Cult of the Black Jaguar

by JG Faherty

  Ethan caught glimpses of feet and fists as the expedition team once more exchanged blows with the natives. Even Harrison seemed to be putting up a fight.

  “Father!” Jenny’s voice rose above the general din. Veracruz had her by one arm and was dragging her away from Heathcliff’s side. The white-haired historian lay on the ground, gasping for air.

  “Enough! Stop or the girl dies!” Hector had his gun to her head.

  “You’re going to kill us anyway.” Ethan spat out the words through clenched teeth.

  “Then perhaps I will merely wound her.” He moved the gun down to her stomach. “She can spend her last hours in agony, because of you.”

  “No.” Ethan couldn’t risk something happening to Jenny. They’d have to find another way to stop whatever madness Hector had planned. He held up a hand.

  “All right. Everybody stop.”

  Popi and Luz pushed Amos against the far wall next to Elton Harrison, who sported a bloody nose.

  Hector passed Jenny over to his men and then trained his gun on the other expedition members. Jenny struggled violently to free herself until Luz slapped her across the face. Ethan wanted to shout as her eyes went glassy and she slumped forward in their grasp, but the pain in his midsection prevented him from taking a deep enough breath. A laughing Popi tore her khaki shirt open, exposing her bra and bare midriff. He pulled the shirt down to her wrists and bound them behind her back with it.

  Ethan felt the blood rush to his face as the two men hauled Jenny towards the door. Her copper hair was mussed and dirty, and streaks of gritty soil showed on her chest and back. The delicate material of her bra did little to hide her bare flesh, and Popi made sure his hands groped her as he pulled her along. Ethan dug his fingers into the hard-packed earth. Despite her condition—or perhaps because of it—Jenny had a wild beauty about her, and he feared what would happen to her once Hector’s men got her alone somewhere.

  “Enjoy your last hours, my friends.” Veracruz smiled at them. “Soon the setting sun will call our Priestess from her slumber.”

  The door slammed shut, and the heavy sound of wood-on-wood indicated the brace had been set as well.

  “Damn you, Veracruz!” Ethan pounded a fist against the ground, ignoring the throbbing across his ribcage. His body craved one of his cheroots, and darker things as well. His hands wanted only to be around Hector’s neck.

  “Boss, you okay?” Amos knelt down beside him, tried to pull Foster’s hand from his wound.

  “I’m fine,” Ethan said, turning away and forcing his body to sit up. It took a greater effort than he expected, but he didn’t stop. He knew he only had to deal with the pain until nightfall.

  “Then you better take a look at Professor Pascal. He’s in pretty bad shape.”

  Concern for Heathcliff spurred Ethan to push himself to his feet and stagger across the chamber.

  “He’s not breathing well,” Harrison said.

  Ethan lowered himself down next to his old friend. The professor’s bearded face seemed to have aged years over the past few hours. His normally ruddy complexion had gone pale. Sickly dark smudges stained the flesh under his eyes, and his lips had a bluish tint to them. It alarmed Ethan that despite the intense heat in the Ossuary, the professor was no longer sweating.

  The sound of Pascal’s breathing reminded Ethan of a fat man trying to climb a long set of stairs. It wasn’t a sound he’d ever heard Heathcliff Pascal make, not even after the longest of grueling jungle hikes.

  “Heathcliff, can you hear me?” Ethan patted one of the professor’s cheeks.

  Blue eyes, uncharacteristically dull and faded, opened. “Ethan, my boy. They have Jenny. I tried to stop them…” Pascal paused to draw in a shaky breath. A tear rolled down his ashen cheek. “I tried…but I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get her back. In the meantime, you rest. You’ll need your strength later. Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”

  Ashen lips turned up at the corners, a ghost of the historian’s normally ebullient smile. “Not my bones, Ethan. It’s my heart. They took my pack with my medicine. All this excitement…” He paused again. Ethan interrupted him before he could continue.

  “I understand. Sit still. I’ll get you something to drink. It will make you feel better.”

