The next morning, on Ellen and William’s fourth day in captivity, El Varón quietly approached Ellen at the enormous wooden dinner table. She was absentmindedly picking at a plate of black beans, rice, and shrimp, and William was playing a horrid shooter game on a game console, the kind of game she would never have allowed him to play at home. After the dark shift in Steve’s personality on his return from the Middle East she couldn’t stomach the hyper-realistic violence of video games.
“Juanita makes nice food, doesn’t she?”
Ellen jumped. El Varón sat next to her. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and a linen suit and looked much healthier than he had the previous day, with only a trace of the previous day’s pallor. If he had been ill, he had gotten suddenly and remarkably better.
“Yes,” Ellen said, barely a whisper. “Very nice.”
El Varón sighed. “I am sorry. I know you are still not happy here. But you will be. Things will get better—I can promise you that.”
Ellen pushed a shrimp around in circles.
He put his hand on top of hers and she pulled away. “Please don’t touch me.” His hands were thin, almost elegant—a woman’s hands—and the nails looked like they’d been meticulously manicured. The slender fingers were cold as ice.
He smiled as if he’d been the subject of a child’s tantrum, and she wished she could smash a hammer against his ridiculously white teeth. “Ellen, I have found out something I must tell you.” He glanced into the nearby room where William was blowing hordes of digital humans to bloody shreds, then leaned closer. “She—the woman who is looking for you and Weel-yam—has made it very clear she will pay very much money for the two of you.”
Ellen put down her fork.
“Many of my associates—here and in your country—have heard that she is offering a very large reward. Not enough to tempt me, of course. But there are many greedy and desperate men who would do anything for that kind of money. It is those men I worry about.”
“What are you trying to say?” Was he trying to scare her? Or were there really others seeking them out?
“I just want you to be aware of how dangerous my situation is. So you can appreciate what I am doing for you. You and Weel-yam. She is a woman with many friends, and some of those friends would love to have my business for their own.” His face was so close now she could smell his breath. Minty, as if he’d just brushed those awful teeth. And his cologne reminded her of the stuff teenage boys wore—heavy and nauseating.
“So why are you doing us this favor? Why not just turn us over and take the money?” she asked.
He looked her directly in the eye and put his hand on hers. Despite every muscle in her body screaming in revulsion, she let his damp, cool palm settle there. “Because, Ellen, if she is so desperate to have you, there must be some reason, yes? A woman with such a high price on her head”—he glanced into the other room—“and on her son’s. Why, I wonder? Maybe you know?”
Ellen looked away, then back into his eyes. Anyone meeting him for the first time might have mistaken those eyes as friendly. Empathetic, even. But El Varón lived in an armed fortress and made his fortune in blood money. And sociopaths were good at pretending to be nice, ordinary men—something he most certainly wasn’t. “I don’t know. I honestly have no idea what she wants with us.” Except that she did. It was purely vengeance. To get back at Ray, of course, but also at the two of them for getting away. Lily wasn’t the type to let something go. But El Varón didn’t need to know that.
El Varón shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. You are here now, and while you are here, you are my guests, and I am a man who treats his guests well. And I also find you to be very interesting.” His hand tightened around hers. “My profession is a lonely one, Ellen. All around me”—he waved his arms—“are men. They are loyal, and they would die for me, as many have. They are good soldiers. But a man needs a break from soldiers and lieutenants. Especially a man of culture and refinement. By their nature, many of my employees are rather brutal. I cannot talk to them about my many interests or discuss things beyond the ugly aspects of my trade. There is an empty hole in my life.”
Yeah, and probably lots of holes in the jungle outside these walls, she thought. One of them with the body of the woman who slept in my room before me. With the blond hair I found in the hairbrush. Which hole was she buried in?
“I found you and brought you and William here because I knew she was looking for you. And your friend—Ray is his name, yes?—who my employees unfortunately missed. But now I see their mistake was fortunate for me. I will not lie to you, Ellen—my first thoughts were to make a deal with her. To just hand the two of you over and collect the bounty. I have very much money, Ellen, but as they say, there is always room in life for more of two things: money and love.”
Ellen’s body stiffened.
“But then I saw you when you arrived. With your charm and beauty and the fire and spirit of a hundred women. Many men in my country want their women to fix their meals and bring them drinks and remain quiet unless they are spoken to. I am not that kind of man. I have servants to cook my food and clean for me. And I find conversations with women to be stimulating. So much more than the brutish, boring discussions of men. You are creatures so very different from us, and I am endlessly fascinated by those differences.”
Ellen nodded. Well, aren’t you the progressive feminist. The creep was trying to play her, but maybe she could turn it against him. Mantu had taught her some basic aikido—a martial art that turns the attacker’s energy back against him. She could use her own subtler form against El Varón if she had to—turning her attractiveness to him as a weapon.
