The Mammoth Book of Cthulhu

Lois H. Gresh’s inspiration for “In the Sacred Cave” came from a museum visit where she saw “thousands of Inca clay pots representing all realms of life, death, and whatever lies beyond death. To the ancients, these realms were intertwined, and one could communicate with and perform actions with beings in these other realms. What came before the ancient Incas? Could they have been unknown Old Ones, and their realms unknown times and spaces? Why would human life matter in such a vast multi-dimensional context? Lois pondered these ideas while in Peru, where she wrote “In the Sacred Cave.”

Gresh is the New York Times best-selling and USA Today best-selling author of twenty-nine books and sixty-five stories. Look for her trilogy of Lovecraftian Sherlock Holmes thrillers coming soon from Titan Books. Her latest book is collection Cult of the Dead and Other Weird and Lovecraftian Tales (Hippocompus), and she recently edited Innsmouth Nightmare and Dark Fusions (both for PS Publishing). She has weird stories in eighteen recently released anthologies, including, Dreams From the Witch House, New Cthulhu 2: More Recent Weird, Black Wings III, Gothic Lovecraft, That is Not Dead, Dark Phantastique, Mountain Walked, Madness of Cthulhu, Searchers After Horror, Expiration Date, Black Wings IV, Eldritch Chrome, Summer of Lovecraft, Mark of the Beast, and more.

In the Sacred Cave

Sky so brown, like rusty iron. Tarnished clouds.

Never anything to do here, just listen to the insects buzz and the world groan.

Chicya can’t spend another day here, she just can’t.

Far below, the river thrashes as if trying to punch its way through the mountains. Nearby, her alpaca dips its head, and teeth rip the scabby ichu from the ground.

Chicya swishes lime around in her mouth, and it mingles with mashed coca leaves. The mountain seems to tremble with her.

The air vibrates slightly. A vehicle rattles.

She scrabbles to the edge of the terrace and cranes her neck over Orq’o Wichay, the sacred mountain of her ancestors. Wriggling down the opposite mountain to the river is the Owambaye pass, known only to the indigenous Inca, never to the Spanish or those of mixed heritage. A pickup truck rumbles around a boulder and totters on the edge of the Owambaye where it hangs a thousand meters over the water.

Chicya blinks to keep colors from swirling before her eyes. What’s a truck doing here? They never come this far into the Peruvian mountains.

Should she warn the elders?

No one will believe her. They always say she’s loco, born under a dark moon.

The truck vanishes around a bend, and perhaps she hallucinated the whole thing. Chicya hangs her head, and the black mood settles over her. If only I had enough nerve, she thinks, I’d throw myself off the mountain and hit bottom, crushed to dust, and let the river heave me downstream.

If only . . .

The birds cry. The flowers, once drenched in honey, smell stale. The clouds part, only for a moment, and exhale a strand of sunlight before closing again.

Time creeps into the distance.

Suddenly an animal screams, and Chicya’s alpaca freezes, head high, drip of vegetation hanging from its mouth. Screams rise and echo and expand in bands of air that puff up to where Chicya slumps on her terrace.

She leaps up, and a wave of dizziness hits. She almost falls but staggers back, careful not to slip off the ledge, for now is not her time. She doesn’t have enough nerve. Not yet.

The screams are odd. They’re not from any mountain creature she knows. Nor are they the shrieks of people, a sound she knows well from childhood. The Shining Path killers are long gone, sequestered in the Amazon now — and let them have their cocaine trade, for who needs it, not the pure Inca, no, not those of us who still chew the leaf.

Chicya scrambles up the grass to the plateau and stumbles through the woods. A chinchilla peeks from beneath yellow flowers that spread like stars across the boulders. The blood-colored bark of the paper tree exfoliates, and the twisted limbs grab at her and branches rake her hair. Roots crack through the earth and trip her, and she lurches but regains her footing and scuttles down the trail to the bottom of the mountain. She has to catch her breath, let her heart slow. She leans, hands on knees, and stares at the ground. It’s red from clay, red from blood.

