by Lynn Sholes
Cotten scrambled to her feet, the flashlight’s beam jumping wildly in the fog. Ahead, just inside the mess tent, was the table where she and her friends had eaten their last dinner together. There was still cuy left in an aluminum tray in the center of the table. The bottle of native brew rested on its side.
“Nick?” she called lowly. “Where are you?”
She switched off the flashlight, immersing herself in the night. The beam would make her an easy target. The only light came from inside Edelman’s tent. Cautiously, she moved toward it.
“Edelman?” she whispered, peeling back the tent flap. She heard a soft hum and felt a subtle movement of the air. She turned as a bright light came from behind her. A thick swarm of fireflies flooded into the tent, bringing with them a suffocating heat and that choking sulfur odor. This time they ignored her, instead gathering and hovering over the table. They descended and shrouded the crystal tablet. Beside it, Edelman’s papers ignited and turned to ash, blowing away and floating in the air.
Cotten shrank toward the rear of the tent. Bumping into a crate, she looked down and gulped back a cry when she saw what lay at her feet.
The Ruins
Cotten looked down at Edelman’s body sprawled on the ground. He had apparently crashed onto a crate and then rolled off onto the dirt floor. A pistol lay next to him. The dark smudge of gunpowder on his right temple surrounded a small, almost bloodless entrance hole. Cotten knelt and lifted his head. His eyes were open, the pupils fixed and dilated. His head lolled to the side, revealing the exit wound. “Oh God,” she whispered, covering her mouth. The left side of his head was gone.
A small plopping sound made her look up. A glob of Edelman’s brain had slid from the canvas and dropped onto the ground. Cotten’s stomach contents gurgled up into her throat. She shuddered and fought back the urge to vomit. José—burned alive. Paul—throat slashed. And Edelman had blown his brains out. What the hell was going on?
Suddenly, the glow from the fireflies intensified. Cotten stared transfixed as the crystal tablet levitated a few inches above the table beneath the mantle of glowing insects. She was captivated by the surreal sight, unable to turn away. A feeling of rapture swept through her—that she was in the presence of the supernatural, that it was a part of her. Then, just as quickly, she felt nauseated, realizing that whatever was in the tent with her was pure evil.
With all her strength, Cotten forced herself to her feet and carefully maneuvered around Edelman’s body, sidestepping the artifact table and slipping past the fireflies to the tent entrance before bolting out.
Quickly, she made the decision to avoid the dig crew’s encampment, terrified she would find more of the same horror. Aiming her beam at the ground, Cotten ran in the opposite direction, toward the path to the dig site. She stumbled along the uneven trail, exposed roots making it hard to maintain her balance. The mountain mist rolled past her in waves—thick in places, thinning in others. The flashlight barely penetrated the clouds.
She tried to push the images of death to the back of her mind, but it was impossible to think of anything else. Her friends appeared to have killed themselves or each other. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.” Her words kept the rhythm of her feet pounding the ground.
Cotten looked back once and thought she saw tiny pinpoints of light—the fireflies.
And what were they? Some form of aggressive insects, like killer bees? Had they levitated Paul’s knife like they had the tablet? Had they set José on fire just as they had burned Edelman’s notes? Forced him to shoot himself? Maybe they were only a product of her imagination, brought on by the native drink—hallucinogens from some local drug mixing with her medication—or due to her earlier panic attack.
No, she’d fallen over Paul’s body, she’d felt the heat of the flames that had engulfed José, and she’d held Edelman’s head, still warm. Although she hadn’t seen Nick, one of the screams had sounded like his voice. Those were no hallucinations.
Winded from the high altitude, Cotten struggled to stay on the path. She’d become familiar with the intricacies of the trail leading to the ruins over the past few days.