  Ethan patted the man on the arm. Holding back a groan, he stood up and motioned for Harrison to give the professor a cup of juice. Grim thoughts circled like buzzards in his head as he watched the professor sip carefully at the sweet liquid.

  My only friend in the world is dying. And I’m helpless to stop it.

  He’d served as mission planner, senior guide and security guard for more of Heathcliff Pascal’s excursions than he could count. Ever since the professor had found him in Italy, locked in an underground tomb and facing an eternity-long slide into insanity. From that moment on, they’d been inseparable.

  South America, Mexico, Egypt. Even Mongolia, where they’d run across one of Roy Chapman Andrews’ fossil-hunting expeditions. They’d spent a wild three days excavating the bones of prehistoric animals, all the while keeping a wary eye out for the bands of marauders rumored to be roaming the area.

  Now, after more than thirty years together, the great explorer was in danger of losing his life because the crazy last members of an ancient cult had stolen his medicine. Ethan silently cursed the Gods who thought it entertaining to bring people together only to tear them apart again.

  “We have to get his pack,” he told Amos. “He won’t last long without his pills.”

  “Forget about me. Save Jenny.” The professor’s voice was little more than a choking whisper.

  Jenny. If you don’t get out of this, you’ll lose them both.

  “We will. Nobody’s dying, not today.”

  Ethan stared out one of the tiny windows. The Temple de Sangre rose above the other buildings, a monument to blood and death.

  Ethan refused to picture Jenny laid out on the altar at the top, her life draining out onto the stones.

  “I’ll save you. I promise,” he whispered.

  Ethan did his best to use the time until sunset to their advantage. He moved from window to window, memorizing as much of the city’s layout as he could. He went over different escape options with Rory Amos and Elton Harrison. And he made periodic checks on Heathcliff Pascal’s condition.

  The native remedy seemed to have revived the old man somewhat. His breathing was no longer as labored, and he’d even managed to sit up on his own. But his face still remained drained of color, and his skin had gone cold and clammy. By unspoken agreement, all three men were letting Pascal have their shares of water and juice.

  The minutes dragged on in the oven-like temperature of their prison. Eventually, however, the light reaching them through the windows began to change. First darker yellow, then orange, then blood-red. Tropical sunsets passed quickly, and as soon as he noticed the lengthening shadows, Ethan roused the others.

  When the three natives came for them, Ethan had everyone on their feet and waiting. His plan was to rush their enemy at the door. His wound wasn’t healed yet, but it had stopped bleeding, which was the best he could hope for under the circumstances.

  The long, cold barrel of a shotgun stopped Ethan before he could take a single step. Veracruz sneered at them.

  “You think I am stupid, Señor Foster?” He motioned with the gun. “Please come outside. One of you at a time. No tricks. You can meet the Priestess on your own two feet,” he smiled, “or we can drag you to her on bloody stumps.”

  Ethan glanced back at Amos. “Do as he says.” He stepped through the door, arms raised. Luz and Popi stood outside, both armed with pistols. Ethan’s hopes sank further. Attempting an escape at that point would be pointless; they’d all end up dead. Their only hope now would be if one or more of the guards got distracted on the m
arch towards the temple.

  With the coming of night, Ah Puch took on an entirely different atmosphere, no longer an abandoned city but a supernatural metropolis filled with the ghosts of dead priests and their rabid cult of followers. Pots of flaming oil lined the wide main avenue, creating shadows that danced and threatened the procession of outsiders. In the jungle, jaguars howled and wailed as the men marched towards their appointment with death.

  Towering above everything, the Temple de Sangre stood sentinel over its evil domain. Torches blazed around the base of the temple and up the stairs. More flickered at the top of the pyramid, where a square stone chamber with wide windows held the sacrificial altar. Incenses of various types filled the air with pungent odors that masked the smells of rotting plant life and wet soil emanating from the jungle.

  The dark, starry skies and sputtering torchlight brought the ruins to life. Ethan had no trouble picturing how it must have looked hundreds of years in the past, when thousands of men and women would have stood around their foul temple, praying to the Priests and Priestesses as innocent lives were cut short just to appease their abominable gods.