The scent of grilled meat floats past, and she lifts her head. She hasn’t eaten in two days.

She scoots past the lapacho trees to the clearing by the village, then stops. What good will it do to go there? This is where she was found as a baby. Shining Path killed her parents, the villagers said. Sixteen years ago they died. They rescued her, but the villagers have always hated Chicya. “A drain on our resources,” they say, and “you eat our food and live nowhere, and all you do for us is nothing.”

Yes, that’s what she is, nothing, and she knows it. A freak of nature, alone, as adrift as the clouds.

In the clearing, a lopsided van crouches. Its rear lights are bashed, the tires deflated. Dents bruise the back and the side panel, where red letters spell TRUE SACRED VALLEY. The words look all drippy as if an idiot smeared them on with a brush.

Next to the van is the pickup truck. Up close, it doesn’t look so good. Rust scabs the body like a pox. The paint is a color that reminds Chicya of rat skin. Steam rises from three bowls on the open cargo bed. Stew. Grilled alpaca with tomato, cilantro, and lime.

Near the vehicles, dozens of villagers huddle in a tight knot. They’re all indigenous Inca, just like Chicya, but they’ve lost their way. They no longer follow the three main Inca laws. They lie and gossip about each other. They’re too lazy to rise up and fight the oppressive government. And every one of them would steal from his own mother if given half a chance.

Something squeals, and the villagers scream and pump the air with their fists. Chicya moves closer. Within the knot of villagers, animals scuffle and grunt.

A loud crack rings out, as if metal has cleaved skull, and the crowd goes wild. Another crack, a heavy blow no doubt, and an animal screeches, then whimpers and falls silent.

Chicya elbows her way to the center of the crowd. Those who recognize her scoff and try to shove her away. She retains her footing and glares back.

And then she sees them, the animals that are fighting: two men in loin cloths, squatting close to the ground, their round bodies smashed together. White fur forms patterns on their black skin, making them look faintly like the black-and-white pottery of the ancient Chimus of the Moche Valley. From their shoulders to their waists, blood mats the white fur into pink cotton. Stumps at the bottoms of their legs wobble in the dirt. Nearby is an Incan death club, gold and etched with serpents.

Slowly the men rise, their faces twisted in pain, and Chicya sees that neither man has a neck. They look like men, but there’s something off about them. Their bodies start sizzling where joined — and how can this be? — and the burned flesh crackles.

The villagers shriek and clap their hands.

Chicya turns to run, but her forehead slams against something hard. She reels back, vaguely sees a shovel and a laughing face.

Furry hands grab her. They lift her, and before she knows it, they throw her into the back of the pickup truck. She struggles but can’t break free.

Bizarre animals pin down her arms and sit on her legs. She can’t kick her legs loose, can’t ball her fists and punch the animals.

They might be women, but then again, they might not even be human. Like the fused men, they have no feet. Their bald heads are tattooed with Inca patterns: three stairs, a feline, a deer, a serpent. They wear rags and have no breasts, and in fact, their bodies are as round as urns. Chicya opens her mouth to scream, but several furry fingers jam into her mouth, and she wretches, the fur wet and dirty, the fingers gagging her. She sinks back, willing herself to go limp. Her torso convulses as she gags, and finally, the fingers slide from her mouth.

In the ancient Quechua language, they talk. “An amazing freak and easy to snatch” and “an orphan, nobody will care” and “people will pay a lot for her.” They coo at her, they stroke her black hair, and one of them tells her, “Relax. We won’t hurt you. You’re one of us now.”

Fingers peel back her lips and force open her teeth. She tries to bite, but the fingers are too strong. Sweet corn juice, the chicha, pours down her throat, and she sputters. But she can’t choke, can’t let them kill her, for now is not her time. She’s not ready to die, not yet, not this way.

They help her sit, and they poke alpaca meat into her mouth, and she chews and swallows. They feed her strange corn, each kernel the size of a thumbnail.