Suddenly, the first of the massive structures loomed out of the darkness, the wall of white granite stones. She dodged the trenches and tools that littered the site and moved up the steep ascent to the domed structure she’d asked Edelman about. An Incan observatory, he had told her. Although she couldn’t see it through the darkness and heavy mist, she remembered it clearly. Glancing backward, she saw nothing following her as she climbed to the observatory.
The round outer wall appeared, and the path became steps. Cotten heaved for air, her lungs laboring and her legs burning. She remembered the narrow pathway that hooked around to the trail, which they had followed when they’d arrived the first day.
Rimancu wasn’t that far from here, Cotten thought. If she could find it, she could hide there until daylight—until she could figure out what was going on. Then she would go to Machu Picchu and get in touch with the authorities.
The mist flowing around her seemed to have a life of its own, moving in undulating waves like a giant invertebrate swimming slowly past. Deep in the jungle, far from camp, she finally stopped, pressing her back against the trunk of a tree. Rimancu had to be near. She waited until she caught her breath and then continued on. Shining the flashlight ahead, Cotten finally spotted the red block of wood.
Shortly, she found the entrance to one of the Rimancu structures. Bent over with her hands on her knees, she cried with relief. Cotten wiped her nose with the back of her hand, feeling dirt smear across her face. Inside the ruin, she found a room congested with debris from a collapsed wall overgrown with heavy vegetation. A black tree trunk, twisting like a strand of licorice, grew up from the stone floor and disappeared into the darkness overhead—its base as thick as a large man.
Cotten shuffled over a carpet of live and composting plants. She crouched in a far corner behind the tree trunk. Swinging her flashlight in an arc to take in her surroundings, she leaned against a stone fallen from the crumbling wall. She flipped off the switch to conserve the battery.
Her thumping pulse was the only sound she heard. The pungent odors of jungle, perpetual dampness, ancient stone, and soil filled her nostrils.
Cotten closed her eyes, straining to make sense of what had happened.
Paul and Nick had joked on the flight from Lima about scoring some local drugs—stuff that they heard could make you crazy. Was that what happened? Was the native drink to blame? Had the side effects of the brew made them suicidal? Then why not her? But the fireflies . . .
The fireflies.
Cotten opened her eyes and jerked back against the wall.
Thousands of them filled the ancient room. The luminescent mass took on a pattern, first like a swirling desert dust devil, then more complicated—a double helix glowing bright enough to cast the shadow of the twisted tree on the stone wall.
She got to her feet and edged along the wall, coming to an opening just big enough for her to squeeze through. Cotten stooped and pushed away the clinging growth that blocked her, finally emerging into the jungle again. She ran, searching for the footpath. Suddenly, a coil of vine caught her ankle, and down she went, slamming her head on a stone, a stone hewn by Incan hands over five hundred years ago.
Eli
Richard and Mariah Hapsburg sat in their Cadillac Escalade on the shoulder of North Racebrook Road near the gates to Eli Luddington’s estate in Woodbridge, Connecticut. Mariah stared out the window as a silver Mercedes passed. The occupants were probably headed to Luddington’s dinner party, she guessed. Her husband, Richard, sat behind the SUV’s steering wheel, sulking, and it was pissing her off. She knew she could wheedle anything out of Richard, get him to do whatever she needed if she handled him right. And that was her responsibility . . . keeping him in line.
Tonight she had blown it, losing her temper
because of his whining. He didn’t want to go to the party, preferring to stay home and work on some research project. He’d complained the entire drive over, and finally she had cracked, letting loose with a savage outburst. Now she had to backtrack and smooth the little prick’s feathers.
Mariah sidled over to him and put her hand on his knee. “I’m sorry. I should be more sensitive to your feelings. I know you don’t enjoy these kinds of things, but it’s good for the business. These people head the foundations that feed the gallery’s coffers. And they fund the private grants. We have to schmooze with them.”
Richard removed her hand from his knee and held it down on the leather seat.
“Richard,” she whispered, leaning so close her lips touched his ear. “Come on, baby. I said I’m sorry, didn’t I?” She nipped the top of his ear as she curled her long legs up on the seat.
