Excavation

Day Six. The Serpent of Eden

Saturday, August 25, 4:48 A.M.

Andean Mountains, Peru

Henry stared out the window as the helicopter banked over the jungle-stripped ruins. He had not slept all night. Worries and fears had kept him awake as their bird flew over the midnight jungles. He had yet to come up with any plan to thwart his captors. And without the additional stop to refuel, their flight from the guerrilla airstrip had been shortened. Time was running out.

Below, the campsite was still dark. The sun had yet to rise. Only a set of work lights near the base of the buried pyramid illuminated the dig. Apparently, even after the news of the students’ escape, work continued to open the temple. The abbot’s people sought every scrap of their precious el Sangre del Diablo.

The abbot, wearing a radio headpiece, yelled over the roar of the rotors. “We’re here, Professor Conklin! I assume that I do not need to remind you what will happen if you fail to cooperate fully!”

Henry shook his head. Joan. She was still being held hostage at the Abbey. Any punishment for failings on his part would be exacted against her. Henry cleared his throat and pointed to the abbot’s radio headpiece. “Before we land, I want to speak to Dr. Engel. To make sure she’s unharmed.”

The abbot frowned, not in anger but in disappointment. “I am faithful to my word, Professor Conklin. If I say she will remain safe, she will.”

Only until you have what you want, Henry thought dourly. His eyes narrowed. “Excuse me if I doubt your hospitality. But I would still like to speak to her.”

Abbot Ruiz sighed and shrugged his large bulk. He slipped his headset off and passed it to Henry. “Be quick. We’re landing.” The abbot nodded toward a cleared square not far from the students’ tents.

The helicopter righted its banking turn and began to settle toward the flat stone plateau. Below, Henry spotted men with flashlights positioned at the periphery of their landing site, guiding the chopper down. Henry did not fail to notice the mud brown robes the flashlight-bearers wore. More of the abbot’s monks.

Henry pulled the headpiece in place and positioned the microphone.

The abbot leaned forward and was talking to the pilot, pointing to the radio. After a minute of static, a scratchy voice filled his earphones. “Henry?”

It was Joan! He held the microphone steady. “It’s me, Joan. Are you okay?”

Static blazed, then words trailed through. “… fine. Have you reached the camp?”

“Just landing now. Are they treating you well?”

“Just like the Hyatt here. Only the room service is a little slow.”

Despite her light words, Henry could hear the suppressed tension in her voice. He pictured those tiny crinkled lines that etched her eyes when she was worried. He had to swallow hard to speak. He would not let anything happen to her. “Slow room service? I’ll see what I can do from here,” Henry said. “See if I can light a fire under hotel management.”

“Speaking of fire, Henry, remember back at college we shared that classical mythology class together. I was in the Abbey’s library today. They have the professor’s book here. Can you believe that? Even that chapter I helped him write about Prometheus.”

Henry’s brows drew together. “Small world, isn’t it?” he answered blandly, going along with her ploy. Back at RiceUniversity, the two had never shared such a class. Clearly Joan was trying to get a message to him. Something about the myth of Prometheus, a definite reference to Friar de Almagro’s etched warning.

He heard the heightened tension in her voice. “Remember the difficulty we had in translating the line Prometheus holds our salvation?”

Henry chuckled with false mirth. “How could I forget it?” He clenched his hands in his lap. What was Joan hinting at? Something about fire. But what? What does fire have to do with salvation? And time was running short. The helicopter was about to land.

Joan must have sensed his confusion. She spoke rapidly, practically just blurting it out. “Well, I also reread the section where Prometheus slays the great Serpent. Do you remember that? Where fire was the final solution?”

Henry suddenly tensed as he realized what she was saying. The Great Serpent. The Serpent of Eden. Understanding dawned in him. She was offering him a way of destroying el Sangre del Diablo. “Sure. But I thought that event was said to be done by Hercules. Are you sure your interpretation is accurate?”

“Definitely. Prometheus packed a vicious punch. You should have seen the picture in the book. Think plastic explosive.”

“I… I understand.”

A shudder suddenly shook through the helicopter’s frame. Henry jumped in his seat, startled. Outside, the helicopter’s skids bumped on the granite stones, then settled to a stop.

The abbot’s face appeared before Henry’s, yelling to be heard above the slowing rotors. “You’ve talked long enough. We’ve landed!” He turned to the pilot and made a slashing motion across his neck.

Henry was about to be cut off. “Joan!”

“Yes, Henry!”

He clutched his microphone tightly, struggling with words he thought he’d never speak to another woman. “I just wanted to tell you that… that I—” Static blasted in his ears as the radio contact suddenly ended.

Wincing, Henry stared at the radio. What had he wanted to say to Joan? That he was falling in love with her? How could he presume she shared any deeper feelings than mere friendship?

The radio was taken from his numb fingers.

Either way, the chance was gone.

As two Incas stood guard, Sam struggled with the woven grass ropes that bound his hands behind his back, but he only succeeded in tightening them.

Beside him, Norman sat on the stones of the plaza, shivering slightly. The photographer had long given up trying to free himself, resolved as he was to the inevitability of their deaths.

Already the skies paled to the east, heralding the approach of dawn, but the village still lay cast in grays and blacks. Once the sun fully rose and the streets were bathed in golden light, the two would be sacrificed to the sun god, Inti.

But at least, it was just the two of them.

Maggie and Denal had managed to escape. All night long, men had been searching the terraced village and surrounding jungle, but with no luck. Maggie must have heard the commotion from Sam’s capture and run off with the boy, disappearing into the dark jungle. But how long could the two remain hidden once the sun was fully up? Sam prayed Denal and Maggie could avoid capture until his uncle arrived with help. But when would that be? He had no way of knowing. His walkie-talkie was still inside his vest, but with his arms bound behind him, there was nothing he could do.

He yanked on his bonds. If he could only free a hand…

A rifle blast suddenly pierced the quiet dawn. The crack echoed over the valley, but it clearly came from the east. Maggie! She must have been discovered.

Both guards turned in the direction of the rifle shot. They spoke hurriedly as more men poured into the square, led by Kamapak. With much chattering, the group of barefooted hunters took off toward the forest’s edge. The tattooed shaman waved even the two guards away to aid in the search.

Bound tight, Sam and Norman were not a threat.

Once the square was empty, Kamapak crossed to them. He wore a worried expression.

Sam suspected the shaman feared his god’s wrath if all these foreigners were not slain at dawn.

In his hands, Kamapak bore small bowls of paint. He knelt beside Norman and spoke to the photographer as he placed down his dyes, then slid a long narrow flint knife from his sashed belt.

As the man spoke, Sam stared hungrily at the shard of sharpened stone. How he longed to grab that weapon.

Norman groaned after the shaman finished his explanation.

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“It seems the shaman has come to prepare us for the sacrifice,” Norman said, meeting Sam’s eye. He nodded to the dyes. “Marks of power are to be written on our bodies.”

The shaman dipped a finger in the red dye, intoning a prayer loudly, then picked up the splinter of flint.

Norman’s gaze followed the blade, his face paling. He glanced sidelong at Sam, but he kept one eye on Kamapak.

“What else?” Sam asked, sensing something unspoken.

“Before the sun rises, he also plans to cut out our tongues… so our screams don’t offend Inti.”

“Great…” Sam said sourly.

Kamapak raised his knife toward the growing dawn. As he continued his chanted prayer, the bright edge of the sun rose above the eastern lip of the volcanic cone. Like an awakening eye, Sam thought. For a moment, he understood the Incas’ worship of the sun. It was like some immense god peeking down on their lowly world. Kamapak sliced his thumb with his knife, greeting the sun with his own blood.

Even though Sam’s own life was threatened, a small part of him watched the ritual with clear fascination. Here was an actual Incan sacrificial rite, a dead tradition coming to life. He studied the tiny pots of natural dyes: red from rose madder, blue from indigo, purple from crushed mollusks.

As Kamapak continued his prayers, Norman suddenly stiffened beside the Texan. Sam glanced up from his study of the dyes to see a figure break from the cover of a nearby doorway. He almost gasped as he recognized the figure: It was Maggie.

Behind Kamapak’s back, she dashed across the stones, barefooted like the hunters—but, also like the warriors, she was armed. In her right hand was a long wooden cudgel.

Kamapak must have sensed the danger. He began to turn, but Maggie was already there. She swung the length of hardened wood and struck a fierce blow to the side of the shaman’s head. The blow sounded like a softball struck by a Louisville Slugger. Kamapak was knocked to his hands, then fell to his face, unmoving. Blood welled through the man’s dark hair.

Sam stared, too shocked to react for a few seconds. He turned to face Maggie. She seemed equally stunned by her act. The cudgel fell from her limp fingers to clatter on the granite cobbles.

“The knife,” Sam said, drawing her gaze from the limp form of the shaman. He nodded toward the sliver of flint and twisted around to indicate his roped wrists.

“I’ve got my own,” Maggie said, alertness returning in a rush. She glanced around the plaza and drew forth the gold dagger from her belt. She hurriedly sliced Sam’s lashed wrists.

Sam jumped to his feet, rubbing his wrists. He stepped over to check on Kamapak. The shaman lay unmoving, but his chest did rise and fall. Sam let out a relieved breath. The man was just unconscious.

Maggie passed Sam the gold dagger after freeing Norman, then helped pull the photographer to his feet. “Can you both run?”

Norman nodded weakly. “If I have to…”

Voices sounded from nearby. Somewhere a woman’s voice was raised in alarm. “It looks like you’ll have to,” Maggie said.

In unison, they all turned to run, but they were already too late.

Around the square, armed men and women entered from streets and alleys. Sam and the others were herded to the center of the plaza and surrounded.

Sam noticed Norman had the shaman’s shard of flint gripped in one fist. The photographer lifted it. “If they mean to take my tongue, they’re gonna have to fight me for it.”

“Where’s Denal?” Sam whispered.

“I left him with the rifle,” Maggie answered. “He was supposed to lead the others away so I could try and free you. We were to rendezvous in the jungle.”

“I don’t think that plan’s gonna work,” Norman said. He pointed his flint knife. “Look.”

Across the square, one of the hunters held Sam’s Winchester in his grip. He handled the weapon as if it were a poisonous snake. The man sniffed slightly at the barrel’s end, crinkling his nose.

“Denal…” Maggie mumbled.

There was no sign of the boy.

A gruff voice sounded behind them. They turned.

Pachacutec pushed through the crowd. He was in full raiment, from feathered crown to fanciful robe. He lifted his staff. The golden sunburst caught the first rays of the rising sun and glinted brightly.

The king spoke slowly in Inca, while Norman translated. “We have captured the strangers in our midst. Inti rises for his sacrifice. Revive Kamapak so the gods can be honored.”

Off to the side, a trio of women worked on Kamapak. They bathed his face in cold water and rubbed his limbs while chanting. Slowly Kamapak’s arms began to move. Then his eyes flickered open. He seemed blind for a moment until the memory of his assault returned. Anger shone in his gaze. Weakly pushing away the women, he shoved to his feet. He wobbled a bit, but one of the hunters helped steady him.

Kamapak ambled shakily toward his king.

Pachacutec spoke again, this time in English, drawing the eyes of the students. “It be an honor to give blood to Inti. You disgrace our god with your fighting.”

By now, the sun had risen enough that the center of the square was bathed in sunlight. Sam brandished his dagger, bright in the morning light. Disgrace or not, he wasn’t going to give his blood without drawing the same from his attackers. He raised the knife higher, wishing he had a more intimidating weapon, something to strike terror.

With this thought, the handle of the dagger grew warm and the length of gold blade shimmered and twisted, spreading and curving, until the form of a striking snake sprouted from the hilt. Sam froze, afraid to move, unsure what had just happened.

He stared at the transformed dagger. Gold fangs were open to the sun, threatening the gathered throng.

Pachacutec had taken a step back when the transformation had started. He now took a step nearer, eyes wide with awe.

Sam did not know how the transformation had occurred, but the miracle of the dagger was clearly something the Incas had never seen. Sam raised the golden asp high.

Pachacutec lifted his staff, mimicking Sam’s pose. His eyelids lowered slightly, as if in prayer. Suddenly the golden sunburst symbol atop his staff flowed and transformed to match the serpent. Two snakes stared each other down.

Now it was Sam’s turn to back away. Pachacutec met the Texan’s gaze. Sam no longer saw anger in the man’s eyes, but tears.

To the king’s side, Kamapak fell to his knees, bowing his head toward Sam. The gathered throng followed suit. Foreheads pressed to the stones.

Pachacutec lowered his staff. He stepped toward them. Arms wide. “Inti has blessed you. The sun god of the Mochico listens to your dreams. You be one of the chosen of Inti!” The king crossed to stand before Sam. He offered his hand. “You be safe in our house. All of you!”

Sam was too confused to react. The sudden change in the Incas was unnerving. But he could not quite trust the transformation, any more than he could understand what had happened to the dagger.

Maggie pushed beside Sam. “What about Denal?”

Pachacutec heard her. “The boy. He be not fourteen years. Too young for huarachicoy.” He smiled as if this explained it all.

Sam frowned. Huarachicoy was the ceremonial feast where a boy was accepted as a man into a tribe, when he was given his first huara, the loincloth of an adult tribesman. “What do you mean ‘too young’?”

Kamapak raised his face and spoke. Norman translated. “It was decided that the boy, like all the tribe’s children, was to be taken to the temple. He was to be gifted directly to the gods.”

Maggie turned to Sam. “Sacrifice,” she said with fear.

“When?” Sam asked. “When was this to be done?”

Pachacutec glanced to the rising sun. The bright disk was fully above the volcanic edge. “It be done already. The boy be with the gods.”

Sam stumbled backward. “No…”

The Texan’s reaction confused the king. The Sapa Inca’s bright smile faltered. “Be this not Inti’s wish?”

“No!” Sam said more forcefully.

Maggie grabbed Sam’s elbow. “We need to go to that temple. Maybe he’s still alive. We don’t know for sure that he’s dead.”

Sam nodded at her words. There was a chance. He faced Kamapak and Pachacutec. “Take us to the temple.”

The king bowed his head, offering no argument to one of the chosen. Instead, he waved, and the shaman stood. “Kamapak will guide you.”

“I’m coming with you,” Maggie said.

“Me too,” Norman added, swaying a bit on his feet. Clearly the transformation and the long stressful night had taken its toll on him.

