by Bryn Donovan
It was strange, too, because she’d always thought of her mom’s side of the family as the non-Mexican side. Her dad’s grandparents had all been born in Mexico, though both of his parents had been born in the U.S. But on her mom’s side, other than Grandpa De La Garza, they were English and German and Irish.
This ancestor in Mexico was impressive, but definitely sexist. One day, he wrote:
I had an unexpected and unwelcome interruption in the form of a lady all the way from Denmark. My correspondent, Mr. Thompson, referred her to me. What possible grudge Thompson may hold against me, I cannot imagine, unless he is still offended by my telling him that there is no possible way the Mayans are the descendants of the lost continent of Atlantis…
This woman, Theska Nygaard—who claims to be a botanist, by which I assume she dabbles in watercolor—has nonsensical theories about plant populations and wishes to join our expedition. I have put her off for now, saying I do not know when or if we will begin, which is not far from the truth.
He at least wasn’t so much of a dick that he couldn’t listen to his mother. According to her, a site in the Yucatán held the remains of their Mayan ancestors. His mother believed they had possessed magical powers.
Of course. I cannot give credit to any of my mother’s or grandmother’s tales of the occult. Such things must be anathema to scientific thought. And yet, I seek above all else evidence of magical beliefs, because they would be invaluable to History and to anyone who studies the mind of Man. These are the reasons for my obsession, and no man of learning could scorn them.
“Liar,” Cassie whispered. He wanted the magic.
He begged sponsorship from wealthy patrons, bought provisions, rented mules, hired assistants, and then went to a certain little village in the middle of nowhere, seeking a guide to a site he’d heard of but didn’t know exactly where it was. He found a boy in the village who claimed he could take them there. Then his expedition got delayed by torrential rain, and he spent three weeks at the inn, complaining at length about the terrible food and the unexpected expense.
The delay gave him no choice but to talk more with Theska, a professor and the widow of a well-to-do businessman, who finally convinced him to let her come along. Cassie skimmed past pages of muddy slogging and insect bites.
At about three in the afternoon, one of the hired men in front of me shouted, “Over there!”
When I first looked in the direction of his pointing finger, there was nothing. Then I saw it—a column of perhaps seven or eight feet high, so covered in green vines and lichens as to scarcely be distinguishable from the surrounding jungle. And a second one, almost as tall—who knew what the original height had been?—about ten feet away.
I crashed through the brush toward the structures, hacking at a bush in my way. Between the pillars—my heart stuttered in my chest—I could just make out the remains of a dozen stairs. Time and vegetation had nearly turned them into a green slope, but some footsteps—those of the boy and his friends, perhaps—had revealed their shape.
Next, he described how he and one of his men were yanking plants away from a carved wall. Theska Nygaard yelled at them to stop because they were ripping out the rare orchids she’d been seeking. Rodrigo realized that in their hurry, they were also damaging the hieroglyphs they wanted to reveal. Some of the crumbling stone came right off with the vines.
Soon after this, Rodrigo confessed in his diary that he’d developed an “uncommonly warm regard” for Theska. This led to charming old-school flirting. Cassie scrambled for the family tree chart Lucia had given her. Yes, Theska was her great-grandmother.
Cassie kept reading. Rodrigo possessed an inhuman amount of energy, and she wasn’t surprised when she came across a reference to his taking cocaine tablets. He’d purchased them at a hardware store. None of his hired men shared his enthusiasm for continuing to dig around in the underground passage at all hours of the night, by the light of kerosene lanterns. Finally, Cassie came to the passage that must have made Lucia’s jaw drop.
I have found it—a treasure beyond anything I have ever dared to imagine. See how my hand shakes as I write this—I can scarcely form the letters—and I am grateful for this infirmity, for it lets me know this is real—I am awake. I WILL dare to write of this thing—though where I hide it, I shall not say—and I will not speak of it, certainly not to these hired oafs, not even to my beloved Theska.
