the sound of your voice.” He stepped closer, trailing the back of his fingers down her cheek. “It’s sultry.”
His touch left a molten trail on her skin. She could smell the wine on his breath. A wave of wanting crashed through her, followed by an ache for so much more than flirty teases and tender touches. She waited, wondering if he were going to kiss her again, and half afraid she might kiss him back this time if he did … and not stop at just a kiss.
“Very sexy.” He cupped her chin, tipping it up. His thumb brushed across her lower lip. Her mouth opened to his touch. “Coming from very tempting lips.”
Which happened to be very dry all of a sudden. She dabbed them with her tongue.
Quint groaned, leaning toward her. “Steel’s ex-wife,” he whispered right above her mouth.
She wasn’t sure if he was reminding her or himself of her past mistake. Either way, it cooled her blood as effectively as liquid nitrogen pumped through her veins. Once bitten, twice shy and all of that shit. She took a step back, slipping out from under his spell.
To reaffirm what she’d suspected since Quint’s visit to her tent a couple of nights ago and to reinforce the chains of control now tethering her libido, she asked, “Did you kiss me the other day to piss off Jared?”
He stared at her in the moonlight. Shadows shifted on his cheeks as his expression sobered. Several seconds went by with only the frogs croaking.
He turned his head, blowing out a breath. “Yeah, I did.”
Sometimes she hated being right. His answer stung more than it should have, and she didn’t want to think about why.
Her face felt tight, like an unwieldy rubber mask that took effort to hold in place. She tried to laugh. It came out brittle. “I thought so.”
“Angélica, I …” He hesitated, jamming his hands in his front pockets, focusing down on his boots. When he looked back up his smile had returned, only i
t looked formal, platonic. “I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast.”
“Sure.” She took another step back. She needed some distance from him before she did something really stupid, like showed him how much she wanted another kiss in spite of the whole Jared bullshit.
Pride took the wheel, thankfully, and she managed a friendly wave. “Buenas noches, Parker.”
She heard his tent zip as she strode away.
What the hell was wrong with her? She kicked at a tall patch of weeds, spreading seeds over her pant legs. She was too old to have a crush on a man she barely knew.
Once inside the safety of her own tent, she turned on the lantern and surveyed the mess surrounding her. It was much like her life outside the four canvas walls.
“Fuck me,” she grumbled, yanking off her top, wadding it up, and whipping it across the tent. It made a less-than-satisfactory thud against the canvas wall.
Rover snorted at her from his snoozing spot on her cot.
“You know what, Rover? There are too many breeding males sniffing around and marking territory at this dig site.” She dropped down next to him, patting his head. “Maybe it’s time for me to do some castrating.”
Chapter Seven
Artibeus Jamaicensis: A Jamaican or Mexican fruit bat often found in more exposed areas of caves.
“Quint Parker can kiss my ass,” Angélica told the glyph-covered walls surrounding her in the Temple of the Water Witch the next morning.
Steel’s ex-wife.
Arghhh!
Those two words had replayed in her head over and over throughout the night. They’d burrowed under her skin, making her beat up her pillow deep into the early morning hours until she finally gave up, got dressed, and focused on what she did best—divorce.
Wait! Make that work. Work was what she did best. She mopped sweat from her forehead and blinked away all thoughts of Quint … again.
She picked up another piece of semi-transparent rice paper and held it in place so that it covered two particular glyphs. Another layer of perspiration popped up on her brow as she rubbed a piece of charcoal over the paper, beginning to see the relief markings of a headdress from the first glyph.