Richard retreated toward the driver’s door. “Mariah, I’m well aware of why we have to suck up to these people.”
“Then why make it so difficult?”
Richard shook his head. “It’s Luddington.”
“But you know you have to deal with Eli. There’s no way around that.” Whether he liked it or not, Richard and his sort ultimately answered to Luddington. But in her case, she had made the choice herself. And every day she was thankful for it. Eli was her savior.
A little more work on Richard and he’d be fine. She knew his weakness. Mariah slid her hand along his leg and stroked his inner thigh. “Let me apologize,” she whispered, breathing on his neck before taking a soft nibble just below his jaw. “You know how much I want to please you,” she said, caressing his crotch with one hand while unbuckling his belt with the other.
Richard leaned his round, shiny head against the headrest and sighed.
“That’s a good boy,” she said. “Just let me do all the work. You like it when I apologize, don’t you? I think you like me to be naughty just so we can make up.”
The belt fell away, and her fingers went to work on the button at the top of his fly.
“Mariah,” he said, his voice husky, “we—”
“Shh,” she whispered, slipping the zipper down and sliding her hand inside. When Richard moaned, she smiled.
So easy.
“Move the seat back,” she whispered.
Richard pressed the button and the power seat glided silently away from the steering wheel.
“Someone might see,” he said. But his eyes were already glazed with desire, and he made no attempt to stop her.
Mariah freed him from his trousers as she kicked off her spiked sandals. No sense in bruising the leather.
Richard’s eyes closed as she took him into her mouth. His abdominal muscles fluttered against her cheek. When he was ready, Mariah lifted her dress, climbed on top, and pulled her panties aside. Gazing intently on his face, she lowered herself.
She watched the lustful haze come over him, the lost-in-ecstasy squint, the blank stare, and the clenched jaw. Working him slowly, she let the heat build as she teased him. Mariah took Richard’s hands and placed them over her breasts.
“Take it off,” Richard said. “Take the dress off.”
She moaned, moving his hands from her breasts to under her hem, placing them just below her small waist onto the crest of her hips. There was no need to take the dress off. This wouldn’t take long.
“Oh God,” he uttered. “You feel so good. What are you doing to me?”
It was a rhetorical question, and there was no need to answer. She held his sweaty head in her hands, rising and falling to a vigorous rhythm.
“Yes, baby. Oh yes, Rumjal,” she whimpered, knowing his real name would electrify him. She was a pro at sex talk, knowing just what he liked to hear. She let her long blond hair fall across his face as she rocked. She knew he could smell her hair, her sex. “Rumjal, Rumjal! Oh God, I’m so close . . .” Mariah knew her words would put him over the edge. When she led him to believe that he was exciting her, bringing her to orgasm, it quickly took him to his climax. After all, it was getting late. They had to get on to the party.
She groaned and made her body shudder.
He tensed beneath her with a choked-off breath and bucked for an instant. She felt him shoot into her.
Then it was over.
Richard went limp as she leaned onto him.
“My sweet baby,” she said. “Give me your handkerchief. I need to clean up.”
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly. “That was so goddamn good,” he said. “Let me catch my breath.”
Mariah sat up. “Can’t. We’ll be late.” She eased off him and took the handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket. On her knees, she wiped his mess from between her legs.
“There,” she said, tossing the handkerchief onto the floor mat before readjusting her panties. She climbed back to her side of the seat. “You tidy up, too. Can’t look like you just got fucked in the front seat of your SUV.”
Mariah put her heels on and smoothed her dress. She opened her small handbag and took out her miniature brush before switching on the visor light and looking in the mirror. “Not too much damage,” she said, brushing her hair and then finger-combing and fluffing it up. Good thing she hadn’t worn it up, or she would have had trouble becoming presentable.
Mariah leaned forward, inspecting her makeup in the mirror. Suddenly, she flinched and recoiled.