She dozes off and on, and is barely aware she’s in a truck bouncing down the mountain passages. Wheels grind over rock and dirt. The truck wheezes. Female voices say, “Ollantayambo” and “in the heart of the Sacred Valley.” A woodpecker raps a tree, and Chicya pictures its beak and the bobbing of its head. The rapping fades into the crunch of the wheels.

Finally, the truck stops, and the female creatures carry her to a straw pallet, where she sleeps through the night. When she awakens, she’s woozy as if drugged.

She slips outside.

The air is heavy again with the scent of alpaca stew. The truck and van are parked by a small roofless building made from stone, where smoke drifts to the sky.

On a rock bench to her left, a large clay pot begins to rattle. Molded in the clay, two girls embrace on the side of the pot, which now clanks across the bench.

Chicya squeezes her eyes shut, then opens them again, but her vision doesn’t clear.

The pot spins. The clay girls clench each other more tightly.

Chicya whirls, seeking an escape route. Forest-clad cliffs on three sides. Path snaking down the mountain. And behind the bench, rock stairs thrust into the clouds. How’s she going to get out of here?

Her heart raps louder than the woodpecker.

She clenches her fists, wills herself not to cry.

A man saunters from the roofless building. He’s short and round with no neck, but what startles her the most is his face: the lidless black eyes, the toothless smile stretching from ear to ear, and the deep creases — folds really — that make his forehead look like wet clay. Gold prongs, each the size of Chicya’s big toe, skewer his ears, and he wears a gold nosepiece that looks like the spread wings of a condor. His tunic is knit from yarn unlike anything Chicya has ever seen: gold and red, as if spun from a bloody sun, and tufted to make his torso look feathered. Unlike the other monsters, this one holds a gun, and it’s aimed right at Chicya.

With his other hand, he shoves a fistful of ground meat into his mouth. The smile doesn’t waver, even as he mashes the meat with his gums. As he approaches, she smells cuy chactado, fried guinea pig. His pace quickens, and she sees that he has feet. No stumps, but feet.

She shrinks back from him.

“Good,” he says, “it’s good to show respect.” His voice is oddly high, and his Quechua syllables end in trills. He pops the gun into a pocket.

“What . . . who are you?” she whispers.

“Welcome to the True Sacred Valley. Here, all that matters is the most sacred Inca ceremony. We’ve never lost it. You’ll fit right in.”

Her mind reels. What is the most sacred of all Inca ceremonies? She tries to remember. Inca children were sometimes fattened before ritual slaughter. Women drank fermented corn chicha before being sacrificed to the gods. Priests wrapped the corpses of royal Inca in beautifully embroidered funerary blankets, and buried them with gold masks, ear plugs, and nostril plates. She stares at the man. He’s wearing similar accouterments.

“You have nothing to fear in Wakapathtay,” he says.

Surely, he jokes. This can’t be Wakapathtay. Nobody’s ever seen the village, much less lived in it. According to the ancients, Wakapathtay was the birthplace of those who came before the true Inca. It sat high on a mountain over the Sacred Valley, tucked where only goats and alpaca could climb. Wakapathtay was also home to the Sacred Cave where, in 1544, the leader Manqu Inca — who defeated Hernando Pizarro’s forces in the village of Ollantayambo — went to die.

The man takes Chicya’s arm, and he gently strokes it. But if he thinks this soothes her in any way, he couldn’t be more wrong. Her skin crawls beneath his touch. She wants nothing to do with him or his companions. “You’re living proof that Wakapathtay exists, just as we all are,” he says. “We remind people of their heritage. You can’t get this service anywhere else because, you see, everything springs from Wakapathtay.”

“What do you do to these people?” she asks.

“I give their lives meaning.” He turns as two creatures hobble on leg stumps from the path that snakes up the mountain. One creature looks like a spotted deer with a rope around his neck. The other has the face of an owl and the body of a cat. Both have spouts on their heads. They carry a stretcher made from the same yarn as the man’s tunic. On the stretcher is a bizarre corpse made from two fused men. Although their faces are mangled to pulp, she knows from their black skin and bloodied white fur that these are the “men” she saw fighting before her capture. They had beat the life out of each other with the clubs.

