by Ann Charles
At first she’d figured on heading to the Dawn Temple to take another look at that stela, see if she could find the altar stones that would usually be next to it. But then she’d heard Quint groan in the darkness and decided to stay put, studying the charcoal relief copy she’d made of both the stela and the broken piece. There was something comforting with him only a tent away, something she hadn’t felt since she’d had both of her parents on the dig site with her.
An hour had passed before she knew it. Her vision blurred as she stared down at where her pen touched the paper. Blinking away sleep, she stood and massaged her lower back. Now was not the time to take a nap. She had more to decipher and another full day to dig, dig, dig.
After doing a couple of stretches, she dropped back into her chair, pulling the relief copy of the stela front and center. With the broken piece back in place, she’d figured out that the date of the king’s death was close to the time when the merchant would’ve been traveling with the shell, which fit within the limits defined by her mom’s theory.
But the scribe who’d carved the glyphs had used an unfamiliar head variant to represent the name of the temple where the king was buried. She frowned down at the charcoal lines that made up the strange symbol. She needed to figure out what that head variant meant in order to know where to begin looking.
Rubbing her eyes, she tried to go over what she knew. Someone had moved the stela from its original location, because there had been no altar stones in front of it when her father had found it. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the time this season to search every temple for altar stones without an accompanying stela. She was already way behind schedule and low on manpower.
As cliché as it seemed, she needed to work smarter now, not harder. Although that was often more of a pipedream than a reality given all of the things that could go wrong—and lately had.
She yawned and then pounded the heel of her palm against her forehead. Come on brain. What next?
Variables … variants.
That was it! Head variants.
She grabbed her mom’s favorite old epigraphy reference book from near the bottom of her nightstand stack. As she fanned through the several hundred pages, she wondered where to start.
In the thick quiet of the predawn jungle, she heard Quint’s cot creak. She looked up, listening, thinking about when he’d kissed her earlier. If Rover hadn’t interfered, would she have pulled him into her tent and finished what he started?
Shaking off the semi-naked images that followed along with that idea, she directed her attention back to the damned book. Maybe the Table of Contents would lead her in the right direction. She scanned down the chapter headings for something relevant.
The words blurred. She stroked her cheek, following the path of his touch. What would his fingers feel like elsewhere?
She buried her face in her hands. This was hopeless. Her brain was stalling out, spinning wheels on subjects better left unexplored.
Closing the books, she killed the lantern and stretched out on her cot. Over by her desk on his makeshift bed of old rags, Rover snorted in his sleep, probably tearing up a dreamland garden.
“Damn it, Quint,” she whispered. “What’s it going to take to get you out of my head?”
There in the safe darkness of her tent, she let go. There were no visions of sugar-plums dancing as she drifted off, only fantasies involving the man next door and what she’d like to do to him.
Preferably while he was tied to a bed.
Naked.
Mostly.
* * *
This jungle was going to be the death of him.
After a long night of tossing and turning on his cot, bouncing from one bad dream to another, and then an even longer day trying to keep up with Fernando, Quint could barely lift the balche to his lips.
“I’m too old for this shit,” he told Juan, who sat next to him on a rickety lawn chair in the growing shadow of the Temple of the Water Witch. A haze of incense hovered above their heads, perfuming the early evening air. “Twenty years ago, I could handle working in this heat, but not anymore.”
“Quit your crying, Junior Mint.” Juan blew out a mouthful of cigar smoke. “You’re not going to let my little girl show you up, are you?”
“Hell, yes. Your daughter is a machine. I’m beginning to think her energy source is nuclear-based.”
“She’s a carbon copy of her mother. I never could keep up with Marianne.”
He wanted to press Juan for more details about the curse Marianne had found, and if Angélica believed it had anything to do with her mom’s death, but he settled on a more neutral subject. “So, why are we having this Local-whatever ceremony here next to this particular temple?”
“We found the curse glyph here, and the evil wind blew right after Angélica read it aloud. All of the men here know that, so Teodoro thinks that this would be the best spot to perform the protection ritual.”
“Protection from what?”
“Evil spirits like Xtabay.”
“And more evil winds,” Pedro added as he dropped into the chair on the other side of Quint. He pointed the cup of balche in his hand at Steel, who sat across the fire. “We need a ritual to protect us from that one.”
“I thought there was.” Juan raised his cigar. “It’s called ‘divorce,’ but apparently it doesn’t always work.”
Pedro sipped while Juan puffed.
Quint’s attention shifted to Teodoro, who was chanting something while standing at an altar under an arch made up of bent and tied sticks. The altar looked similar to the one used at the Chachac ceremony last week. Candles and gourds littered the altar surface and the ground surrounding it.
Pedro tapped Quint on the arm. “You going somewhere after the show, hot stuff?”
While Pedro had on his usual jeans and T-shirt, Quint had cleaned up and donned his least stained khaki pants and a short-sleeve, black button-up shirt. With all of the talk he’d kept hearing about this ceremony, Quint had figured he’d better shower, shave, and wear something nicer than his usual duds. Now he looked like a tourist among the natives.
“I have a date,” he joked.
