by Darren Shan
In all the unexpected excitement, I almost miss Fabio’s exit. As the strippers jiggle down the aisle, his coffin glides backward on a conveyer belt, through a pair of lace curtains, never to be seen again. I salute him as he goes, wishing him luck wherever he winds up.
“If that doesn’t satisfy the horny old goat, nothing will,” one of his daughters in the seat ahead of me mutters to her husband.
“What’d really make his day,” he murmurs, “would be if they slipped back there and jumped his dead bones.”
As I’m laughing at their comments, the music dies, the lights come back up, the strippers gather their clothes, bow one final time to the mourners and start to leave. Those closest to the aisle are already on their feet, in a hurry to get back to Fabio’s house for the wake. Since I’m by the wall, I stay seated and wait for the way to clear. As my eyes wander, I notice one of the strippers standing nearby. It’s hard to tell with the Fabio mask, but I get the impression she’s staring at me.
I stare back at the stripper, smiling awkwardly, trying not to ogle her breasts. Then she removes her mask and I forget her breasts entirely. It’s Ama Situwa!
As my jaw drops, she sends the Fabio mask flicking toward me. Instinctively I duck to avoid it. When I look again, she’s gone. Not waiting to question my sanity, I bound from my seat, leap over the people in the rows ahead—ignoring their indignant roars—duck through the door and race down a corridor.
It branches at the end. The right fork leads to a room where I can hear loud conversation and laughter—the strippers. I doubt that Ama Situwa will return to her colleagues—I can always trace them through Flo and Zeba later if I have to—so I turn left and pick up speed.
The corridor leads to the rear of the crematorium, no further forks or doors. I burst out into sunlight, drop to my knees in case anyone’s waiting with a gun and raze the area with my gaze, desperately wishing I’d packed my .45. I spot Situwa at the far corner of the building to my left, tugging on a T-shirt. She’s on a moped. I start toward her, realize I have no hope of catching her on foot—the engine’s already running—so turn and dart for my motorcycle in the parking lot.
By the time I clear the lot, I’m sure Situwa will have vanished, but to my delight I catch sight of her overtaking a car that has stopped for a yellow light. Cutting lanes—almost getting wiped out by a van—I come down with a jarring thud on her side of the road, take a few seconds to straighten, and set off after her, ripping through the gears, eyes locked on the figure in front.
Within a minute I’ve already closed the gap by half and know she’s mine for the taking. Secure in this knowledge and thinking clearly—aided by the fresh air—I ease up on the throttle. I close the gap another seventy or eighty feet over the next few minutes but maintain that distance, giving her the run of the city, to see where she’ll lead me.
As we bypass traffic, I ponder the situation and come to the obvious conclusion that this is a setup. The woman wants me to follow her. She’s leading me somewhere specific and I bet friends of hers will be waiting when we arrive. The intelligent thing would be to cut her off, knock her from her moped, interrogate her on territory of my own choosing. But I let her keep her lead, eager to know whom she’s running to.
She heads for the city center. I start to think she’s leading me to Party Central but then she takes a turn for the docks. That would be a good spot for an ambush—plenty of deserted warehouses—but then she turns again, away from the river. I stop speculating and simply follow.
Several minutes later she pulls up at the base of the Manco Capac statue and leaps from her moped. I draw up beside the abandoned bike, stand my own beside it and pad after her, closing the distance to forty feet by the time she reaches the door at the foot of the statue and races inside.
The Manco Capac statue is the city’s largest monument, standing an incredible nine hundred feet high, an immense tribute to the founding father of the Incas. Construction commenced a decade ago but the doors were only opened to the public the year before last. I’ve never been inside but I’ve heard a lot about it—it’s home to a supposedly world-class Inca museum, and the views of the city are allegedly second to none.
I pause at the entrance. There’s a sign proclaiming the statue closed for the day, but the door’s unlocked and there are no guards. This feels bad but I’m not about to turn tail now. I might be weaponless, but my hands are the hands of a killer, so I’m never truly unarmed. Wiping my palms on my pants, I take a calming breath, then start up the stairs after Ama Situwa.