Sam shook his head. “Norman, you need to stay here. You can speak the local lingo. Get the Incas to light a signal fire on the highest ridge so the evac helicopter can find us.” Sam reached to his vest pocket and pulled out the walkie-talkie. “Here. Contact Sykes and get a status report. But more importantly… get Uncle Hank up here ASAP!”

Norman looked worried with the burden of his assignment, but he accepted the walkie-talkie with a slow nod. “I’ll do what I can.”

Sam clapped the photographer on the shoulder, then he and Maggie hurried away, stopping only to collect Sam’s Winchester.

“Be careful!” Norman called to them. “There’s something strange up there!”

Sam didn’t need to be told that. All he had to do was look at the golden viper mounted on the dagger’s hilt in his hand.

Bright sunlight glinted off its sharp fangs.

He shivered. Old words of warning rang in his head: Beware the Serpent of Eden.

Henry trudged toward the collapsed subterranean temple. Even from here, he saw how the crown of the hill had fallen in on itself. Sodium lamps highlighted the excavation on the lee side of the slope, where workers still struggled to dig a rescue shaft into the buried ruins.

As Henry walked, Philip’s litany of the events of the past few days droned on: “… and then the temple started to implode. There was nothing I could do to stop it…” Philip Sykes had come running up to Henry as soon as the professor had cleared the helicopter’s rotors, wearing a smile that was half panicked relief and half shame, like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs. Henry ignored his student’s ceaseless explanation. The theme was clear from the start: I’m not to blame!

Henry finally touched Philip’s shoulder. “You’ve done a great job, Mr. Sykes. Considering the circumstances and confusion here, you’ve managed admirably.”

Philip bobbed his head. “I did, didn’t I?” He ate up the praise with a big spoon… and then thankfully grew quiet, content at being absolved for any of the tragedy. Henry, though, knew the student was hiding more than he was telling. Henry had heard the disparaging comments whispered from some of the Quechan workers as they passed. He knew enough of the local Indian dialect to tell that the laborers resented Philip. Henry suspected that if he questioned the workers, a different view of the events of the past few days would come to light… and that Philip would not come out looking so squeaky clean.

But right now, Henry had more important concerns.

He eyed the two guards who flanked them. They no longer brandished their guns, but they kept their hands on holstered pistols. Abbot Ruiz marched ahead of them, wheezing through nose and mouth. The altitude and exertion in climbing through the ruins were clearly taxing the heavy man.

As they finally reached the site where a black tunnel opened into the side of the buried temple, a man dressed in the brown robes of a friar stepped toward them. He was darkly handsome with cold eyes that seemed to take in everything with a sharp glance.

Abbot Ruiz stared hungrily at the tunnel opening. “Friar Otera, how do things fare here?”

The monk remained bowed. “We should reach the temple ruins by noon, Your Eminence.”

“Good. Very good. You have done brilliantly.” He stepped past the bowing man without a glance, dismissing him.

Henry, though, caught the glint of white-hot anger in the monk’s eyes as he straightened, the man’s face settling back to passive disinterest. But Henry knew better. A few words of faint praise were not going to satisfy this man as they had Philip. Closer to him now, Henry noted some Indian features mixed with his Spanish heritage: a deeper complexion, a slightly wider nose, and eyes so deep a brown they seemed almost black. Friar Otera was clearly a mestizo, a half-breed, a mixture of Spanish and Indian blood. Such men had hard lives here in South America, their mixed blood often a mark of humiliation and ridicule.

Henry followed the abbot, but remained attuned to the friar’s movements. He knew he had better keep a close watch. There were dangerous layers to this man that had nothing to do with the abbot’s schemes. Henry noticed how even Philip gave the man a wide berth as the student clambered up the loose soil toward the tunnel opening.

Friar Otera took up a pace behind Henry.

As they reached the excavated tunnel, the sun climbed fully into the sky. The clear blue skies promised a hot day to come.

Suddenly a crackle of static drew their eyes toward Philip. The student reached inside his jacket and pulled free a walkie-talkie. “It must be Sam,” Philip said. “He’s early.”

Henry stepped nearer. His nephew had said he would contact base around ten o’clock. The call was a few hours ahead of schedule.

“Base here,” Philip said, lips pressed to the receiver. “Go ahead, Sam.”

Static and interference whined for a few seconds, then… “Philip? It’s not Sam. It’s Norman.”

Philip glanced over the radio to the others, brows raised. Henry understood the Harvard student’s shock. From Sam’s last radio message, Norman had been at risk of being sacrificed last night. Thank God, he was still alive!

Norman continued, speaking rapidly. “When do you expect the helicopters? We need them up here now!” Panic etched his voice.

“They’re right here!” Philip yelled back. “As a matter of fact, Professor Conklin’s with me.” Philip held out the walkie-talkie.

Henry took it, but not before noticing the narrowing of Abbot Ruiz’s eyes. A warning against any slip of the tongue. Henry raised the radio. “Norman, it’s Henry. What’s going on up there?”

“Denal’s in danger! Sam and Maggie have gone to rescue him. But we need help up here ASAP. Within the hour, several signal fires should be blazing near the cone’s western ridge. They should be visible through the mists. Hurry!”

Henry eyed the Abbot. He was already waving some of his men back toward the helicopter. They had thought to have a few hours until Sam called, but clearly Abbot Ruiz was more than happy to accelerate the schedule, especially with Norman’s next words.

“There’s something strange up here… borders on the miraculous, Professor. Must see to…” The static was growing worse, eating away words.

The abbot met Henry’s gaze, his eyes bright with religious hope. Ruiz nodded for Henry to question the photographer.

“Does it have anything to do with a strange type of gold?” Henry asked.

Norman seemed not to have heard, cutting in and out, “… a temple. I don’t know how… heals… no children though.”

The choppy transmission was clouding any clear meaning. Henry gripped the walkie-talkie firmly and pressed it closer to his lips. If he had any hope of warning Sam and the others, it would have to be now. “Norman, sit tight! We’re coming! But tell Sam not to do anything rash. He knows I don’t trust him to act on his own.”

Beside him, Philip startled at his words. Henry prayed Norman would be as equally shocked by such a statement. The entire team knew Henry held his nephew in the highest esteem and would never disparage Sam or any of them in this manner, but Abbot Ruiz didn’t know that. Henry pressed the receiver again. “I mean it. Do nothing. I don’t trust Sam’s judgment.”

“Professor?” Norman’s voice was full of confusion. Static raged from the unit. Any further words dissolved away.

Henry fiddled with the radio but only got more static. He thumbed it off. “Batteries must have died,” Henry said morosely. He prayed Norman had understood his veiled warning, but if not, at least no harm had been done. Abbot Ruiz seemed oblivious of Henry’s attempt at a secret message. He handed the radio back to Philip.

Philip returned the walkie-talkie to a pocket, then opened his mouth. “What do you mean you don’t trust Sam, Professor. Since when?”

Henry took a step forward, trying to signal the Harvard grad to shut up.

But Abbot Ruiz had already heard. He swung back to Henry and Philip. “What’s all this about?” he asked, his face narrowed with suspicion.

“Nothing,” Henry answered quickly. “Mr. Sykes here and my nephew have an ongoing rivalry. He’s always thought I favored Sam over him.”

“I never thought that, Professor!” Philip said loudly. “You trusted all of us!”

“Did you now?” Ruiz asked, stalking up to them. “Trust seems to be something that all of us are losing at this moment.”

The abbot waved a hand, and Friar Otera appeared behind Philip with a bared blade.

“No!” Henry yelled.

The thin man grabbed a handful of the student’s hair and yanked Philip’s head back, exposing his throat.

Philip squawked but grew silent when he saw the blade. He stiffened when the knife touched his throat.

“Is another lesson in order so soon?” the abbot asked.

“Leave the boy be,” Henry begged. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

The abbot stepped beside Philip, but his words were for Henry. “Were you trying to pass a warning up there? A secret signal perhaps?”

Henry stared Ruiz full in the face. “No. Philip just mis-spoke.”

Ruiz turned to the terrified student. “Is that so?”

Philip just moaned, closing his eyes.

The abbot leaned and spoke in Philip’s ear. “If you wish to live, I expect the truth.”

The student’s voice cracked. “I… I don’t know what you’re asking.”

“A simple question. Does Professor Conklin trust his nephew?”

Philip’s eyes flicked toward Henry, then away again. “I… I guess.”

The abbot’s face grew grim, clearly dissatisfied by the vague answer. “Philip,” he intoned menacingly.

The student cringed. “Yes!” he gasped out. “Professor Conklin trusts Sam more than any of us. He always has!”

The abbot nodded, and the knife left the student’s throat. “Thank you for your candor.” Ruiz turned to Henry. “It seems a further lesson is needed to convince you of the value of cooperation.”

Henry felt ice enter his veins.

“For your deception against the path of God, a severe punishment is in order. But who should it be exacted upon?” The abbot seemed to ponder the question for a moment, then spoke. “I think I shall leave this up to you, Professor Conklin.”

“What do you mean?”

“You get a choice on who will bear the burden of your sins: Philip or Dr. Engel?”

“If you’re going to punish anyone,” Henry said, “then punish me.”

“We can’t do that, Professor Conklin. We need you alive. And making this choice is punishment enough, I imagine.”

Henry blanched, his knees weakening.

“We have no need for two hostages. Whoever you choose—Philip or Dr. Engel—will be killed. It is your choice.”

Henry found Philip’s eyes upon him, begging him for his life. What was he to do?

“Make your decision in the next ten seconds or both will die.”

Henry closed his eyes. He pictured Joan’s face, laughing and smiling over their dinner in Baltimore, candlelight glowing on her cheeks. He loved her. He could no longer deny it, but he could also not dismiss his responsibility here. Though Philip was often a thoughtless ass, he was still one of his students, his responsibility. Henry bit his lips, tears welling. He remembered Joan’s lips at his ear, her breath on his neck, the scent of her hair.

“Professor?”

Henry opened his eyes and stared angrily at the abbot. “You bastard…”

“Choose. Or I will order both of them slain.” The abbot raised a hand, ready to signal the friar. “Who will die for your sins?”

Henry choked on the words, “D… Dr. Engel.” He sagged after he spoke Joan’s death sentence. But what other choice did he have? Though many years had passed since their time together at Rice, Joan had not changed. Henry still knew her heart. She would never forgive Henry if he preserved her life at the cost of Philip’s. Still, his decision cut him like a huge jagged dagger in his chest. He could hardly breathe.

“So be it,” Abbot Ruiz stated mildly, turning away. “Let it be done.”

Sam followed Kamapak as the shaman trotted out of the jungle’s fringes and into the brightness of the morning sun. Even with the cloak of mist overhead, the sun’s brilliance was painful after the dim light of the shadowed jungle.

Shading his eyes, Sam stumbled to a stop. Maggie pulled up beside him. Both were winded from the high-altitude jog. A headache rang in Sam’s skull as he surveyed the land beyond the jungle’s edge.

A hundred yards away rose an almost vertical wall of bare volcanic stone, a cliff of crenellated rock, knife-sharp, and as coppery red as fresh blood. Above it loomed the black cone of the neighboring volcanic mountain, imposing in its heights.

Ahead, a thin trail zigzagged up the wall to the opening of a tunnel seventy yards above the valley floor. It looked like a hard climb. Two men could be seen working their way down the slope from the opening. Sunlight flashed off the spears they carried. Denal was not with them.

“C’mon!” Sam said, pointing his transformed dagger toward the men.

Maggie nodded, too winded to speak. Adjusting Sam’s rifle over her shoulder, she cinched it higher and followed.

Kamapak led the way through a small field of wild quinoa, a type of highland wheat, along the forest’s edge. Beyond the green fields, at the base of the cliff, lay a wide apron of scraggled scrub and tumbled volcanic rock. A handful of vents steamed nearby, collared with yellow stains of sulfur. The air was humid and warm, a foul-smelling sauna.

They met the other two Incas at the trailhead that led up to the tunnel above. As Kamapak spoke to the guards, Sam studied the spears the two men brandished. Their blades were gold like his dagger. But more importantly, the weapons appeared unbloodied. Sam tried to listen to the conversation, but he could understand none of it. Finally, the shaman waved the men back toward the village and began the steep climb, leading them upward.

Sam stopped Kamapak with a touch to his shoulder. “Denal?” he asked.

The shaman just shook his head, pointed up, and continued the journey.

“What do you think?” Maggie asked.

“I don’t know. But apparently the answer lies up there.”

Maggie glanced worriedly toward the opening far above. “At the temple?”

Sam nodded grimly, and the two followed Kamapak up the series of switchbacks that climbed the wall. Any further talk was cut off by the need to breathe. Sam’s grip on his knife grew slick. He heard Maggie panting behind him. The muscles of his legs began to protest from the exertion.

Only Kamapak seemed unaffected. Acclimated to the altitude and moist heat, the shaman seemed unfazed by the climb. He reached the opening before they did and waited for them. He spoke as they approached. The only word recognizable to Sam was Inti, the god of the sun.

Sam glanced behind him and surveyed the spread of valley. Below, the village, half-covered in jungle, was barely discernible. Then suddenly a series of small fires climbed the rocky ridge off to the left, reaching to the lip of the volcanic cone. The signal fires. “Good going, Norman,” he wheezed quietly.

Maggie joined him. “Let’s hope your uncle gets here soon,” she said, eyeing the fires. Then she nudged Sam toward the tunnel. “Let’s get going.”

Kamapak struck a torch to flame and led the way inside. The tunnel was wide enough for four men to walk abreast and seemed to stretch straight ahead. No curves or turns. The walls around them were smooth volcanic stone.

“A lava tube,” Maggie said, touching the stone.

Sam nodded and pointed ahead. The darkness of the tunnel had seemed at first impenetrable. But as Sam grew accustomed to the gloom, he noticed a vague light coming from far ahead. Sunlight. “Norman was right,” he said. “The tunnel must connect either to another valley or a cavern open to the sky.”

Before Maggie could respond, Kamapak stopped ahead. The shaman lit two torches embedded in the right wall. They framed a small cave that neither Sam nor Maggie had noticed in the darkness. Kamapak knelt before the entrance.

As flames blew forth, a glow from the side chamber reflected back the torchlight into the main tunnel. Drawn like moths, Sam and Maggie moved forward.

Sam reached the entrance first. He stumbled to a stop as he saw what lay in the side chamber. Maggie reached his side. She tensed, then grabbed the Texan’s upper arm. Her fingers dug in tightly.