“Come!” The man drags her over to the creatures and their stretcher. He trills wildly, and the deer and owl look relieved. Then he says, “This is an honor and a blessing. Cisco and Luis have done well.”

Cisco and Luis, the fused corpse.

The owl creature bobs its head. “We thank you, Maras. You are kindness itself.”

The clay pot of the intertwined girls clacks across the bench. The girls writhe, and their mouths open as if they are screaming; and the pot itself seems to wail.

The man, Maras, ignores the commotion on the bench and tells the deer and owl to “bring the new girl to Nayra to feed. She’ll make a good replacement for Bachue and Cava.” Then he scoops up the clay pot, which writhes and wails more shrilly, and stuffs it into a backpack. “Back to the cave, my lovelies.” Unblinking eyes leer at at Chicya, up and down they gaze, as if assessing her value.

The deer grabs one of her arms, the owl grabs the other. She screams and tries to yank her arms free, but these two are strong, like rock, and the struggling bruises her skin. They drag her through the dirt to the roofless building.

Maras clambers up the steep stairs carved into the mountain. His backpack bobs as he hoists himself from stair to stair. Chicya feels sorry for the girls of the clay pot. The pot seemed so alive, the two girls so miserably pathetic and fated to . . . what?

As the deer and owl nudge her into the tent, an elderly woman on skinny stumps sways in the breeze. She strums a harp and warbles an old Inca tune.

What might be a girl eases Chicya onto a chair and hands her a platter of food. The stew: alpaca, cilantro, lime, and tomato; and again, the large kernels of corn. The girl: face gnarled like a tree trunk, knobs like giant warts on her neck and arms, hair long and sleek like a black waterfall, body slender like Chicya’s; and Chicya dips her eyes, and yes, the girl has two feet.

“I’m Nayra.” The girl gestures at the platter. “Go ahead. Eat.”

Chicya sips from a cup. Fermented corn juice. She sips again and tells the girl her name, then says, “Please, tell me what’s going on here. What do they want with me?”

The girl lowers her voice. “If you cook or drive a truck or fix things for Maras, he spares you.”

“From what?”

“I cook.”

“What does he spare you from, Nayra?”

Nayra quivers. The knobs on her neck shake. “Don’t ask me anything else,” she says. “Just eat.”

And so it goes as time passes. Nayra gives Chicya more food than she can eat, and it’s always the same: the corn kernels and fermented juice, the alpaca stew. Nayra refuses to supply any information. Maras checks on Chicya as she rests on her pallet, and he seems pleased. She’s too weak to do anything but eat and sleep.

Over time, she changes, and not for the better. Her face feels gnarled, and her skin hurts when she smiles. Her stomach is larger, her waist ill-defined, her toes half the size they were when she first came here. Worse, she feels drugged all the time, and it isn’t a good feeling like with the coca and lime. Rather, it dulls her brain and makes her sluggish.

She could stumble down the road that winds up the mountain to this place. She could, but every time the thought enters her head, she falls back asleep. Besides, her feet have withered and are now mere nubs, so how far would she get? And then, there’s that small problem about Maras with his gun . . .

“Did you ever think,” Nayra says one day, “that your life would end like this?”

Chicya lies on her pallet. Her arms are heavy, her legs like wood. Nayra sits beside her, stumped legs outstretched, body round now like a ball. She lost her feet weeks ago. Her skin looks jaundiced, or maybe . . . claylike.

“Why do you suddenly care about me?” asks Chicya.

“For five years, I’ve been here and Maras never made me fight. I only had to cook. Now,” she blinks back tears, “well, look at me. I’m as good as gone.”

“So you let him do this to me out of fear for yourself?”

