by Nancy Gideon
Around the fire, they shared a flavorful, if watery stew with a dozen of Ruperto's extended family members. Wary eyes regarded them with suspicion, but taking a cue from their leader, none challenged them overtly. The meal was a time to take sustenance not make conversation, so Sheba hurriedly scooped up the last of her broth, eager to continue their talk. This close to her goal, she was surprisingly free of apprehension. But the sense of expectation zinged through her, leaving her nerve endings humming like electrically charged wires.
The truth was here with this old man, and she would finally know an end to her anguished quest.
When the meal was cleared away the others disappeared, leaving the three of them before the fire. Across the flames, reflected embers danced in the old man's sightless eyes, giving them the illusion of some magical power to see beyond what was before them. Perhaps into the past, when an ancient medallion opened a doorway—either by accident or on purpose—to release an incredible evil.
"Tell me about the medallion,” Sheba urged, translating her words and the reply so Cobb could follow the conversation.
"In the days of our ancestors, when our people ruled a great empire—before the time of the Inca, before the coming of the Spanish—we worshiped a powerful god who protected and provided for us. But as with man, this god grew greedy, and soon our offerings of tribute no longer satisfied. The people rebelled against his demand for blood sacrifice, and they went from being the chosen to the victims of his wrath. Many were slain before they trapped this divine evil in a tomb. They were then safe from him, but vulnerable to other tribes without his fearsome strength to keep them away.
"So this wise and selfless leader struck a bargain with their bloodthirsty deity. He would remain asleep until called forth to defend the people. Then he would return to his rest when appeased by the offering of royal blood and sleep until called upon again."
"So the royal family made a sacrifice from among them for the sake of their people."
"Only they could release the demon god and then call him back to his rest. It was an awesome responsibility, but one that was borne proudly, humbly and—if the situation demanded it—bravely."
Sheba listened the way she would to any myth being spun, with the indulgent disbelief of one chronicling the fables of the past. But Cobb leaned forward, his expression alert, his gaze sharply intense, as if the old man was revealing the secrets behind the origin of man.
"This god,” he asked at last, urging Sheba to translate his words when she would hesitate. “What was he?"
"A supreme being, one of power and darkness."
Cobb made an impatient gesture that was lost on the speaker. “Yes, but if you strip away all the fairy tale trappings and the cultural mumbo-jumbo, is what you have left what we would call a vampire?"
The old man thought a moment. “Perhaps to your oversimplified thinking he might be called that. The Fanged Deity, the Ancient One who only wakes by night and demands payment in blood. There is more I have not told you. It is said that if a member of the royal family, a virgin, is given to the Great One as his bride, he will reward the giver with faithful service for the lifetime of his mate."
After he heard the translation, Cobb made a noise. “It's a good thing there are so few royal virgin brides to be had these days, or we might have to worry."
"Frank."
Sheba's tone warned him that he wouldn't like what was coming.
She looked him in the eye, her calm demeanor belied by the bright, embarrassed color warming her cheeks.
"We'd better start worrying."
Chapter Nineteen
Cobb stared as Ruperto waited for a translation.
"Don't tell me. You're royalty."
She nodded, the heat rising, color seeping up into her cheeks in a determined tide.
"And the other thing, too?"
He looked so insultingly incredulous. Her temper bristled in spiny defensiveness.
"Chastity isn't a disease, Cobb."
His mouth shut with an audible clack. She waited dispassionately for him to regain his wits. His recovery was far from stellar.
"I never said it was."
Her glare could have made him into a eunuch. Clinging to the last of her dignity, she turned her attention to Ruperto to inform him of the rather humiliating circumstance. He saw no humor in it. Only horror.
"This is a disaster,” he exclaimed.
"Well, it hasn't been great on my social life, either. Something about a thirty-year-old virgin makes men run for the hills.” Even a man like Frank Cobb, if his poleaxed expression was any indication. Usually such a master of his emotions, he was clearly struggling with them now. Probably between astonishment and laughter. At this moment, she didn't think she could survive his mockery. But true to form, he surprised her by pulling his composure together and remaining silent behind his stoic facade.
"Who knows of this besides us?” Ruperto wanted to know. His urgent manner left no more room for shame.
"Just a friend,” she admitted at last, then more wryly, “It's not something I discuss over dinner."
But was Rosa Kelly her friend? She'd thought so once ... before all her realities were discovered to be as deceptive as her dreams. She didn't know what or whom to believe in any more. Nor did she want to believe the shaman's incredible story. Superstition and nonsense. Sacrificial virgins and vengeful gods, indeed.
"Your disbelief is plain in your silence,” Ruperto intuited without accusation. “Such doubts are dangerous to you, child. It's not necessary for you to believe if there are others who do. I would suggest you find the means to alter your circumstance, and the sooner the better."
He was advising her to chase down a man to end her unfortunate state of grace. And where in the jungle was she to find such a martyr?
Slowly, her gaze slid to Frank Cobb.
It wasn't the worst solution she could think of.
But she'd rather take her chances at the sacrificial altar than beg that favor from a reluctant suitor.
Or would he be reluctant?
