Midnight Shadows

by Nancy Gideon

  In the pristine hours that followed dawn and led into the scorch of late afternoon, those were the realities that came to her to shape the course of her actions. No more hiding. No more pretending that defeating substitute monsters was the same as dealing with her own. Watching Paulo suffer for the sins of her fright and denial brought it home with the abruptness of a slap. How many more need die before she found the courage? Paulo? Cobb?

  She drew an agonized breath as her thoughts touched upon the cocky mercenary. It was the man, not the altitude making her lightheaded. A man she'd begun to believe she could love and live with for the rest of her life.

  If only he felt the same way.

  He'd made no secret of his agenda. Protect Paulo. To redeem himself in the eyes of the other woman he'd loved. The woman she knew nothing about, the one who'd had his heart and soul and had yet turned away to give herself to another.

  Obviously a stupid woman.

  For those two things Frank Cobb would risk his life. He considered them worthy endeavors. But he'd done nothing to stop her from going off on her own to face certain peril whether imagined or dangerously real. How that wounded, and yet she'd known Cobb wasn't a hero. He was a realist—hard-bitten, scarred by harsh experience and totally dedicated to the job at hand. He was in the jungle for revenge not romance. And yet, as she'd turned away from him to start out in her own direction, a part of her longed for him to surrender all that he had been to be by her side.

  A silly yearning.

  Paulo was the important one. Within his brilliant mind lay the possible betterment of mankind. What could she offer that would compare to that? Frank had done the right thing and she admired him for his resolve.

  But oh, his kiss had been magnificent. She could taste it even now as she climbed ever upward toward the unknowns of her future. And she smiled to herself as she considered how different things might have been had they been other than who they were.

  But if they were, would the attraction be as strong? Wasn't it the very impossibility of their union that made it so irresistible?

  As soon as she faced this nightmare, she'd be free to pursue that dream.

  Nothing was impossible if one had faith, her father had told her. Though her faith in the things he'd believed in had fallen off over the years, her faith in herself had undergone a wondrous renewal. Determination replaced the crippling dread. If Ruperto Lemos didn't know the answers, perhaps he could help open her tightly locked mind to free the secrets it had guarded for these past twenty years. She was finally strong enough to learn them, to accept them whatever they might be.

  And then she could get on with her life instead of being held prisoner by it.

  * * * *

  While tourists flocked to the Inca Trial at Machu Picchu to endure the three day climb and explore the remains of a civilization, when Ruperto Lemos went into seclusion to avoid the modern age, he sought out a more ancient and mysterious world from which he had descended. His people, like the Quechuas, founded Peru, only as the Quechuas expanded to form the Inca empire, his own remained isolated and unchanging, content to continue worshiping in the old ways and contemptuous of all that was progress. Because of that choice to scorn expansion, it doomed itself to ever-shrinking numbers and an increasing battle to retain its purity.

  The Reynards had convinced Ruperto that in order to preserve his people's past, it needed to be documented. To do that meant developing a written language to interpret the centuries-old dialect. Afraid that his rich culture would fade and be forgotten, Ruperto had agreed to let the Reynards live amongst his following, learning their language and translating it into a symbolic form. After all, what did he have to fear from Shari Reynard, who was of their own blood? But the exchange was far from one-sided. As the Reynards studied his people, so did they observe the strange civilizados. And among those who were tempted and lured away by what they learned were Ruperto's only daughter and his grandson, Paulo.

  Perhaps Ruperto had never forgiven that defection. Perhaps he blamed his own naivete and that of the Reynards. But had he blamed them enough to wish them dead? That's what Sheba would find out. If she could find the elusive shaman amongst the ruins of his past.

  She paused upon one of the terraced slopes to take a long drink of tepid water from her canteen. She dampened her neckerchief and, after blotting her face and nape, looped it about her neck to offer a vaguely cooling relief. She was close. She knew it. Perhaps even now she was under the surveillance of Ruperto's clan. Would they show themselves, or would she be forced to laboriously search for them? Either way, she was not leaving until contact was made.

  A slight trickling of stones from on the path behind her alerted Sheba to the fact that she was not alone. Taking a firm grip on the walking staff she'd fashioned to aid her climb, she turned abruptly, ready to face any foe.

  But not her heart's desire.

  "I thought you were going to watch your back."

  Relief filtered through her in tiny shivers. Contrarily, she weighed her staff and arched a haughty brow. “You came very close to having what few brains you possess seriously rattled. What do you mean sneaking up on me like that?"

  "Sneaking? I've been stomping around behind you for the last two hours. You must be deaf not to have heard me."

  "I wasn't expecting anyone to be skulking in the bushes. Why didn't you just tell me you were there?"

  "I would have ... if I could have caught up to you. Woman, you've got one hell of a stride."

  A foolish grin struggled to escape, but she fought it back to demand, “What are you doing here, Cobb?"

  "Watching your back."

  "And what about your duty to Paulo?"

  "I know, and to my paycheck. Got it covered. We ran into a convoy of trucks that are going to get him to the river, and from there the others will see he reaches the hospital."

  "Oh. Good."

