Excavation

Dressed in her own khakis and shirt, Maggie huddled in the shadow of the courtyard wall. Holding her breath, afraid to move, she watched Sam and Norman being dragged away. Sweet Jesus, what was she going to do? She silently cursed the mule-headed Texan. He had to go charging blindly into danger. She turned and leaned her back on the stone wall. Hiding as still as a mouse, she had heard most of Pachacutec’s and Inkarri’s stories and knew there was no way to talk them out of this jam.

At least, she had hid Denal before coming here.

Earlier, she had heard the music in the plaza stop abruptly. She had peeked out and watched as Sam and Norman were seized. While instinct had told her to run with Denal as far and fast as possible, she had fought against it. The other two were her friends, and she could not abandon them without trying to help. So she had whisked Denal into the jungle’s edge and told him to stay out of sight. Then she had sneaked back here to discover the fate of her friends.

Now she knew. Maggie peeked through a crescent-shaped hole in the courtyard wall. It was empty. Even the king and the shaman were gone. Maggie stared at the sole reason she still tarried here. Sam’s Winchester rifle lay on the granite cobblestones of the courtyard. If a rescue was going to succeed, she would need that weapon.

Listening for voices, she studied the surrounding rooms for any sign of motion. It seemed clear. Her hands trembled with fear at what she was about to attempt. She bit her lip, refusing to let panic into her heart. Sam and Norman were depending on her. Taking a final deep breath, she grabbed the top of the wall, pulled herself up, and hooked a leg over the edge. She struggled for a few moments, then managed to boost herself over.

With her heart thundering in her throat, Maggie dropped into the courtyard. A blue-and-gold macaw ruffled its feathers, watching her, still tense from the excitement a few moments ago. Maggie willed the bird to remain quiet and crept to the foliage’s edge. The rifle lay only ten meters away. She just needed to dash across the open space, grab the rifle, then flee back over the wall.

It sounded easy until Maggie’s legs began to tremble under her. She knew she would have to act now or lose herself to panic. Clenching her fists, she pushed from the shadows of the trees and ran across the cobbles. Her hands settled upon the stock of the rifle just as voices sounded behind her. Someone was returning! She froze like a deer in headlights, fear paralyzing her. She could not move, could not think.

Suddenly, a log in the fire popped, loud as the blast from a starter’s gun.

It was what she needed. A gasp of fear escaped her throat, releasing her. She snatched the rifle and ran, not caring who might hear her. Terror gave her legs. She flew through the foliage and over the wall in a heartbeat.

She sank gratefully into the shadows, rifle clutched to her chest.

The voices behind her grew louder. Gulping air as silently as she could, she turned and peeked into the courtyard. It was Kamapak and Pachacutec returning. She watched the tattooed shaman cross to the yard’s center and throw a handful of powder into the fire. Azure flame danced to the rooftops, then died back down.

The two men spoke in their native tongue. The only word decipherable was the name Inkarri. The king seemed reluctant to do what the shaman wanted, but finally his shoulders sagged, and he nodded.

Straightening and stepping near the fire, Pachacutec reached to his shoulder and pulled the gold tupu pin that held his robe. The fine cloth fell like a flow of water from his body to pool around his ankles. The Sapa Inca stepped free of his robe, naked of all except his llautu headpiece and his staff.

A hand flew to Maggie’s lips, clamping away her cry of shock. But something must have been heard. The king glanced to the courtyard wall, staring for a long breath, then turned away.

Maggie’s stomach churned with acid. But she knew better than to move. She could not risk the scuff of stone alerting them further to her presence. She stared.

From the neck up, the king’s skin was the familiar mocha brown of the Andean Indians, but from the neck down, his skin was as pale as something found under a rock. It reminded Maggie of the beastly predators that haunted the caverns below. But Pachacutec’s skin was even paler, almost translucent. Vessels could be seen moving blackish blood under his skin; bones appeared as buried shadows. The man’s belly and chest were flat, hairless. Not even nipples or a navel marred the smooth surface. He was also sexless, completely lacking external genitalia.

Sexless and unnaturally smooth. Maggie found one word coming to mind as she stared at this strange apparition. Unformed. It was as if the king’s body were a blank slate waiting to be molded, like pale clay.

Oh, God. The realization dawned on her.

The story of Inkarri was true!