“And the boy—he is very special, too. He is—I’m sorry, I do not have the word in English—místico. Very intelligent, but his perception goes beyond the normal.”
She forced herself to smile. “He is. A very smart kid.” She didn’t like him talking about William. And he seemed to have sensed William’s unusual ability—how so, she couldn’t begin to guess. Unless he, too, had some sort of psychic ability.
His free hand brushed her hair back from her face. She flinched, despite trying not to. But it only seemed to make him smile wider. “So you will remain here, as my guest. Because I think you will learn to be happy. Maybe very happy in time. And with me, you will be safe from all harm. You and William.”
He has to know I’m not buying any of this. “Maybe we will get used to it. If there’s such a high price on our heads, I’m glad you’re keeping us safe. Away from her. And I do appreciate that. I’m sure William does, too.” She cupped her other hand over his and struggled to keep a slight smile on her face when all she wanted to do was claw out his eyes.
El Varón brightened. “And I have been thinking of how to make you even happier. I can take you somewhere away from here. I know I get tired of being inside these walls for so long, but I have many other homes. One of them in Honduras has a private beach. You can have ladies to wait on you, and the loveliest clothes and jewelry—jade and silver and diamonds. I can give you a life that many women can only dream of.”
Please don’t kiss me. Jesus God, please don’t try to kiss me.
“Mom?”
Ellen yanked her hands from El Varón’s, but William had seen it all. His face was blank, but she knew what his eyes were saying. And it made her want to vomit.
El Varón stood. “William, I was just telling your mother about my plans for the two of you. About a trip we can take to my private villa on a very nice beach. Where you can play in the sea and listen to the howler monkeys at night. Does that sound like something you would like?”
Ellen forced a smile but shot William a quick look that said Don’t worry. I got this.
William turned, silently, and walked away.
“He will come around,” El Varón said.
“I think he will,” Ellen answered. Fat chance of that.
Ray and Mantu stopped the next morning at a tiny restaurant that was nothing more than a covered patio outside a cinder block house with two small white plastic tables and a few chairs. Ray’s stomach was still upset from the rum, so he ordered kaq-ik, a rich turkey stew he’d grown to love. Mantu ordered a plate of chuchitos—chicken wrapped in a corn leaf and covered with a pile of pickled cabbage.
The owners of the comedor, a short Mayan couple, eyed Mantu from behind a corrugated steel wall. Black men were a rarity in many parts of rural Guatemala, much more so than white gringos, and although Mantu attempted to pass as a Garifuna, he lacked the subtleties of the Carib speech. Ray and Mantu were an odd couple, which meant they had to be extra cautious. More than once Mantu had been asked if he was an American sports star, to which he usually replied, “Yes. I play professional Ping-Pong.”
Ray spooned a hunk of turkey into his mouth. “Where next, Captain?” He hated eating soup with his makeup on because the steam sometimes made the prosthesis on his cheek tighten uncomfortably. But kaq-ik was too good to pass up.
Mantu waited until he had finished chewing. “North. To El Petén. Near the border with Mexico. One big giant-assed jungle full of jaguars and snakes and narcos.”
“Including our narco. Tell me more about this guy.”
Mantu glanced around and lowered his voice. “They probably don’t speak English here, but let’s keep this on the down-low.”
Ray nodded.
“He’s known as ‘the Gentleman,’ and he acts like one—kind to the ladies, dresses really nice, and he talks like someone refined. But if he’s a gentleman, Adolf Hitler was only a little less gentle than him. You feel me? He’s a capo of all the capos. He runs drugs from Colombia through Mexico and into the States. Mostly meth now, but still plenty of coke. He has the Zetas running scared. The fucking Zetas, Ray—guys who leave bags of severed heads as their calling cards. Even they don’t fuck with him. He wiped out an entire village in Mexico. I’m talking seventy, eighty men and boys. All because someone dissed him—nobody even knows what happened, but someone didn’t pay him the proper respect. That village is nothing but widows and little girls now. He was too much of a gentleman to kill the ladies.”
“Jesus,” Ray whispered. “How come he gets away with it? The cops can’t do anything?”
Mantu laughed. “You’ve been south of border for how long now and you still don’t get it? Guys like him own the government, the police, and the judges. He builds the schools. Your kid gets sick, he pays the doctor. They have a fucking parade for him, man. They sing songs about him on the radio because he owns the goddamned radio station.”
Ray put down his fork. He was losing his appetite. “And we’re going to do what? Walk up to his house and knock on his door? Just ask him to let Ellen and William go?”
Mantu took another bite of the cabbage. “I’m working on that.”