“The temple,” she whispered.

In the neighboring cave stood a sight to humble any man. The space was as large as a two-car garage, but every surface was coated with gold—floor, ceiling, walls. It was a virtual golden cavern! And whether it was a trick of the light or some other property, the golden surfaces seemed to flow, whorling and eddying, sliding along the exposed surfaces but never exposing the underlying volcanic rock. In the center of the room’s floor was a solid slab of gold, clearly an altar or bed. Its top surface was contoured slightly, molded to match the human physique. Above the altar, hanging like a golden chandelier, was a fanciful sphere of filigreed gold, strands and filaments twined and twisted into a dense mesh. It reminded Sam of a spider’s egg sac, more organic than metal. Even here the illusion of flowing gold persisted. The entwined mass of strands seemed to wind and churn slowly in the flickering torchlight.

“Where’s Denal?” Maggie asked.

Sam shook his head, still too shocked to speak. He pointed his serpent-shaped knife at the central altar. “No blood.”

“Thank God. Let’s—” Maggie jumped back a step.

A small spiral of gold filament snaked out from the mass above the altar and stretched toward Sam. “Don’t move,” Sam mumbled, freezing in place himself.

The thread of gold spun through the air, trailing like a questing tentacle. It seemed drawn toward Sam’s extended dagger. Finally it stretched long enough to brush against the gold serpent, touching a fang. Instantly, the golden sculpture melted, features dissolving away, surfaces flowing like warm wax. The hilt grew cold in Sam’s grip as heat was absorbed from it. Then the gold reshaped itself, stretching and sharpening, into the original dagger.

The questing filament retreated, pulled back into the main mass like a reeled in fishing line.

Sam held the dagger before his eyes. “What the hell just happened?”

Maggie found her tongue, crossing into Sam’s shadow, keeping his wide shoulders between her and the gold cave, the temple. “It’s not gold. It can’t be. Whatever your blade is made of, it’s the same as the temple. What the Mochico called sun gold. Some metal culled from meteors.”

“But it almost seems alive,” Sam said, backing away with her.

Kamapak rose to his feet, eyes full of awe for Sam. He mumbled something at Sam, then bowed his head.

“I don’t think we should tinker with it, Sam. Let’s find out what happened to Denal, and leave this until more experienced scientists arrive.”

Sam nodded dully. “This is what Friar de Almagro saw. It’s what must have scared the man into sealing off this caldera. The Serpent of Eden.”

“That an’ the decapitated head of Pachacutec,” Maggie mumbled.

Sam turned to her. On the way to the temple, Maggie had told him how she had eavesdropped on Norman and Sam’s fireside conversation, knew the fabricated story of Inkarri. “You don’t buy into that nonsense of the beheaded king, do you?”

Maggie glanced down. “There’s something I didn’t tell you, Sam.”

“What?”

“I wanted more time to think about what I saw before speaking.” She glanced up at him. “I sneaked into the courtyard after you an’ Norman were dragged away. I saw Pachacutec without his robe. His body was… was wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was like—”

A scream suddenly echoed down the passage, cutting off the conversation. Sam and Maggie froze.

“Denal!” Maggie gasped out as the cry echoed away.

“He’s alive!”

Sam stepped farther down the tunnel, toward the point where the vague glow of sunlight could be seen coming from ahead. “But for how much longer? Let’s go.”

Kamapak raised an arm to block them. He shook his head fiercely, babbling clear words of warning. The only understandable syllables were janan pacha. Incan Heaven. Sam recalled how the children of the villagers were said to be given as gifts to the gods at janan pacha. It was where they must have taken Denal! Kamapak stared defiantly at Sam, forbidding them passage.

“Fuck this!” Sam mumbled angrily. He brandished his dagger before Kamapak. “We’re going, buddy. So either move or I’ll carve a door in you.”

The tone of his voice must have breached the language barrier. Kamapak backed away, fear in his eyes at the dagger. Sam did not wait for the shaman to change his mind. He led the way at a fast clip. Kamapak, though, trailed behind them, muttering prayers under his breath.

Soon they were at the exit of the tunnel. It emptied onto the floor of another volcanic caldera. But the mists there were thicker, the sunlight filtered to a twilight glow. Even drapes of heavy fog obscured the forested jungle ahead. The reek of sulfur was strong enough to burn the eyes, and the heat was stifling. A clear path led into the jungle.

“We must be in the neighboring caldera,” Maggie whispered.

Sam nodded and continued into the valley. Maggie followed, and after a moment’s hesitation, so did Kamapak. The shaman’s posture was slightly hunched, his eyes on the strange skies, like he feared something would reach out and grab him. Clearly, the shaman had never been there. Some strong taboo.

“Not exactly my idea of heaven, that’s for sure,” Sam said as he led the way into the jungle, wiping the sweat from his brow. Under the canopy, twilight became night.

Around them, the jungle was quiet. No bird calls or the rustle of animals. In the gloom, Sam did spot a few monkeys hidden in the canopy overhead, but they were motionless, quiet. Only their eyes tracked the strangers in their midst.

Maggie already had the rifle unslung, and Sam hoped she was the experienced marksman she claimed to be. Especially since their only other weapon was Sam’s dagger.

No one dared even whisper as they followed the path to where the jungle opened ahead. As they reached the brighter light, Sam crouched and held up a hand, halting them. They needed a plan. He glanced to Maggie. Her eyes were wide with fear and worry. Kamapak huddled behind her, wary.

Then another scream erupted, piercing the jungle like an arrow. It came from just ahead. “Help me!” The terror was clear in the boy’s voice.

“To hell with caution,” Sam blurted, and stood. “C’mon!” He raced down the last of the path, Maggie at his heels.

They burst from the jungle cover into the outskirts of another Incan village. There, too, terraced stone homes climbed the gentle slopes and lay half-hidden in the fringes of the jungle. But that was the only similarity. The jungle had encroached on the village, claiming it. Everywhere weeds and bits of forest grew from between the slabs of granite, sprouting as if from the stone itself. Nearby, a tree grew from one of the cracked rooftops, spreading its limbs to envelop the house.

But as unkempt as the village was, the smell was even worse.

The streets were full of refuse and offal. Old animal bones lay scattered like broken glass in an alley, many with pieces of hide or fur still clinging to them. Underfoot, shattered shards of pottery crumbled.

“Jesus,” Maggie said, covering her mouth. “It’s the third city.”

“What?” Sam whispered.

“Remember from the celebration the first night. You guessed the necropolis was built as a city of uca pacha, the lower world, while the other village was of cay pacha, the middle world. Well, here’s the third village. A city of the upper world, of janan pacha.”

Sam glanced at the fouled and ruined streets in disgust. This was no heavenly city. But he dared not stop to ponder the mystery. Waving them on, Sam led them down the avenue.

As they ran, Kamapak stared at the ruined village with horror, eyes wide with disbelief.

Obviously this is not his idea of Heaven either, Sam thought.

Ahead noises began to be heard: grunting and soft angry squeals. But through the noise, one sound drew them on. Sobbing. It had to be Denal.

Sam slowed as the street emptied onto the village’s main square. He peeked around the corner, then fell back. “Damn…”

“What?” Maggie whispered. She crept to the corner and looked.

Sam saw her shoulders tense. He joined her at the corner, forcing back his initial shock. Stripped naked as a newborn, Denal stood in the center of the square, dazed and terrified.

And with clear reason.

Around him, the square was crammed with pale creatures. Some as large as bulls, others no bigger than muscled calves. Sam recognized the sickly forms. These were the same beasts that had haunted the necropolis below. They circled the boy, sniffing, snuffling at his heels. Occasional fights broke out, sudden hissed screams and slashes of razored claws. They had yet to decide what to make of the boy.

But one thing was clear. They were hungry. Saliva drooled from almost all their lips. They looked near starved. All knobbed bones and skin.

One of the nearest creatures suddenly spun in their direction. It was one of the spindly-legged beasts. One of the pack’s scouts. Sam and Maggie barely slid back into hiding before being spotted.

Sam nudged Maggie back.

The tattooed shaman looked just as confused and horrified. Clearly he had never suspected what his janan pacha had truly hidden. Before Sam could stop him, Kamapak stepped around the corner, arms raised. With tears in his eyes, the shaman lifted his voice in song, bright with religious fervor. Kamapak strode toward the pack of creatures.

The beasts on the square grew quiet.

Sam pulled Maggie farther back. He whispered in her ear. “We need to circle around. Take advantage of the shaman’s distraction. See if we can free Denal.”

She nodded, and the pair took off at a run, diving down a cross street that paralleled the plaza. They heard Kamapak’s song droning on. Sam tried to race as quietly as possible, avoiding bones and pottery.

“This way!” Maggie hissed and darted into an alley between two homes.

Sam followed and soon found himself crouched again before the square, but this time, Denal lay directly ahead of them. The boy had not noticed them; he had fallen to his knees, his eyes fixed on where the shaman stood.

The beasts had also been attracted by the singing. The monstrous throng had drifted away from the terrified boy and toward the new oddity. A path lay open.

If they were to rescue Denal, it was now or never.

Sam took a deep breath, then crept out, keeping low to the ground. Maggie followed, rifle at her shoulder.

Across the plaza, Sam spotted the shaman, now surrounded by the beasts. A few of the dwarfish members of the pack, the sexless drones, picked at the robe Kamapak wore. Others, the taller, more muscled hunters kept back warily, heads cocked, studying the newcomer, listening to the singing. But how long would his song keep the monsters cowed? Sam immediately had his answer. One of the hunters raced forward and clubbed the shaman to the stones of the plaza. Sam took a step toward Kamapak, but Maggie restrained him with a grip on his elbow.

Kamapak slowly pushed up and touched his bloody forehead. The pack stared as the shaman raised his red fingers. Then the beasts caught the scent of his blood and all else was forgotten. The pale forms surged and leaped forward, scrambling and swamping the shaman. Kamapak screamed in terror and pain. Screeches and howls accompanied the attack. Even from where he stood, Sam could hear bones snap and flesh rip.

Denal turned away from the horrible sight and finally spotted Sam. He struggled to his feet and ran toward the pair on wobbly legs. The boy’s eyes were puffy from tears, his face pale with terror. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sam raised a finger to his own lips. Denal clamped his mouth closed but could not stop a small whimper from escaping.

Sam and Maggie were soon at his side. As Sam pulled the boy to him, the growls and hisses began to die down across the plaza. Kamapak’s own screams had already been silenced.

“We need to get clear of here!” Maggie whispered.

Across the square, handfuls of the beasts had settled to the stones with their meals. Bits of torn robe were everywhere. Blood lay in a trampled pool on the stones. But Kamapak himself was gone, shredded apart and torn by the claws and teeth of the creatures. All that remained were bloody gob-bets being gnawed and fought over.

But, unfortunately, there was not enough of the thin shaman to go around. Several of the beasts now searched, sniffing, for another source of food. Their feral eyes fell back upon the boy. Their group was spotted.

“Damn it,” Sam muttered.

Screeches rose again from the remaining creatures. Even those with fresh meat raised bloody muzzles to see what else might be claimed.

“Denal, how’d you get down here?” Sam asked, retreating across the square, no longer needing to be quiet. “Is there another way out?”

The boy shook his head. “The guards took me to the temple. Made me lie down on the altar. Then I wake up… I here, dizzy, no clothes.” Denal’s voice cracked. “Th… then these things come!”

“What the hell are they?”

Denal stuttered. “Th… their gods.”

One of the nearest beasts lunged at them. Maggie eyed it through the rifle’s sight and fired. The creature flew back, half its skull blown away. “Well, these feckin’ gods bleed.”

The dead beast was set upon by some of its brethren. More meat for the feast. But it did not slow the others down; bloodlust and hunger had driven them into a near frenzy.

Sam, Denal, and Maggie continued to retreat until new growls arose behind them. Sam swung around. More of the creatures shambled and crept into the back of the square, late-comers to the party, drawn by the fresh blood and screams. From the rooftops all around, other pale beasts clambered and howled their hunger.

“I think the dinner bell’s just been rung,” Sam said dourly.

Joan worked in her cell. She had spent the morning poring over various journal articles, abstracts, and typed notes on the theory of nanotechnology supplied to her by the earnest young monk. She was especially intrigued by the paper on the theory of biomimetic systems, the idea of constructing microscopic machines by imitating already existing biological models, such as mitochondria and viruses. The article by a Dr. Eric Drexler proposed using proteins and nucleic acids as the building components of a micromachine, or nanobot. The article expounded on how present-day biology could inspire the generation of “synthetic, nonbiological structures.”

Joan leaned back, picturing the microscopic octagonal units that composed Substance Z. Their shape had struck her as familiar, almost an imitation of viral phages. Were these units actual examples of biomimetic constructs?

Reaching to the tabletop, Joan rifled through her papers until she came across a printout from the scanning probe microscopy analysis. It broke down the component parts of the strange unit.

SPM analysis: utilizing phase imaging, force modulation, pulsed forced microscopy (results cross referenced with mass spectrograph analysis #134B8)

Initial findings:

Shell architecture: macromolecules of Si (silicon) and H (hydrogen), specifically cubosiloxane (H8Si8O12) plus tectosilicates

Articulated arms: Si (silicon) nanotubes interfaced with Au (gold)

Joan tapped at the sheet of paper. So the arms of the nanoparticle contained gold, hence the hue of Substance Z. But what intrigued her more was the shell composition. It was mostly silicon. In nature, almost all biologic building blocks were based on hydrocarbons—molecules of hydrogen, oxygen, and carbon. But here was a construct that replaced carbon with silicon.

“Hydrosilicons,” she mumbled, naming this new class of molecule. Though hydrocarbons made up most of biology, in geology, it was silicon that made up the dominant element in the earth’s crust. Could this structure be some link between biology and geology? Or as the young monk had proposed, was this the first inorganic nanobot to be discovered?

Lastly, her eyes rested on the last line of the report. The composition of the core. Unable to analyze. Here was the crux of the mystery. The exterior was known and quantifiable, but the inner workings were still an enigma. This brought her back to the ultimate question raised by the young monk in his own personal papers: What is the purpose of this microscopic machine? And who had programmed it?

Before Joan could ponder the mysteries any deeper, she heard the scrape of heel on stone from down the hall. She glanced to her watch and furrowed her brow. It was much too early for anyone to be fetching her lunch. She bit her lower lip. Whoever approached probably had nothing to do with her, but she could not take that risk.