  "So, with that taken care of, I found myself without any gainful employment. I figured I'd just go and see what kind of trouble you'd gotten yourself into."

  "As you can see, I'm not in any kind of trouble at all."

  He smiled grimly in response to her claim. “Then who are these fellows surrounding us, and why do I feel we're about to become the main course at their evening meal?"

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ruperto Lemos was hardly a figure to inspire terror or legend. He sat upon an ancient stone step, a mantle of crudely spun cloth about his shoulders, his sickly, stick-thin legs poking from beneath a huge, swollen belly. From out of a face as withered as a winter apple, he regarded them with sightless eyes. He appeared much like the majority of the indigenous people of Peru, in ill-health, starving and desperately clinging to a sense of the past. Or so she would have believed had she not noticed the way the others deferred to him. Or the way his hunched shoulders straightened, dragging him up into a posture of pride and power. A big, rich voice burst from the shriveled frame.

  "Daughter of the missionaries, why have you come?"

  Out of respect, she answered in the same ancient tongue. “I've come to ask you to cast a mesa so that you might show me the truth about how my parents died."

  "What can you learn from me, child? You have lost the beliefs of your family and deny the power of this land. The spirits cannot speak to you through the wall of doubts about her mind and soul."

  Though she winced at the barb of that surprisingly accurate truth, she kept her tone calm and reverent. “I ask that they speak to you, altomisayoq. Your power can overcome my weakness of heart."

  "And the one with you, what does he believe?"

  "In the truth, Great One. He has sworn to protect your grandson but cannot do so without the knowledge I seek. Paulo is ill, perhaps dying. We have little time to listen and learn. Will you help us? Will you give us the wisdom to save his soul from the ancient evil?"

  "He of whom you speak has been long dead to me."

  It was not going well. There was so little time to charm an old man with sentiments of
family and loyalty. And even though he was blind, Sheba guessed that Ruperto Lemos would see right through any lie. So, she stuck to the truth, hoping it could melt some of the icy indifference about the shaman's embittered heart.

  "Paulo is of your blood, of your people. He has done nothing to harm you or the spirit of the land. He only seeks to help others by tapping into the strength of the jungle, much in the same way you and your fathers before you have always done. He deserves your respect, not your contempt."

  "Yet it is contempt he shows for his heritage. I may not have eyes, but I see. I see him in his fancy clothes, speaking with his educated tongue. He is of another world now. He does not belong."

  "In his heart beats the soul of the forest. In his blood, flows the strength of his ancestors. He hasn't turned from you, Great One. You are the one who drove him away with your refusal to accept his curiosity about the world around you, just as you did your own daughter, Cipriana, and your niece Shari, my mother."

  "They were contaminated by the knowledge and greed of the outsiders.” A hint of angry querulousness crept into his tone. Their defection had hurt him deeply.

  So there was still hope.

  "No. They sought to protect their past by giving it the means to survive in the modern world. They did so out of hearts of love, not disrespect. It is you who disrespects their memories by hardening your heart to the good things they have done."

  Ruperto sat unmoving for a long moment, and Sheba feared she'd said too much. She couldn't afford to alienate this one link she had left to her own past, her own memories. But before she could apologize, the old man chuckled softly.

  "You speak well, child. You do those before you honor."

  "Thank you.” The humility in her voice was not pretended and he nodded, feeling her sincerity.

  "You wish to hear of things long past. What do these things have to do with my grandson?"

  "I was hoping you could tell me."

  "Come sit, child.” He patted the blanket-covered rock beside him. “I would like to get a better look at you. I do not like speaking to strangers."

  When she took a step forward, Cobb's hand went instinctively to her arm to halt her, to keep her close to his side. An immediate bristle of crude spears arose from the circle of men around them. With their nut-brown bodies bared except for a loincloth and their black eyes bright with suspicion, they didn't look helpless in the least. Sheba placed her hand gently over Cobb's, lifting it so she could move forward. If he chose to act rashly, their lives could end in a moment. But he did nothing, trusting her the way he'd once asked her to trust him.

  She glanced up at him, taking just a fraction of a second to convey with that warm look how much his faith meant to her.

  Sheba sat and remained unmoving while Ruperto explored her features with surprisingly dexterous fingers. He expression softened fondly.

  "You have your mother's beauty. And her gentle temperament as well?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  His fingertips lingered over her self-castigating smile. “Still, I feel her spirit in you. And that of your father. He was a good, honest man. You honor them both.” His exploration stilled when touched by the warmth of her tears. Slowly, he followed along her arms so he could pick her hands up in his, feeling their shape, stroking her palms.

  And then his manner changed as his dry fingers investigated her open palm. The endless creases forming caverns in his ancient face seemed to fill and firm. His eyes came alive with a blaze of strength and knowledge. His hand closed over hers, his grip startlingly powerful.

  "Who has sent you to me?"

  "No, one. I came on my own."

  "After all these years of silence, why now?"

  "Paulo asked for me to come."

  "Paulo did? Paulo, not Samuels?"

  Suspicion sharpened her question. “Why do you ask? What does it matter?"

  "The motive makes all the difference if you still have the key."

