On the Hunt

The glyph panel, though, was different.

The nine rows of text—for the nine layers of the underworld, Xibalba—looked like normal Mayan hieroglyphs . . . except that in every pictograph that should have contained a human or animal figure, there was a bat-demon instead, a camazotz, with sharply pointed ears, tricornered mouth, pushed-in nose, long fangs and talons, and strangely tattered wings.

The locals believed the ancients had built the temple to appease the camazotz, and that she risked awakening more of the creatures by excavating the sacred site. But although Cooter, her crazy-brilliant Mayanist mentor, had harped on the value of trusting the natives to know more about their homes than any visitor—however well educated—could, logic said that the legends of the camazotz had come from the temple itself, and maybe costumes worn by the members of the bat cult that had probably worshiped there. Not the other way around.

"Chicken and egg," she murmured, trailing her fingers along the writing.

The wonky glyphs meant that she couldn't read the text. Instead, she would have to farm it out to an expert, which was why the photographs, tracings, and other records were a top priority.

So get back to work. But the same gut instinct that had prompted her to turn down the safe-bet Tikal project and disappear into the jungle, and that had eventually led her to the cave, now rooted her in place.

A chill prickled across her skin, an almost electric crackle that was how her gut feelings sometimes hit her. She was missing something. But what?

Frowning, she stared at the panel, touched the carved surface. The silence in the echoing chamber amplified the small sounds of her breathing, making the air seem to throb with the quiet.

Her fingertips scraped along the carved stone, from ridge to dip, from one bat-faced demon to the next, the next, and—to something else.

She froze, her pulse going zero-to-sixty as the shape jumped out at her.

There was a bird among the bats.

And it wasn't just any bird. It was the bird.

The parrot's head sat atop three stacked circles and wore a flaring headdress of curling feathers in a glyph that was achingly, acutely familiar. Yet the parrot's head didn't correspond to any pictograph in the historical record. She knew that for a fact . . . because she had been searching for it ever since her thirteenth birthday.

"Holy. Shit." She touched the small silver pendant she wore around her neck. She had found the glyph!

All the restless, edgy energy that had plagued her since she'd first set foot inside the cave—hell, in the forest itself—suddenly concentrated itself in her chest. A hot, hard buzz seared through her system, saying: Do it.

But do what?

Swallowing hard, she touched the parrot's-head pictogram, stroking a finger along the feathered headdress and down the curved beak. It was really there, really real. It was—

"Ow!" She yanked back her hand and stared at her fingertip, where a thin slice oozed blood.

"What the hell?"

Getting in close to the wall, she squinted at a gleam of..Was that glass? Impossible. The ancient Maya might have built pyramids and carved intricate writing and art, but they had done it without using most metals or the wheel, never mind glass. They had been knappers and carvers, mostly, which left her with . . .

"Jade," she breathed, seeing the faint blue-green sheen to the material of the thin blade that had been inset into the carving, almost as if its maker had wanted to punish the person who dared to touch the strange glyph.

Or . . . take a blood sacrifice from them. Blood had been the basis for many of the rituals of the ancient Maya. And even, some said, their magic.

When she was around other academics, she snorted at the idea of true magic. The Mayan shaman-priests had been experts at misdirection, using hidden doorways and polished stone mirrors to make the kings and masses believe that they could teleport themselves, move objects with their minds, and summon fire with a thought. Privately, though, she had hung on Cooter's stories about ancient magicians, wishing they were true.

And right then, there was nobody in the room but her.

Do it, her instincts said, coming suddenly so much louder, so much clearer than they ever had before. What have you got to lose?

There was magic in blood, at least according to the stories the crazy old Mayanist had regaled his students with, year after year . . . until he disappeared into the rain forest. Logic said he'd had an accident or been killed by bandits. Inwardly, though, she had preferred to think he'd found the magic-wielding warriors he had sought. She and Cooter had been very alike—both out of place, both searching for something. She wanted to believe that he had found his place in the end.

Do it.

Senses spinning, heart pounding, she pressed her bloodstained fingertip to the parrot glyph.

The moment she made contact, the restless, edgy energy inside her went supernova, and a strange, soundless detonation thudded through her.

She reeled back. "What the hell?"

Her hand vibrated, prickles streaked up and down her arm, and a sudden heavy weight on her chest forced her to struggle for breath. Then she simply stopped breathing, freezing dead as the carved stone making up the parrot glyph shimmered, rippling and pulsing as though it had suddenly come alive.