“You keep working on it.” Ray put his head in his hands. He had to trust him. Mantu had saved his ass more than once. Maybe, just maybe, he could do it again.
Ray awoke to Mantu hissing at him. “Get up, man. There’s a roadblock ahead.”
Ray rubbed his eyes and sat up. He’d barely slept and it felt like his head was full of wet cotton. But a roadblock was bad. Really bad, especially for a gringo and a black man with a car full of guns and Brotherhood technology. The headlights illuminated a couple of soldiers in the road ahead, and military vehicles parked in the mud alongside them. They had just let a garishly painted bus pass, and Ray and Mantu were next in line. Both soldiers hefted their automatic rifles.
“Get your paperwork together,” Mantu barked. “Christ, man, your makeup looks like shit.”
Ray poked at his face. His nose prosthesis had slipped while he was asleep. He quickly pressed the sticky sides onto his cheekbones. The adhesive might hold if he was lucky. If not, it was going to be damn difficult to explain why his nose was sliding off his face.
Mantu pulled the van over to the side of the road. “Remember the protocol. Don’t fuck up.”
Ray took a deep breath. They’d drilled on this dozens of times, but it still made him nervous. Encounters with the cops and military were always a gamble. None of their own people wanted anything to do with them, especially those who had suffered through the grueling, bloody civil war. Cops and soldiers were held just a hair above the bandits who robbed people along the roads—and often there was little difference between the two.
Mantu rolled down the window, but before he could say anything a soldier yelled at him to get out of the van. He stepped out, and the soldier yanked open the side door. He stared at Ray.
“Cómo estás, gringo?” He beckoned with his finger.
Ray stepped out. Please don’t let my goddamn nose fall off.
The soldier asked for their papers. Ray handed his passport to the soldier, who smiled with a mouth full of brown teeth. He read the name, glanced at the photo. “Edward Michaels,” he read. “Estados Unidos. You no look so good, Señor Edward Michaels. You been in a fight, gringo?” He laughed, a raspy, phlegmy rattle.
“Mi esposa,” Ray said. My wife. Hoping to get a laugh. It didn’t work.
The cop asked if they had any contraband in the van. “No,” Ray said.
Mantu had been pulled away by another soldier. And another now had joined them, blocking Ray’s view. Sweat dripped off his brow and ran down the side of his fake nose.
“Then I look. Nothing importante, no problema, sí? Okay, Mr. Edward Michaels?”
Ray nodded. “Sí.”
It took the soldier less than a minute to find the guns—two semiautomatic rifles, two pistols, and several boxes of ammo hidden beneath the backseats. The soldier’s face hardened. “Nothing importante, Señor Edward Michaels?” He whistled and the two soldiers talking to Mantu escorted him over.
One of the other soldiers asked Mantu if he had registration papers for the guns. “Sí, sí,” Mantu said. They eyed him warily, and one of the soldiers drew a pistol as Mantu rummaged through the glove box. He handed the soldier a plastic folder.
He looked over the papers, then handed them back to Mantu. Then he asked him what the guns were for.
“Protección,” Mantu said, with the barest of smiles.
The soldier was apparently not impressed. He spat on the ground, then rattled off something so fast Ray couldn’t understand it. Mantu asked to see the capitán.
“You no need to see el capitán.”
And then Mantu did something that Ray had never seen him do. He tilted his head and his voice changed subtly, shifting into a musical lilt. “Por favor,” he said, and asked once again to see the captain, this time in a strange, singsongy pitch. Ray found himself captivated by the strange tones, as did, by the looks on their faces, the soldiers. “El capitán” he said, “Ahora mismo.”
For a long, uncomfortable silence the soldier stared at him. The he nodded and walked off toward a military truck.
Ray stared at Mantu. What the hell had he just done?
The soldier returned with the captain, a squat, squinty-eyed man in a too-tight uniform. He looked pissed, and Ray wondered just how terribly this was all going to end. He’d heard that being shot and left to die by the side of the road was better than winding up in a Guatemalan prison.
The captain asked Mantu what the hell he wanted. His hand rested on his holstered gun. Ray felt his nose slipping. Jesus. Not now.
Mantu pointed to the van. The captain followed him.
The two remaining soldiers stared at Ray. At his face. At the nose that was just about to slide off his face. He looked past them into the darkness. Another bus rolled up behind them.
“Quedate aquí,” one of them said. Stay here.
As the soldiers walked away toward the bus, Ray quickly turned and pressed on the edges of the prosthesis. It wasn’t sticking. He’d left it on too long, and he was sweating too much. And the more he pressed the more it loosened.
The soldiers were yelling at the bus driver. Telling him to wait. The headlights were blinding him. Worse, they were spotlighting him for everyone in the bus. Hey, gringo—your face just fell in the dirt!
