“It is . . . shameful. Appalling.” Bruno shook his head, adamant despite Alicia’s warning look.
“Worse than what you just told us?” Drake forced a laugh. “C’mon, pal.”
Bruno sniffed, eyes as wide as Frisbees and glazed over with fear. “Flesh eaters,” he all but whispered. “They eat the flesh of the living.”
Drake stared, mouth open but every cognitive process dammed. Alicia pulled her boot away as if Bruno was suddenly diseased.
Hayden pinched the bridge of her nose. “What did you say?”
“You hear me, lady. You hear me well. A cult of flesh eaters. That is what lives in that house now. And you wish to go there.” He spat to the side.
“And Dantanion is what?” Drake found his voice. “The Cannibal King?”
Bruno nodded, not seeing the sarcasm only wallowing in fear. His whisper was barely audible. “That, yes. Exactly that. Not a man. A demon. A flesh eater and a chief. In Cusco they warn their children to go early to sleep lest Dantanion the Mountain Demon comes to claim them.”
Alicia audibly gulped. “And the spiders?”
Bruno frowned, and then his voice dropped several octaves lower. “What spiders?”
“Never mind,” Hayden said quickly, much to Drake’s relief. No matter what you believed, no matter the realities you saw, there were always certain scenarios and creatures and beliefs—so powerfully felt by others—that challenged all you knew.
“You say members of this cult, of Dantanion’s house, come to town?” Somehow Hayden was maintaining her focus. Drake saw again why she ran the team. “On errands. It seems to me that he has to get these people from somewhere. And . . . replenish . . . them. Now, Bruno, you provide transport for the Cusco Militia. We know for a fact that the cops are in Dantanion’s pocket. What’s the story?”
Bruno shrugged slowly. “I do not know whole story. Just because I am militia, doesn’t mean I know everything. But militia . . .” He cringed a little, clearly worried about how much to reveal.
“Tell us,” Hayden said. “Or I’ll feed you to fucking Dantanion myself.”
“They’re into everything. Drugs. Weapons. Prostitution.” He paused. “Human trafficking.”
Drake read between the lines, more on focus now that creepy story corner had passed. “So Dantanion sends out an order? Kinda like we would order a takeaway? And the militia delivers.”
Bruno nodded.
Hayden looked interested. “How often?”
“Nothing is regular. No plan.” Bruno was starting to look even more fearful as he sensed the questioning was coming to an end. Alicia swapped boots, adding to the anxiety.
Drake wasn’t sure what Hayden was thinking, but he laid it out for the team. “So Dantanion pays off the cops, who leave him alone. The militia provide people that maybe get brainwashed into this cult. That about it?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“And Inca relics?” Drake thought it might be worth mentioning again. “Nobody trying to slip a sword or a shield through?”
“We haven’t touched the relics in years,” Bruno said. “Tourists are everywhere. Government comes down hard if one gets . . . caught up. Most sites are guarded now. It’s just too much trouble.”
“Not even a vase?” Alicia pushed. “Or one of those phallic symbols?”
“Steady on, love,” Drake said. “I’m all the phallic symbol you should need.”
“Well, you’re not bad. But sometimes a girl just fancies a change, you know?”
“Nothing.” Bruno looked between them as if sensing madness. “The militia leave the treasure hunting to the crazies.”
That made Drake smile. “The crazies are right here, mate, on your doorstep.”
“Even closer than that.” Alicia shifted her boot. “We’re right on your bollocks.”
Hayden leaned about as close to Bruno as she could get. “Don’t get comfy, militia man,” she said harshly. “We have to get along now, but we know you. What you do. Where you’ve been. You belong to us now, and we will be back. I have a feeling you’re gonna be useful.”
“I will try,” Bruno said without much enthusiasm.
“You’ll be there when we call,” Hayden said. “Unless you want me to drop you off, trussed and parboiled, on this whacko’s doorstep.”
“She will do it too,” Mai said.
“Damn fucking right I will.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The man in the tight-fitting Gucci vest and jogging bottoms ignored his desk as he entered his office. He already knew what would be waiting there; knew from a hundred other days when he’d gone in. Every time he left the office the sous chef rotated the delicacies.
Dantanion crossed over to the window and the view. It filled him anew; it stimulated him, gave life to fresh plans and dreams. Mountainside filled his vision, from the valley below to the heights above. He placed two fingers against the glass as if he could touch its very essence. But the mountains didn’t speak to him—the community did.
People working far below. People working next door; in the offices and kitchens. In the bedrooms. In the future, he hoped not to have to procure new people from the filthy hovel of Cusco—he hoped to be self-sufficient.
A plan for the decades, then. And new ways to stop the mass becoming bored. The village raids were unnecessary, but useful for now. It kept the peace; kept the status quo. Gave the masses a goal to work toward and a way to unwind. Dantanion thought about the latest development—a group of armed men in Kimbiri. Was it random or had the villagers hired help? Were his people in Cusco involved? Who were the soldiers?
Dantanion took time to think it all through. Thinking made him hungry. He glanced over at the wall clock—black rim and golden filigree, the hands stood at 4 p.m. It would be a waste of a good appetite to start snacking now. Dinner was in an hour.