I believe this codex to be more ancient, even, than the famous book in Dresden. To translate it will be an arduous task, but I believe it to contain the secrets of my mother’s and grandmother’s tales. I have no proof of this. But did they not tell me of this place? One might say that this is a feverish fancy, brought on by the jungle—but did the book not call me here? It is dawn, and the men are waking—I will write more later—
“Hey Cassie, it’s me.” Jonathan’s voice was quiet, but she still jumped as it filled the room. “I’m outside your door.”
Her imagination dragged itself out of the nineteenth-century Mexican jungle and back into reality. She’d taken off her bra and only wore a tank top with her jeans, but since he’d already seen her go through security, it probably didn’t matter that much. “Come on in.”
He closed the door behind him. In the artificial light of the windowless room, his face was half in shadow, emphasizing the lines of his cheekbones and jaw. “How’s the reading?”
“It’s fascinating.” She swung her bare feet onto the floor. “My great-grandfather was always looking for that codex—his mom and his grandma told him about it. Those stories in his family must have gone back forever. Can you imagine what it must have been like for him? To find something he always wanted?”
Jonathan dropped his gaze. “It must have been overwhelming.”
“And there’s stuff in there about him and my great-grandma falling in love. It’s too adorable for words.” He smiled briefly at this, but said nothing. “I wanted to call my mom and tell her about it, but my phone doesn’t work.”
“No, yours wouldn’t.”
His matter-of-fact tone deflated her. The curved walls seemed even closer than usual.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. She knew he wasn’t an empath like Morty or Val, but he immediately noticed her slight change in mood.
“Nothing.” This was a lie, and she shook her head. “I feel like I’m on another planet here. And I’m… I feel so on my own.”
He took a few steps to sit on the metal chair next to the bed. “You’re not.”
Her heartbeat quickened. She shouldn’t make more of his simple words than he intended. “Did everything go okay with your boss?”
He shrugged. “He didn’t like me giving you a gun.”
“Why did you?”
“I didn’t know if your animals would show up or how long it would take. If things went wrong, I couldn’t leave you defenseless.”
Warmth spread through Cassie’s chest and belly. “Did you talk about anything else?”
“I told him what Lucia said about the codex. And he thinks I’m the best person to… Well, to look after you. Val’s report said that you had—formed a bond with me.” He cleared his throat. “Which she thought would keep you from unleashing your powers here. So that’s good.”
What was good? That she’d become attached to him? Or that she wouldn’t trigger the spell in their cyber-terrarium? She stared at his large hands at rest, his long fingers interlaced.
His gaze on her was steady. “What are you thinking about?”
Shit. She really wanted to kiss him, but he’d pushed her away before. A rejection would be even more humiliating the second time around. “You’re the mind reader.”
A whisper of a smile crossed his face. “I can’t do it without physical contact.”
Her heart stuttered. She was almost sure he wanted the same thing she did, but if he didn’t… “That’s what I was thinking about.”
He leaned over and crushed her lips under his in a fierce kiss. Immediately, her mouth p
arted under his, inviting him to go deeper. Liquid heat poured through her body. Breaking off the kiss, he tugged her lower lip between his teeth, and a small sound came from the back of her throat.
She was still sitting on the edge of the low bed. He stripped off her tank top, wincing as he raised his arms—because of the stitches, she realized. He kneeled between her knees, the better to give and to take. His mouth assaulted hers again, one of his hands cupping the back of her skull, his thumb grazing across her jaw. He hauled her hips to fit against him and through his jeans, she could feel his emphatic hardness.
God, he was making her dizzy. She held on to his shoulders. His teeth scraped her skin on the side of her neck, making her breath shake in her lungs. He buried his fingers into her hair and tilted her head back to capture her lips in an even more ravenous kiss. He acted like an addict with the best drug in the world, and he was making her melt as though in a spoon over a flame.