Joan hurriedly straightened up the contents of her desktop. She shifted the research papers into a neat pile, then folded the worn sheet of legal paper with Friar de Almagro’s code and stuffed it in a pocket. Next she slid the single book allowed in her room, a King James Bible, over the ragged hole she had blown through the oak desktop, hiding the result of her experimentation last night.

Finally, she rolled the cigarette she had bummed from Friar Carlos off the desk and tucked it into her breast pocket. She surveyed her handiwork, satisfied that no sign of her secret experiment with Substance Z had been discovered.

And luckily she did. The footsteps stopped right outside her door. Joan tensed. A key was fitted into the lock and turned.

She swung around as the door was pulled open. It was Friar Carlos with his 9mm Glock. She stood, brows raised in question. “What is it?”

“Out,” he said brusquely, waving his pistol. “Come with me.”

Joan hesitated; fear that she had been caught iced her blood.

“Now!” Carlos barked.

Nodding, Joan stepped forward and through the door. One hand fingered the collar of her blouse. On the underside of the removable plastic stay of her collar were the two teardrop-sized pearls of Substance Z. She could not risk leaving the samples in her cell. The room might be searched, or she might be reassigned to a new cell. So she had devised this way to keep the golden drops hidden and in her possession.

Carlos nodded her forward. She followed his directions. She expected him to lead her down to the labs, but instead he herded her to a new section of the Abbey. She frowned at the unfamiliar surroundings. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see when you get there.”

The friar, never a warm fellow, was even more tight-lipped today. His tense attitude heightened her nervousness. What was going on? This wing of the Abbey was spartan. Plain stone floors with a string of bare bulbs illuminated the way. There were no lines of small doors opening into tiny domiciles. Joan glanced up and down the long hall. They had not passed a single of the Abbey’s denizens since entering this wing.

“Is th… there something wrong?” she asked, unable to keep the tremble from her voice.

Friar Carlos did not answer. He simply guided her to a small staircase at the end of the hall. It was only six steps and led to a thick oak door banded in iron. A small crucifix etched in silver marked the door. Above the crucifix was a pair of crossed swords.

Joan remembered Henry remarking on such a symbol found on Friar de Almagro’s heraldic ring. She remembered its meaning. It was the mark of the Inquisition.

Nervousness became a clammy fear as Carlos backed her to the side at gunpoint and knocked on the door. His rap was clearly a code. A latch was slid open from inside, the grate of iron on wood loud in the empty, bare hall.

Carlos stepped back as the door was swung open. Joan felt the heat of the next room flow out like the breath of a dragon. She was not allowed to back away. The 9mm Glock was pressed firmly into her side.

A heavy figure, his bared chest gleaming with sweat, stood in the doorway. He had shrugged his monk’s robes from his shoulders and let it hang from his sashed belt. He ran a hand over his bald pate, which was also gleaming, and spoke in clipped Spanish. Carlos answered. The big monk nodded his head and waved them inside.

“Go,” Carlos ordered.

With no other choice, Joan followed. The next room was something from old horror movies. To the left was a row of barred cells, straw-floored, with no beds. To the right was a wall upon which were hung neatly coiled chains. A row of leather whips hung from pegs. In the center of the room was a brazier, red hot with flickers of flames. Amid the glowing coals, three long iron poles were embedded.

Branding irons.

Joan glanced around the room. She was in a mock-up of a medieval dungeon. No, she corrected herself. She could smell a familiar scent. Something from her days at the emergency room. Blood and fear. This was no mock-up, no wax museum set. It was real.

“Why… why am I here?” Joan asked aloud, but in her heart she already knew the answer. Henry had made some mistake. As frightening as her surroundings were, Joan felt a twinge of worry for Henry. What had happened to him? She faced Carlos. “Am I to be punished?”

“No,” the friar said, his words as casual as if speaking of the weather. “You are to be killed.”

Joan felt her knees weaken. The heat of the room suddenly sickened her. She could hardly breathe. “I… I don’t understand.”

“And you don’t need to,” Carlos answered. He nodded to the large monk.

Using a pair of leather gloves, the thick man judged his irons. He pulled them from the coals and eyed their glowing tips. He pursed his lips, content, then spoke in Spanish.

Carlos raised his pistol. “Move to the far wall.”

Joan did not trust her legs. She glanced around the room, then back to Carlos. “Why all this? Why this way?” She weakly pointed at his gun. “You could have killed me in the room.”

Carlos’s lips grew grimmer. He studied the tools of interrogation, the tools of the Inquisition, and answered, “We need the practice.”

Maggie stared down her rifle and squeezed the trigger. The pale face flew back, the mouth a bloody ruin. Pivoting on her toe, Maggie swung the barrel at her next target. The blasts of the Winchester had deafened her by now to the screeches and howls. She operated on instinct. She fired again, blowing back one of the pale scouts that had wandered too near. Its high-pitched squeal as it was set upon by its brethren managed finally to slice through her numb ears.

She lowered her rifle, wheezing between clenched teeth. The five beasts she had slain so far were at least keeping the throng momentarily occupied.

Something touched her shoulder. She butted the rifle’s stock at it.

“Whoa!” Sam yelled in her ear. “Hold on! It’s me!” He gripped her shoulder more firmly.

Maggie licked her dry lips, shaking slightly. “What are we going to do?” she moaned. The beasts still had them boxed in the center of the plaza and were not backing down. She had made no headway in blasting a path to freedom. For every creature she shot down, more would leap and scramble to fill the gap.

Sam released his grip. “I’ve been counting. You have only one more round left.”

Maggie glanced at the rifle. “Jesus!” She raised the weapon. Her last shot had better be good. She forced her hands not to tremble.

Sam pushed her gun down. “Let me try.”

“With what?” she hissed at him.

He raised his gold knife. “Remember the creatures at the necropolis?”

“Sam, you’re gonna have to let them come damn close,” she argued, pulling the rifle free of his grip.

“Maybe not.” Sam stepped in front of her. Taking off his Stetson, he lifted the gold dagger high and waved his hat with his other hand. He screamed a raw bellow of challenge.

Hundreds of eyes lifted from their meals and growled back at Sam.

The Texan replaced his hat, leaving only the dagger held in an upthrust fist. The growls from the massed throats died down as gazes flicked to the gold knife. A trickle of whimpering sounded to one side. Sam seemed to have heard it, too. He swung toward the noise, the weak spot in the throng. He waved his dagger with long sweeping motions, repeating his bellow of anger.

The wall of pale forms began to pull back from him, breaking apart.

“Stick to my back,” Sam whispered at Maggie and Denal.

Maggie waved the naked boy ahead, then covered their rear with the Winchester. One bullet, she kept reminding herself.

Sam began a slow approach toward the throng, brandishing his dagger, jabbing, swiping, growling.

With bleating cries, several of the beasts galloped out of his path. The standoff broke down. More and more of the beasts fled, dragging off the bloody chunks they had managed to scavenge.

“I think it’s working,” Sam said.

Suddenly, something lunged at Sam. Vestigial wings beat on its back, identifying it as one of the hunters. Sam stumbled back, tripping over Denal.

Maggie danced away, keeping her feet and swinging her rifle.

But she was too slow.

Sam fell atop the boy as the creature leaped atop them. Denal screamed in terror. Sam shoved his only weapon up. The dagger. The screeching beast impaled itself on the blade. It seemed a small weapon compared to the hooked claws and shredding fangs of the attacker—but the effect was anything but small.

The tiny wings of the beast seemed suddenly to work. The creature appeared to fly straight up off Sam’s blade, squealing a noise that made even Maggie cringe. It rolled to the stones of the plaza and lay belly up. Small flames could be seen lancing from between the clawed fingers that clutched its wounded abdomen.

Around them, the pale throng froze and became silent, eyes wide, unblinking.

The flames spread from the beast’s belly. Like a wildfire in dry grass, the blaze blew through the creature. It arched and writhed; jaws stretched wide in a silent scream of agony. Flames shot out of its throat, flickering like some fiery tongue, and then its head was consumed. The creature’s bulk collapsed to the stone, dead. Flames still danced along its blackened form, a sick pyre.

Sam and Denal were already on their feet. “Let’s go,” Sam said.

The Texan threatened again with his dagger, but this time, there was no challenge. The remaining beasts in his path cleared out. Huddled in a tight group, they crossed toward the exit. All three held their breath.

Maggie stared at the smoldering form of the attacker. Spontaneous combustion. She tried to add this piece to the growing puzzle. She shook her head. Now was not the time.

She turned her attention forward.

Sam continued to threaten the few beasts who still hovered at the edges of their path. An especially large monster, all muscle and bone, still glared from one side. Its eyes were narrowed with wary hatred. Of all the creatures there, this one appeared well fed. It hunched on one knuckled fist, like some silverback gorilla, but naked and pale. Maggie recognized it as one of the rare “leaders” of the pack. She noticed it lacked any external genitalia. Like Pachacutec’s body, she realized.

One of Maggie’s eyes twitched as a horrible realization began to dawn. She was so shocked that she failed to notice what the hulking beast held in its other clawed fist. “Sam!”

The creature swung his arm and threw a boulder the size of a ripe pumpkin at the Texan. Sam glanced over but could not move in time. The chunk of granite struck Sam’s fist. The dagger flew from his grip. It landed in the middle of a clutch of the beasts.

The giant stone-thrower roared in triumph, raising on its legs and striking its barreled chest with one of its gnarled fists. Its triumphant bellow was echoed by others all across the plaza. Without the dagger, they had no defense now.

Maggie raised her rifle toward the howling gorilla. “Shut up, asshole!” She pulled the trigger, and the monster fell backward, crashing to the stones. Its legs tremored in death throes for a breath, then grew still.

As the echoes of her rifle blast died down, silence returned to the plaza. No one moved. With the death of the leader, the pack was momentarily cowed.

Finally, Maggie hissed, “Sam, that was my last shell.”

“Then I’d say we’ve overstayed our welcome here.”

As if hearing him, the creatures began to creep slowly toward them again.

The Texan turned to Denal. “How fast can you run?”

“Just watch me!” Denal flew down the empty street ahead.

Sam and Maggie took off after the boy, racing together through the fouled village.

Angry screeches and hungry howls erupted behind them. The chase was on. With the prey on the run, the pack abandoned their wariness. Bloodlust overcame fear. Scouts ran along neighboring streets, white blurs between homes, tracking them. Behind them, hunters gave chase, howling their challenge.

Maggie struggled to keep up with Sam, fighting to get the Winchester over her shoulder.

“Leave it,” Sam yelled back.

“But—?”

Sam slowed and grabbed the rifle from her. He whipped it over his head and threw it behind them. The prized Winchester clattered and skittered across the rock. “I’d rather save you, than a damned rusted rifle.”

Unburdened and strangely energized by Sam’s words, Maggie increased her pace. They ran side by side, matching stride. Soon they were out of the village and onto the jungle path. Trees and whipping branches strove to slow them down, but they pushed onward, scratched and bloodied.

Denal was a few meters ahead of them, leaping and running naked through the woods.

“Make for the tunnel!” Sam called ahead.

“What tunnel?” Denal called back, almost tripping.

Maggie realized Denal had no memory of getting here. She yelled. “Just stick to the trail, Denal. It leads right to it!”

The boy increased his stride. Sam and Maggie struggled to follow. Behind them, they could hear the snap of branches and the yipping barks of the hunters.

Gasping, neither tried to speak any longer. Maggie’s vision narrowed to a pinpoint and, as she ran, her legs spasmed and cramped. She began to slow.

Sam’s arm was suddenly under her, pulling her along.

“No… Sam… go on.” But she was too weak even to fight him.

“Like hell I will.” He hauled her with him. The chase seemed endless. Maggie did not remember the trail being this long.

Then finally sunlight returned. The jungle fell behind them. Ahead, the black eye of the tunnel lay only a handful of meters ahead. Denal was already there, hovering at the entrance.

Sam half carried her up the short slope to the entrance. “Get inside!” he called to the boy.

Maggie glanced over her shoulder. Pale forms burst through the jungle foliage, ripping away clinging vines. Some loped on two legs, some ran on all fours.

“Get inside! Now, Denal!”

“I… I can’t!” the boy whined.

Maggie swung forward. Denal still crouched by the entrance. He would take a step toward the shadowed interior, then back away.

Sam and Maggie joined him. The Texan pushed her toward the tunnel. “Go!”

Maggie stumbled into the entrance, her vision so dimmed that the gloom of the tunnel was blinding. She twisted around to see Sam pull Denal into his arms.

The boy screeched like a butchered pig as Sam leaped into the tunnel beside her. Denal writhed and contorted in the man’s arms.

“What’s wrong with him?” Maggie asked, as she and Sam limped deeper down the throat of the tunnel.

Denal’s back arched in a tremored convulsion. “I think he’s having a seizure,” Sam said, holding the boy tight.

Behind them, the screeches of the beasts echoed up the passage. Maggie glanced over her shoulder. The beasts piled up at the entrance, twisted forms limned in the sunlight. But none entered. None dared pursue their escaping prey into the tunnel. “They won’t come in here,” Maggie muttered. She frowned as she swung around. Like Denal, she added silently.

Sam finally fell to his knees, exhausted, legs trembling. He laid Denal down. The boy’s eyes were rolled white, and a frothing saliva clung to his lips. He gurgled and choked.

“I don’t understand what’s the matter with him,” Sam said.

Maggie glanced back to the writhing mass of beasts at the tunnel’s opening. She slowly shook her head.

Finally, Denal coughed loudly. His body relaxed. Maggie reached toward the boy, thinking he was expiring. But when she touched him, Denal’s eyes rolled back. He stared at her, then sat up quickly, like coming out of a bad dream. “Que paso?” he asked in Spanish.

“I had to drag you inside,” Sam said. “What was wrong?”

Denal’s brows pinched together as he struggled back to English. “It would not let me come inside.”

“What wouldn’t?”

Denal pressed a finger against his forehead, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t know.”

Maggie suspected the answer. “It was the temple.”

Sam glanced over the boy’s head at her. “What?”

Maggie stood. “Let’s get out of here.”

Sam helped the boy up. They followed her as she slowly trudged back toward the distant exit. Ahead, the two torches that framed the golden alcove, the Incan’s Temple of the Sun, could be seen flickering from their notches in the wall.

As Maggie drew abreast of the cave, she slowed and stopped, studying the golden altar and the webbed mass of golden filaments above it.