Juan winked. “I’m sure Angélica will appreciate it.”
Heat crawled up Quint’s neck. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Really?” Juan raised one eyebrow. “You two-timing my daughter with one of the boys?”
Quint’s tongue was bumbling around in his mouth still, so he changed direction. “Where is your daughter?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t seen her all afternoon.”
“She’s probably back in that damned death trap,” Pedro muttered. He pushed to his feet. “Time for a refill. Anyone else need one?” When he got no takers, he headed off.
Quint pulled his shirt away from his chest, fanning the material against his skin. The setting sun tie-dyed the sky in a mix of blues, purples, and pinks. He should have brought his camera, but he’d promised Juan that he wouldn’t write about this ceremony in his article, so he’d left everything back in the tent.
“How’s Jeff doing?” Pedro asked as he settled back into his lawn chair, sloshing some balche onto his pants. He muttered a string of curses in Spanish when he realized what he’d done.
Quint shot a glance at Juan before answering, checking if he was paying attention. The good doctor was staring into the flames, appearing to be lost in fiery thoughts. “As good as can be expected, I guess.”
“Jeff said he’s been going through his mother’s stuff for the last few weeks, finding some interesting things.”
Quint wondered how much Jeff had said, but with Juan here, now was not the time to get too inquisitive. Besides, he needed an answer from Pedro to a question that had been churning in his mind all day. “Did you know about Dr. Hughes being in a plane crash?”
“I have a friend who was part of the investigative team. He works for the government, inspecting plane crashes. I called Mrs. Hughes after I’d heard. She told me she didn’t be
lieve her husband was in that plane.” He swilled his balche. “I didn’t argue with her.”
“Do you believe he was in that crash?”
“Sì, but I didn’t want to cause her any more pain.”
Sitting back, Quint pondered Pedro’s words. If it were true, if Dr. Hughes had been on that plane, then the great mystery was solved. Game over.
Across the flames, Steel sat alone, a book open on his lap while he stared off into the dark jungle. Maybe Mrs. Hughes was a bit off her rocker. As much as he’d like to justify his distaste for all things Steel, the jerk might be guilty of nothing more than being a Grade-A asshole.
He might as well do the only thing he could at this point—keep reading Mrs. Hughes’ notes.
In between helping Fernando all day, he’d managed to get through a few more pages before falling asleep during the afternoon siesta. Mostly her scrawls were random thoughts about articles on Steel and snippets of conversations with her husband. Nothing worth staying awake over apparently.
Teodoro’s chanting grew louder, capturing his attention. Quint watched him take a drink from a piece of gourd fashioned into a bowl. “He’s drinking balche, too, right?”
“Yes,” Juan answered. “Now that he’s walked around the temple ten times, he has to drink twelve bowls of it. Then he’ll pray to the alux.”
“Alux?”
“Forest spirits,” Pedro said. “Tricky little dwarfs who have protective powers.”
“Good evening, boys,” Angélica interrupted, standing next to her father.
Quint’s pulse sped up at just the sound of her voice, which was pretty goddamned pathetic. He was turning into her puppy dog.
She eyed him for a moment, taking in his shirt and pants. “You look very nice tonight, Parker. Which one of these two jokesters told you there was a dress code?”
Pedro laughed. “¡Demonios! I wish I’d thought of that.”
She squatted next to her father’s chair, patting his knee. “How was your day?”
“Bueno.” Juan reached over and ruffled her hair, which looked damp, freshly washed. “Where have you been, gatita? You’ve missed some of the good stuff.”
Her whole face lit up from her smile. “I figured it out.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “Where’s Jared?” she whispered.
“Sitting over on the steps.”
Her smile faded at the sight of Steel. Then she focused back on her dad, her eyes glittering in the firelight.
“Well?” Juan prompted.
She glanced pointedly toward the temple looming over them. “Itza.” She spoke loud enough for only the four of them to hear. “I didn’t recognize it because it was a style used a couple of hundred years before the one I’d learned.”
“You mean it’s been in the Temple of the Water Witch all along?”
“Shhhh.” She shot a look at Jared while nodding.
Pedro leaned in closer. “I bet it’s in the chamber.”
Quint gazed from one to the next, feeling like the odd man out. “What are you talking about?”
She measured him up and down for a moment. “Ask me the next time we’re alone.” He appeared to have passed inspection.
Something warm flickered to life in his chest. Maybe it was the balche, or maybe it was being accepted into Angélica’s inner circle. He didn’t want to move a muscle, afraid he’d break the spell now that she was actually going to trust him with something. And something very important, judging by the way the three of them were acting.
She watched Teodoro for a moment. “Has he petitioned the spirits already?”
“Over an hour ago.” Juan took a draw from his cigar.
“Dang. That’s my favorite part.” She shifted, sitting cross-legged at her father’s feet. “Where are Esteban and Rafael?”
Pedro lowered his empty cup to the ground and leaned back, his chair squeaking as he settled into it. “They’re getting the chicken.”
“Right, the chicken.” Angélica grimaced as she took the two cups of balche Francisco had brought her. After thanking him, she offered one of them to her father.
“No way.”