Mantu returned with the captain. Both men were grinning, the captain’s mouth full of gold teeth. “We’re good to go, Edward,” Mantu said.
Ray was holding his nose in place. “Okay.” He felt as if he’d been plugged into an electric current and it had suddenly shut off.
“Help me load our stuff back in.”
The captain yelled to his men, then waved to Mantu. When he’d gone, Ray whispered, “What the hell did you do?”
“I’ll explain later.” Mantu lifted the seat and started putting the guns back into their hiding place. “Get in before that fucking thing falls off.”
“It’s something I learned from Micah,” Mantu explained as he drove. “A bit of hypnosis, a little verbal NLP. You have to use your eyes, too. It’s hard to explain.”
“Well, it worked. I thought we were toast, and you turned it around. And you had el capitán giggling like a schoolgirl. Did you make out with him or something?”
Mantu laughed. “I didn’t use any mind tricks on him.”
Ray snorted. “Right.”
“Seriously. I didn’t have to.” He reached inside his shirt and threw a stack of U.S. twenty-dollar bills onto Ray’s lap. “A few of these put that stupid smile on his face.”
Ray riffled the bills. “I guess that’s one of the oldest tricks in the book.”
“Yep. Plus, that guy was as dumb as a doorknob. There wasn’t much of a mind to work with. But money talks.”
“Well, thanks for keeping us out of prison.”
“No problem.” He slowed down to pass a cow standing halfway in the road. “Get your nose back on. And pray we don’t run into another roadblock.”
The roads were a nightmare of mud and deep puddles, dangerous ruts, and drivers seemingly intent on killing them. From Escuintla they headed west—Mantu wanted to avoid Guatemala City and the police and military patrols they’d likely encounter along the way—before heading through the mountains on their way north to El Petén and the narco-infested jungles along the border of Mexico. It was a long, bumpy, and uncomfortable ride along some of the country’s worst back roads, but it was a lot safer than the direct route—provided they didn’t get stuck or slide off into a gaping crevasse or one of the numerous stinking swamps, or get hijacked by a gang of thieves.
When he wasn’t driving, Ray spent the time staring out the window at the country passing by—a palette of land almost entirely green, broken by brown cow-trampled fields and primary-colored farmhouses surrounded by curious children, chickens, and dogs. Guatemala was a land of incredible natural beauty but also oppressive, debilitating poverty and ugly industrial blight. It reminded him of his time in Blackwater, where so many of the residents lived in squalid homes or trailer parks in the midst of stretches of unspoiled, picture-postcard wilderness.
And his mind never strayed far from Ellen and William. He knew Mantu’s choice of roads was in their best interest, but damn if he didn’t wish they could pick up the pace and take a route with actual pavement instead of dirt, gravel, and mud. Now Ray could see mountains looming ahead over the treetops, sharp-edged and wrapped in dense, cottony clouds. Beyond the mountains lay a great expanse of farmland all the way until the jungles of El Petén, where he prayed Ellen and William were still alive, unhurt, and out of the reach of Lily.
Mantu was tight-lipped about what he planned to do once they arrived at El Varón’s heavily fortified compound. He was still figuring it out, apparently, which wasn’t comforting—the couple of semiautomatic rifles they were packing would not get them far into the lair of a big-time international narco. But at least they were doing something, while Jeremy was happy to do nothing for the two expendables. Ray’s faith in the Brotherhood had never been strong, despite the extraordinary measures they had gone to to help him, but he knew Mantu’s insubordination had to be weighing on him. He had no idea what the penalty for going rogue was. But he suspected it wasn’t pretty.
Ray wished they could have been friends in better circumstances. The man could make him laugh like no one else, even in the most hellish of circumstances. But now Mantu’s humor dampened the longer they drove. He didn’t joke or even talk much, just brooded and stared, day and night. When Ray drove he slept in the back until it was his turn at the wheel. Whatever was going on behind his eyes was keeping him silent.
It was night when they downshifted into the hilly town of San Juan Cotzal. A thick fog had rolled in from the valley, and it had become almost impossible to see more than fifty feet ahead. Mantu pulled into a gas station and walked into the tiny office. When he got back in the van, he looked exhausted, his eyes glassy and red from the long shift at the wheel. “Looks like we’re gonna spend the night here.”
Ray nodded. “There are definitely worse places. This looks kinda nice.”
“It’ll do for a night. Most of the people here speak Ixil, not Spanish, but I got the name of a hotel up the road a bit. Cheap and off the main road.”