Sam drew up to her, but his eyes were still cautiously watching their backtrail for any renewed sign of pursuit. He mumbled as he joined her, “If that was Incan Heaven back there, I hate to see their idea of Hell.”

Maggie nodded toward the golden temple. “I think it’s right here.”

Denal hung back, keeping as far from the shining room as possible.

Sam stepped beside her. “I know. It’s hard to believe the Incas would feed their children to those monsters.”

“No, Sam. You don’t understand. Those monsters are their children.” Maggie turned toward Sam. She ignored his incredulous look. She needed to voice her theory aloud. “They told us the temple takes their children, turns them into gods, and sends them to janan pacha.” Maggie pointed back toward where the last of the beasts still cavorted and whined at the entrance. “Those are the missing children.”

“How… why…?”

Maggie touched Sam’s shoulder. “As I tried to tell you before, I saw Pachacutec without his king’s robes. His body was hairless, pale, with no genitalia. His body looked just like one of those beasts. Like that big creature I shot. One of the pack’s leaders.”

Sam’s brows bunched; his eyes shone with disbelief. He glanced to the temple. “You’re saying that thing actually grew him a new body?”

“As well as it was able. As Sapa Inca or king, it gave him the body of a pack leader.”

“But that’s impossible.”

Maggie frowned. “As impossible as Norman’s healed knee?” she asked. “Or his repaired eyesight? Or his ability to suddenly communicate with the Incas? Think about it, Sam!” She nodded to the temple. “This thing is some biological regenerator. It’s kept the Incas alive for hundreds of years… it grew their leader a new body. But why? Why does it do that?”

Sam shook his head.

Maggie pointed once again toward the beastly caldera. “That’s the price for eternal life here. The children! It takes their offspring and… and I don’t know… maybe experiments with them. Who knows? But whatever the purpose, the temple is using the Incas’ children as biologic fodder. The villagers are no more than cattle in a reproductive experiment.”

“But what about Denal?” Sam asked.

She glanced to the boy. He was unchanged… mostly. She remembered his reluctance to enter the tunnel. “I think the temple needs more malleable material, earlier genetic cells, like from newborns. Denal was too old. So it did to him like it does to all its experiments. Once finished, it instilled some mental imperative to cross to the next caldera and implanted phobic blocks on returning. You saw Denal’s inability to enter here, just like the creatures’. I suspect those beasts we found at the necropolis two days ago had migrated from the caldera through other tunnels, perhaps looking for another way out, and became trapped down there. I think the beasts are allowed to go anywhere except into the villagers’ valley. That is forbidden.”

“But why?”

“Because the temple is protecting its investment from its own biologic waste products. It can’t risk some harm coming to its future source of raw genetic material. So it protects the villagers.”

“But if these creatures are a risk, why doesn’t it just destroy the experiments once it’s done with them? Why let them live?”

Maggie shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe the neighboring caldera is a part of the experiment, some natural testing ground for its creations. It monitors how they adapt and function in a real environment.”

“And what about the way they burn up when I stabbed them?”

“Spontaneous combustion. A fail-safe mechanism. Did you notice how Denal’s guards had spears made of the same gold? A blow from one of these weapons, even a scratch, must set off some energy cascade. It’s just another level of protection for the villagers.”

Sam stared at the temple, horror growing in his eyes. “It still sounds crazy. But considering what happened to Norman, I can’t deny that you might be right.” He turned to Maggie. “But, if so, why is the temple doing all this? What is its ultimate goal? Who built it?”

Maggie frowned. She had no answer. She began to shake her head when a new noise intruded into the tunnel.

… whump, whump, whump…

Sam and Maggie both turned toward the tunnel’s other end. It was coming from the valley beyond.

“C’mon,” Sam said excitedly. He led them at a fast clip toward the bright sunlight.

As they reached the end, squinting at the late morning’s glare, Sam pointed. “Look! It’s the cavalry!” Circling through the mists overhead was a dark shadow. As it descended farther, the green-black body of a military transport helicopter came into sight. “It’s Uncle Hank! Thank God!”

Maggie also sighed with relief. “I’ll be glad to get the professor’s take on all this.”

Sam put his arm around her. She didn’t resist.

Then deeper down in the valley, a new sound challenged the beat of the rotors. A more rapid thumping: drums! It seemed the Incas had also spotted the strange bird entering their valley. The sharp clangs of beaten gongs began to ring through the valley, strident and angry.

Maggie glanced at Sam. “War drums.”

Sam’s arm dropped from her shoulder; his grin faded. “I don’t understand. Norman should’ve warned the Incas not to fear the professor or the others.”

“Something must’ve gone wrong.”

Sam now wore a deep frown. “I’ve got to reach my uncle and warn him.” He began to lead the way down the steep switchbacks.

Below in the valley, the helicopter descended toward the flat field of quinoa planted at the jungle’s edge. The shafts of the plants were beaten flat by the rotor’s wash.

Maggie followed. “But what about Norman?” she yelled over the roar of the helicopter.

Sam did not answer, but his pace increased.

Norman hid in the fringes of the jungle as the helicopter landed in the green meadow beyond. He kept tucked behind the leaves of a thorny bush; tiny green ants marched down a frond before his eyes, too busy to be bothered by the thumping beat of the helicopter as its skids settled into the field.

Norman, though, felt every thudding whump deep in his chest. Cringing, he prayed he was wrong and hoped he had misinterpreted Professor Conklin’s words. “After all that’s occurred this last week,” he mumbled to himself, “maybe I’m just being paranoid.” Still, Norman remained hidden as the passenger compartment of the chopper slid open. A part of him knew that he was not wrong. Professor Conklin had been trying to warn Norman about something. But what?

The answer was soon apparent. A mix of men, some dressed in fatigues and jungle camouflage, others dressed in the brown robes of monks, clambered from the helicopter. The men, even the monks, moved too efficiently to be just a rescue team. Crated gear was off-loaded from a hatch and cracked open. Norman saw assault rifles passed from hand to hand. Several of the men knelt and attached grenade launchers to their weapons.

Norman hunkered down even lower. Oh, God! He hadn’t been paranoid enough.

From deeper in the jungle, the drums and clanging gongs that had sounded from the Incan village fell silent. Norman held his breath. He was glad he had warned Pachacutec to prepare the village. If there had been no danger, the plan was for Norman to accompany the professor back to the village, halting any bloodshed and making introductions.

Norman considered returning to the village now. The Incas were prepared for hostilities, but not for this. He should warn them to flee. But Norman knew Pachacutec never would. The two had shared a long talk this morning, and it was clear the Incan king would brook no challenge to the tribe’s autonomy. Pachacutec would not run.

So Norman remained hidden, peering through the fronded branches of his lookout post. The leader of the men, a rotund fellow outfitted in a safari suit and matching hat, barked orders and aligned his men for a march to the village. The men were quick to obey. In only ten minutes from the time the skids hit the ground, the assault team was under way. They operated with military precision.

A pair of men took the point. Crouching, they ran from under the blades of the helicopter and raced to the trailhead that led to the village. From their reconnaissance in the air, Norman was sure the twisted trails to the village had been mapped. The other four men followed more slowly, cautiously, guns at the ready. The large leader, red-faced and covered in a sheen of sweat, moved behind them, armed with a pistol and flanked by a single guard for protection.

Norman waited until the entire troupe had vanished into the jungle to finally breathe. He sat hunched, unsure what to do. He had to get word to Sam. Trying to peer toward the cliff face that contained the temple’s tunnel, he could determine nothing about their fate. The jungle blocked his view.

If he could maybe work his way through the jungle…

He started to shift when new voices froze him in place. He trembled, half-crouched. From the far side of the helicopter, two other men climbed from the helicopter. Norman instantly recognized the professor. He was unshaven, and his clothes looked like they had been slept in for a few days, but there was no mistaking his proud demeanor.

Henry stumbled a step forward, shoved at gunpoint by a tall dark man dressed in a monk’s robe. The gunman had dark black hair and an even darker scowl. A silver cross glinted on his chest.

Norman did not understand all this religious garb. Clearly it was some ruse.

Voices reached him as the pair stepped farther away from the helicopter. “You will cooperate with us fully,” the dark man said, “or the student at the dig will suffer the same fate as the woman friend of yours.”

Norman saw Henry’s shoulders slump slightly, defeated. He nodded.

From his hiding place, Norman clenched his fists in helpless frustration. The gunman had to have been referring to Philip. The Harvard student must be held hostage back at the camp.

“The collected prisoners will be questioned,” the man continued. “You will help in the interrogation.”

“I understand,” Henry snapped back. “But if my nephew or any of the others are harmed, you can all go fuck yourselves.”

The man’s countenance grew even darker, but he just stepped back. He used his free hand to slip out a cigarette.

Norman shifted his crouched position, his right hand landing upon a chunk of volcanic rock. He clutched the rock and stared back at the sole man holding the professor captive. Norman worked the red rock free. If he sneaked along that ridge of basalt, it would put the helicopter between him and the guard. Norman already began to move, sidling along the jungle’s edge. He knew even the chopper’s pilot had left with the assault team, leaving only the single guard. It was a risk, but one that could save them all. If he could free the professor, they could flee together and join Sam’s group.

Norman reached the folded ridge of volcanic basalt, took a deep breath, then broke from cover and dashed across the open few yards to reach the cover of the ridge. He dived back into the welcome shadows, waiting for bullets to pepper the slope behind him, sure he had been seen. Nothing happened. He leaned a moment on the rough rock. He raised the chunk of volcanic stone, suddenly questioning how smart this was. Before fear could immobilize him, he pushed onward, scuttling like a crab in the shadow of the basalt ridge.

Once he was sure he had gone far enough, he risked a quick peek over the ridge. He was right. The bulk of the helicopter stood between him and the gunman. Norman climbed over the ridge as quietly as possible. The soft scrape of rock sounded explosively loud, but Norman knew it was all in his head. Besides, he was committed. Out in the open.

He ran with the rock clutched to his chest, his heart pounding so loudly that even the Incas at the village could probably hear it. But he made it to the shadow of the helicopter. He knelt and spotted the feet of the two men on the far side. They seemed unaware of his presence.

Crawling under the helicopter, Norman moved around the extra fuel tanks. Strands of quinoa tickled his arms as he sneaked to the far side of the chopper. Ahead, both the professor and the gunman stood, their backs to him. The pair stared toward the jungle. The robed guard exhaled a long trail of smoke.

Holding his breath and biting his lip, Norman slipped free. He could either creep slowly, thus avoiding any obstacles… or simply make a mad dash toward his quarry. But Norman didn’t trust his shaky legs with speed. So he stepped cautiously, placing one foot after the other, edging toward the gunman.

He was only an arm’s length away when all hell broke loose.

Explosions suddenly rocked the valley. The center of the jungle ripped far into the sky, flaming shards raining down.

Norman gasped at the sight, unable to stop his surprised response.

Hearing him, the gunman twisted on a heel and dropped to a crouch.

Norman found himself staring at the business end of a pistol. “Drop it!” the man ordered.

There was no need for words. The rock in Norman’s hand was already falling from his numb fingers.

From the jungles, screams and yells echoed forth. Gunfire rattled like a cupful of teeth.

Over the man’s head, Norman spotted Henry. He wore a look of hopelessness and defeat.

Norman slumped, matching the expression. “I’m sorry, Professor.”

Sam stumbled to a stop when the first explosion tore through the valley. He crouched slightly at the rain of flaming debris. “What the hell—?”

Denal crouched down, too.

Maggie was at Sam’s shoulder, her eyes wide. “They’re attacking the village!”

Sam stayed low. “Uncle Hank would never do that.”

“What if it’s not the professor,” Maggie said. “Maybe someone else saw the signal fires. Thieves. Huaqueros. Maybe even the same bastards who tried to tunnel into our dig last week. Maybe they intercepted our radio messages an’ beat Uncle Hank here.”

Sam sank to the slope. “What are we going to do?”

Maggie’s eyes were fierce. “Stop them.” She nodded toward where the helicopter rested in the field, half-obscured by a peninsula of jungle. “Take that out, and these thieves aren’t going anywhere. Then call the professor and warn him to come with the police or army.” She turned to Sam. “We can’t let them murder and steal what we found here.”

Sam was nodding with her words. “You’re right. We have to at least try.” He stood up. “I’ll go and reconnoiter the site. See what’s up.”

“No,” Maggie argued. “We remain together.”

Sam frowned, but Maggie’s expression did not budge.

Even Denal nodded his head. “I go, too.” Sam caught the way the boy glanced up at the tunnel entrance. Denal was not being heroic; he just didn’t want to be left alone… especially naked and weaponless.

Sam stood and surveyed the valley.

Automatic gunfire echoed up from the jungle. Other explosions would occasionally erupt, tossing trees and rocks into the sky. Amidst the weapons fire, whispers of Incan war cries mixed with the screams of the dying. Smoke billowed up and through the jungle.

“Okay,” Sam said. “We all go. But stick together and keep quiet. We’ll sneak to the jungle’s edge and creep as close to the chopper as possible. Find out if there are any guards.”

Maggie nodded and waved him forward.

Sam hurried down the last of the switchbacks and led them through the escarpment of volcanic boulders and scrub bushes. Soon the shadows of the jungle swallowed up the trio. Sam raised a finger to his lips and guided them with hand signals. Within the embrace of the forest, the sounds of warfare grew muffled.

Crouching, Sam picked a path through the foliage. They had to get to the helicopter before the thieves finished subduing the village. Sam prayed that there were some backup weapons in the helicopter. If they were to hold the valley until Uncle Hank got there, they would need their own fire-power.

The shadowy jungle grew brighter ahead. It was the forest’s edge. Sam slowed his approach. Now was not the time to be caught. He signaled the others to hang back. Sam alone crept the last of the way. Just as he was fingering away a splayed leaf of a jungle fern, a familiar voice reached him.

“Leave the boy alone, Otera! There’s no reason to hurt him.”

Uncle Hank!

Sam pulled back the leaf to view the open meadow beyond. The large military helicopter squatted like some monstrous locust upon the field of quinoa. But closer still was a sight that froze Sam’s blood. His uncle stood before a man dressed in a monk’s habit, but the man was no disciple of god. He bore in his right fist a large pistol. Sam, familiar with guns, recognized it as a .357 Spanish Astra. It was a weapon capable of stopping a charging bull—and it was pointed at his uncle’s chest.