The burner cell in his pocket started to ring. Dantanion narrowed his eyes, sensing bad news and feeling the weight of a bad omen settle across the house, weighing it down, pushing at the deep foundations. With trepidation he answered.
“Hello?”
“Tremayne is dead,” a voice said. “The last relic is lost.”
Dantanion was a man of deep composure and spoke softly. “How did this happen?”
“We are not sure. Hijackers, we think. They have the relic but have disappeared. Now, others are asking questions.”
Dantanion stared into space. “What kind of questions?”
“They seek the identity of the seller. These relics—they are lava hot right now. Untouchable. Too many, too soon. And the people that ask—they are previous middlemen.”
Dantanion hadn’t seen that coming. He wondered if they could discover his identity. They were ruthless criminals, these middlemen, as capable as any agency. And he only dealt with the best.
“Come home. Your job was to watch Tremayne, which is clearly now complete. Come home and let us feast to your health.”
A hesitation. “You don’t want me to try tracking the hijackers?”
“I assumed you had tried that already.”
“Well, yes. A big, skillful man and an athletic woman. They finished Tremayne and vanished. They must be talented to thwart our efforts.”
Dantanion was briefly reminded of the supposed soldiers now residing in Kimbiri, but decided it was all too coincidental. The incidents couldn’t be connected. Besides, he had a man in Kimbiri already collecting information.
“Come home,” he said, ended the call, and destroyed the burner.
The relics were essential to their existence here, and thus worth any kind of risk. This was all fine when the flags fluttered on your side; but when the wind fell and the material started to catch around the flagpole, then you were looking at a tough unraveling operation. Where to go next? The market for these incredible relics was intensely small, but supremely lucrative. Dantanion knew there were only a handful of people across the globe he could use.
Most of them were now untouchable.
Critical items. Without them his astonishing new world would die very quickly. The money they accrued was vital, but it poured out of his account like water being emptied from a sink. Dantanion was not a man without means, but even his small fortune drained within a year as his community quickly grew. Like a spark to a flame and then a bonfire he could not stop the conflagration, the spread of amazement and love he felt for this newfound society. But as it grew, like any content population, the dangers to it increased. Somebody out there always wanted to take your happiness away.
Whilst surveying and preparing the caves beneath the house for more and more people, Dantanion and his helpers had come across a hidden treasure so vast they could barely believe their eyes. It had lain there for centuries, hidden, untouched. Squirreled away down some narrow passage leading off another narrow passage and another.
It had claimed two lives, but those bodies had ended up fulfilling their destinies. Dantanion blessed them, prepared them and then helped eat them. Below, in the extensive cave network, he housed most of the people, fashioned a medical center to help newcomers switch to a new form of meat, and taught the bravest of his followers how best to occupy their time if they wanted to stay unseen, remain aloof and yet be utterly worshipped at the same time.
He taught them to be monsters.
His vision. His world. When he saw them work together for the first time, scuttling and crabbing and making grown men scream, he felt wonderful. The sacrifice they claimed tasted so much better for it.
The relics!
Ah yes, his mind shied away from the real truth. And the real truth was in that vast treasure hoard. Some careful research and many months passed. Playing devil’s advocate with himself he would not at first believe the truth. He questioned it, wrestled it to the ground and stomped on its head.
But the truth won through. The more he read of the old legend the more he believed it. Atahualpa was an Inca king who was captured in his palace, in modern-day Peru, by the Spanish invaders—Pizarro in particular. The Spanish were greedy and brimming over with an insatiable envy for the astounding Inca wealth. The Incas themselves, if they hadn’t partaken of dozens of years of internal warfare, might have been better placed to force the Spaniards to retreat. Atahualpa, as great a king and warrior as he was, was taken—locked away by the merciless interlopers. Dantanion recalled reading that a ransom was asked for and willingly raised.
A roomful of gold. Collected piecemeal and properly arranged for Pizarro and then transported over the mountains. But, for reasons unknown, as the world’s greatest treasure rumbled ever closer, Pizarro reneged on the deal and put Atahualpa to death. The Incas lost their king and the Spaniards lost their gold. Legends tell that the gold was buried deep in some secret mountain cave, and there it stayed.
To this very day.
Dantanion knew it was the roomful of gold as soon as he read about it. Though not left in situ, the sheer amount of gold, the way it was hidden as if thrown away in anger, and later certain identifiable pieces, told him all he needed to know.
Eternal wealth. Eternal happiness. Solace, solitariness and a new society with common ground, forever.
Dantanion delved further, understanding that such a vast wealth would be commandeered by someone far less scrupulous than himself as well as those that possessed a right to own it. Either way, he would be out of pocket. So, for the good of the community, he found a way.
History surrounding Atahualpa’s gold was rich. The Inca king had been well renowned. A Spaniard named Valverde claimed to know the location after Atahualpa’s death, became rich and drew a map to the infamous Derrotero de Valverde. And although lost until the 1850s, such a legendary fortune could never vanish entirely from the world—resurrected again and searched for by a man named Blake, the last person ever to set eyes on it.
