That was probably I told you so enough.
*
Mateo Mecate stared at the hieroglyphics until they blurred in front of his overworked eyes. He might be one of the foremost scholars in Aztec studies, but the letters still sometimes read like gibberish. He shoved them aside, removing his glasses and rubbing a hand over his face.
According to the calendar, May meant spring. As usual, Tucson wasn’t listening. The temperatures had been pushing ninety for a week.
The door to Matt’s small, dusty, scalding office opened, and his boss, George Enright, stepped in. His gaze went to the papers on Matt’s desk, and he frowned.
“Mateo.” Enright’s voice held so much disappointment, Matt expected him to cluck his tongue, then shake his head, or perhaps his finger, in admonishment. “This has to stop. I’ve put up with it thus far because of the respect I had for your mother. But the time has come to move on.”
Enright was the head of the anthropology department at the University of Arizona where Matt was a professor of archaeology—his specialty, like his mother’s before him, the civilization of the Aztecs.
Nora Mecate had been a descendant of that great civilization. She’d been fascinated—some said obsessed—with proving a theory she’d gleaned from ancient writings passed down through her family for generations. She spent her life—no, she gave her life—trying to prove it.
“You could become the chair of this department when I retire. But you need to abandon your mother’s ridiculous theory. You’re becoming a laughingstock.” Enright lowered his voice. “As she was.”
Matt stiffened. Any academic who refused to face facts became an amusing anecdote at the staff water cooler. Matt had noticed a lot of the graduate students staring and whispering lately.
Not that such behavior was anything new. For some reason the women around here liked to fashion him a Hispanic Indiana Jones. He wasn’t, but that didn’t stop them from pointing and giggling and showing up during his office hours with foolish questions they already knew the answer to.
Matt wasn’t interested. Not that he didn’t occasionally date—if the willing women he took to dinner, then back to his bed, then never saw again, could be considered dates—but his life was work, and he had little use for anything else.
“I have one more location on my mother’s list of possibilities,” Matt said.
Enright lifted his artificially darkened brows. Everything about Enright was artificial—his gelled, black toupee, his high gloss manicure, even his right hip.
When Matt did not elaborate, Enright sighed. His breath smelled of the Jack Daniels he kept filed under W.
“The semester is nearly done, Mateo. By fall, be ready to move on.”
“Move on?” Matt echoed.
“Choose a different avenue for your research or choose another university.” The door shut behind Enright with a decisive click.
Matt glanced at his mother’s notes. As he shuffled them, searching for something he might have missed during the eight thousand other times he’d shuffled them, he could have sworn the scent of her—oranges, earth, and sunshine—lifted from the pages. Sometimes, when he touched them in the depths of the night, their whisper was her voice calling him in from childish explorations across every dig they’d ever shared.
He’d enjoyed a charmed childhood. What wasn’t to love about living in a tent, searching for buried treasure and never once—until he’d come here—stepping foot in a school?
Nora had been the only child of the very wealthy Mecate family. When she’d chosen to become an archaeologist, more than a few inky-black Mecate eyebrows had been raised. She didn’t need to work for a living; she most definitely didn’t need to dig in the dirt. That she wanted to had been beyond the comprehension of many, including her father.
However, only poor people were crazy. Rich people were eccentric, and the more eccentrics in a rich family, the greater their prestige. The raised eyebrows had lowered before too long.
When Nora had turned up pregnant—not a boyfriend or a husband in sight—no one had bothered to exert their eyebrows at all. That Mateo would be a Mecate, and carry on that precious name, had gone a long way to bridging the gap between Nora and her father.
She’d dragged Matt with her all over Mexico and the southwest. She’d taught him everything she knew about how to research and explore. Then she’d died on a dig the summer before he left for college.
“Hell,” Matt muttered, tracing one finger over his mother’s chicken scratch scrawl.
While still a young woman, Nora had translated the ancient Aztec writings she’d uncovered in the musty library of the family estate and discovered something amazing.
The reason the Aztecs never lost in battle was that they’d possessed a secret weapon, what Nora referred to as a super-warrior, a being of such incredible strength and power that she believed him to be a sorcerer. That warrior had been buried somewhere in the American southwest. All she had to do was find the tomb.
Scholars would have accepted her searching for remains north of the Rio Grande, even though most believed the Aztecs had not ventured farther than Central Mexico. But the tomb of a supernatural warrior? A sorcerer?