Over his uncle’s shoulder, Sam spotted a third member of this party. It was Norman! The photographer’s face was pale with fear.

The man named Otera glared at Sam’s uncle. “Since when are you the one giving orders here?” He suddenly swung his gun and viciously struck Norman across the face. The photographer fell to his knees, blood welling from a cut on his brow.

“Leave him alone!” Uncle Hank said, stepping around to shield Norman.

Otera, his back now slightly turned to Sam, raised his pistol. “I think you’ve outlived your usefulness, old man. From the messages, these students know where the gold is hidden. So with this fellow here, I see no need to keep you around.” Sam distinctly heard the gun cock.

Oh, God! Frantic, Sam slid from his hiding place and ran across the wet field.

The motion drew his uncle’s attention. Henry’s eyes widened in surprise. Sam saw his uncle struggle to stifle any further reaction—but even this small response was noticed.

Otera pivoted around just as Sam reached him, gun at chest level. Sam yelled and leaped at him, then an explosion of gunfire stung his ears. Sam was flung backward, away from his uncle’s captor. He landed in the meadow on his back.

“No!” he heard his uncle yell.

Sam tried to push to his elbows, but he found he could not move. Not even breathe. It felt as if some huge weight sat on his chest. Pain lanced out in all directions. From the corner of his eye, he saw his uncle leap on the back of the robed gunman, tackling and crushing him to the ground.

Sam smiled at the old man’s fierceness. Good for you, Uncle Hank.

Then all went black.

From a couple meters away, Maggie had spotted Sam suddenly burst from his hiding place and out into the open. What was the damned fool doing? She hurried forward with Denal beside her. As she reached Sam’s hiding place, the crack of a single gunshot sounded from beyond the leafy fern.

Panicked, Maggie ripped away the fronds. She saw Sam collapsed in the flattened meadow, his arms twitching spastically. Even from her hiding place, she could see a gout of blood welling from a huge chest wound. Blind to all else, she ran from cover. She would no longer hide in a ditch while a friend died. “Sam!”

As she ran, she finally noticed the struggle beyond the Texan’s body. It made no sense. The professor sat on the back of a struggling monk. The gun, still smoking in the wet grass, was just beyond the man’s reach. Suddenly, as if in a dream, Norman appeared out of nowhere. He bore a huge red rock over his head. He brought it down with a resounding blow atop the pinned man’s head. The man went limp, and Professor Conklin climbed off him.

It was then a race to see who could reach Sam first.

Sam’s uncle won. He fell to his knees beside his nephew. “Oh, no… oh, God!”

Norman and Maggie reached him at the same time.

Falling to his hands and knees, Norman reached and checked for a pulse. Maggie sank more slowly. She saw the glassy way Sam stared up at the skies. She knew no one was there; his eyes were empty.

Norman just confirmed it. “He’s dead.”

At gunpoint, Joan crossed toward the wall of chains. She knew if she allowed herself to be bound to that dungeon wall that she was a dead woman; any hope of escape would be gone. Her mind spun on various plans and scenarios. Only one idea came to mind.

As she was prodded by Friar Carlos’s pistol, her fingers clutched her collar. She slipped out the plastic stay that held her collar stiff and scraped one of the soft teardrop samples of Substance Z into her palm. She had to time this right.

On the way toward the wall, she sidled near the large, bare-chested monk who still stoked the flaming brazier. He leaned over his handiwork, stirring the glowing coals with one of the iron brands. Joan noted the slight bubble of drool at the corner of his lips. The thick-limbed brute clearly lusted to test his irons on her flesh. He caught her staring and grinned, a flash of desire.

Joan suddenly felt no guilt for what she was about to do.

Nudging past him, she flicked the pebble of metal into the brazier, then turned her back and ducked—and lucky that she did. The explosion was more forceful than she had expected. She was thrown forward, crashing to the stone floor, and skidded on hands and knees. Her back burned. The smell of singed silk struck her nose. She rolled around, twisting her sore back to the cool stone.

Behind her, the brazier was a twisted ruin. The iron brands were scattered; one was even impaled through a wooden support pillar. The echo of the explosion slowly died in her ears, the ringing replaced with a pained howling. Her gaze shifted to the large monk. He lay on his back several meters away. His bare chest was charred and blistered. A hand rose and knocked a coal from his belly with a groan. The man sat up, one side of his face blackened. At first, Joan thought it was just soot; then the man cried out, and his burned skin split open, raw and red. Blood ran down his neck.

Oh, God. She turned her face away.

Carlos, unharmed, was already on his feet. He crossed to a telephone on the wall and barked in Spanish. A call for help. Once done, he slammed the receiver down and stepped over the wounded man. The monk clutched at Carlos’s pant leg, but the friar shook him loose and crossed to Joan.

He pointed his gun. “Get up.”

Joan pulled to her feet, gasping as her singed shirt peeled from her back. Carlos frowned and forced Joan around so he could view her injuries. “You’ll live,” he said.

“But for how long?” Joan asked with a sour look. “Until the next time you decide to kill me?” Joan waved a hand around the room. “What just happened?”

Carlos scowled at the man still moaning on the floor. “An apprentice. It seems he has much to learn still.”

Joan bowed her head, hiding her grim satisfaction. Carlos blamed the monk for the explosion. Good. Now for the next step in her plan. At her collar, she scraped a second dollop of gold under a fingernail, then reached to her pocket. She fingered out the cigarette Carlos had given her yesterday. With trembling fingers, she brought it to her lips. “Do you mind?” she asked, raising her face.

He frowned harshly at the moaning monk. “Go ahead. We’ve got a few minutes until someone comes for him.” He reached out, and a lighter appeared in his fingers.

Bending, she lit the cigarette, then nodded her thanks. She took a long drag, sighing appreciatively and loudly. “That’s better,” she said heavily, exhaling in Carlos’s direction.

Joan saw him eye the glowing tip of her cigarette. His pupils dilated at the scent of nicotine.

She took a second drag, then passed him the cigarette, sighing out the smoke languidly. “Here. Thanks. But that’s enough for me.”

He accepted her offering with a tight smile. “Afraid for your health?”

She shrugged, too tense to trust her voice. She spotted the glint of gold on the underside of the cigarette, a quarter inch from its glowing tip. “Enjoy,” she finally said.

Carlos held up the cigarette in a salute of thanks. Then he grinned and drew it to his lips. Joan took a small step away, turning her shoulders slightly.

She watched the friar take a long drag on the cigarette. Its end grew red hot as it burned toward the filter. Joan swung away as the white paper flamed toward the smear of gold.

The explosion this time was not as severe.

Still, it threw her to her knees.

Joan twisted around, her head ringing with the blast. Carlos still stood, but his face was a cratered, smoking ruin. He fell backward, landing atop the burned monk, who now screamed in horror.

Joan rolled to her feet and recovered the friar’s Glock from the floor. She crossed to the wailing monk. Crouching, she roughly checked his burns. Third degree over sixty percent of his body. He thrashed from her touch, crying out. She stood. He was a dead man, but didn’t know it yet. He would not survive these burns. “Not so fun playing with fire, is it?” she mumbled.

She raised her pistol and aimed between his eyes. The monk stared at her in terror, then fainted away. Sighing, she lowered the Glock. She couldn’t do it, not even to give him a quick end. She moved away.

Time was crucial. She had a gun and a remaining sliver of gold. Nothing must stop her from escaping. She hefted the pistol and stepped clear of the two prone bodies. She eyed the friar’s corpse for a moment.

“You were right, Carlos,” she said, turning to the door. “Smoking kills.”

Maggie touched Henry’s shoulder as he knelt over his nephew’s body. His shoulders were wracked with painful sobs. Maggie knew no words could ease his pain. Her years in Belfast had taught her that much. On both sides of the fighting, Irish and English, Catholic and Protestant, there were just grieving mothers and fathers. It was all so stupid. So insane.

Behind her, gunfire continued to bark throughout the jungle, though by now it had died to sporadic fits. The most intense fighting had already ended. The Incas had no prayer against such armament.

She stared at Sam, unable to look at the ragged wound, the blood. She found her gaze resting on his face. His Stetson had been knocked off when he fell. He seemed almost naked without it. His tousled sandy hair was mussed and unkempt, like he was just sleeping. She reached and touched a lanky lock, tucking it behind an ear. Tears she had been holding back finally began to flow. Her vision blurred.

Henry reached to her hand, sensing her pain, needing support himself. His cold fingers wrapped around hers. Where words failed, simple human contact soothed. She leaned into the professor’s side. “Oh, Sam…” her voice cracked.

Norman knelt across from Sam’s body. Behind him, Denal stood quietly. The naked boy was now covered in Norman’s poncho, leaving the photographer only a pair of knee-length breeches. Norman cleared his throat. “Maggie, what about the temple?” he said softly. “Maybe… maybe it could…” He shrugged.

Maggie raised her teary eyes. “What?”

Norman nodded to Sam’s body. “Remember Pachacutec’s story.”

Horror replaced sorrow. Her eyes widened. She pictured the Sapa Inca’s pale body and remembered what lay in the neighboring valley. She slowly shook her head. The temple held no salvation. She could not imagine giving Sam’s body over to it.

Henry spoke, his voice coarse with tears. “Wh… what temple?”

Norman pointed toward the volcanic wall. “Up there! Something the Incas found. A structure that heals.” Norman stood and exposed his knee. He told of the injury he sustained.

The professor’s face grew incredulous. He turned to Maggie for confirmation.

She slowly nodded her head.

“But Sam’s d… dead,” Henry said.

“And the king was beheaded,” Norman countered. He looked to Maggie for support. “We owe it to Sam at least to try.”

Henry stood as another grenade exploded, and gunfire grew heated again. The weapons fire sounded much closer. “We can’t risk it,” he said sternly. “I need to get you all into hiding. It’s our only hope of surviving.”

Maggie had stopped listening after the word hiding. A part of her wanted to agree with the professor. Yes, run, hide, don’t let them catch you. But something new in her heart would not let her. She stared at Sam’s still face. A single tear sat on his cheek. She reached with a finger and brushed it off. Patrick Dugan, Ralph, her parents… and now Sam. She was done hiding from death.

“No,” Maggie said softly. She reached and took Sam’s Stetson from where it had fallen in the damp grass, then swung to face the others. “No,” she said more forcefully. “We take Sam to the temple. I won’t let them win.”

“But—”

Maggie shoved to her feet. “No, Professor, this is our choice. If there is even a chance of saving Sam, we attempt it!”

Norman was nodding. “I saw a stretcher in the helicopter when I got the rope to tie up the monk.”

Maggie glanced to where the man who had shot Sam still lay unconscious in the grass. His breath was ragged, his pallor extreme. He would probably die from the blow to the skull, but as an extra precaution, they had lashed his legs and arms. They stopped at gagging him, mostly because of his labored breathing. Her chest tightened with anger at the sight of him. She glanced away, to the helicopter. “Get the stretcher!”

Norman and Denal hurried to the chopper’s open door.

Henry stepped to her side. “Maggie, Sam’s dead. Not only is this wrong, it’s likely to get everyone killed.”

Maggie stood up to the professor. “I’m done hiding in ditches,” she said. She remembered Sam’s scathing words last night when she resisted eavesdropping on the shaman and the king. She had tried to justify her reluctance, but Sam had been closer to the truth. Even then, fear had ruled her—but no longer. She faced Henry. “We’re doing this,” she said firmly.

Norman and Denal arrived with a khaki-colored army stretcher, ending further discussion. Henry frowned but helped lift Sam onto the stretcher. Soon they were under way. Henry stopped only to grab the monk’s pistol from the weeds and stuff it into his waistband.

With the four of them, Sam’s weight was manageable. Still, the climb up the switchback seemed endless. Maggie’s nagging fear and the need for speed stretched time interminably. Once they reached the tunnel, she checked her watch. Only twenty minutes had passed. But even that was too long. The jungle gunfire had grown ominously silent.

“Hurry,” Maggie said. “We need to be out of sight!”

With straining arms and legs, they trundled into the gloom of the passage.

“It’s just a nit farther,” she encouraged. “C’mon.”

Ahead, the torches still glowed at the entrance to the gold chamber, though now they just sputtered. As they pulled even with the temple, Maggie heard the professor gasp behind her. She turned, helping to lower Sam.

Henry gaped at the chamber, his face a little sick. “It’s el Sangre del Diablo,” he mumbled, setting Sam down.

Maggie knew enough Spanish to frown at his words. “The blood of the Devil?”

“It’s what the abbot’s men have come searching for. The mother lode—”

Norman interrupted, “We need to get Sam in there. I’m sure there’s a time factor involved in this resurrection business.”

Henry nodded. “But what do we do? How do we get it to work?”

They all looked at each other. No one had an answer.

The photographer pointed into the chamber. “I don’t have an operator’s manual. But there’s an altar. I’d say first thing is to get Sam on it.”

Henry nodded. “Let’s do it.”

They hauled Sam up, each person grasping a limb, and eased him onto the gold altar. Maggie’s skin crawled as she stepped into the chamber. It was like a thousand eyes were staring at her. Her fingers brushed against the altar’s surface as she placed Sam down. She yanked her hand away. The surface had felt warm, like something living.

With a shudder, she retreated from the room, along with the others. Standing in the passage, they all stared, transfixed, waiting for something to happen, some miracle to occur. It never did. Sam’s body just lay on the altar. His blood dripped slowly from his chest wound and down the side of the altar.

“Maybe we waited too long,” Maggie finally said, breaking the room’s spell.

“No,” Norman said. “I don’t think so. Kamapak took half a day to get Pachacutec’s decapitated head here, and the temple still grew him a new body.”

“Sort of,” Maggie countered. She turned to Norman. “What did Kamapak do after bringing the head here? Was there any clue?”

Norman answered sullenly, “All he said was that he prayed to Inti, and the god answered.”

Maggie frowned.

Henry suddenly stiffened beside her. “Of course!”

She turned to the professor.

“It’s prayers! Concentrated human thought!” Henry stared at them as if this was answer enough. “This… this gold, Devil’s blood, whatever the hell it is… it responds to human thought. It will mold and change to one’s will.”

Now it was Maggie’s turn to lift her brows in shock, but she remembered the transformation of Sam’s dagger. It had changed as their needs dictated. She remembered how it had transformed in her own hands, when she had been so desperate for a key to the necropolis’s gold statue. “Prayers?”

Henry nodded. “All we have to do is concentrate. Ask it… beg it to heal Sam!”

