Warriors with snakes twined around their bodies. Now the red-and-black pictures made sense.
M let out a howl of frustration and fury. Without even taking aim, she threw the ball in the direction of the ring as hard as she could. Didn’t make it. The floor cracked as the ball landed, and another snake appeared. This one immediately headed for M. She backed up, but it was too fast. It twined itself up her other leg. Killing the first one had just made things worse. The headless body was squeezing harder than the living snake. She left the new one where it was.
M threw the ball again and again and again. The stone floor looked like the epicenter of an earthquake, cracks everywhere. Snakes wrapped themselves around her thighs, her waist, her left forearm, and her right upper arm. Another had encircled her throat, not tightly enough to constrict her breathing. At least not yet.
As she went after the ball so she could try again, she stumbled over one of the cracks in the floor. The snake around her neck hissed, its tongue flicking against the tip of her ear. This was impossible. Impossible. But she couldn’t stop trying. That would be the same as saying, “Go ahead, kill my dad, I give up.”
“The only way I’m stopping is if I die first!” she shouted. In response, the snakes tightened on her body. M forced herself to take time to center herself in front of the ring. Ignoring the snakes, she aimed and threw, not too hard, not too soft.
The ball flew through the stone ring, taking the rope with it. Before the ball even hit the ground, the snakes dropped off her body. They slithered back into the cracks, even the one that should have been dead. The cracks sealed behind them, leaving the floor of the court as she’d found it.
M tied the ends of the rope together so it wouldn’t slither out of the ring like one of the snakes. Then she took off her heavy boots and thick socks, figuring her bare feet would get more purchase on the slick wall.
She locked her eyes on the golden statue high above and climbed straight up without pausing. She strode over to the jaguar. The head of the Set animal lay between its shining paws.
M’s breath caught in her throat. The black stone piece was facing her, its eyes staring directly into hers. Was Ash right? Was the Egyptian god of the underworld trapped in this piece of stone, looking right at her?
She didn’t care.
“I’m coming for you, Dad,” she whispered, grabbing the Set piece. “Hang on just a little longer.”
CHAPTER 21
“M?”
Ash sat up, shaking off sleep. M couldn’t possibly be back yet. This was his second night in the mausoleum, but a flight to Guatemala would take six hours minimum, not to mention all the other travel time. He had no idea how far the were-jaguar temple was from civilization, nor how M planned on getting to it. He couldn’t expect her for at least another day, and that was if everything went smoothly. He hated to think of her navigating the jungle alone, even though he knew she would do a better job than he ever could. She’d probably been in a hundred jungles in her life.
He looked around. There was enough room to stretch out on the floor between the two columns of stacked crypts, but not much more space. At a glance he could see he was alone. But something had woken him.
Instinctively, he reached for the backpack. His hand hit cold stone.
All remnants of sleep vanished instantly.
It was gone! He’d fallen asleep with it right beside him, and it was gone. The Set pieces had been stolen.
He jammed on his shoes and bolted for the door, then forced himself to slow down. If someone had just taken the artifact, they were likely to be nearby. He crept outside and pressed his back against the cool stone wall, surveying the cemetery. The moon was nearly full, but it was obscured by clouds. When he was sure no one was in sight, he inched down the wall.
How had this happened? The pieces shouldn’t have been giving off a signal. They couldn’t have, or his parents would have shown up before now. He wouldn’t be surprised if they had people stationed all over the city, waiting for a new signal. But it didn’t make sense that they would just happen to search the mausoleum where he was hiding. Nor that they would leave him sleeping. His parents would kill him if they had the chance, and so would Hugh.
He peered around the corner of the mausoleum. Three dots of light flickered in the distance. Keeping low, he moved toward them until he could make out three candles set on a grave. Someone knelt over them. Silently, he stole closer, using mausoleums for cover when he could.
The wind kicked up, and the clouds shifted. Now the moonlight illuminated the figure. It was the girl from the voodoo shop, Veronica. She was naked, kneeling before the Set pieces, her pale skin almost glowing. She sprinkled something over them. The three candle flames flared, and Ash could see the ardent expression on her face.
He launched himself toward the pieces, but before he could reach them he heard a sound that sucked the air out of his lungs. Click. Click. Click. The Set pieces had fused. Somehow Veronica had desecrated the cemetery. It no longer acted as a sacred space.
Ash snatched up the Set animal, kicking over one of the candles. Veronica let out a high screech of outrage. But he didn’t waste time demanding to know what she’d done. He had to get the piece to another sacred space before the cult of Set tracked him.
The cemetery gate was swinging on its hinges. Ash knocked it open with his body. He didn’t know the city. He had no idea which way to run. So he just ran, dodging around a group of people coming out of a bar carrying red plastic cups.
Should I go into a bar, he thought wildly. No. Hiding in a crowd wouldn’t help him. The pieces would just be constantly signaling where he was. He needed another cemetery, a church, a mosque, anything.
He spotted a spire with a cross in the distance. Maybe he’d find something closer, but at least it gave him a direction. He locked his eyes on it as he hurtled on, cradling the Set animal tighter against his chest.
