They were standing in an open courtyard enclosed by lines of rubble where walls had once been. There, generations of ancient Mayan kings had erected row after row of stelae—stone pillars carved with hieroglyphs that recorded major events. Births, deaths, marriages, wars, all the news that had been fit to chisel was there.
Nearest them were three stelae; two were crumbled and fallen, but one still stood, tall and pale, its white limestone worn from wind and blackened with acid rain. The glyphs seemed legible enough, though, so she headed for it, aware of him trailing too close, like he thought she might make a break for it.
She wouldn’t, of course, not unless things turned hairy. But as she got up close and personal, she hesitated, recognizing the stelae too late and wondering if this was the gods at work or just a coincidence.
“Oh,” she breathed, tracing her fingertips along a glyph panel that wasn’t like any of the others. For one, it was in better shape, preserved by the remnants of a spell that sent shimmering tingles up her arm. And for another, it told a story . . . and gave a warning. One that her father had ignored.
She blew out a shaky breath. What has happened before will happen again . . .
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s just . . .” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
“Can’t you translate it?”
“That won’t be a problem.” In fact, she knew the story by heart, though she hadn’t consciously thought of it in nearly three decades. Not since her father’s advisers had tried to use it to talk him out of his plan to attack the demons on their own turf, at the intersection beneath Chichén Itzá.
“That’s enough!” he thundered, and shook off her mother’s restraining hand. “The next person who quotes the writs or an old legend at me better have something new to add to the discussion, because by the gods I’m getting sick of repeating myself.” He glared around the royal suite, eyes skipping past where Anna had shrunk back in the hallway, out of sight.
That was all she got, just a flash, there and gone in an instant. But it was a real memory, one that imprinted itself on all of her senses, so much so that for a moment she could hear the rumble of her father’s voice, feel the nap of the hallway runner beneath her Reeboks and smell the faintest hint of lemon furniture polish.
But when she blinked she found herself in the here and now, with her parents long gone, her boots planted on limestone dust, and the doctor regarding her with a glint of challenge in eyes that, up close, were a mix of green and brown rather than real hazel.
It was ironic, really, that this man, this human, would be the one to shake loose a memory of those last few days when all her spells had failed. Not that the memory in question would do a damn thing to help her summon the visions, but still.
Letting out a long, slow breath that didn’t ease the tightness in her chest, she said, “Okay, here goes. You see this one?” She touched a glyph that showed a peccary with curlicue tusks beside the line-and-dot notation for a number. “It refers to King Ten-Boar. This one means there was a war or a fight, but this symbol over it means it had gone on for a very long time. And this one . . .”
Realizing that he probably didn’t care about the exact translation of each glyph and phoneme—and that she was stalling—she shrugged. “Basically, it says that King Ten-Boar had a dream he claimed the gods had sent him, telling him how he could defeat his enemies once and for all. His advisers tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t budge. Instead, he ordered his entire army to march, leaving the women and children behind to guard the city.” Her voice went flat, her insides hollow. “The dream was a lie, or maybe just wishful thinking. Either way, Ten-Boar’s enemies ambushed him, slaughtered his troops and then marched on the city and imprisoned everyone there. Some they used as sacrifices, others as slaves.”
She had dragged her fingertips along the glyphs as she’d told the story, not as it was written—in an ancient, stilted style—but as she had heard it too many times in the days leading up to the massacre. Now, her fingers rested on the last glyph in the string. Worn almost indecipherable, she knew what it was without squinting, as her fingers found the familiar sockets and gaping mouth.
It was the screaming skull, the symbol for the end-time war. A warning to those who, a thousand years later, would do their damnedest to hold the barrier when the zero date came.
What are you trying to tell me? Something? Nothing? What?
There was no answer from the gods, though.
He was watching her intently. “It bothers you. It happened centuries ago, but it still bothers you to put yourself in their places and think of what it must’ve been like.”
She shifted, glancing toward where part of the tent city was just visible beyond the ruins, fenced off and plastered with KEEP OUT signs in three languages, along with biohazard symbols and a spray-painted skull and crossbones. “It bothers me to see what’s happening to their descendants right now, and to know that none of us are safe.”
“So you snuck down here, thinking maybe you could help.” The suspicion had leached from his expression.
She shrugged. “It seemed worth a shot.”
“Any luck?”
“No. But I’m not giving up.” She didn’t dare, with the countdown ticking toward its end.
“You’re staying in the area?”
“Pretty close,” she said, deliberately vague. “I’ll keep out of the hot zone, though.” More or less. Then, remembering her plan to gather intel, she said, “What’s it like in there?”
He grimaced. “Brutal. Frustrating. Heartbreaking.” Seeming to catch himself wanting to say more, he drew back and stuck his hands in his pockets as he looked out over the rows of crumbling stelae. “We can’t even figure out how the disease really works. Part of it acts like a normal virus, like the flu bug or whatever. Or maybe rabies is a better comparison, since it’s transmitted through saliva bites, rapes, that sort of thing.” He shot her an uncomfortable look. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Though it was nice to be treated like a woman rather than a warrior for a change. Which made her, just for a second, wonder how he saw her. With her hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, zero makeup and field clothes that had seen better days—
Doesn’t matter. Get your intel and get out. She didn’t have time to pretend she was normal, didn’t even really have the time she had taken for this trip.
But the doc stayed silent, still looking off at the middle distance, where the Pyramid of Kulkulkan rose with its iconic silhouette. That was why he had come out here, she realized—he’d needed to get away from the tent city, away from the frustration of not being able to find a cure.
You can’t cure it, she could have told him. All you can do is try to contain it. The humans were doing a good job of slowing the spread . . . which was helpful, because the fewer xombis there were, the weaker the demons’ reinforcements would be on the final day. And the better the humans’ chances for survival.
The Nightkeepers and winikin would bear the brunt of the end-time war, but there would likely be human casualties, too. Maybe lots of them. Always before, Anna had told herself that even huge losses would be acceptable so long as mankind continued on. Now, though, she thought of the people she’d met over the years in what had become the hot zone, everyone from villagers in thatch huts to executives in high-rise penthouses, all vulnerable now. Some were probably already dead, others infected and dying.
And standing against the demons’ vile disease were men like this one—tough and determined. And human.
The doc shrugged and looked back at her, his expression tinged with grief and worry. “To be honest we’re running out of ideas. If your research turns up anything at all . . . well, I’d like to hear about it.”