Cult of the Black Jaguar

by JG Faherty

  In the depths of the jungle lie mysteries drenched in blood.

  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.

  Cult of the Black Jaguar

  JG Faherty

  Dedication

  To my wife, Andrea, and to my parents and friends for all their continued support...

  To my sharp-eyed beta readers, new and old: Rena Mason, Patrick Freivald, Erinn Kemper, Peter Salomon, Stephen Owen, and Chantal Noordeloos...

  To the staff at Samhain, especially Don D’Auria, for believing in my stories and making them better through their suggestions and covers...

  And to all the people who support me and other writers by buying our books...

  Thank you!

  Cult of the Black Jaguar

  Ethan Foster smiled as a tortured, undulating wail shattered 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 t
he 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.

  Ethan swung around, pistol out and aimed towards the sound, finger ready on the trigger, just in time to see Rory Amos, clothes torn and sweat-soaked blond hair plastered wildly across his head, burst from the trees.

  “It’s coming! Right behind me!”

  Ethan Foster grabbed Rory Amos’s arm just before the other man collapsed to the ground.

  “Rory! What’s going on? Who’s coming?” Ethan held tight to his assistant, nearly pulling him into an embrace to keep the shaking man on his feet.

  Sweat and spittle flew from Amos’s lips as he gasped out his words. “I don’t know. Something’s out there. Something big. I couldn’t see it clearly, but it’s fast. Some kind of animal. Pacing me.” He bent over, fighting to draw air into his oxygen-starved lungs.

  A deep, gut-wrenching howl shook the night and scattered birds from their roosts. The clatter of wings and the raucous cries of startled jungle denizens added to the confusion.

  “Balamob!” Popi pointed into the blackness.

  For one brief moment, firelight reflected on ghostly yellow-green eyes. Then they were gone.

  “Not a god, but a jaguar for sure,” Ethan said.

  Gun raised and ready, he advanced towards the place where they’d seen the animal, only to find his way blocked by Jenny Pascal, her fists on her hips and her cheeks flushed with anger. She stared up at him with a defiant glare.

  “Ethan Foster! You can’t possibly be thinking about shooting some poor animal?”

  Ethan raised an eyebrow at the woman he’d known since the day she was born.

  “Doctor Pascal, you better believe I’m thinking about it. Your father hired me to get you through the jungle safely, and I’m—”

  He stopped speaking and threw himself onto her, knocking the young professor to the ground a split-second before a giant black form speared through the space where they’d been standing.

  Ethan rolled halfway off her and fired his Colt just as the jungle cat landed. His first shot caught the animal in the meaty part of one back leg. With an ear-piercing shriek, the ferocious beast tumbled awkwardly onto its side, rolled over, and then got to its feet. A low, raspy snarl came from its throat as it prepared to leap once more.

  Ethan rose to one knee and took careful aim. His pistol roared again and the enormous feline crumpled to the ground, a gaping hole at the base of its neck. It shuddered once before exhaling a final, long breath.

  The smell of hot, fresh blood teased Ethan’s nose in waves of copper and death. His belly growled in reaction.

  Hands clutched his arm and two soft mounds of womanly flesh pressed against his back, distracting him from a dangerous path. Jenny’s scent, a combination of sweat, woman and shampoo, wafted over his shoulder and pushed aside the odors of the dead beast.

  “You saved my life,” she whispered into his ear. Her breath caressed the flesh of his neck and made the tiny hairs there stand on end.

  Ethan turned his head and found himself staring directly into large, emerald eyes that were partly closed. The barest hint of a smile tilted up the corners of her full, pink lips.

  He leaned in for the kiss that was due him, a kiss years in the making, his body already responding to hers.

  “Jenny, come see this. Ethan has shot a melanistic jaguar. A magnificent beast, well over one hundred kilograms.”

  “Oh! We must get pictures!” The gentle pressure of Jenny’s hand on Ethan’s broad chest grew firmer and then disappeared as she pushed away from him and hurried to her father’s side.

  Damn Heathcliff Pascal for bringing his daughter!

  Ethan clenched his jaw and stayed on his knees for moment, getting control of his emotions, before rising to his feet.

  This is why you don’t have women on expeditions.

  Jenny caught the movement, gave him a distracted smile before returning to her inspection of the carcass.