After a long climb I stop at a steel door. I flex my fingers, take hold of the handle, pull the door open and throw myself through, rolling across the floor, anticipating action.
Nobody here.
I stand warily and study my surroundings. I’m in the lowest section of the museum, where a gift shop and an Incan-themed restaurant predominate. No sign of Ama Situwa. I step up to the window of the gift shop and check the display. Useless bric-a-brac, but on the left I spot a thick-headed walking stick, and just behind that a belt of ornamental knives. I kick in the glass—no alarm sounds—and grab the walking stick and knives. The stick’s hefty and will serve as a club. The knives are flimsy but better than nothing. I strap on the belt, slide out a knife and hold it by my side, and advance.
The statue is hollow and tiered with crystal floors of different colors. On each floor a dazzling array of cabinets and display stands boast all manner of Incan ornaments and tools, garments and jewelry, maps and information sheets. I ignore all of it and search for Ama Situwa, who’s lost me amid the aisles of memorabilia and artifacts.
I move up floors cautiously. I sense she’s waiting for me at the top but I don’t rush. The museum’s deserted, lit by dim security lamps. My footsteps echo loudly. I don’t try to muffle them. Whoever’s waiting with Ama Situwa knows I’m coming, so the element of surprise isn’t in play.
Finally I leave the last of the display cabinets behind and come to a door marked SOLARIUM. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. I know all about the statue’s solarium. A lover of everything Incan told me about it many years ago, when work on the statue was in its infancy. A circular room full of mirrors designed to harness the full blast of the sun and amplify it. Access is restricted and allegedly no bribe will get you past the security guards if you haven’t been given the go-ahead by the relevant authorities.
There are no guards on the door today, but I pause before entering. The glare of the mirrors is meant to be blinding and visitors have to wear colored goggles. The glass of the roof is tinted, cutting down the glare, but it can be retracted at the push of a button. If I go up, unprotected, and somebody pushes that button…
I have to risk it. Situwa could be hiding on any of the floors beneath—I gave them only a cursory once-over—but I know in my heart that she’s waiting for me in the solarium, along with whoever sent her to me as bait. I could try to wait them out, but this is their game, not mine. I must respect the rules.
Pushing through the revolving door, I find myself on a set of narrow, steep stairs. I swap my walking stick from my left hand to my right as I climb, and the knife vice versa, just to give myself something to think about while ascending.
At the top of the stairs I hit the domed solarium. The walls are embedded with mirrors. The glass roof is tinted a dark gray-blue color. The floor of the room is mostly covered by a huge, circular stone. A strangely carved block juts from the center of the stone, maybe five feet high. Standing in front of the block, a long knife held between his hands, is a robed, blind villac. At the base of the stone, legs dangling over the side, rests Ama Situwa.
“Welcome, Flesh of Dreams,” she greets me, smiling blankly. I get the feeling she isn’t in control of herself. She’s being manipulated.
“Who are you?” I ask, striding forward. Before I reach her, she swings her legs up, rolls away from me and comes to her feet. I stop at the edge, remembering a similar stone from many years earlier. The villacs called it the inti watana. Whe
n I tried to mount it, I received a crippling electric shock.
“You have a keen memory, Flesh of Dreams,” the woman with Ama Situwa’s features says. “This platform, like the other, will repulse those who set foot on it uninvited. You may test it if you wish, but I would not advise it.” She doesn’t sound like a woman. Her voice is deep and masculine.
“Who are you?” I ask again.
In answer she removes her T-shirt, slides out of her skirt and slips off her shoes and stockings.
“Who are you?” I ask for the third time.
“Ama Situwa,” she answers.
“Ama Situwa’s dead.”
“Yes.” She smiles a corpse’s grin. “And today she dies again.”
The naked woman walks to the priest at the center of the platform. He steps to one side and she jumps and hauls herself onto the stone block, drapes herself across it, facing me, body arced, pubis high. The villac walks around the block, muttering words in a language I don’t understand.