Ash heard tires squeal and shot a glance over his shoulder. A dark van was coming toward him, fast. He took the first turn he came to. An alley. A dead end. His eyes flicked around wildly. Black iron fire escapes zigzagged up the five stories of the brick building.
The van couldn’t follow him up there.
The bottom platform was about six feet up. Ash used the momentum of his run to hurl himself toward it, but his free hand was too sweaty and slipped right off.
When he landed, a pair of hands grabbed his shoulders and something heavy slammed into his skull. Everything went black.
* * *
M drove her rental car one-handed, her other hand resting on the backpack that held the last Set piece. She should be exhausted after being turned into a life-sized ceramic figurine and battling undead—or at least undying—snakes, not to mention hacking her way back out of the jungle. Instead, she felt amazing, flying on an adrenalin high and the knowledge that she had what she needed.
Unless Ash—
Nope. She wouldn’t doubt him. He’d promised he would be there, and she believed him. She trusted him.
She slowed to take a curve on the winding road. A particularly elaborate animita came into view. The roadside shrine was backed by some sort of triptych with niches in all three sections holding statues of saints. There were also a couple of potted plants, and what looked like a solar lighting system. Someone was taking exceptionally good care of the memorial.
M had seen a few roadside memorials in the U.S., usually just a cross with some plastic flowers or maybe a stuffed animal. But in Latin America, the shrines were incredibly common. She’d passed one every hundred feet along the narrow two-lane road, most commemorating someone who’d died in a car accident, but some honoring the victims of drug or political violence. They were placed on the spot where the soul and body separated.
Dad had consulted on an ancient Olmec site when she was thirteen, and she’d mostly just hung around with the students. They’d told her people would visit the animitas and ask the souls of the dead to intercede for them. She’d found the shrines
fascinating, especially the way that portable animal kennels were often used to hold a loved one’s favorite things. Now she saw them differently; she saw them as sacred.
M spotted a road sign. A little over fifty miles to Flores, where Joel had hooked her up with another private jet ride back to New Orleans, leaving tomorrow. She wished she could just book the next flight. But now was no time to start taking risks.
She eased around another curve. More animitas stretched out in front of her. So many dead to mourn. She felt the weariness that the adrenalin had been keeping at bay seep into her. All she wanted was to end this. To see her father.
What would happen to Ash when it was over? Would they still be friends? Was that what they were now? It was hard to imagine spending time with him under normal circumstances. She wondered if he’d be different.
M glanced in the rearview mirror. A dark gray van had moved up behind her. As it got closer, it sped up, gluing itself to her tail. Annoyed, M hit the accelerator. The van kept pace. The lane in the other direction was empty. There was plenty of room for it to pass.
It didn’t.
The hairs at the back of her neck prickled. It had been about five hours since she took the Set piece from the jaguar temple. Could the cult of Set have tracked the signal this fast?
Her Hyundai Sonata didn’t have great pickup. And it wasn’t like she could race the van all the way to town. There were no turn-offs. Just the two lanes with nothing around.
A plan. She needed a plan. There was a sharp curve coming up. Maybe she could use that. She slammed on the gas, screeched around the curve, and let the car plough into the low guard rail. The airbag deployed, banging her in the face. Ignoring the pain, M grabbed the backpack, and scrambled out of the car.
Let there be one, let there be one! Yes! There was a shrine made out of a small dog carrier a little way down the road. As she ran, she heard the van crash into the rental car. She smiled. That should slow them down.
M reached the crate, yanked open the door, and thrust her backpack inside, muttering an apology to the soul of the person it belonged to. “I’ll bring it back, promise,” she whispered as she picked it up in both arms and struggled to climb over the rocky outcropping behind the group of shrines. She slid down the other side. At least she was out of sight.
This had to work. The shrine was a sacred space, a portable sacred space. The Set acolytes would know she was nearby, but wouldn’t know where. She took a breath, forcing herself to be still for a few seconds, to make sure … no throbbing noise. No signal. The shrine was doing its job.
M began fighting her way through the brush, wishing she could use her scythe, but it was impossible while carrying the animita. Her body was already aching and bruised from the struggle to get the Set piece, but she ignored the fresh pain caused by walking over the rough ground. Every second mattered. She heard shouts in the distance. How long until they figured out which direction she’d gone in?
She pressed on, expecting to hear someone coming after her. When she mounted a crest and saw a village—with people—stretching out below her, her eyes stung with tears of relief. She blinked them away, assessing the scattered groups of villagers.
Those three guys, she decided. With a little charm and a lot of Ash’s money, they looked like they could be convinced to give her a ride to Flores. As she started toward them, she glanced over her shoulder again.
She wasn’t being followed. Yet.
CHAPTER 22
M climbed out of the cab and adjusted the huge duffel bag she wore over her shoulder. She’d bought the biggest one she could find at the airport and managed to jam the dog kennel shrine, her backpack—and the last Set piece—inside.