Ray rubbed his cramped neck. It would be nice to sleep in an actual bed. Quality sleep in the back of their bus had been next to impossible—it seemed like every time he’d doze off they’d hit a rut or a bump and he’d jar into wakefulness. He doubted that he’d gotten more than an hour of continuous sleep at a stretch, and his jagged nerves were getting more and more strained. A bed and a solid stretch of sleep would do wonders for both of them. “A hotel? You kidding me? We haven’t even been on a proper date.”
“You ain’t my type, Whitey. Especially with that ugly nose,” he said. “So keep your hands to yourself and stay the hell out of my bed.”
Ray was too tired to laugh, but he smiled. At least there was a little humor left in his friend.
The hotel owner, a tiny Indian man, spoke softly and didn’t look either of them in the eye. Mantu negotiated a price—just about every exchange required haggling—and finally got them a room with two beds for the equivalent of what Ray remembered paying for a delivery pizza in Baltimore. And the owner promised hot water, which made Ray deliriously happy. He could almost feel the days of grease and grime sliding off his skin in anticipation.
The room was dark but clean. Both beds were covered in traditional blankets of bright, ornate wool, and the bathroom was spartan and not very welcoming. At least there was a showerhead, although the scary-looking thing had one of the built-in heating elements that Ray was convinced would one day electrocute him.
The shower could wait. Ray flopped onto a bed, which squeaked loudly. “Oh my God,” he sighed. “I feel so civilized.”
Mantu sat down on his bed and took off his shoes. “Enjoy it. This may be the last bed you sleep in for a while. We have a long haul ahead after this. More mountains and then the roads might get even worse. At least until we get near Petén. Then when we get near El Varón’s you’d better be ready to do a lot of hiking.”
Ray kicked off his shoes, then pulled off his shirt and pants and climbed under the sheets. They were rough but at this point they felt as luscious as satin. “You’re always full of good news. How much hiking are you talking about?”
Mantu shook his head. “I’m not sure. But you can’t just drive up and ring El Varón’s doorbell like the Avon lady. Narcos like him have guards stationed on the roads for miles all around. With walkie-talkies, because the DEA monitors cellphone traffic. You drive anywhere within ten or fifteen miles and you start getting pulled over by these bastards, and if you don’t have a good reason to be there, you might wind up buried in a grave next to the last thirty idiot motherfuckers who thought they would drop by to say hello. So we have to find another way. And that means a nice little scenic walk through the jungle.”
Jungle. Ray had grown to hate the word. “I don’t want to think about it yet.” He still had scars and scabs from his long night in the woods after the carnival. “How’s your plan coming along? Any fresh ideas?”
He shrugged. “I think so. I might have something soon.”
“Is it more than us going kamikaze on this El Varón bastard and getting blown to pieces?”
“Not much, but yes. I brought along a little something I think may help us.”
“And—let me guess—you’re gonna keep it a secret.”
“For now, Ray.” He turned off a lamp, and the room went dark. “Now get some sleep.”
That night, she came to him.
Ray was walking along a rocky trail, his feet bare, through a murky patch of woods. He looked at his feet and was surprised at how small they were. A boy’s feet. He looked up, then back down, and they were his adult feet again. Well, that was good. He needed to be grown up because there was something bad up ahead. This was no place for kids.
Blackwater. He was back. On his way to find Ellen, spread-eagled and tied on top of an obscene slab of rock inside a grasping stone hand. What was he doing back here again, anyway? He looked down, and all he was wearing was a deep scarlet robe. His hands were empty.
No matter. He’d figure it out. He’d done it before, countless times now. Find her, get the ropes off, hoist her over his shoulder, and run away from the wicked-hot fire that burned at the center of the skeletal rock fingers. At least that’s how the dream usually ended.
But this wasn’t a dream. He looked down at his feet, and they were bloody and bruised purple from walking so long on rocks and sticks and roots. Dreams didn’t hurt like this.
Ahead he heard Ellen scream.
He ran faster. Above him, in the sky, two orange blobs of light zipped through the trees. Toward Ellen’s frantic screams.
And then he saw the flickering firelight ahead, and the shadows cast by the sharp towering rocks. The Hand.
He thought he saw Micah, in his ridiculous white suit, but then he realized Micah was dead. Drowned in a pool of his own blood.
But it didn’t matter. Ellen was what mattered, and he was getting closer. So close he could smell her perfume. Jasmine. Mixed with her sweat, her musk, her hot, coppery breath.
As he stepped into the clearing, into the light and heat from the sacrificial fire, he stopped. A cold fear rose up from the black soil and through his legs, his guts, and squeezed his heart like the fingers of a corpse.
This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how it was supposed to turn out.
Lily. She was naked. Oh yes, she was as naked as the day she was born, sitting on the slab of rock with her legs pulled up, leaning back on her arms so that her breasts—nipples hard like pebbles—shone in the dancing light of the fire. Her hair hung over her shoulders, thick red, curled and twisted ropes, as red as the core of the flames. And her eyes, oh my God, so big and so inviting and so very full of magic and promises.