  “No doubt this is where the legends of the jaguar cult originated.”

  “Quite so,” Heathcliff replied.

  With a sigh, Ethan removed two bullets from his vest pocket. He was chambering them into the revolver when Hector Veracruz sidled up to him.

  “We should leave now. Before something else attacks.” The guide’s coal-black eyes darted back and forth, scanning the jungle.

  Ethan shook his head. “It’s too late. We can’t travel in the dark. We’ll post guards and break camp at first light. Besides, a jaguar attack is a rare occurrence.”

  “The legends say different,” Veracruz said.

  “Yes, I’ve heard the stories of the Gente de Jaguar, the people of the jaguar who live deep in the jungle.” Ethan checked the gun once more and then flipped the cylinder closed.

  “Do not forget what else the legends say, Mr. Foster. About the high priests and priestesses who turn themselves into jaguars and protect Ah Puch.”

  “We’ve got similar tales back home.” Ethan pointed his gun’s seven-inch barrel at the cat and gave a short laugh. “I guess a high priest is no match for a forty-five.”

  “Do not be so sure.” Veracruz moved off, still restless and alert.

  “What was that about?” Rory Amos asked as he joined Foster.

  “Hector’s superstitions are showing.” Ethan’s steel-blue eyes stared past the shorter man, watching for the slightest movement in the darkness. “But we should still be on guard. I’ll take first watch with Popi and Luz. You and Hector will have second watch.”

  “What about Harrison? We could split the watch three ways if we include him.”

  “Harrison?” Ethan let loose a derisive snort. “I’d sooner trust the Pascals with guns than that pompous ass.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Jenny could probably hold her own, but her father? He’d be lucky if he didn’t shoot off his own foot.”

  Ethan tilted his head towards the bearded professor, busy taking notes as he examined the dead jaguar. “Don’t be too sure, Rory. I’ve been on a lot of expeditions with Heathcliff. We’ve had some hair-raising times together over the years.”

  “Really? I can’t see him as the adventurous type.”

  Ethan smiled, a small, wistful grin. “He wasn’t always an old man like this. I remember once, back in twenty-three, we ran into some trouble in Egypt while we were excavating an unknown pyramid. Ended up surrounded by a group of desert bandits who wanted our supplies and our lives, and not necessarily in that order. Heathcliff took out three of them with his rifle and then started a stampede of camels to hide our escape.”

  Amos frowned in confusion. “Twenty-three? That would have made y
ou, what, thirteen?”

  “What? No. I meant I was twenty-three when it happened. Thirty-three was the year.” Ethan slid his Colt back into the worn leather holster under his left arm, cursing himself for his slip of the tongue. Sometimes keeping secrets was harder than the most grueling hike.

  “C’mon, let’s get everyone into their tents for the night.”

  Ethan had the team up and the camp broken before the first hint of dawn lightened the sky.

  “How much farther to Ah Puch?” he asked Veracruz, as everyone shouldered their packs.

  The wiry native, who’d been sullen and uncommunicative since the jaguar attack, squinted in concentration. “We are very close. Before nightfall for sure.”

  “Hear that, folks? Tonight we dine in the lost city.”

  “After what happened last night I thought you would want to go back.”

  “Go back? Not a chance. Get your men ready. I want to be on the trail in ten.”

  Veracruz gave him a curt nod and pulled Popi and Luz aside. He spoke to them sternly in their native tongue, a rapid mixture of Spanish and Mayan of which Ethan only caught a few words. The two porters grabbed rifles and machetes and made their way swiftly into the jungle.

  “Where are they going?”

  “I have sent them ahead to clear the path for us and look for signs of jaguars,” Veracruz said. “They will meet us at Ah Puch.”

  “Sounds like an excellent idea.” Harrison let his pack slide from his narrow shoulders and lit up a cigarette. “Let’s give them a chance to cut some of the bloody plant life away. We’ll make much better time.”

  Ethan started to object, until he noticed the way Heathcliff Pascal’s face was already turning an alarming shade of red just from lifting his backpack.

  “All right, we’ll wait an hour before bugging out.” He set his own pack down and pulled a cheroot from his breast pocket. Trailing ghostly streams of odiferous smoke behind him, he casually made his way over to Heathcliff’s side.

  “How are you feeling, old man?” Ethan gave him a smile to take the sting out of his comment.