Norman dropped to his knees, drawing his palms together. “I’m not above begging.”

Henry and Maggie followed suit. Maggie closed her eyes, but her thoughts were jumbled. She remembered the pale beasts in the next chamber. What if something like that happened to Sam? She clenched her fists. She would not let that happen. If prayers worked, then she’d let the others pray for healing. She would concentrate on keeping the temple from making any additional “improvements” in the man.

Bearing down, she willed it to heal Sam’s injuries, but only his injuries. Nothing else! She strained, knuckles whitening. Nothing else, damn you! Do you hear me?

Denal suddenly gasped behind her shoulder. “Look!”

Maggie cracked open her eyes.

Sam still lay upon the altar, unmoving, but the ball of webbed strands above the bed began to unwind, to spread open. Thousands of golden stands snaked and threaded from the nest to weave and twine in the air. Tips of the strands split into even tinier filaments, then these split again. Soon the threads were so fine, the room seemed filled with a golden fog. Then, like a heavy mist settling, the golden cloud descended over Sam’s body. In a few seconds, his form was coated from crown to toes with the metal, making him a sculpture in gold. And still the gold seemed to flow. Like some shining umbilical cord, a thick twined rope connected the golden statue of Sam to the node above the altar. The cord writhed and pumped like a living structure.

Maggie felt slightly sickened at the sight. She stood up; Henry and Norman soon followed.

“What do you make of it?” Henry asked. “Will it work?”

No one answered.

“How long it will take is the better question,” Norman said. “I don’t think the army down there is going to give us all day to hang around.”

Henry nodded. “We need to think about setting up a defense. Is there another way out?” The professor glanced down the tunnel toward the other caldera.

“Not that way,” Maggie said.

Henry turned back around and rubbed at his tired eyes. “Then we’ll need weapons,” he mumbled. “I spotted an extra case of grenades in the helicopter, but…” The professor shook his head sourly.

Norman spoke up. “Grenades sound good to me, Doc. Preferably lots of them.”

“No,” Henry said dismissively. “It’s too risky to go back down there.”

“And it’s too risky not to,” Norman argued. “If I’m quick and careful…”

Denal added, “I go, too. I help carry. Box heavy.”

Norman nodded. “Together, it’ll be a cinch.” He was already stepping away with the boy.

“Be careful,” Maggie warned.

“Oh, you can count on that!” Norman said. “The National Geographic doesn’t offer combat pay.” Then he and the boy were off, hurrying down the corridor.

Henry returned to staring at the temple. He mumbled, “The structure must be using geothermal heat as its energy source. This is amazing.”

“More like horrible. I can see why Friar de Almagro called this thing the Serpent of Eden. It’s seductive, but beneath its charms lies something foul.”

“The Serpent of Eden?” Henry furrowed his brows. “Where did you come by that expression?”

“It’s a long story.”

The professor nodded toward the temple. “We have the time.”

Maggie nodded. She tried to summarize their journey, but some parts were especially painful to recount, like Ralph’s death. Henry’s face grew grim and sober with the telling. At the end, Maggie spoke of the beasts and creatures that haunted the neighboring valley. She explained her theory, finishing with her final assessment. “I don’t trust the temple. It perverts as much as it heals.”

Henry stared down the long corridor toward the distant sunlight. “So the friar was right. He tried to warn us of what lay here.” Now it was Henry’s turn to relate his own story, of his time with the monks of the Abbey of Santo Domingo. His voice cracked with the mention of the forensic pathologist, Joan Engel. Another death in the centuries-long struggle to possess this strange gold. But Maggie read the additional pain behind the professor’s words, a part of the story left unspoken. She didn’t press.

Once done, Henry wiped his nose and turned to the temple. “So the Incas built here what the abbot dreamed. A structure large enough to reach some otherworldly force.”

“But is it the coin of God?” she asked, nodding toward Sam. “Or the blood of the Devil?” She glanced to the next caldera. “What is its ultimate goal? What is the purpose of those creatures?”

Henry shook his head. “An experiment? Maybe to evolve us? Maybe to destroy us?” He shrugged. “Who knows what intelligence guides the temple’s actions. We may never know.”

Muffled voices and the scrape of heel on rock drew their attention around. It was too soon for Norman and Denal to be returning. Flashlights suddenly blinded them from the tunnel’s entrance. An order was shouted at them: “Don’t move!”

Maggie and Henry stood still. What else could they do? There was no escape behind them. But in truth, neither was willing to abandon Sam. They waited for their captors to approach. “Do whatever they say,” Henry warned.

Like hell I will! But she remained silent.

A huge man, who from the professor’s story could only be Abbot Ruiz, crossed to the professor. Maggie was given only the most cursory glance. “Professor Conklin, you’ve proven yourself as resourceful as ever. You beat us here.” He frowned at Maggie. “Of course, the tongues you needed to free were a little easier than ours, I imagine. These Incas proved themselves quite stubborn. Ah, but the end result is the same. Here we are!”

The abbot stepped past them to view the chamber. He stood, staring for a moment at the sight. Then his large form shuddered, trembling all over. Finally, he fell to his knees. “A miracle,” he exclaimed in Spanish, making a hurried sign of the cross. “The sculpture on the table appears to be Christ himself. Like in our vault at the Abbey. It is a sign!”

Maggie and Henry glanced at each other. Neither corrected the abbot’s misconception.

“See how it trickles down from the roof. The old Incan tales spoke of the mother lode. How it flowed like water from the mountaintops! Here it is!”

Maggie edged closer. She knew, sooner or later, the abbot would discover his mistake. She could not let these men interfere with Sam’s healing. She cleared her throat. “This chamber is just a trinket,” she said softly.

The abbot, still kneeling, turned to her. His eyes still shone with the gold. “What do you mean?”

“This is just the temple, the entrance,” she said. “The true source lies in the next valley. The Incas call it janan pacha.”

“Their heaven?” the abbot said.

Maggie nodded, glad the man had some knowledge of the Incan culture. She glanced to Henry. He wore a deep frown, clearly guessing her plot. He didn’t approve, but he remained silent. Maggie returned her attention to the abbot. “This temple is just a roadside prayer totem. A gateway to the true wonders beyond.”

The abbot shoved to his feet. “Show me.”

Maggie backed a step. “Only for a guarantee of our safety.”

Abbot Ruiz glanced down the corridor. One eye narrowed suspiciously.

“Heaven awaits,” Maggie said, “but without my help, you’ll never find it.”

The abbot scowled. “Fine. I guarantee your safety.”

“Swear it.”

Frowning, Abbot Ruiz touched the small gold cross hanging from his neck. “I swear it on the blood of Jesus Christ, Our Savior.” He dropped his hand. “Satisfied?”

Maggie hesitated, feigning indecision, then finally nodded. “It’s this way.” She headed down the corridor.

“Wait.” The abbot hung back a moment. He waved to one of his six men. “Stay here with the good professor.” He crossed toward Maggie. “Just to keep things honest.”

Maggie felt a sick tightness in her belly. She continued down the passage, forcing her legs to stop trembling. She would not give in to her fear. “Th… this way,” she said. “It’s not too far.”

Abbot Ruiz stuck close to her shoulder, all but breathing down her neck. He wheezed, his face as red as a beet. Prayers mumbled from his lips.

“It’s just through there,” she said, as they neared the exit to the tunnel.

The abbot pushed her aside, marching forward, determined to be the first through. But when he reached the exit, he hesitated. His nose curled at the stronger stench of sulfur here. “I don’t see anything.”

Maggie joined him and pointed to the trail in the jungle ahead. “Just follow the path.”

The abbot stared. Maggie feared he would balk. She was sure he could hear her heart pounding in her throat. But she maintained a calm demeanor. “Janan pacha lies just inside the jungle. About a hundred meters. It is a sight no one could put into mere words.”

“Heaven…” Abbot Ruiz took a step into the caldera, then another—still he was cautious. He waved his five men ahead of him. “Check it out. Watch for any hostiles.”

His men, rifles at shoulders now, scurried ahead. The abbot followed, keeping a safe distance back. Maggie was forced to leave the tunnel to maintain the ruse. She held her breath as she reentered the foul nest of the creatures. Where the hell were the monsters?

She took a third step away from the entryway when she heard a rasp of rock behind her. She swung around. Perched over the rough entrance to the tunnel was one of the pale beasts. One of the scouts. It clung by claws, upside down. It knew it had been spotted. A hissing scream burst from its throat as it leaped at her.

Maggie froze. Answering cries exploded from the forest’s edge. It was a trap, and here was the sentinel. Maggie ducked. But the scout was too quick, lightning fast. The beast hit her. She fell backward and used the attacker’s momentum to fling it down the short slope behind her. She did not wait to see what happened. She scrambled to her feet and dived for the tunnel.

Behind her, spats of gunfire exploded; screams of terror and pain accompanied the weapons fire. But over it all, the wail and shriek of the beasts.

In the safety of the tunnel, Maggie swung around, facing the opening. She saw the abbot level his pistol and fire point-blank into the skull of the beast that had attacked her. It flopped and convulsed on the ground. The abbot glanced to the forest’s edge, where his men still fought for their lives. He turned his back on them and ran toward the passageway, toward Maggie. He spotted her; hatred and anger filled his eyes. No one thwarted the Spanish Inquisition.

Maggie backed down the tunnel as the abbot pulled up to the entrance. Heaving heavily, the obese man struggled to breathe. He gasped out, “You bitch!” Then he leveled his pistol and stepped inside.

Jesus! There was nowhere to run.

“You will suffer. That I guarant—” Suddenly the abbot was yanked backward with a squawk of surprise. His gun went off, the shot wild. The bullet ricocheted past Maggie’s ear.

A scream of horror erupted from the man as he was dragged from the tunnel and flung around. A hulking pale monster, another pack leader, had his expensive safari jacket snagged in a clawed fist. The other hand grabbed the abbot by the throat. More beasts soon appeared, more razored fists snatching at the choice meal. His gun was knocked from his grip. The abbot’s scream became strangled as he was dragged away from the tunnel’s entrance. A pale face, mouth bloodied, appeared at the tunnel opening. It hissed at her, then dived to the side, joining in the feeding frenzy.

She swung away and turned her back on the slaughter.

Behind her, a sharp screech of pain died into a wet gurgle. She hurried farther down the passage, toward the torchlight, away from the howling.

At the temple’s entrance, she saw the lone guard. He stepped toward her, gun pointed. “Que hiscistes?” he barked in Spanish, asking her what she had done. She saw the terror in his eyes.

Suddenly, Henry stepped behind him and pressed the barrel of a pistol to the back of the guard’s head. It was the weapon the professor had taken from the monk by the helicopter. “She was taking out the garbage.” He pressed the barrel more firmly. “Any problem with that?”

The man dropped his rifle and sank to his knees. “No.”

“That’s better.” Henry crossed in front of the man and kicked the rifle toward Maggie. “You know how to use that?”

“I’m from Belfast,” she said, retrieving the gun. She cocked it, checked the magazine, and lifted it to her shoulder.

Henry turned to his prisoner. “And you? Do you know how to fly the helicopter?”

The man nodded.

“Then you get to live.”

Suddenly a groan sounded from the next room. Henry and Maggie swung around. They watched the golden umbilicus spasm and the gold coating begin to slide from Sam’s body. Like a large siphon, it drew the metal from his skin, then coiled up on itself, churning and slowly twisting overhead.

Another groan flowed from Sam.

The guard stared into the temple, mouth gaped open in surprise. He crossed himself hurriedly.

“He’s breathing,” Henry said. He stepped toward the entrance.

Maggie grabbed his elbow. “Be careful. I don’t know if we should interfere yet.” Her words were strained, speaking while holding her breath. Dare she hope…?

Sam pushed to one elbow. His eyes were unfocused. His other arm rose to swipe at his face, as if brushing away cobwebs. He moaned slightly, wincing.

Henry reached a hand out. “Sam?”

He seemed to focus on the voice, coughing to clear his lungs. “Un… Uncle Hank?” Sam shoved up, weaving slightly. His eyes finally seemed to focus. “God… my head.”

“Move slowly, Sam,” Maggie urged. “Take it easy.”

Sam swung his feet to the floor with another groan. “I could use a bucketful of aspirin.” He finally seemed to realize where he was. He craned his neck and stared up at the twined ball of golden strands. “What am I doing here?”

“You don’t remember?” Maggie asked, concerned. He sounded lucid, but was there some sustained damage?

Sam frowned at his chest. The fingers of his right hand trailed to his bullet-torn vest. He stuck a finger through the hole, then pulled open his vest. There was no wound. “I was shot.” His statement had the edge of a question.

Maggie nodded. “You died, but the temple cured you.”

“Died?”

Both Maggie and Henry nodded.

Sam pushed to his feet, stumbled a step, then caught himself. “Whoa.” He moved more slowly, deliberately, concentrating. “For a dead man, I guess I shouldn’t complain about a few aches and pains.” He crossed toward them.

Henry met Sam at the entrance and pulled his nephew to him. Their embrace was awkward due to the pistol in the professor’s right hand. “Oh, God, Sam, I thought I lost you,” he said, his eyes welling with tears.

Sam hugged his uncle fiercely, deeply.

Maggie smiled. She wiped at her own cheeks, then knelt by the stretcher and retrieved Sam’s Stetson.

Henry pulled away, rubbing at his eyes. “I couldn’t face losing you, too.”

“And you don’t have to,” Sam said, swiping a hand through his hair.

Maggie held out his hat. “Here. You dropped something.”

He took it, wearing a crooked smile, awkward, half-embarrassed. He slipped it to his head. “Thanks.”

“Just don’t die again,” she warned, reaching and straightening the brim.

“I’ll try not to.” He leaned toward her as she adjusted his hat, staring into her eyes.

She didn’t pull away from him, but she didn’t move closer either. She was too conscious of the professor’s presence and the weight of the rifle over her left shoulder. They stared for too long, and the moment began slipping away. Maggie gritted her teeth. To hell with her fears! She reached toward him—but Sam suddenly turned away.

A new voice suddenly barked from the darkness behind them, “Drop your weapons!” A figure stepped into the edge of the torchlight. He held Denal in his arms. The boy’s mouth was clamped tightly shut, a long military dagger at his throat. The stainless-steel blade reflected the glow of the torches. The boy’s eyes were wide with terror.

“Otera!” Henry hissed.