No one but Nora believed that.
Certainly when Matt was a child, his mother’s tales had captivated him. He’d accepted them completely. But as time went on, Matt’s enthusiasm for a supernatural warrior waned.
However, Nora’s research on the tomb itself was solid. There was something buried at an as-yet-undiscvoered site north of the Rio Grande. Perhaps nothing more than a very large, freakishly strong, and more deadly than usual Aztec, but if Matt found that tomb and those remains, he could vindicate his mother’s theory. Or at least those parts it was possible to vindicate. Then she would no longer be a laughingstock.
And neither would he.
His mother had translated a list of half a dozen possible sites from the hieroglyphics she’d found. They’d explored all of them—save one—and to date they’d found nothing but rocks.
Detractors pointed out that the Spanish had destroyed most, if not all, of the Aztec records—flat, accordion-like books known as codices, fashioned from deerskins or agave paper. Any texts that survived had been written under the strict supervision, and often with the help of, the Spanish clergy.
Therefore, the writings Nora Mecate had based her life’s work upon—Super-warrior? Sorcerer? Indeed!—were nothing more than a hoax perpetrated by some laugh-a-minute priest in the fifteenth or sixteenth century.
“Because priests back then were known for being extremely ‘ha-ha’ kind of guys,” Matt muttered.
Matt had been studying the documents himself ever since Nora had died. He could find nothing wrong with her geographic translations. He had found no other viable sites.
Therefore, Matt had one last chance to prove her theory. If the final location yielded nothing new, he’d have little choice but to give up his mother’s dream—which would be tantamount to admitting she was a crackpot—and move on. However, he’d encountered a problem with the remaining site.
Matt pulled a glossy, three-fold brochure from the center drawer of his desk. The front panel revealed majestic mountains—four shots—spring, summer, winter, and fall—green, blue, gold, brown, white, purple, and orange abounded. Horses gamboled. He turned the brochure over to see if bunnies hopped and cattle roamed.
Instead, he found an artsy portrayal of a cowboy in silhouette, head tipped down, hat shading his face. However, the outline of the body was every ride-’em-cowboy-wanna-be’s dream.
Inside lay the propaganda—several gung-ho paragraphs superimposed over a sepia print of what he assumed was the main house, which, despite the “old time” feel of the photograph, had obviously been updated and well maintained. According to the text, gourmet food complemented an authentic western experience.
“Yee-haw,” Matt murmured, rubbing the slick brochure between thumb and forefinger before removing another older, less slick, more
crumpled paper from his desk.
He wasn’t an expert on photography, but he was still fairly certain the person who’d taken the pictures for the brochure was the same person who had taken the image he’d uncovered on the Internet about a year ago. The one that matched the final descriptive translation for the burial site of Nora Mecate’s super-warrior.
Somewhere on this dude ranch lay his last chance to vindicate both his mother’s, and his own, life’s work. Sure, he’d had his assistant leave a dozen unanswered phone messages, followed by as many unanswered e-mails. Then Matt had taken over and begun to write letters, reiterating the request for permission to dig. He’d yet to receive a single response. It infuriated him.
Deep down he knew that his single-minded devotion to proving his mother’s theory, or as much of it as could be proved, was based on guilt. He’d stopped believing in the super-warrior long ago. He’d started to wonder if his mother was the kook everyone thought her to be.
Grow up, Mom. I did.
Even now, Matt winced at the memory. She’d died still believing and he’d—
“Gone on,” Matt murmured. He hadn’t really known what else to do.
So, if Gina O’ Neil, owner of Nahua Springs Ranch, thought her silence would make him go away …
Matt booted up his computer and clicked the tab for expedia.com.
She’d soon find out how wrong she was.
ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS TITLES
BY LORI HANDELAND
THE NIGHTCREATURE NOVELS
Blue Moon
Hunter’s Moon
Dark Moon
Crescent Moon
Midnight Moon
Rising Moon
Hidden Moon
Thunder Moon
Marked by the Moon
THE PHOENIX CHRONICLES
Any Given Doomsday
Doomsday Can Wait
Apocalypse Happens
Chaos Bites
ANTHOLOGIES
Stroke of Midnight
No Rest for the Witches
PRAISE FOR LORI HANDELAND’S
NIGHTCREATURE NOVELS
THUNDER MOON
“Will absolutely rivet you to your chair. Murder, mayhem, humor, and horror form a tale that keeps the reader on edge to the very end. Thunder Moon is a well-crafted story that will leave the reader longing to dig into the next Nightcreature book as soon as possible.”