“I never thought he’d make me fight. He’s always favored me. Of course, he had Bachue and Cava to earn money for him, and now they’re broken.”

Chicya props herself on her elbows. It’s hard to keep her head from crashing back to the pallet. She shifts to her side, keeps her left elbow on the bed, then cradles her head in her hand. This keeps her head up.

“What would happen if you stop feeding me the drugged food and drinks?”

“It’s not drugged. And the answer is, you would starve. That’s all we have.”

“Well, if it’s not drugged, then what is it?”

Nayra stretches out on the floor and stares at the cloudless sky. She doesn’t look at Chicya. “Everyone says our people died because the conquistadores brought smallpox, not because their gods were stronger than ours. You remember how the only time the Inca ever defeated the Spanish was at Ollantayambo?”

Chicya doesn’t understand. What does this have to do with anything? But she nods. “Yes.”

“And how, years later, the Manqu Inca was betrayed and attacked by those under his protection? Barely alive, he came to Wakapathtay to die in the Sacred Cave?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what do you think is so special about the cave? About this place?” Nayra asks.

“Look, just tell me. Don’t play guessing games. Maybe I can figure out a way to get us out of here.”

Nayra scoffs. “This isn’t a riddle. I thought you might know more than me. I don’t know what’s in the cave. I never go up there. I don’t cross Maras. I prefer to remain off the shelf.”

A long pause.

“Besides,” Nayra continues, “if you haven’t noticed, not many people here have feet or a body shape suitable for walking, much less climbing stairs or mountains.” Her voice trails off, and her eyes shut. She fades into the fog of the stew and the corn and the chicha.

Maras said that Chicya would make a fine replacement for the Bachue and Cava act. Nayra says that she’s turning into a freak because the Bachue and Cava pottery is broken. An image of Cisco and Luis flashes through Chicya’s mind, how they clubbed each other to death for the true believers, the Inca of the Sacred Valley.

After Nayra leaves, Chicya plucks a lime slice from a jar of alpaca stew and sucks on it. The tartness revives her, and thinking she might need sustenance, she tucks the jar into the front of her pants, then grasps the pole in the middle of the tent and forces herself to stand. She limps outside, where the forests buzz with insects, twigs crackle, streams slosh, and the alpaca chew the ichu. A buzzard whirls overhead. The elderly woman on skinny stumps is a statue by the cook tent, her harp fused to her body.

Chicya isn’t sure what’s real and what’s in her mind. But when she sees Maras hoisting himself up the stairs toward the Sacred Cave, she knows that he’s real. And this time, she’s going up there after him.

His tunic sparkles. The condor wings of his nosepiece shoot light into her eyes. His backpack bobs as he disappears into the brush at the top of the stairs.

Where will she find the strength to follow him?

On the other hand, how many times has Chicya climbed the stairs up Orq’O Wichay? If she can climb her own sacred mountain without eating for days, then she can climb this one, too.

She grasps ichu in her fists and hoists herself up to the first stair. She pauses, then hoists herself up two more stairs. A chinchilla darts from the ichu to a boulder draped in yellow flowers, scoots across the rock and disappears.

It must be a sign from the true Inca gods. They won’t let the false holiness of Maras taint the already warped villagers any longer.

Perhaps Chicya spent her life on Orq’O Wichay for a reason. She kept the ancient ways alive. She was the only one. Perhaps with Chicya’s help, the true Inca gods will intervene.

To the left of the yellow flowers, a coca bush displays its leaves like ornaments. Chicya plucks several and chews, mashes the coca with the lime and lets the juice dribble down her throat.

Eventually, she reaches the brush where Maras disappeared. The mountain rises far beyond the top stair, which levels off and joins a rock path cut into the side of the cliff. She ducks beneath the brush, then scoots against the rock wall along the narrow path. Her palms press against the rock, red like clay, red like blood.

She’s not afraid. She’s been training for this moment her entire life for reasons she only now understands.

The buzzard circles. He’s in the right place, for now is not her time, but it’s time for someone else.