The priest comes to a halt at the front of the block and sets the blade of his knife to the flesh of the woman’s throat. She doesn’t look alarmed, merely stares calmly at the ceiling, breathing steadily.
“Stop,” I say softly. “You don’t have to do this. Let’s talk.”
The villac ignores me, presses down, then drags the blade from right to left, severing the woman’s vocal cords. Ama Situwa’s body jerks but she doesn’t beat him off. She holds her head as still as she can while he makes a second cut, then a third, slicing deeper each time, right through the neck, until her head flops over the edge of the block, connected to her body by only a thin flap of flesh.
I watch the sacrifice neutrally. I’ve killed too many people to feel sickened or appalled. If the priest meant to shock me, he failed.
Ama Situwa’s blood runs down the sides of the block, soaking into the stone of the platform. The villac steps away, knife hanging by his side. Dropping the knife, he raises his arms above his head and chants. I consider launching one of my own knives at him—I could hit him from here, though I don’t think the cheap blade would do much damage—but choose to wait. I want to see what he does next.
While I’m studying the priest, I spot movement at the center of the platform. My gaze flicks to the block, back to the priest, then returns to the block, my eyes widening. I thought the movement was Ama Situwa’s body shifting, or another priest entering the solarium, but it’s nothing so simple. A tiny cloud of green fog has formed around the dead woman’s body and rises to the ceiling, dispersing as it does. As I watch, mystified, I realize that the body on the platform is growing translucent, fading away. She’s disappearing, flesh and bones transforming into tendrils of a vapid green fog that drifts upward and separates, becoming invisible dust motes, until both woman and fog are no more.
“What is this shit?” I gasp.
The villac smiles. The sacrifice didn’t impress me but this did. The priest can’t hide a gloating snicker.
“It’s an illusion,” I moan. “This room’s full of mirrors. You simply…” I trail off, knowing it has to be trickery, yet sensing in my heart that it isn’t. The priests wouldn’t waste their time on cheap conjuring feats.
As my brain reels, the villac turns, walks to the far end of the platform and jumps down. I click back into action and race around the huge stone, determined to catch the priest and force answers out of him. The priest faces me with his white, expressionless eyes. I drop my makeshift club and prepare to go to work with the knives. Before I can, a mirror drops from the ceiling and slots into place in a groove in the floor, blocking my path.
I curse at my reflection and smash my right elbow into the mirror, meaning to force my way through. But the glass is shatterproof. I grit my teeth against the impact of the blow and clutch my arm to my chest, squeezing the flesh above the elbow to combat the pain. I flex my arm a few times, then retrace my steps, coming at the priest from the opposite direction. It’s a waste of time—another mirror will drop, I’m sure—but I have to try.
I notice several mirrors around the edges of the room lifting to reveal hidden compartments. In each rests a mummified corpse, strapped to a chair. I ignore them and focus on the villac. His arms are outstretched and he’s muttering. I glimpse another mirror descending. I throw myself forward, hoping to beat it to the punch, but it slots into place and I bounce backward.
Hissing with fury, I rest on the floor a moment, considering my next move. As I lie there like a wounded dog, another mirror drops into place behind me, trapping me. I don’t react immediately, but get my breath back, then stand and appraise the situation. I’m surrounded on three sides by mirrors, on the other by the charged inti watana. There doesn’t seem to be a way out, though I’m sure one will present itself. The villacs didn’t lure me here simply to strand me.
As if somebody’s reading my thoughts, the mirror in the wall slides up, revealing one of the hidden compartments. I start toward it, then stop, confused. There’s no corpse in this one, just another mirror that casts my bald, tattooed reflection back at me. That doesn’t make sense. There must be a way out. Perhaps a panel in the floor or…
I stoop to check the floor, then freeze. My reflection hasn’t moved. It stands the same as before, grinning. But I haven’t grinned since I saw Ama Situwa in the crematorium.