Come to me, my love, she whispered.
She slowly spread her knees apart. Slid her fingers down between her legs. She lifted her fingers to her lips, kissed them, and held them out to Ray.
They were covered in blood. Deep, dark, rich blood, a blood that would take him to places he couldn’t possibly imagine.
His penis stiffened.
For just a second he thought about Ellen. But this wasn’t Ellen’s dream. This dream belonged to Lily, fingers wet and bright red with the thick, mucous blood of birth and life and resurrection and power. Slipping them between his lips.
Eat me, Ray, she whispered. Eat and be reborn.
His mouth closed around her fingers and he sucked at them. The blood lit off a fire in his brain and behind his eyes, where a cascade of colored sparks danced in wild patterns. His entire body filled with light, and a loud buzzing drone—like the din of a thousand jungle insects—filled his ears and threatened to obliterate everything. He’d tasted immortality, and now he was melting into eternity.
And then she wrapped herself around him, and he was naked, his robe somehow gone, her legs locking behind his thighs and pulling him into her wetness, where he penetrated deeply, so deep he felt like he’d never be able to withdraw. Her breasts crushed against his chest and as her arms wrapped across his back her fingernails dug into his sides, cutting into his skin. She was cleaving to him, melding into him, and where her fingernails had dug into his flesh he felt rivulets of blood beginning to flow.
I drink your blood of life, Mother, he said, but it came out in a language that wasn’t his—a bark, an atonal string of foul, ugly syllables.
Ray, my prince, she whispered in his ear as her hips rocked and pulled him deeper. You are mine, always mine, and now I have you again and you shall never escape me.
Mother, he whispered in the same ugly tongue as before. Gtha’lku Ghzz’cthuum clattorazzqa, my soul for you, my blood for you.
And then she ran her bloodied lips across his neck, biting through it, teeth breaking through the skin. He felt the onrush of orgasm. His wet blood dribbled but she lapped it up, her tongue and lips closing and sucking, and with every suck of his blood he grew closer to exploding, the rocking of her hips, the thrust of her legs against the backs of his thighs, her nails sinking deeper and deeper into his skin, the rising energy building and building.
Oh no oh Jesus she’s eating me she’s eating all of me and swallowing me and—
He woke up screaming.
Mantu scrambled from his bed, knocked over a glass, and turned on the lamp.
Ray sat up, gasping for breath.
Mantu’s eyes widened. “What the fuck is on your neck?”
Ray stared. He was still half in the dream. Nothing made sense.
“Your neck!” Mantu yelled and jumped to his feet.
And then Ray felt it—something about the size of golf ball on the side of his neck. He touched it and screamed. It was rough, prickly, and had legs. He slapped at it but it seemed stuck.
“Get it off!” Mantu yelled.
Ray pulled at it, repulsed by the spiky carapace under his fingers. But it also felt oddly metallic. It was stuck in him—embedded like a tick. He pulled and it dislodged with a horrible rip and pain that nearly blinded him. A long piece of its mouth slipped out from beneath his skin like a needle.
He threw the thing across the room. It clattered, like a cheap toy car.
Mantu ran after it, and when Ray turned, he saw it scuttling across the tile floor, its multiple legs clicking against the stone. Mantu grabbed a nearby water glass and hurled it, but the thing disappeared beneath a wooden cabinet as the glass exploded into fragments.
“What is it?” Ray asked. He held his neck and felt hot blood beneath his fingers.
Mantu didn’t answer. He grabbed one of his boots and stepped around the broken glass. He put his fingers to his lips—quiet—and held the cabinet. With a grunt he pushed it away and held his boot up, ready to crush the insect-thing.
It was gone.
There was a small hole, maybe a mouse hole, in the bottom of the wall. Ray got up and stood by Mantu. He looked at his blood-smeared hand.
Mantu looked at him darkly. “I don’t know for sure what it is. But I’m worried about what it might be.”
Mantu tended to Ray’s neck in the bathroom. The puncture wasn’t large—a little larger than a needle’s width—but it had bled a lot. He took a piece of toilet tissue and held it against the puncture hole until it was soaked red. He put the soaked tissue aside and cleaned Ray’s neck with a T-shirt. When he was done he wrapped the shirt around Ray’s neck and told him to keep applying pressure. He grabbed the bloody tissue and went back into the other room.
“What are you doing?” Ray asked, but Mantu held his finger to his lips and shushed him.
Ray watched as Mantu picked up a black clay flowerpot off the dresser. He stood to the side of the mouse hole and placed the bloody tissue a few inches from its entrance.