“Come on, don’t be a wimp about it.” She softened her words with a grin and offered the cup to Quint. He held up his own to show her he already had one.
Pedro snickered. “Remember that time Juan got so drunk on balche that he strapped himself to the altar with duct tape and chanted for twenty minutes?” He took the cup she held out to him and continued. “And when you cut him loose, he tore off his clothes and jumped into the cenote with nothing on but his underwear?”
“Mom made me dive in and save him. She would have done it, but she was laughing so hard she didn’t think she could swim.”
Juan grunted. “I explained to all of you ya-hoos that I was momentarily transformed into a Chilam Balam.”
“What’s a Chilam Balam?” Quint asked.
“A Jaguar priest of the ancient Maya,” she said. “Chilam Balam would predict the future.”
“What was your prediction?” Quint asked Juan.
Juan stroked his index finger over his chin, frowning in thought. Then he shrugged. “I don’t remember.”
Angélica nudged his leg with her shoulder. “Didn’t it have something to do with the Lakers winning the championship?”
Juan snapped his fingers. “That’s right. And they did, too!” When the laughter settled, Juan snorted. “You two need to get new stories and leave this poor old man alone.”
Pedro hiccupped. “Poor old man, my ass! I’ll never forget that time you talked me into rubbing achiote seed paste on my arms.”
“I really thought it’d get rid of the chigger bites.”
“It took two weeks to get my skin back to brown.”
Quint leaned back in his chair, breathing in the fog of incense surrounding them. He sipped his cup of balche, letting the sweet wine swill on his tongue. He could get used to this …
Two hours later his lips were numb, and he couldn’t feel his toes.
Juan snoozed in his chair, his chin resting on his chest. Meanwhile, Pedro was trying to count the lines on his palms but kept losing his place and having to start over.
Angélica still sat on the ground with her legs stretched out in front of her. She stared into the fire, her thoughts obviously elsewhere.
Steel and several of the others had disappeared, probably retired to their tents.
When Quint lowered his drink to the ground, standing up to stretch, she snapped out of her daze.
“What time is it?” she asked him.
“Just after eleven.”
“I would have thought Esteban and Rafael would’ve been back with the chicken by now.” She pushed to her feet, staggering slightly. “My foot’s asleep,” she explained when she turned down his hand to help steady her.
“They did come back, don’t you remember?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Oh, that’s right. You went to the bathroom.”
“Good, I missed it. I hate that part.”
He watched Teodoro carry a wooden cross and a gourd cup toward the Temple of the Crow. “What’s he doing?”
“This is another step in the ritual. He’s going to place the cross, some rum, and a piece of black obsidian on the ground to protect us. He’ll do that three more times, as if in the corners of a square. Then he’ll make more offerings to the alux, burn more incense, and chant at the altar for a while longer. Eventually, intoxicated by all the balche he’s been drinking, he’ll have a vision of the future and share it with the men. We’re hoping his words will reassure them that the wind spirits have been called to protect them.”
“And then they’ll stay?”
“Keep your fingers crossed.” She searched the area. “So where are Esteban and Rafael now?”
“Juan mentioned they were cleaning up at the cenote.”
“How long ago did they leave?”
He thought for a moment and then looked down at her. “
Maybe half an hour ago.”
She watched Teodoro move to the next corner. “I’m going to go to the cenote and make sure the boys find their way back okay.”
“Not alone, you aren’t.” Not with someone possibly waiting in the forest to do who-knew-what to her.
She studied Quint for several seconds, her lips pursed. “Okay, you can come with me. But be careful where you step. The snakes are hard to see at night.” She headed toward the forest.
Quint grabbed his flashlight, jogging to catch up with her. “What kind of snakes are we talking about here? The venomous ones?”
Dodging a low-hanging limb, she stepped onto a well-worn path, her light leading the way. “The ones that eat the rats hiding in the bushes next to the trail.”
Great. Snakes and rats. Didn’t they have any cute, furry bunnies down here? Hell, he’d take an ugly possum over another venomous predator.
The glow from the fire disappeared as they moved deeper into the forest. Darkness cloaked them, broken only by their flashlight beams and shafts of moonlight. Angélica maneuvered through the shadow-filled brush as easily as if she were threading through tables in the mess tent.
Now that he had her to himself, maybe it was time to tell her about Mrs. Hughes and why he was really here. After all, with the new information about the plane crash on the table before him, it didn’t look like he needed to spend any more time figuring out what had happened to Dr. Hughes.
She led him around a large tree standing in the middle of the path. “We’re almost there.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “You doing okay?”
“Angélica,” he started and then tripped over a tree root. He stumbled into her, his weight shoving her off the trail. She corrected course, holding onto him, but then toed a stone jutting out into the trail. Still tangled up, they both hit the ground, rolling as the path dipped down a steep hill.
Her grip on him slipped as they tumbled. Quint lost track of her while trying to stop himself by grabbing onto tufts of grass and bushes. He heard her grunt somewhere below him, and then she grasped his leg as he slid past her. But he had too much momentum. Instead of stopping, he spun around and skidded headfirst for several more feet, dragging her along until they finally came to a dusty stop.