“What’s the matter?” Richard asked.
She knew that what she saw reflected was the work of her imagination—a nightmare from her past. The hideous face with the horrible keloid scars tracking across it like mole tunnels, the missing eye, the disfigurement—the monster—it wasn’t really there.
“You okay?” Richard asked, reaching to touch the bare skin of her arm.
She inched back to the mirror and touched her face with her fingertips. She was beautiful—flawless skin, full lips, seductive mouth, captivating blue topaz eyes with coal black lashes.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
Eli Luddington was indeed her savior.
* * *
Richard and Mariah Hapsburg sat on the dark Concorso Italian sofa in Eli Luddington’s study. Richard’s finger tapped on one of the copper nail heads on the armrest. Across from them, Luddington sat in a matching wingback holding a glass of François Voyer Extra Grande Champagne cognac, its rich caramel color radiant in the light of the huge fireplace. The other guests had departed, and the three were alone. As always, Eli was impeccably dressed. Tonight he wore a three-piece cashmere navy blue suit and a heavily starched white dress shirt with French cuffs—every crease crisp, every nail manicured, every hair in place.
Richard felt rumpled and ragged in Eli’s presence.
“Excellent work,” Luddington said. “You’ve done well.”
Though the voice was composed and articulate, it rasped in Richard Hapsburg’s ear. He didn’t like Luddington, but had no choice. Unlike Mariah, Richard was born to this servitude—it was in his blood.
Richard brushed his hand over the top of his bald head, feeling the stubble of his red hair with his palm. He wished he had shaved it this morning.
“Aren’t you going to say thank you?” Mariah said to her husband. “Eli just gave you a compliment.”
“Of course,” Richard answered, with an effort to disguise his irritation. He knew that he shouldn’t allow any display of displeasure, because in the grand scheme, Eli Luddington regarded him as expendable.
“Did Edelman translate the tablet?” Luddington asked.
Richard composed himself. “We can’t be sure. We don’t think Edelman or anyone else present was capable of deciphering anything other than the glyphs.”
“Did you not speak with Edelman? What did he tell you?” Luddington asked.
“He seemed more concerned about how the tablet was made,” Richard answered.
“Said he had a vague notion about the upper portion but hadn’t settled entirely on all the inscriptions. He wanted us to bring some other experts down, in particular someone who could translate khipu into a language, which tells me he did not decipher the complete message. He had no idea what he was looking at. The cameras, audiotapes, and notes—everything was destroyed. No one is left to tell what they saw. The authorities will assume they died from drinking a bad batch of the local Indian brew. It’s an acceptable theory. There has been so much research recently on the influence of drug-induced suicide. And of course, with the added element of native hallucinogens, the drink did its job. They ingested a concoction riddled with such an array of drugs that they were not only hallucinating and experiencing paranoia, but they were also driven to suicide. At least that is the evidence they will find.”
Luddington stood and walked toward Richard and Mariah. “Then it appears you have taken care of everything.” He stopped in front of Mariah, reached out, and stroked her cheek. “To Richard,” he said, raising his glass.
Richard had declined the cognac, but Mariah was on her second. She touched her glass to Luddington’s and toasted. “Yes, to Richard.”
Richard looked at his wife as she sipped the cognac. How could he be so lucky? When he entered a room with her on his arm, he knew every person there asked that very same question. She wasn’t just beautiful. Mariah had an exquisite elegance that was so striking it took their breath away. Not glamorous or flashy. Those words fell far short. The simplicity of her beauty was what set her apart. She was perfection. And she was his.
Richard smiled at his wife.
The toast complete, Luddington moved to the fireplace and set his cognac on the mantel. He picked up a small box tied with a ribbon. “And for you, Mariah. Something special. A little Arabian opulence.”
“Oh, Eli,” Mariah said. “What have you done?”
Eli strode across the room and presented Mariah with the gift.