The flight had felt endless, and there hadn’t been a flight attendant to make her all the lattes she wanted on this one. But she was finally here, back in New Orleans, and all she wanted was to get to Ash. Her gut was still telling her he’d meant it when he promised to wait. Fear had made her doubt herself, doubt him, but he’d be there.
She swung open the gate to the cemetery and rushed to the mausoleum, the duffel repeatedly banging against her side. She opened the narrow doorway. She had to clutch the bag in front of her to step inside. “Ash?” she called, placing the duffel on the floor.
He wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there.
A few empty water bottles lay on the floor, but Ash and the backpack containing the Set pieces was gone.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He’d betrayed her. He’d looked right at her, and lied, lied so well that every instinct told her he was being honest, even when he had every reason to deceive her.
What was wrong with her? Two minutes before she left him, he’d told her he lied to people who’d known him since he was a child, lied to his oldest friend, lied so well he convinced them he wanted back in the Set cult, an organization he despised. Ash was a master manipulator, and he’d made her trust him.
“Stop.” She told herself quietly. “Stop,” she said again with more force. Just because Ash wasn’t in the mausoleum didn’t mean he wasn’t in the cemetery. Maybe he was out walking around. The mausoleum probably made him feel claustrophobic, and it had been a long time since they’d gotten the piece from Papa Ozee. He probably thought it was okay to go out.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped back outside, beginning a thorough search. She walked up and down each row of graves and mausoleums but didn’t find him.
Maybe they’d just missed each other. Maybe he was back in the mausoleum. M was struggling to stay calm and explore all the possibilities. But her heart felt like it was beating double time. She could feel it in her throat, her wrists, her ears, even her fingertips.
She wanted to run back to the mausoleum, but she forced herself to walk, to at least pretend she might see him. When she reached the mausoleum and opened the door, the stone structure was still empty.
M went back in anyway, hoping she’d find a note. But there was no message. He might have tried to call her in Guatemala and not gotten through. She’d been off the grid for a stretch of hours.
But he would have kept trying until he reached her. She walked back outside and slumped down, leaning against the mausoleum wall. Hopelessness surged through her. She’d been wrong about him. Wrong about trusting her gut. Wrong about her ability to read people. Ash had probably been on his cell to Philip the second she left.
It was over. She’d done everything she could to save her father, and it wasn’t enough. She’d failed, and he would be killed.
M took out her cell.
M: You there?
MIKE: Here.
The answer came almost instantly, as if Mike had her phone out, waiting.
M: Found the last piece. Got back to the cemetery and Ash was gone. You were right.
MIKE: Don’t assume.
M: What else am I supposed to think?
MIKE: Maybe someone came after him?
MIKE: Any place you think he’d go or would leave a message?
M: Maybe one place. Let me check and get back to you.
MIKE: Godspeed.
They hadn’t been in New Orleans long. There was only one place Ash might have tried to leave a message—Papa Ozee’s. She shouldered her duffel and left the cemetery. The Set cult would be using every resource to get the pieces. Who knew how many people they sent to New Orleans following the signal. Maybe Ash’s hiding place had been discovered. Maybe he’d escaped and found another sacred space. Or maybe he’d been captured by Bob and Liza.
His parents, who beat him. When he’d told her about them, all she could think was how awful they had been to him. Maybe she should’ve been thinking about how much he must hate them, how focused he must be on revenge, on destroying them and their god.
No. Stop. She began to walk faster. She and Ash were partners, a team. She’d trusted him. She shouldn’t doubt herself—or him—now. What she should be thinking about is what she could do to help him. If the
cult of Set had him, he was in as much danger as her father. More. Dad still had value, because she had something they wanted. They couldn’t bring their precious god back to life without the last piece. And they would know her father gave them leverage over her. There would be no reason to keep Ash alive.
Papa Ozee’s shop was just down the block. She jogged the last steps, the dog kennel shrine bouncing hard against her shoulder. She wrangled the large bag through the door.
Her eyes began to burn. There were traces of smoke in the air, and the scent of sage filled the room. When Papa Ozee appeared from behind one of the crammed shelves, M saw that he held a smoldering bundle of herbs tied with purple string. “I don’t want that object back in my place,” he told her, eyeing the duffel. “I told you it doesn’t want to be here.”
“I don’t have it with me,” M said quickly. “I just wanted to know if my friend Ash came back. The British guy I was with last time.”
Papa Ozee’s expression told her he didn’t believe her, but before he could answer, there came the soft sound of beads clicking together and Veronica came into the room, wearing another gauzy caftan, this one of the palest violet. “When I was walking to work the other day, I saw him getting into a taxi over by the city of the dead.”
“The cemetery, you mean?” M asked. “Was he alone?”
“No. He was with a man. Maybe fifty or so,” Veronica replied.
M felt like she’d been sucker punched. There was no way one man could get Ash into a cab against his will. So he’d gone freely. Philip. The man must have been Philip, or at least someone from the Eye.
“Aww, cher, did he run off on you?”
M ignored the malice in Veronica’s tone. “So he hasn’t been here? I thought he might have left a message for me.”
I Do Not Trust You Page 25