She pulled off his T-shirt, taking care because of his healing back. He lowered his head to nuzzle his rough, stubbled cheek against her breasts. His tongue lashed over the tip of one. She gasped as his mouth closed over it and sucked, sending rivulets of pure pleasure through her.
He released her, pushed her gently back on the bed, and pulled off her jeans and underwear at the same time, leaving her completely bare. Stretching his half-naked body over hers, one forearm braced on either side of her head, he overwhelmed her with more kisses. He smelled like the desert after rain.
She reached down to pluck at the top button of his jeans. He caught her hand and pinned it above her head as he touched his lips to the hollow of her throat. The dominating gesture ratcheted up her lust. “Jonathan, please,” she begged, needing more. He stroked his hand between her legs, and his growl of approval reverberated through her body. She was soaking wet.
As he kissed and nipped at her neck and breasts, his fingers pressed flat against her most sensitive place, circling it. She cried out, pushing herself harder against his firm, insistent hand.
He pulled back enough to watch her as he drove her out of her mind. “God, Cassie.” His low voice carried pure reverence. “I’ve dreamed about you constantly.” She was in no state to make a coherent reply. It had been so long, and he felt so good. Not just because of what he was doing, but because he was Jonathan—heroic, conflicted, beautiful. The tension rose in her, exquisite, maddening, pulling desperate moans from her lips.
And then she came apart, hopelessly and gloriously, crying out his name. Waves of pleasure rocked through her, and he laughed close to her ear, a low sound of satisfaction and delight. It was the sexiest thing she’d ever heard.
He got up to shuck off his jeans and underwear, his thick, veined cock standing up almost straight against his belly. Cassie stared at him, half wasted on orgasm, hazily thanking God or fate or whatever had brought her together with him. He grabbed a foil packet from a pocket in his jeans and tore it open. Good. He slid the condom over his length, stretched over her again, and buried himself in her to the hilt. “Ah God,” he groaned, his voice guttural, stirring her body and heart at once. He slammed deep into her again and again. He was like a wild animal. And she loved it.
It didn’t last long. With a low, hoarse cry, he reached his climax. His head bowed, and she ran her shaky hand over his buzzed hair.
He retreated long enough to throw away the condom in the bathroom and came back to bed to stretch out alongside her. His breath still came fast and he closed his eyes. “Christos.”
She snuggled into the crook of his arm. Every cell of her body glowed with a primal relief. She hadn’t had sex since she’d gotten divorced, and she and Rick had stopped doing it several months before Cassie had moved out. She would’ve been happy even if she hadn’t liked Jonathan so much, and his intensity gratified her to the core. Maybe he was that way in bed with everyone. She was happy regardless. “Do you always carry protection?”
“Ha, no.” His voice was lazy. “I picked some up at medical when you were getting all those tests done.”
“You sneak,” she said, delighted. “So I didn’t do such a bad job of trying to seduce you before.”
He huffed, as though this were the understatement of the year. “I’ve wanted you since… Well, since I was in your head. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
“I’m glad you decided it was okay.”
He opened his eyes to gaze at her. “I still don’t know if this is right. But I couldn’t resist. Or I didn’t want to.”
Leaning over, she pressed her lips against his cheek. “Good thing you don’t have to.”
She got up to pee and when she came back, he was asleep. He’d pulled the comforter partly over himself, and the small silver crucifix he wore hung askew on his chest. It was no wonder he was tired after their encounter. He was still healing. The guileless look on his face and the way one of his arms was flung over his head made her smile.
It was really too bad her cell phone didn’t work. She would have loved to text Ana and her sister Sam, demanding virtual high fives. Instead, she took a shower. Part of her regretted rinsing his scent from her body, which still tingled with satisfaction. After putting on a fresh pair of underwear and a T-shirt, she came over and sat on the bed, watching his chest rise and fall with every breath as she combed out the tangles in her wet hair.
A drop of water splashed him. His body jerked and his eyes flew open. Seeing her, he relaxed. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“That’s okay.” She smiled. “I was just watching you like a creep.”