—Night Owl Romance Reviews
“Handeland is at the top of her game in this taut thriller. Part detective tale, part supernatural chiller, this is a full-on exciting read.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Provocative, intense, and rife with creepy beings. The romance is sultry, solid, and very intense.”
—Romance Junkies
“Handeland has a gift for creating and sustaining a mood throughout her stories that keeps the reader eagerly turning the pages.”
—Fresh Fiction
RISING MOON
“Eerie atmospherics and dark passion intertwine, making this a truly gripping and suspenseful read.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“What makes the latest in her Nightcreature series stand out is how Handeland paints such a vivid portrait of the Big Easy and its inhabitants. The city itself is a character, not unlike its real-life counterpart … her gift to skillfully repel and attract commands the reader’s attention to the very end and will lure genre readers enamored of paranormal romance or mysteries.”
—Booklist
“Phenomenal … the story, characters and dialogue, and descriptive setting are perfect.”
—Romance Reader at Heart
“Keeps you guessing until the very end … I was awed.”
—Fallen Angel Reviews
“A great plot, wonderful characters and a setting to die for. You gotta pick this one up.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Mmm … mmm … mmm! Get ready for the ride of your life … an intriguing eye-opener … Twists and turns, secrets and shadows, captivating characters, a well-written, well-developed plot, and a romance.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Rising Moon is suspenseful, passionate, and edgy, but it’s also a true feel-good read with a message of hope and redemption.”
—Eternal Night Reviews
CRESCENT MOON
“Strong heroines are a hallmark of Handeland’s enormously popular werewolf series, and Diana is no exception. Crescent Moon delivers plenty of creepy danger and sensual thrills, which makes it a most satisfying treat.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Handeland knows how to keep her novels fresh and scary, while keeping the heroes some of the best … pretty much perfect.”
—Romance Reader at Heart
“An enchanting and romantic love story … compelling characters and a gripping plot … This captivating tale is wrought with mystery, mayhem, and an electrifying passion hot enough to singe your fingers.”
—Romance Junkies
“Enticing, provocative, and danger-filled.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Will appeal to readers on the most primal level. It effectively centers on the dark side of life, the forbidden temptations.”
—Curled Up with a Good Book
DARK MOON
“A riveting continuation to Handeland’s werewolf series … Handeland displays a talent for creating characters that are original and identifiable to the reader … Her styling and creativity ensure that Dark Moon, though third in the series, can be read as a stand-alone work … Handeland has once again delivered a remarkable werewolf tale that is a superb addition to the genre. Fans of this genre won’t want to miss out on this paranormal treat.”
—Fallen Angel Reviews
“The end is a surprising, yet satisfying, conclusion to this series … another terrific story.”
—Fresh Fiction
“The characters are intriguing and the romance is sexy and fun while at times heart-wrenching. The action is well written and thrilling, especially at the end … Dark Moon is another powerful tale with a strong heroine who is sure to please readers and a hero who is worth fighting for. Handeland has proven with this trilogy that she has a bright future in the paranormal genre.”
—Romance Readers Connection
“Elise is Handeland’s most appealing heroine yet … This tense, banter-filled tale provides a few hours of solid entertainment.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Smart and often amusing dialogue, brisk pacing, plenty of action, and a generous helping of ‘spookiness’ add just the right tone … an engaging and enjoyable paranormal romance.”
—Bookloons
“A fantastic tale starring two strong likable protagonists … action-packed … a howling success.”
—Midwest Book Reviews
“Handeland writes some of the most fascinating, creepy, and macabre stories I have ever read … exciting plot twists … new revelations, more emotional themes, and spiritual awakenings are prevalent here.”
—Romance Reader at Heart
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
MOON CURSED
Copyright © 2011 by Lori Handeland.
Excerpt from Crave the Moon copyright © 2011 by Lori Handeland.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 978-0-312-38935-2
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / March 2011
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
eISBN: 978-1-4299-5432-7
First St. Martin’s Paperbacks eBook Edition: March 2011
Table of Contents
Title Page
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Teaser
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by Lori Handeland
Praise for Lori Handeland’s Nightcreature Novels
Copyright
Moon Cursed Page 28