Ray nodded. He was using it as bait.
They waited. Ray felt his skin grow hot, and sweat dripped from his chin. They’d need to open some windows.
Mantu’s eyes were fixed on the hole, his hand clenching the heavy flowerpot, barely breathing, arm cocked, his teeth set. The only movement was the slight flaring of his nostrils as he breathed.
They waited.
And then it poked out its head.
Ray nearly gasped. He’d never seen anything like it. Its head was bulbous, with flylike black compound eyes and quivering antennae. But the worst part was its mouth—a series of concentric circles of teeth, and, extending from the mouth, a long, needlelike proboscis.
Ray winced and felt sick. That thing was in my fucking skin.
It moved out a little bit more, two spindly, bristle-covered legs pushing and tentatively tapping on the tiled floor. Then came two more segmented legs, and the proboscis moving in erratic, jumpy arcs as it seemed to taste the air around the lump of blood-soaked tissue. Ray felt his gorge rise as the creature slid out of the hole in its entirety—the thing was hideous, and unlike any insect he’d seen, with a shiny, oily black carapace and multifaceted eyes that seemed strangely intelligent.
Mantu brought down the flowerpot.
The insect hissed as shattered ceramic exploded and shards bounced across the floor.
It scrabbled back toward the hole, but some of its legs were broken, scratching the floor.
Mantu kicked it away from the hole and it smacked against the wall next to Ray. Ray flinched.
“Get the fucker!” Mantu yelled.
Ray reached down and grabbed one of his boots. The insect zigged and zagged, heading for the bed. Ray cursed himself for flinching and slammed the boot against the floor. Missed. It vanished beneath the bed.
Mantu grabbed for a book on the shelf. A Bible. Not an abridged one, apparently, based on its size, but a full Old and New Testament as thick as his fist. He nodded to Ray and mimed pulling the bed away from the wall.
Sweat dripped off the end of Ray’s nose. He shivered, but nodded back to Mantu. No way would he let that nasty thing get away this time. Not a chance.
He yanked the bed so hard he almost fell over.
Nothing. A dust bunny and a pack of matches.
“What—”
Mantu shushed him.
The insect bolted out from beneath the bed. It must have latched itself onto the underside.
It was skittering—making that horrid, metallic and plasticky click-click-click—rapidly toward the hole in the wall.
Mantu threw the Bible. A direct hit. The Bible bounced away and opened to somewhere midway, the pages spreading like squat legs.
Still alive. It moved, jerkily, only a couple of its legs pulling it forward. Its carapace was cracked and there was dark red liquid smearing across the tile as it lurched.
Ray lifted his boot and brought it down hard. Again. And again. Each time the crack was sickening but satisfying, and he screamed “Die!” with each smack of his boot heel, spit foaming and spattering from his lips.
“It’s dead,” Mantu said.
But Ray hammered it again. And once more. Just to be safe.
Someone knocked on the door and they both jumped. It was the owner, asking if everything was okay. Through the closed door, Ray told him it was—he’d fallen while walking to the bathroom in the dark, but everything was all right. No problema, está bien. That seemed to satisfy the man, and Ray heard his receding footsteps.
Mantu was on the floor, looking closely at the remains of the insect.
“What is it?” Ray asked.
Mantu didn’t answer. “Get me your knife and a pencil or a pen. I want to do a little autopsy on this thing.”
“Jesus,” Ray whispered. “What is that?”
Mantu had cut open the bottom of the insect-thing’s carapace and lifted out a piece of something shiny on the end of the knife blade. It was almost perfectly square, covered in blood—My blood, Ray thought, with a shiver—and winding over it in complex patterns were what looked like reflective threads. Mantu held it closer to his eyes, rotating it in the lamplight. “What’s it look like to you?”
Ray grimaced. “I don’t know. If I didn’t know it was inside a bug I’d swear it was a computer chip.”
“Bingo,” Mantu said.
Ray looked closer. “You mean it’s not a real bug?”
Mantu cocked his head. “You don’t believe this is real?”
“No, I mean, of course it’s real. But it’s not a bug—an insect. It’s some kind of…machine.”
“You ever seen a machine like this? Ever seen a machine run across the room like that? Or bleed when you smash it?”
Ray stared. “No. But what is it? Don’t be cagey with me now, Mantu. The thing was sucking my blood. What is it?”
Mantu pushed the knife into the underside of the head. It sounded like a beer can pop-top when the blade broke through. He dug inside, then spread the head open with a pencil. When he pulled out the knife, a crystalline bead the size of pea glistened on the end of the blade. “This is its brain.”
“Its brain is a rock?”
“A crystal. Shit. This is bad, Ray.”