Maras’ voice trills happily from the Sacred Cave. “Back on the shelf with you, my lovelies. I need new Inca blood. Perhaps you will do. And you.” Pottery clatters, and an odd keening echoes off the walls of the cave and filters down the cliff.

Chicya slides closer to the cave.

His trilling stops—

and she stops—

and now she inches closer until she finally steps into the mouth of the Sacred Cave. Heat flushes through her body. Her flesh tingles. The ancient air envelops her, and suddenly, she knows . . . without a doubt, she knows why she’s here.

A candle flickers in the far end of the cave, where Maras tinkers with his pots.

Hundreds of pots.

Thousands of pots.

Shelves reach from the cave floor to the ceiling in all directions, and crammed on every shelf are ancient Incan pots of all sizes, types, and dimensions. Black pots with white paint. Clay pots with red paint. Pots of men fighting. Pots of clay okra, corn, all forms of vegetables and fruits. Pots of doctors performing surgery on a girl’s chest, a man’s abdomen, a child’s head. Pots of women giving birth. Pots of two girls and a dead man having sex. Pots of deer frolicking in the woods. Pots of owl faces with cat bodies.

Next to the broken Bachue and Cava pot — the two girls — is one that looks like the fused Cisco and Luis.

Does Maras plan to turn Chicya and Narya into a pot like Bachue and Cava?

Yes. Maras plans to put Chicya and Narya on the shelf . . .

Chicya gazes at row upon row of the clay figures. Some weep. Some wave their arms at her. Some squirm, some twitch.

The ancients made pots depicting every aspect of life involving humans, animals, vegetables, fruits, and the supernatural dead. In Wakapathtay, the corn is larger than any other Peruvian corn, the alpaca wool is stronger than any other wool, and the alpaca meat tastes the best.

Why doesn’t Maras turn into pottery along with everybody else?

The stew jar shifts in her pants, and instinctively, her hand grabs it. Her back knocks against some pots, which rattle on the shelves.

Maras spins, and he whips out his gun. His lidless eyes widen, and candle light flicks across his slick smile. His laughter is shrill. “I knew you were special. I knew you were different. You’re feisty, aren’t you, little girl?”

He wiggles the gun, breaks into wild laughter, and leaps at her, and his forefinger presses the trigger.

She screams and darts to the side, her back banging against the shelves, as a bullet cracks into a pot of two warriors. They crumble to dust at her feet.

She throws herself at him, tackles him to the ground, and pins his arms down the way the female freaks pinned hers in the pickup truck. The gun skitters across the floor.

He wriggles beneath her, but she’s massive now and rock-solid, having consumed so much of the alpaca stew and corn, for now she knows: it is the special alpaca and corn of Wakapathtay that deforms the people and turns the pots into living creatures. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

Everyone here eats the stew except Maras, who eats cuy chactado. He must have stopped eating the stew shortly after his body began to change. This is why he still has feet, why he doesn’t freeze up and turn into a footless freak.

This is why the pots seem so alive, because they are alive.

Withhold the stew, the deformed people become pots again. On the shelf. Give them stew, the pots transform into mindless fighters.

But how . . . ? Nayda said something about smallpox. This is what she meant: here, in isolation, the virus changed . . . mutated . . . and infected the alpaca . . .

Maras wrenches his arm free, and she cracks it against the ground — it breaks. He howls in pain as she reaches into her pants and removes the jar of stew. His lips burble froth. “No, not that, no!” he shrieks.

What does Maras get out of it, the fighting? she wonders, as she twists open the jar and tilts it over his mouth.

“This is what you’ve been doing to me all this time, isn’t it? Pump me full of alpaca, and I’ll become another fighting freak, right? When I’m done fighting, when I’m broken, you’ll put me on the shelf with all these other poor people. Well, it’s stew time for you, Maras, and when you are a neckless monster, I’ll withdraw the stew, and then I’ll put you on the shelf.”

He shakes his head. No no no no no no . . .