  As they walked, Heathcliff Pascal stumbled and Elton Harrison put an arm around him to help keep him upright. Seeing the movement, Popi rush forward and separated them.

  “The man is bloody sick, you ignorant savage!” Harrison spat.

  Veracruz spoke something in the Mayan tongue and Popi backed away. “He is ill?” Veracruz asked Ethan.

  “His heart. He needs his medicine. In his pack. Just one pill—”

  “No.” Veracruz cut him off. “You are all going to die tonight. What is the point in taking medicine first?”

  “You’re a real bastard, Hector. I’m going to enjoy killing you.” Ethan wished he could be as sure as he sounded. It would be difficult—no, impossible—to do what needed doing without revealing the secret he and Heathcliff had kept for so long.

  “Shut up and keep walking!” Veracruz shoved Ethan forward.

  Ethan had expected Veracruz to lead them to the top of the pyramid. Instead, the procession halted at the base of the temple. A chorus of yowling jaguar cries rose up from thick tropical forest surrounding Ah Puch.

  “Behold, the High Priestess comes.”

  Hector pointed to the top of the temple and his men raised their gazes to the pyramid’s peak. Ethan followed suit, stunned by the revelation that the natives weren’t crazy, that someone still occupied the temple and was leading them in the ancient ways.

  A figure emerged from the altar chamber and began to descend the stairs. As it drew closer, details became visible to Ethan. A woman, cloaked in a long, flowing cape made from black jaguar hide. The beast’s head was intact and sat atop the Priestess’s own like a crown.

  She took each step with regal precision, her lithe legs never slowing or faltering, her bare feet never slipping or missing a step. Ethan had climbed other temples, knew how the steep, narrow stairs could cramp even the strongest of calf muscles. Clearly the Priestess kept herself strong.

  But for who?

  The Priestess stopped at the bottom of the pyramid, twenty feet from the prisoners. Long, slender arms emerged from under the cape and lifted the animal-head hood back and away.

  Revealing one of the most beautiful women Ethan had ever seen in his life.

  The Priestess, who looked no more than eighteen, curled one finger in a slow, languid gesture. Immediately, Popi sprang forward to slide the ebony fur from her shoulders. He bowed and stepped to the side.

  Ethan’s breath caught in his lungs as he realized she wore almost nothing under the robe.

  Long, raven-black hair fell in a straight line down to her waist. It flowed in a midnight waterfall over her naked shoulders, chest, and waist. The effect was at once exciting and chaste, as it covered her while at the same time offering tantalizing glimpses of forbidden flesh.

  An ornate skirt-like garment, fashioned from spun gold and decorated with precious stones, went from her waist to just above her knees. The honey-yellow color of the jewels matched the woman’s eyes exactly.

  The haughty expression on her full lips bespoke of generations of aristocratic lineage, as did her perfect posture and icy demeanor. Seeing her, Ethan knew it wouldn’t matter if she stood in front of an ancient temple or a modern skyscraper. In any time, in any place, there could be no mistaking her for anything but royalty.

  The dark angel’s slender, scantily clad body would normally have been the focus of Ethan’s thoughts, but it was her eyes that drew his attention.

  Elliptical pupils sat within the almond-shaped, amber orbs. As alien as they were in her human face, they were somehow familiar to him. Then he remembered where he’d seen eyes like that before.

  On the jaguar he’d killed the previous night.

  The Priestess cast her disdainful gaze towards the prisoners. With a slight motion of one hand, she motioned them forward. Hector and Luz gave them no chance to object, prodding the captives with their rifles.

  “I am Ix Chel, Moon Priestess and living body of the Balamob. You have intruded on our lands and angered the Gods.” Her surprisingly powerful voice echoed from the surrounding buildings. In contrast to her graceful beauty, her words came out harsh and low, almost a growl.

  Ethan cleared his throat, momentarily at a loss for something to say. When no one else spoke, he said the first thing that came to him. “You speak our language well.”