Norman fled through the jungle, crashing through the underbrush. His vision was blurred by tears. He attempted halfheartedly to keep his flight quiet, but branches snapped and dried leaves crunched underfoot. Still, he stumbled on—in truth, he did not care who heard him any longer.

Again he pictured the friar leaping to his feet from the grassy meadow. The bastard had been playing possum, lying in wait for Norman and Denal as the pair had crossed toward the helicopter. The friar had grabbed the boy before Norman could react, twin blades flashing out from wrist sheaths. Norman’s response was pure animal instinct. He had leaped away from his attacker, diving into the jungle and racing away.

Only after his panicked heart had slowed a few beats did Norman recognize the cowardice of his act. He had abandoned Denal. And then he’d not even attempted to free the boy.

Logically, in his mind, Norman could justify his action. He had no weapons. Any attempt at rescue would surely have gotten them both killed. But in his heart, Norman knew better. His flight had been pure cowardice. He recalled the terror in Denal’s wide eyes. What had he done?

Fresh tears flowed, almost blinding him.

Suddenly the jungle fell away around him. The gloom of the forest broke into brightness. Norman stumbled to a stop, brushing at his eyes. When his vision cleared, he gasped in horror at the sight.

A small clearing had been blasted into the jungle by grenade and gunfire. Bodies lay strewn all around, torn and broken. Both men and women. All Inca. The smell gagged him as he stumbled back: blood and excrement and fear.

“Oh, God…” Norman moaned.

Flies already lay thick among the corpses, buzzing and flitting around the clearing.

Then suddenly on his left, a huge shape rose up, looming over him, the dead coming to claim him. Norman spun to face the new threat. He would no longer flee. He could no longer flee. Exhausted and hopeless, he fell to his knees.

He raised his face as a huge spear was lifted in threat, its golden blade shining in the brightness overhead.

Norman didn’t flinch.

I’m sorry, Denal.

Henry stepped toward Otera, gun raised. “Let him go!”

The trapped boy’s limbs trembled as the knife was pressed harder to his tender throat. A trickle of blood ran down his neck. “Don’t try it, Professor. Get back! Or I cut this boy open from neck to belly.”

Fighting back a curse, Henry retreated a step.

The friar’s eyes were wild and fierce. “Do as I say, and everyone lives! I don’t care about you or the boy. All I care about is the gold. I take it with me, and you all stay here. A fair bargain, yes?”

They hesitated. Henry glanced to Maggie, then to Sam. “Maybe we should do as he says,” he whispered.

Maggie’s eyes narrowed. She stepped to the side and spoke to the friar, her voice fierce. “Swear on it! Swear on your cross that you’ll let us go.”

Scowling, Otera touched his silver crucifix. “I swear.”

Maggie studied the man for a long breath, then carefully placed down her weapon. Henry did the same. The group then backed a few steps away.

Otera crossed to their abandoned weapons, then shoved Denal toward them.

The boy gasped and flew to Maggie’s side.

The friar returned his long dagger to a hidden wrist sheath. Henry now understood how the man had managed to escape his ropes. He mentally kicked himself. None of them had thought to search the unconscious man.

Grinning, Otera crouched and retrieved his pistol. He passed the rifle to the guard who still knelt to the side of the passage. But the man refused to take it. He just stared numbly into the temple, lips moving in silent prayer.

Otera stood and finally swung to face the room himself. He froze, then stumbled back, overwhelmed. His face glowed in the golden light. A wide smile stretched his lips. “Dios mio…!” When he turned back to them, his eyes were huge.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Sam said.

The friar squinted against the torches’ glare. He finally seemed to recognize the Texan. “I… I thought I killed you,” he said with a frown.

Sam shrugged. “It didn’t take.”

Otera glanced to the cave of gold, then back to them. He leveled his gun. “I don’t know how you survived. But this time, I’ll make sure you die. All of you!”

Maggie stepped between the gunman and Sam. “You swore an oath! On your cross!”

Otera reached with his free hand and ripped off the silver crucifix. He tossed it behind him. “The abbot was a fool,” he snarled at them. “Like you all. All this talk of touching the mind of God… pious shit! He never understood the gold’s true potential.”

“Which is what?” Henry asked, stepping beside Maggie.

“To make me rich! For years, I have endured the abbot’s superior airs as he promoted others of pure Spanish blood above me. With this gold, I will no longer be half-Indian, half-Spanish. I will no longer have to bow my head and play the role of the lowly mestizo. I will be reborn a new man.” Otera’s eyes shone brightly with his dream.

Henry moved nearer. “And who do you think you’ll become?”

Otera leveled his pistol at Henry. “Someone everyone respects—a rich man!” He laughed harshly and pulled the trigger.

Henry cringed, gasping and falling back.

But the shot went suddenly awry, striking the roof and casting blue sparks.

As the gun’s blast died away, a new noise was heard. “Aack…” Otera choked and reached for his chest. A bloody spearhead sprouted from between his ribs. The friar was lifted off his feet. Gouts of blood poured from his mouth as he moaned, mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish. His pistol fell with a clatter from his fingers.

Then his head slumped, lolling atop his neck, dead.

His limp body was tossed aside by the spear-bearer.

From behind him, a large figure stepped into view. He wore singed and torn robes.

“Pachacutec!” Sam cried.

The man suddenly stumbled forward, falling to his knees before the Incan temple. Tears streaked his soot-stained face. “My people…” he mumbled in English. “Gone.”

A second figure appeared out of the darkness behind the man.

“Norman!” Maggie ran up to the photographer. “What happened?”

Norman shook his head, staring at the impaled form of the friar. “I ran into Pachacutec on the trail, amid the slaughter. He was coming to the temple, chasing after those who would violate his god. I convinced him to help.” But there was no satisfaction in the photographer’s voice; his face was ashen.

Norman’s eyes flicked toward Denal. The photographer wore a look of shame. But the boy crossed to Norman and hugged him tightly. “You saved us,” he mumbled into the tall man’s chest.

As Norman returned the boy’s embrace, tears rose in his eyes.

Off to the side, Pachacutec groaned. He switched back to his native tongue as he bowed before the temple, rocking back and forth, praying. He was beyond consolation. Blood ran from under his robes and trailed into the golden chamber. He looked near death himself.

Henry crossed closer to the king. If Maggie’s story was true, here knelt one of the founders of the Incan empire. As an archaeologist who had devoted his entire lifetime to the study of the Incas, Henry found himself suddenly speechless. A living Incan king whose memories were worth a thousand caverns of gold. Henry turned to Sam, his eyes beseeching. This king must not die.

Sam seemed to understand. He knelt beside Pachacutec and touched the king’s robe. “Sapa Inca,” he said, bowing his head. “The temple saved my life, as it once saved yours. Use it again.”

Pachacutec stopped rocking, but his head still hung in sorrow. “My people gone.” He raised his face toward Sam and the others. “Maybe it be right. We do not belong in your world.”

“No, heal yourself. Let me show you our world.”

Henry stepped forward, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder, adding his support. “There is much you could share, Inca Pachacutec. So much you can teach us.”

Pachacutec pushed slowly to his feet and faced Henry. He reached a hand to the professor’s cheek and traced a wrinkle. He then dropped his arm and turned away. “Your face be old. But not as old as my heart.” He stared into the temple, his face shining. “Inti now leads my people to janan pacha. I wish to go with them.”

Henry stared over the king’s shoulder to Sam. What could they say? The man had lost his entire tribe.

Tears ran down Pachacutec’s cheeks as he slid a gold dagger from inside his robe. “I go to join my people.”

Henry reached toward the Sapa Inca. “No!” But he was too late.

Pachacutec plunged the dagger into his breast, bending over the blade like a clenched fist. Then he relaxed; a sigh of relief escaped his throat. He slowly straightened, and his fingers fell away from the blade’s hilt.

Henry gasped, stumbling back, as flames jetted out from around the dagger impaled in the king’s chest. “What the hell…?”

Pachacutec stumbled into the temple’s chamber. “I go to Inti.”

“Spontaneous combustion,” Sam whispered, stunned. “Like the cavern beasts.”

Maggie nodded. “His body’s the same as the creatures’.”

“What’s happening?” Henry asked, staring at the flames.

Maggie explained hurriedly, “The gold sets off some chain reaction.” She pointed to Pachacutec. Flames now wound out from the dagger and coursed over his torso. “Self-immolation.”

Henry suddenly recalled Joan’s urgent message to him in the helicopter. She had warned him of a way to destroy Substance Z. The gift stolen by Prometheus. Fire!

Turning, Henry saw Pachacutec fall to his knees, his arms lifted. Flames climbed his raised limbs.

Oh, God!

Henry grabbed Sam and Maggie and shoved them toward the tunnel’s exit. “Run!” he yelled. He kicked the kneeling guard. “Go!”

“What? Why?” Sam asked.

“No time!” Henry herded them all onward. Denal and Norman ran ahead, while Henry and Maggie helped Sam on his wobbly legs. As they fled, Henry recalled Joan’s final warning: Prometheus packs a vicious punch! Like plastic explosive!

Her words proved too true. As they reached the tunnel’s end, a massive explosion rocked the ground under their feet. A blast of superheated air rocketed the entire group down the path, tumbling, bruising. The passage behind them coughed out smoke and debris.

“On your feet!” Henry called as he bumped to a stop. “Keep going!”

The group obeyed with groaned complaints, limping and racing onward. The trail continued to tremble under their heels. “Don’t stop!” Henry called.

Boulders crashed down from the volcanic heights. The shaking in the ground grew even worse. Below, hundreds of parrots screeched and flew out of the jungle canopy.

What was happening?

As Henry reached the escarpment below the cliffs, he risked a glance back up. A monstrous crack in the rock face trailed from the tunnel straight up the side of the cone.

Sam leaned on Maggie, both catching their breath. The others hovered nearby. Sam’s eyes suddenly grew wide. “Oh, God!” he yelled. “Look!” He pointed across the valley.

Henry stared. The original steam vents had become spewing geysers of scalding water. New cracks appeared throughout the valley, belching more foggy steam and water into the sky. One section of the volcanic cone fell away with a grinding roar. “It’s coming apart!” Henry realized.

Maggie pointed behind them, toward the volcanic peak to the south. Black smoke billowed skyward. The scent of sulfur and burning rock filled the valley.

Sam straightened. “The explosion must have triggered a fault. A chain reaction. Hurry! To the helicopter!”

Norman chimed in with even more good news. “We’ve got company, folks!” He pointed to the smoking tunnel.

From the heart of the enveloping blackness, pale shapes leaped forth like demons from hell. The creatures piled and writhed from the opening, screeching, bellowing. Claws scrabbled on rock.

“The explosions must have panicked them,” Maggie said. “Overcoming their fear of the tunnel.”

From the heights, black eyes swung in their direction. The keening wail changed in pitch.

“Run!” Henry bellowed, terrified at the sight. “Now!”

The group fled across the rough terrain. Chunks of basalt now rattled upon the quaking ground, sounding like the chatter of teeth. It made running difficult. Henry fell, scraping his palms on the jagged stone. Then Sam was there, pulling him to his feet.

“Can you make it, Uncle Hank?” he asked, puffing himself.

“I’m gonna have to, aren’t I?” Henry took off again, but black spots swam across his vision.

Sam lent him an arm, and Maggie suddenly appeared on his other side. Together, they helped Henry across the rough terrain to the flat meadow. Ahead, Norman was already pulling Denal and the abbey guardsman into the belly of the chopper. The photographer’s eyes met theirs across the meadow. “Hurry! They’re at your heels!”

Henry made the mistake of looking back. The quicker of the pale creatures already flanked them. Not far behind, larger creatures bearing clubs and stones bore down upon them.

Henry suddenly tripped and almost brought them all down. But as a group, they managed to keep their feet and continued running. Henry found himself beginning to black out here and there. Soon he was being carried between Sam and Maggie.

“Let me go… save yourselves.”

“Yeah, right,” Sam answered.

“Who does he think we are?” Maggie added with forced indifference.

Everything went black for a few seconds.

Then hands were pulling Henry into the helicopter. He felt the rush of wind and realized the helicopter’s rotors were already twirling. A loud metallic crash sounded near his head.

“They’re lobbing boulders,” Norman called out.

“But they’re not coming any closer,” Maggie added from the doorway. “The helicopter has them spooked.”

A second ringing jolt struck the helicopter’s fuselage. The whole vehicle shuddered.

“Well, they’re damn close enough!” Norman turned and hollered to the pilot. “Get this bird off the ground!

Henry struggled to sit as the door slammed shut. “Sam…?”

He felt a pat on his shoulder as he was hauled into his seat and strapped in. “I’m here.” He turned to see Sam smiling at him, Maggie at his shoulder.

“Thank God,” Henry sighed.

“God? Which one?” Norman asked with a grin, settling into his seat.

The helicopter suddenly shuddered again—not from the bombardment of boulders, but from a hurried liftoff. The bird tilted, then rose slowly. A final crash on the underside rocked the chopper.

“A parting kiss,” Norman said, staring out the window at the cavorting and gamboling throng down below.

The helicopter then climbed faster, beyond the reach of their stones.

Henry joined the photographer in staring over the valley. Below, the jungle was on fire. Smoke and steam almost entirely obscured the view. Fires lit up patches of the dense fog. A view of Dante’s Hell.

As Henry stared, relief mixed with sorrow in his heart. So much had been lost.

Then they were over the cone’s lip and sweeping down and away.

They had made it!

As the helicopter dived between the neighboring peaks, Henry stared behind them. Suddenly a loud roar exploded through the cabin; the helicopter jumped, rotors screamed. Henry flew backward. For a few harrowing moments, the bird spun and twisted wildly.

The pilot swore, struggling with his controls. Everyone else clutched straps in white-knuckled grips.

Then the bird righted itself and flew steady again.

Henry dragged himself up and returned to his observation post. As he looked out, he gasped, not in fright but in wonder. “You all need to come see this.”

The others joined him at the window. Sam leaned over, a palm resting on his uncle’s shoulder. Henry patted his nephew’s hand, squeezing his fingers for a moment.

“It’s strangely beautiful,” Maggie said, staring out.

Behind the helicopter, two twin spires of molten rock lit up the afternoon skies, one from each volcano. It was a humbling sight.

Henry finally leaned back in his seat. Closing his eyes, he thought back to Friar de Almagro and all his warnings. The man had given his own life to stop the evil here.

Henry whispered softly to the flaming skies, “Your dying prayer has been answered, my friend. Rest in peace.”