His kiss in the camp said no, even if all his actions leading up to it disagreed.
To distract herself from the shivery hots and colds of anticipation, she emotionally pinched herself. “Ruperto, what happened to my parents? Who killed them and why? And why was I left alive?"
"These are questions you alone have the answer to. You and whoever was there in the jungle with you. Whoever even now seeks to silence you.” He sighed. The wheezy sound of sorrow rattled from his sunken chest. “I should have been watching. I should have been on my guard, but I was mourning the loss of my daughter. I did not expect evil to strike so quickly at the heart of my family after taking my child away from me."
"Peyton says you blame him for what happened."
How ancient and tired he suddenly looked, as if all the fight left him with only his loss. “I blame him for being handsome and young and charming, for tempting my sweet Cipriana with a glimpse of a world she'd never known. She was such an innocent, much like your mother was."
And she, herself, was.
Who could so cruelly take advantage of that trusting naivete? And why? Over some ancient lore? Over promises of power made by some mythical god? Logic told her to find another reason.
But since when had logic held a place in the jungle? It was a place to believe in ancient demons and the wrath of a legend scorned. A place where the impossible was the ordinary.
A place where a virgin could still be given over to wed a god to earn his favor and good fortune.
She was in big trouble.
And the answer to her peril sat beside her.
"Child, there is a way to unlock your memories. The way is dangerous and not always clear even once revealed."
"What is the way?"
"By taking the vine of the dead, you can learn the truth in the spirit world from those who went before you. It is not a path to be walked lightly. The way is dark and sometimes deadly and should not be walked alone.
Have someone you trust to safely guide you if you decide to find your answers there."
Impatience conquered any reluctance.
"I'm ready."
The old man smiled. “You are too eager, child. Think about the risk and prepare yourself for the journey. At dawn, if you still want to take the path, I will guide you. And then, you must leave this place quickly. I would like to think that all my people are above the temptation of trading upon our past for a profitable future. But sadly, that would be foolish of me and dangerous for you. Reflect upon the path you will choose, and I will see you in the morning."
Two of the younger tribe members helped their leader to his feet and led him away from the fire. Then, Sheba was faced with an impatient Cobb who waited to hear what had transpired. She gave him the abbreviated version, the one that didn't involve the urgent need to lose her virginity.
"Vine of death,” he mused. “What the hell is that? Peru's answer to magic mushrooms?"
She found his brusque anxiety touching. “Shamans have been using psychoactive plants for centuries to take spirit journeys. On the coast, they use the San Pedro cactus which produces a form of mescaline. In the highlands, they chew coca leaves. But in the forest, they take the ayahuasca vine. It's a powerful hallucinogenic drug that allows the user to see and interact with the spirit world."
"And you're seriously thinking of going on one of these psychedelic mystery tours? I don't think so."
Again, there was that blunt and erroneous assumption that she would blindly obey.
"It's not your choice to make, Frank."
And that said, she left him at the fire, needing to be alone to consider the step she was about to take, be it enlightening or deadly.
* * * *
Virgin sacrifice, mind-altering drugs. What next?
Cobb knew what next. He had to get Sheba out of this godforsaken jungle and back to the States where she'd be safe from all the mystic mumbo-jumbo.
But that would mean abandoning his job.
Face it, his job was over. He'd been hired to protect Paulo Lemos and if, by some miracle, the scientist was still alive, he was hardly going to give a glowing recommendation. Cobb was batting zero for two on that score.
And what about Quinton Alexander? Could he just walk away knowing that Alexander's evil would go unchecked? What guarantee did he have that the vengeful vampire wouldn't follow him, if not immediately, then whenever the quirky mood struck him. He couldn't picture a spoiled and dapper fellow like Alexander living in the jungle for long, even pretending to be a god. Then he'd be responsible for whatever maniac deeds were done and, knowing the crazed killer, Sheba would be his first target.
She'd be no safer in the States than here. At least from Alexander's threat. Better to deal with it here and now than wait for it to catch up later when they were unaware and unexpecting.
That left all the pre-Columbian crap to take care of.
He didn't know if he believed in the spiel Ruperto Lemos was reeling out. Hell, months ago he hadn't believed in neck-biting bloodsuckers either. The best bet was to treat it as a real and very present danger.
And that meant sticking to Sheba like glue.
Sheba, his warrior virgin princess.
His...
"Mr. Cobb?"
Frank looked up into the expectant face of one of Lemos's great nephews. What was his name? Josef.
"Yes? What is it?"
"My uncle would like to speak to you."
Frank's gaze jumped immediately to the rocky surround in search of Sheba.
"Do not worry. We will watch out for her. Come, please."
Humor the old guy. Frank followed, ducking into a wretched little shack only to jerk up in surprise.
"Holy shit! What's all this?"
There was wall-to-wall short wave equipment, new and undeniably expensive, hooked up to a generator.
Josef grinned. “We are isolated, not ignorant, Americano. I learned how to handle this stuff in the military. You can get it cheap, if you know where to shop."
"And I bet you're not referring to K-Mart."
"Not on your life, Jack. My uncle wants Sheba out of here in the morning. We're arranging for a pick up, so be ready at 0800."