Moments later, the glyph and the surrounding stone disappeared, revealing a shallow niche that contained a small, lumpy something.

Holy shit, was all she could think. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

That hadn't just happened. It was impossible. Unbelievable.

Only it had happened. There was a hole in the wall where the parrot had been. What was more, the humming restlessness inside her had become a warm, satisfied glow, one that had stopped saying, Do it, and now urged, Take it.

"I can't," she whispered. She had to document the object from every angle before she touched it, had to investigate the trick door. Because it had to be a trick door. The alternative was . . .

impossible.

Take it, those deep-down instincts whispered. This is for you alone. You found the parrot glyph. Your blood opened the door.

Hand moving almost without her conscious volition, she reached in and touched the solid, lumpy object. It shifted, suddenly gleaming luminous amber as the overhead lights caught the stone.

It was a clear yellow crystal, maybe an inch in diameter, that had been carved with perfect detail into the shape of a human skull.

Take it. Hard, hot possessiveness washed through her. She wasn't aware of making the decision, but suddenly she was picking it up. Cupping it in her palm, she raised it to eye level. The sockets were dark with shadows, save for two pinprick gleams reflecting back from her headlamp, making the skull seem to stare back at her as it warmed against her skin.

Holy. Shit.

"This is a joke, right?" she said, trying to interject logic into a situation suddenly turned incredible. Javier and the others were trying to cheer her up with a gag, riffing off the legendary crystal skulls that were supposed to help save mankind from the so-called 2012 Mayan doomsday.

But how had they managed it? If they found a trick door, they would've said something, she thought, glancing back at the wall. It's a huge—

Her mind blanked at the sight of a solid stone in front of her once more. There was no sign of the niche; the carvings were back in place . . . but the parrot's-head glyph was gone.

In its place was a screaming skull.

Oh, holy shit times a million. The screaming-skull glyph wasn't supposed to exist, either. It represented—according to the doomsday nuts, anyway—a group of warrior-magi who were supposed to save mankind from the rise of ancient horrors at the end of 2012: the Nightkeepers.

"Impossible," she whispered, staring at the screaming skull and feeling the warm weight of the crystal in her palm, the fading sting from her sliced finger.

"Natalie?" Javier called.

She jolted, flushing. "I'll be up in a minute." Her heart hammered in her ears and the rush of blood through her veins had taken on a strange humming sensation.

"I don't think we've got a minute. We need you up here." His voice was too tight, she realized suddenly.

Something had happened topside. Oh, crap.

She hesitated. What now? Stay and investigate the skull glyph? Go up and tell the others what she had found? Go up and keep her mouth shut? Something told her that the skull was hers alone.

A secret.

"Natalie, now!"

"Coming!" Her hands shook as she tucked the skull into an inner zippered pocket of her tough bush pants. Then she bolted up the tunnel. An odd, almost tribal rhythm pounded through her veins, making her feel tough and capable, strong enough to take on the prophesied doomsday. Not that she believed in the end-time. That had just been another of Cooter's stories.

Then she stepped out into the late-afternoon sun, and a cold dose of reality slapped her right across the face.

Suddenly, crystal skull or not, she was nothing more than a five-three, hundred and fifteen pounds' worth of brunette better described as scrappy than scary . . . and she was facing a dozen armed villagers who were holding her teammates at gunpoint.

Chapter Two

When a dark, man-shaped shadow materialized on the jungle pathway up ahead, JT went for his guns.

The shadow spread its arms wide. "Chill, dude. It's Rez."

Scowling, JT rammed the double-barrell back into its scabbard. He was so strung out from three days of ' zotz hunting that he almost couldn't tell friend from foe anymore. Hell, the jungle itself had even become an enemy, crowding too close and putting shadows where there shouldn't be any, like the plants themselves were being energized by the coming equinox.

Just one more day. If he and the villagers could make it through tomorrow night, they would be okay for another few months. He hoped.

"Don't sneak up on me like that. I'd hate to accidentally put a hole in you." Hello, understatement. Rez was his closest ally among the locals, one of the few who really knew what was going on.

The village elder was in his late fifties, which was old for the region, but he wore his jade-loaded pistols easily as he stalked toward JT, his expression thunderous. "Where the hell have you been?" ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">