Never a man led by fancy, Dantanion was pleased to see that Atahualpa’s gold was no mere story. It had existed for real, was recorded in the Spanish chronicle, and it was also reported that a large convoy of gold was en route to Pizarro. Beyond that, mystery shrouded the whole effort, and Dantanion doubted that it would ever have been found if not through sheer luck and a desperate desire to make the caves below his house habitable.
And the pieces it contained? Oh, how . . .
Quickly, he derailed his train of thought. Here he sat, facing a new and drastic dilemma, and all he could do was track his gold back to the Inca kings. They had lost; they had died. Internal strife and warfare had weakened them. But not him. Not Dantanion. The kingdom he built would prosper and grow.
A series of small chimes rang out from an old clock he kept on the table.
It was time to eat.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dantanion made real conversation with nobody, so it was always with a great air of introspection that he made his entrances. The mind never stopped turning, the conveyor belt of ideas revolving without end. It was no slice of chance that had brought him to these mountains—the Incas had practiced cannibalism as a major part of their culture—but he didn’t believe in fate either.
Instead, he believed in solid hard work.
But he changed clothes now. Donned the suit and the long robe, entered the feasting chamber slowly and regally like the leader—like the king—that he was. The long, solid oak table sat empty, surrounded by his people who all bowed as he walked by. A ceiling-height, room-wide picture window to the left had been draped by blackout curtains. Candles flickered in sconces all around the room and now servants brought in more candles, placing them at strategic points on the table.
Dantanion stood at the head of the table. Silence greeted him. Servants bowed and waited, every muscle held rigid.
“It is a good day for a feast,” he said.
It started proceedings. The people bowed again and then turned to their neighbors, talking quietly. Many stared at Dantanion, hoping to see a smile of a slight nod. They knew he was reserved and even a brushing over with the eyes often brought out a woman’s blushes or a man’s smile. He blessed a few now. The servants brought out table mats, then cutlery that Dantanion inspected for its sharpness and brightness. As always, it was perfect. The man he had chosen for Kitchen Master was easily the equal of his impeccable head chef.
Next, they brought out empty skulls and set them before every man and woman. Some were filled with water, others with wine. Dantanion accepted a refreshing rosé. His palette changed from time to time, but his hunger for human flesh never dulled. Today, they had cooked an offering from Nuno. The individual had been properly tended, worshipped and prepared.
Dantanion followed his own ritualistic mix of cannibalism—a perfect link where endocannibalism and exocannibalism met. The first was a form that proved one’s power over one’s enemy, performed a final humiliation on them and took revenge. The latter was more reverential, enabling one to inherit the strength, proficiencies and achievements of the consumed individual. Dantanion saw the new ritual as a necessary act—an exploit to help make the community bond, to give it power, to furnish it with skill and knowledge, and to make it strong and able to fight for its lands.
There were other rituals that required more belief, but not tonight. For this was a night of feasting and merriment.
Dantanion sat back, worry temporarily eased, as a pungent bouquet of charcoal, oils, dressing and cooked flesh wafted into the room. The far door was open. The servants entered carrying the offering between them—a selection of thigh, chest, breast, neck and brain. The serving tray was a serving table, four servants to each side and walking slowly. Around the sides of the table were arranged the delicacies and after dinner pickings—fingers, toes, shavings of flesh they called “unmentionables”, ears, a tongue and other treats—all sautéed with a minimum of dressing to impart maximum flavor.
Carefully, the servants placed the serving table upon the main table, ensuring it was equally rectangle. Dantanion dismissed them and then held aloft the skull that contained the rosé
.
“With this feast we gain the strength to overcome our enemies, replenish and renew our knowledge, expand our skills and accept new successes. We give thanks to the offering for giving their essence and all that they were, to nourish and sustain us.”
The community intoned, “We give thanks to the offering for giving their essence and all that they were, to nourish and sustain us.”
Glasses raised and were drained. Servants rushed to refill.
Razor sharp knives were raised, their blades glittering red and gold by the light of the flickering flames.
By ritual, Dantanion took the first cut.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
One more opportunity to put her life in her hands. One more chance to make amends. One more dance with Torsten Dahl—and then she could happily die.
Kenzie corrected herself very quickly. She didn’t want to die. At least not today. Not whilst the Swede wavered between sex and love, and not whilst his lonely wife decided between love and divorce.
The choice, however, was well and truly out of her hands.
Fully prepped. Fully loaded, they came. Dahl toting two Smith and Wessons, a HK semi-auto, and Sig-Pro semi-auto handgun. The extra ammo weighed his small rucksack down. Were they expecting trouble? Kenzie grimaced.
She carried similar weaponry, but with the addition of an old friend.
Dahl eyed it now as he pulled the car over into a dusty lay-by. “You really think you need that thing?”
Kenzie sighed. “Tell me, would you leave your penis behind if you were going on a date?”
Dahl faltered. “Umm . . .”
“No, of course not. Because sometime during the night it might be useful.” She cracked open the car door, pulled the katana out of the back seat and slipped it smoothly into the scabbard attached to her back. “Same here.”
Inca Kings (Matt Drake Book 15) Page 12