  The key. There it was again. “I don't understand, Great One. If I am the key, what knowledge do I have? I don't remember what happened the night my parents died. All I've heard is rumors."

  "What rumors?"

  She took a breath and glanced toward Cobb. Though he didn't understand their conversation, he guessed at its content. He shook his head slightly, warning her to tread carefully. But she forged ahead with a giant, reckless step.

  "That perhaps you arranged it to keep progress from your people."

  The old man didn't appear shocked or surprised. Or guilty. A partial smile crooked his thin lips. “And who spread these rumors? Samuels?"

  "Mostly."

  "I do not deny that I have done what I can to keep civilization away, but those steps have not included murder. If I had the ability to defeat those who strip our forest, would I be hiding here in this inhospitable place while outsiders enjoy the legacy of plenty our land provides? I think not, child. I think not."

  "Paulo told me that you were asked to speak at their councils and you refused."

  He made a disparaging noise. “Who among them would listen to my voice?"

  "More than you know. But you'll never know if you continue to hide up here, hoarding the old ways to yourself instead of sharing them with the world."

  He smiled again, and some of the fierceness left his sightless eyes. “Now, you sound like your mother, too."

  "She was right. You should have listened."

  He appeared thoughtful then worried despite his feigned indifference. “Paulo is ill, you said. What has happened to him?"

  Sheba didn't try to soft pedal it. Her response was as quick and as instinctively merciless as the creature that had left Paulo near death. “He was attacked by something in the jungle. Something that pierced his neck and drained his blood."

  And all the blood left the old man's face. “It cannot be. Someone has used the key."

  A mix of frustration and confusion shortened her tone as she demanded, “What key?"

  He held up her palm so she could inspect the outline of scars upon it. Scars made twenty years ago when a frightened child had made a fist about a medallion until her hand bled.

  "This key,” he told her. “Do you know where it is?"

  Contrarily, she demanded, “What does it do? What does it open?"

  "The secrets of our past. The evils we laid to rest. Who has released them? Who has the key?"

  "I do."

  "Where did you get it, child? Who gave it to you?"

  "I don't know. I found it in my hand on the night my parents disappeared. On the night they were killed. What does it mean? Tell me!"

  "It unlocks the treasures and the terrors of my people's past,” came his innocuous reply. “In each generation, a member of the royal family is entrusted with its safekeeping. My daughter, Cipriana was that guardian, but when her ... body was found, the key was missing. All these years, we have rested without ease, fearing it had found its way into the wrong hands. And all this time, we needn't have worried."

  He closed her hand into a ball and held it tightly between his own.

  "A new guardian has been found."

  She tried to pull back, alarmed by what he insinuated, but his grip was amazingly strong. “What do you mean?"

  "You are of your mother's blood, and that is shared with me and the royal families of centuries past. You honor your people by protecting the key from those who would use its power unwisely."

  Sheba relaxed her struggle, knowing she couldn't prevail. Now was not the time to protest her unworthiness. She was close, so close, to all that she needed to know. She leaned forward, pressing her other hand over his imprisoning one. “What power, Great One? What does it do?"

  But he evaded her question. “You must be hungry after your long journey, and I am being a bad host. You and your friend will dine with us and then we will talk more."

  After waiting twenty years, the possibility of all her answers lay just hours away. Anticipation shivered beneath her outward display of resolve. />
  But Frank Cobb had less patience than she did.

  "What was all that about?” he demanded as they were led back to a small village of crudely constructed huts.

  She gave him a play-by-play to the best of her recollection then waited to hear his conclusion. He lifted her hand and studied the marks on her palm somberly, tracing them with his thumb. His grip was warm, the feel now familiar. Much of her jumpy anxiousness ebbed away beneath that calming touch.

  "These scars are from the medallion you wear."

  "Yes. And I think Cipriana Lemos—Samuels was killed for it."

  He was staring at her bosom, at the spot where the medallion lay cradled between her breasts. Unexpectedly, embarrassingly, her nipples tightened at the attention, craving his touch there, as well. There'd been no time to address the tension between them, and it boiled like whatever hung over Lemos’ fire. Until Cobb's brusque tone called her back to business.

  "Does anyone know that you have it?"

  "No. No one but you. And now Ruperto."

  "I wonder who else would be interested in finding out?” he murmured.

  Though he'd mused that more or less to himself, Sheba latched onto the direction of his thoughts. “Like bait for a trap?"

  "We'll see. And only as a last resort.” He looked ahead at the old man they followed and nodded. “What's your take on him?” He still hadn't released her hand.

  "He admits to wanting outsiders to leave the forest, but I don't think he's had anything to do with what's been going on. Or with my parents. I peg him as more a pacifist."

  Cobb made a doubtful noise. “Yeah, but I bet in his heyday he could stir up a lot of rowdy stuff. A reluctant pacifist, maybe, but if you ask me, I'd guess there's still some fire in the old guy."

  "I feel sorry for him. He's such an old man who's lost so much."

  "That would be your mistake. An old warrior is still a warrior."

  "Like you're going to be when you're seventy?"

  He smiled slightly, glancing at their armed escort. “If I live that long."