Straightening, I study the figure, noting the bald head, green eyes and tattooed snakes on its cheeks. A highly accurate representation of me in my Paucar Wami guise. The thing is, I’m currently masquerading as Al Jeery, snakes painted over, wig in place, contact lenses removed. This isn’t a reflection. It’s a life-size replica. But why put it here? What do they hope to—
The right arm of the replica shoots up. Its fingers grip my throat and tighten. Its face comes alive. Its green eyes fix on mine and its lips lift in a mocking sneer.
I punch at the hand and kick at the legs of my assailant, but he takes no notice. Instead, leaning forward, he smirks in a way I remember only too well and says in a voice I’ve heard many times in my nightmares, “Long time no see, Al m’boy.”
A blast of inhuman fear numbs me and I stop struggling. This isn’t a replica—it’s the real Paucar Wami!
As my senses dissolve, Wami’s fingers flex and the supply of blood is cut off. I slip to the floor. Dark waves wash over me, obscuring all. The last thing I see is the evil grin of my long-dead father. Then nothing, except for shadowy, slithering, nightmarish snakes.
part three
unholy reunions
1
the snakes
I’ve been lying awake, eyes open, for several minutes before I realize it. The darkness is so absolute that I mistook it for the darkness of my dreams. Groaning, I sit up and massage the swollen flesh around my throat. I’ve throttled men unconscious before, but this is my first time on the receiving end.
Swallowing stings, but I force myself to dry-swallow mechanically, and after a while the pain recedes and I’m able to breathe naturally, with only a minimum of discomfort. What I wouldn’t give for a glass of water.
Getting to my feet, I turn in a slow circle, arms outstretched, probing with my fingers—nothing. Bending, I pat the floor, getting a feel for where I am. Hard earth, damp, musky. I fan out with my hands but the area’s clear. I check for my belt of knives but they’ve been taken from me. The walking stick too.
Sitting again, I allow my thoughts to wander back to my encounter with the past in the Manco Capac statue, and try convincing myself that what I saw wasn’t—couldn’t be—real. Paucar Wami’s lost to the mists of time and reality. It must have been a look-alike. There’s no other logical answer.
But what about the Ama Situwa double? And the others Capac Raimi said he saw in the weeks leading up to his disappearance? Finding one person who looks similar to another is difficult. Finding a host of them, for a group of people… I don’t even begin calculating the odds. Something’s going on, something I can’t account for, and the best way to deal with it is to let it s
lide. First things first. I have to find my way out of here, wherever here is.
Rising, I sniff the air for any scent of a draft. “Hello?” I croak, grimacing at the flare-up in my throat. “Hello!” I shout, voice almost breaking—it feels as if I’m vomiting glass. Ignoring the pain, I listen for echoes. They come, faintly, from my left. Facing that way, I shout again, a wordless grunt this time, and the echoes are clearer. I hear nothing when I roar in the other directions, so I head left, hands stretched out in front. I count my steps silently, in case I need to retrace them. Five… eight… fourteen…
On my thirty-fourth step my hand strikes a brick wall, wet with condensation. I examine it with my fingers, then test the ground for puddles. I find several and—having dipped a finger in and tested the water, which tastes bitter but otherwise OK—I lean down and sip from one of the larger pools, quenching my thirst.
Refreshed, I stand, wipe my lips, choose a direction at random, lay my palm against the wall and walk, brushing the brick lightly with my fingertips, feeling for gaps or cracks. I think of nothing but the wall, pushing all other thoughts from my mind, as hard as that is.
I have no idea how long I was out or what the time is—my watch has been taken from my wrist and my cell’s gone too. Instead of worrying about it, or where I’ve been taken, I count my paces, making my world consist of nothing but the wall, the darkness and footsteps.
Forty-seven steps into my count, I run into another wall and come to the end of my path. I make a ninety-degree turn and continue walking and counting.
One hundred and seventeen steps later, my hand slides into space. I turn and take two steps forward. I stick my right hand out—wall. Stretching forth my left, I shuffle that way… a bit more… wall. I’m in a passage.