“Creep away.” He grabbed her hand and pressed his lips against the tops of her fingers, an impulsive gesture that charmed her.
“I still wish I could mind-read you,” she said. “Go into your psyche.”
He gave her a sympathetic look. “You can’t. Val made extra sure.”
“It’s not fair,” she grumbled. “What’s your psyche look like?”
A shadow passed over his features. “Some Mages used to be able to do that, you know,” he said, changing the subject. “Bring other people into their own psyche, instead of going into theirs. It’s one of the Lost Gifts, like prophecy.”
Since she couldn’t look into his soul, she let her gaze wander over his body instead. She discovered a shiny line on his upper arm she hadn’t seen before and drew her finger across it. “You have a lot of scars.”
“I know, I’m a mess,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I didn’t mean it looked bad.” She traced a finger around his back, as far as she could reach, without touching the stitches. “And now you have new ones because of me.”
“Worth it.” The words warmed Cassie from within. “The stitches are coming out in a few days.”
She drew the sheet all of the way aside to look at him. He didn’t object. She traced the star tattoo. “Does this mean anything? I mean, the symbol?”
“When they first started using it, there were twelve guarídas. There were for a long time, actually. So they used a twelve-pointed star.”
“How many are there now?”
“Fifty-two.”
“Why don’t they use a fifty-two-pointed star?”
He cast a dubious look down. “It would look like a hairball.”
“Well, a lot of big organizations kind of are hairballs,” she said, thinking of Mission Minerals.
“We can be sometimes. And we’re not even that big.”
“Why’d you guys start getting tattoos? To feel like badasses?”
He laughed. “It’s in a place where not everyone’s going to see it, but if you needed to prove to someone else that you were really Manus Sancti, you could show it to them.”
Her mental picture of this amused her. “Isn’t that kind of like showing each other your dicks?”
“No,” he said, sounding annoyed, and then tilted his head. “Maybe kind of.”
“Where were the first twelve guarídas?”
“Mm, let’s see if I can remember.” He counted them of
f on his fingers. “There was Granada, where we started. Lisbon, Tangiers, Athens, Rome, Paris, Cairo, London. We were already in Saint Augustine and Mexico City. Buenos Aires. Maybe Moscow? We weren’t in Asia yet.” He shrugged. “Not sure about the last one.”
She nodded and touched the two faint, fine lines on the inside his forearm. “What are these from?”
“Those might fade. They’re from bloodletting.”
“What?”
“Sometimes if you’re dealing with an evil spirit, you do a spell, and some of those involve blood. I told you about the one Michael did, on the mesa.”
“Isn’t it hard to cut yourself?”
“It is at first,” he said. “But they’re shallow cuts. You practice a few times when you’re training. They show you how to avoid a big vein.”
“Seriously? That sounds pretty rough.”
He shrugged. “Some of the training’s a lot worse than that.”
“How long does it take you to get trained?”
“Depends. But we never really stop. There’s always more to learn. Not just about fighting but things like first aid, dealing with people, undercover work, escaping buildings. And all kinds of magic and lore.”
“Can anyone do spells?” She knew she was asking a lot of questions, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“Some spells, yes, some no. And we don’t always know until we try it.”
“That sounds complicated. And dangerous.” She touched the scar on his side, the one that had piqued her curiosity from the first time she’d seen it. “Is this one from a bullet?”
“Yeah.”
“Ugh.” She shuddered. “How did you survive that? Who shot you?”
“It was a mission. Down near Mexico City.” She waited expectantly, and he sighed. “Trust me, you do not want to hear my long war stories.”
“Trust me, I do.” She lay back on the bed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jonathan and Michael had taken one of the gondolas, brightly painted like carnival rides, up the canal to get to Isla de la Muñecas—the Island of the Dolls. Recently, on different days, two male visitors to the island had flung themselves into the canal and, apparently, had forgotten how to swim, though one of them had been a surfer from Troncones.