“What?” Ray wiped his forehead, which was beaded with sweat. His whole body felt clammy and suddenly cold.
Mantu lifted an eyebrow. “You feeling okay?”
Ray felt the weight of the question, and what it implied, and his breath caught in his throat. “I’m fine. Well, not really.” A wave of dizziness forced him to sit.
Mantu’s eyes narrowed. “Son of a bitch. That wasn’t a bug, and it wasn’t a machine. It was a construct.”
“A construct?”
“Half-alive, half-man-made. Or maybe I should say woman-made.”
Ray’s eyes widened. “No,” he whispered.
“A construct is powered by psychic energy. It’s hard to explain, but that little crystal brain is programmed by someone, just like a robot, with a job to do. It’s single-minded. But it takes someone extremely skilled to mix technology with biology. And someone even more skilled to breathe life into it. That shit is the kind of R and D only a few people know about—a couple of magicians in the Brotherhood can probably make things like this.”
“And so can she.” Ray felt the blood draining from his face. Good thing he was sitting on the floor.
“It had to be her. She sent this little fucker after you. Programmed it to find you.”
Ray’s voice seemed to come from somewhere else. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears. “And poison me.”
“So much for our good night’s sleep. Let’s get your stuff together. We’re going to need to get you fixed up fast.”
Steve sat in the courtyard of an expensive villa in the suburbs of Mexico City. Flowers hung from pots, and the statues reminded him of the ones in Lily’s office—ancient-looking things, weathered black stone and vaguely human. His host, Manuel, a tall thin man with deep-set eyes and a square chin, sat across from him. He reminded Steve of some of the CIA bigwigs he’d met in Afghanistan—sophisticated and worldly, but with a smile that wouldn’t fade in the slightest even if you were bleeding to death in front of him.
“Mr. Davis, it is unusual for me to bring someone from the outside into our organization.” His English was impeccable, and if Steve had been blindfolded, he never would have known the man was a Mexican national. “But if she sent you, then I have absolute faith in your abilities.”
Steve nodded. “I spent five years in Afghanistan running special ops. Interrogation of high-value targets, and several counterinsurgency—”
Manuel waved his hand. “It is enough that she sent you. And you have a personal interest in this particular mission, am I correct?”
“I’m looking for my son. And his mother.”
Manuel smiled. “Well, that is quite a motivation—and personal motivations mean everything in our business, I think you would agree. And it happens to dovetail quite nicely with our interests as well.” A maid brought glasses of beer, but Steve declined. He was still off-kilter from the flight and the trip in an armed convoy from the airport with only a few hours sleep. He had long ago learned to stay sharp when in the presence of sharks in uniforms and suits.
“I cannot give you all the details, of course,” Manuel said. “As a military man, you understand.”
Steve nodded.
“Good. I will introduce you to Enrique, my captain, tonight. He is in charge of our tactical planning and overseeing of our soldiers. I’m sure he will be grateful to hear about your training.”
“I look forward to it,” Steve said. His mouth was getting dry, and the vaguely rotten smell from all the flowers was a little overwhelming.
“And you are welcome to join us in our working tonight. We always like to charge our batteries before embarking on a difficult mission. Our high priestess trained personally with Lily, in fact—and she is quite the lovely specimen as well as being a powerful channel.” His eyes gleamed. “You have taken the higher degrees? Above the Rites of the Opener?”
Steve stared. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
Manuel blinked. “You are not familiar with the Work?”
Steve swallowed. “No. I don’t think so.”
The deep-set eyes turned cold even as a smile formed on his lips. “I am surprised that she would send someone unfamiliar with our…underlying work. But that is no matter. Lily’s recommendation is more than enough to assure me of your competence in the field. There is time for full instruction later, should she suggest you as a candidate.” He swallowed his beer. “But I talk too much. You must be tired. Enrique will take you to the mission briefing tomorrow. Tonight, please enjoy my hospitality.”
Steve awoke, sweating, in the middle of the night. He was certain he’d heard a woman screaming, but it was probably just a leftover from his dream. He’d been dreaming of Lily again, and his erection poked up beneath the sheets like a sentinel. A strange smell filled the bedroom. Incense, perhaps, though not entirely pleasant.
And then he heard it—from somewhere in the house, men were chanting. He couldn’t make out the words, just the faint rhythm, like he remembered from church as a kid—monotonous prayers repeated over and over. And above the men’s chants, a woman’s voice, leading them, her pitch rising.
The Work, Manuel had called it. Was this what he meant? Some sort of bizarre witchcraft? What the fuck had he gotten involved with?
He pulled a pillow over his head to shut it out. Best to keep focused—soon he would find Ellen and William and take out anyone in his way. And if Ray Simon was there, well, witchcraft would be the last of that man’s worries.