A blob of stew falls between his lips. He chokes, but he must swallow. And now another blob falls.

It was here in the Sacred Cave that Manqu Inca died eight years after defeating the Spanish who spread smallpox throughout Peru. Manqu Inca knew that mutated viruses flourished in the alpaca of Wakapathtay, that the viruses infected the Inca after they ate the meat, and that the Sacred Cave held many of his people — transformed and on the shelf, but still alive. Manqu Inca wanted to die among these people, the strangest victims of the Spanish conquest.

“Do the alpaca grazing in Wakapathtay possess something in their meat that gives strength to these pots?” she asks.

Maras shakes his head. No no no no no no . . .

She twists her body and sits on his unbroken arm. Her free hand claps the bottom of the jar, and half the stew plops onto his face. She smears it into his wide, wide mouth.

His head slams from one side to the other. The gold ear plugs rattle, and tomatoes drip from the gold condor wings in his nose.

She rips strips from his alpaca tunic, the color of bloody sun. She ties his wrists behind his back and his ankles behind his body. He’s face down on the clay-red rock.

She places a huge pot next to Maras’s head. His lidless eyes weep. He knows what she’s going to do.

The pot is from the time of the people who built the temple Collud, ancestors of Chicya’s ancestors, and has a spider’s head, a feline’s mouth, and a bird’s beak. It is the spider god, who fills its webs with decapitated human heads.

She dumps stew on the spider god to revive him, then thrusts the last alpaca chunk into Maras’ mouth. She will return and force more meat into Maras. He will be a freak. And then she’ll go away from here, far away, and Maras will become pottery with a broken arm –

Unless the spider god takes care of him first.

She imagines the humiliation and torture endured by the spider god time and time again fighting for Maras.

“What did you get out of it?” she demands. “Money? Power? The people thought you provided the true Inca way. They ate your special Wakapathtay stew, thinking it medicine that kept them from turning into monsters. A terrible thought hits her. “They paid you to watch those fights, didn’t they? They paid you in hopes you would protect them from becoming freaks. Just like Narya, who cooked your guinea pig so the Inca gods, through you, wouldn’t turn her into a monstrosity.”

He sputters. She knows that she’s right. Money. Greed. Lies. Extortion. The human way.

“You’re so common,” she spits.

“And you,” he manages, “what are you that’s so special?”

She knew the answer as soon as she entered the Sacred Cave. It was in the old, old air. Now, she sucks in a deep breath, and heat races through her limbs and into her brain.

“I’m an ancient,” she says. “I’m the Inca before there was an Inca. I’m beyond known time. I’m . . .” she pauses. “I’m the Old One.” Her words are in the ancient Quechua language but with their original pronunciations. “Q’ulsi pertaggen cantatro’f’l Cthulhu fh’thagn. Q’ulsi perhagen n’cree’b’f’w’l.”

“You’re nothing! You’re an orphan!” he snarls.

“No,” she says quietly. “I’m not an orphan. I’m not a qzwck’l’zhadst. You see, I never had parents. People found me as a baby. Who were my parents, Maras? Do you know? Does anyone know?”

He’s beyond answering. Behind his eyes lurks madness.

She has him on the edge.

“You see, Maras, I never fit in. I never cared about being alive. Death was nothing to me. I’ve been biding my time, waiting for the right moment. I never understood until now.”

A thread slinks from the bottom of the spider god’s abdomen. Maras shrinks back, eyes bulging.

Let him think she’s brought the spider god back to life. Let him think it’s going to devour him or spin him, dead, into a web. What does she care?

These creatures are irrelevant. Maras, Cisco and Luis, Bachue and Cava, Narya, the villagers—

All of them, irrelevant.

No more fighting. No more alpaca stew. They will all turn to pots.

They’re all going on the shelf. Forever.

Her way is the only way. Inca before there was Inca . . . Old One. The sky will hold nothing but tarnished clouds. The world will groan. The Sacred Cave will be hers. The Others will come, and together, they’ll spend eternity here.