"Ready for what?"
"Anything, civilizado. Anything."
"Can I place a call on that thing?"
"It'll cost you, bro."
Ruperto issued a sharp bark of words, and Josef looked chagrined.
"Uncle tells me not to haggle, so you may make your call. If it's to the States, it may take about an hour to get the relay through."
"It's not like I was watching the game on TV. Unless you have a big screen around here someplace."
"Sorry, man. This is our one and only piece of the twenty-first century."
"Nice piece."
"I would say the same about your companion ... if she weren't family."
Cobb grinned then grew serious. “Why does he want to talk to me?"
"It's about Sheba."
"Are you going to ask me my intentions?"
"I know what my intentions would be if I were you. Sit.” Josef gestured to a blanket covered floor and Frank sat, waiting for the old man to address him. Instead, Ruperto reached into a clay pot on the floor beside him and threw a handful of dried herbs upon the fire. Quickly, a pungent smell permeated the small space.
Cobb's brows soared as he took a sniff.
"Am I going to have to arrest myself for inhaling?"
"Relax and enjoy,” Josef suggested with a grin. “It's spiritual medicine, and Uncle thinks your spirit is wound too tight.” For a moment, Ruperto talked, then Josef translated. “He feels much darkness in your past. You have done things you regret."
"Haven't we all."
Josef ignored that wry interjection. “You feel a bond to Sheba because you understand the shadow she walks in. You think by saving her, you will save yourself."
"Is this Cracker Jack Psychology 101?” Beginning to feel lightheaded and uncomfortable with the personal turn of conversation, Cobb tried to stand but found his legs would not cooperate. A worm of panic wriggled in his belly. “I need some air."
Josef speared him with a authoritative stare. “You need to listen, bro. Open your mind and heart and hear what my uncle is saying. You only feel fear because you are thinking of your mother."
"What? What!” He struggled fiercely, angrily, commanding his rebellious limbs to move.
"Let that go, brother. You and she do not share the same fate or the same spirit. She chose her path, and you cannot change that. Nor do you have to walk it."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
But he knew. Somehow, the old man had looked into his soul and seen his anguished past as if watching it on that nonexistent big screen.
"Her guilt is her own,” Josef continued in his relay of the old man's words. “It's not for you to apologize or atone for it. If you want to help Sheba, you must let go of that pain so you can see your own way."
Frank couldn't breathe. The air seemed to thicken, to take on bright swirling colors that became patterns then pictures from his own memories, rerunning the horrors of his own past in grisly Technicolor. His mother's face, wan and wasted, twisted by her last scream.
"No!"
He fought against the images, kicking at the fire. A shower of sparks rose, each ember carrying that frozen snapshot fixed in his mind for the past eighteen years. He sat back, gulping for a saving sanity as, one by one, those images disappeared, filtering back into the fire as ash. Then there was silence as his breathing rasped loud and raw.
"I couldn't save her,” he said at last, his confession little more than a whisper.
"No one could. She didn't want to be saved, Frank. Let it go. She forgives you."
He closed his eyes and wiped the sheen of cold sweat from his brow.
"But you can save Sheba if it's for the right reasons. Look into your heart."
Cobb shook his head slowly. “I'm not what
she needs."
"You're exactly what she needs, hermano. But you must put her first, above the past, above your duties. And for you, that will not be easy."
Cobb sat silently, blinking as he stared into the firelight. Josef pressed a large, ancient goblet into his hands.
"Drink."
When Cobb recoiled suspiciously, the young man laughed.
"It's only water, amigo. Drink and let your head and heart focus upon what's important."
He drank, long and greedily, with an endless, unquenchable thirst. And as he lowered the cup, he stared at the intricately detailed engravings, blinking, looking closer. They were startlingly graphic depictions of sexual activity. And not much had changed since pre-Columbian times. The various and innovative positions put the Kama Sutra to shame.
"It's a Moche drinking vessel,” Josef explained. “Our answer to pornography."
Cobb didn't respond to the other's lusty amusement. Because as he stared and studied, the face of the female on the cup altered from flat, simple lines, becoming more detailed. More recognizable. Becoming Sheba's. It was her lithe form writhing and twisting beneath the hugely endowed Man-Animal god of pagan lore.
A god with long, sharp fangs and eyes that momentarily gleamed red.
Josef deftly caught the cup as it fell from Cobb's numb fingers. “Easy, bro. You need some fresh air. Let me help you, man."
Only after he had dragged in great lungs’ full of crisp twilight air, did his head begin to clear and his anxious thoughts turn to Sheba.
Where was she?
As if he'd read the direction of his thoughts, Josef said, “Look for her among the ruins.” He pointed upward, toward what looked to be an impossible climb. “I'll put through that call to the States for you. What number are you trying to reach, so I can try to link you up through some of my compadres?"
Cobb scrawled out the number but his attention was elsewhere and the moment he was able, he began to hurry along the rocky path, stumbling at first then moving faster, easier as the effects of the smoke cleared from his mind. How could he ever forgive himself if something had happened to Sheba while he was getting high with the natives?