  “I speak many tongues, as befits a Priestess. For one hundred years I have ruled Ah Puch. I have learned much in that time.”

  “You rule an empty city?” Ethan allowed himself a trace of mockery. If he could anger her enough to make her approach him…

  The Priestess raised one regal eyebrow, as if she knew exactly what game he was trying to play.

  “My duty is to the Gente de Jaguar. Since the night I became queen, I have gathered my strength so that one day I can return them to their glory, to rule this land as my people once did. Now that power is within my grasp. With one last sacrifice, I will bring forth my priests and priestesses, and Ah Puch will live again!”

  Heathcliff called out in a thin voice. “What about my daughter?”

  Ix Chel stared at Pascal for a long moment before speaking. “You are the historian. I can see you possess a great mind, housed in a weak body. Death already summons you.”

  She smiled, a wide grin that exposed long, pointed teeth at the corners of her mouth.

  “Your bodies will feed the balamobs, the jaguar spirits, who will smile on us and bring good fortune. As for your daughter…” Ix Chel turned her head upwards, towards the top of the great pyramid behind her. “See for yourselves. The virgin awaits my blade even now.”

  The powerful voice grew even louder, the rumbling tones deepening to a feral snarl. She raised her hands upwards in supplication. “Tonight I shall dine on her living heart and her blood will give me strength to free my priests!”

  Ethan looked up at the top of the pyramid. Distracted earlier by Ix Chel’s lissome descent, he hadn’t noticed the second figure in the chamber.

  The figure that stood bound and gagged at the wide opening.

  Even from a distance, there was no mistaking her identity. Jenny wore only a thin, white robe. The gossamer-sheer material spread out behind her in the evening breeze, held closed by a thin rope around her waist. Her copper hair shimmered like liquid metal pouring over her shoulders. Her eyes were wide and frantic as she looked down at the people below.

  “Take them away!” the High Priestess said.

  “No! Not my daughter!” Heathcliff pushed past the others and lunged forward.

  Hector brought up his gun.

  “Professor, no!” Ethan threw his body into the professor without thinking. The roar of the gun and the sledgehammer blow to his chest seemed to happen simultaneously.

  Ethan collap
sed on the ground. Fire filled his chest. Ix Chel spoke, but he couldn’t understand her words. Dark brown arms entered his field of vision. Arms appeared to one side, dragging something into the night. The professor? Was he dead as well? Ethan looked up, saw the feline eyes of Ix Chel hovering over him.

  In the erratic light of the torches, her face seemed to grow longer, her eyes more golden. As if she was becoming something else.

  Something not quite human.

  Then his strength failed him and his head fell to the side.

  More words reached him, as if from a great distance. Heathcliff, his old friend, shouting. “You can stop this, Ethan. It’s not too late.”

  His head filled with a buzzing, as if a thousand bees filled his skull. Thoughts misfired, struggled for coherence.

  Heathcliff? No, you’re dead.

  Stop it? Stop what?

  They have Jenny.

  There was nothing he could do. No more miracles. He’d looked inside himself for the courage to face his fear of revealing his true self, but it wasn’t there. Where once had beaten the heart of a warrior now only indecision remained, pushing weak, timid blood through his veins.

  “She loves you, Ethan. She told me. She always has.”

  Heathcliff’s voice again. Or was he dreaming?

  Dimly, he was aware of his body moving across sharp stones.

  It didn’t matter. It was over. He was dying, and it was too late to change that. Soon he’d join the professor, together in death as in life.

  Images came to life inside his brain. Jenny sitting by the fire, her voluptuous body outlined against the tents. Jenny atop the pyramid, flashes of pale flesh and forbidden treasure showing when the wind tossed back her white garment.

  Jenny, lying underneath him, clothes and flesh torn to pieces, her beautiful face covered in her own blood.

  No! That could never happen. He wouldn’t allow it. That’s why he’d never let himself…let the beast…

  More rocks scraped against his back. He forced his eyes open. Popi and Luz stood in front of him, hands gripping is arms, preparing to lift his body. He turned his head, and through a haze of pain recognized the black hole behind him.