“The traveler led them through the dark entrance under the angry sun god. After several twists and turns inside a tunnel heading down into the earth, they came upon a wall made of stone blocks.”
Quint groaned. “Damn it, woman. Why can’t your stories take place in faraway lands?”
“With pretty fairies who grant wishes,” Pedro added.
“Shut up and listen, peanut gallery.” She cleared her throat. “What the king initially thought was a dead end turned out to be a gate. The traveler raised a bone with strange carvings on it and blew into it.”
“Let me guess—the whistle of death,” Quint said.
She nodded. “The king watched as the wall split in two and opened wide, but the shadows beyond were too thick for their torchlight to pierce. A great wind rushed from the dark, smelling of decay and feces, blowing out their torches. In the dark, they heard the sound of many, many wings flapping. Before they could turn and run, the bats were upon them, fluttering all around. And then they were gone. But the three were not alone. There was something else with them, rustling in the dark, chittering, huffing and hissing.
“The king raised his weapon, but he was grabbed and flung aside into the wall so hard he blacked out. When he awoke in the dark, all was silent. He felt his way along the floor and came upon a body that was cold to the touch and slick with blood. There was no breath. He dragged the body out into the night. Under the light of the full moon, he wept over his son. The traveler’s dagger was buried hilt-deep in the boy’s skull.”
“Christ,” Quint said. “Must you be so detailed?”
“In this case, yes,” she answered solemnly. “You also need to know that the boy’s heart had been cut out and was missing.”
Bronko grunted. “That was the sacrificial offering?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Angélica answered.
Quint sighed. “That story would give one of Shakespeare’s great tragedies a run for its money.”
“Where was the traveler?” Pedro asked.
“The king never found him again. He went back inside with a torch when daylight came, but there was no sign of the traveler, and the wall had closed up again, solid no matter how hard the king tried to break through it.
“Brokenhearted, the king tried to drag his son’s body through the jungle, but he was weak with grief and the boy was heavy, so he buried him inside a cave-like mound where the butterflies lived.”
“Holy hell,” Quint said. “The butterfly mound.”
“The king asked the gods to watch over his son, and then he climbed over the wall and walked back through the jungle, losing his way many times. After thirteen full moons, he finally found his way back home only to learn that an old enemy had conquered his kingdom and killed not only his wife and other children, but every member of his family. Enraged, he made plans to kill the new ruler, but the king was caught and stabbed many, many times. His enemies threw him into a pit and left him to die with other rotting bodies.”
Quint growled. “This story just keeps getting shittier.” Up ahead, he could see Structure I off to the side of the road. Across from it, the wall loomed, even more sinister in the dark thanks to Angélica’s story.
“Did the king actually die?” Pedro asked. “Or was he immortal?”
“He died.”
Bronko shook his head. “I knew there’d be death and bloodshed at the end.” His tone was flat yet harsh. “There always is.”
Quint frowned at the sicario’s backside, wondering not for the first time what horrors he’d witnessed during his time with the cartel.
Angélica blew out a breath. “Now, this is where things get weird.”
Quint scoffed. “Weirder.”
“Right. So, the night the king took his last breath in that pit of death, a baby was born in a nearby village. A child who with time would grow into a young boy who was often sad, filled with vivid memories that would bring him to tears. Memories of a past life where he was a king living in a beautiful temple with a loving wife and several smiling children. One in particular—a son, who wanted to be just like his father, who had a strong desire to live forever.
“As this village boy aged, the memories became even clearer andstronger. By the time he was a man, he remembered everything, including what had happened to the loving son who’d joined his father on a quest to live forever. But the one thing he could not remember, no matter how many times he meditated and asked the gods for help, was where to find the place in the jungle with a tall wall, a mound filled with butterflies, and a temple terrorized by the death-bat god.”
“Oh, criminy,” Quint said, a sinking sensation heavy in his gut. “You’re talking about reincarnation.”
“Correct.” She cleared her throat. “That village boy—the one who used to be a king—well, he lived a long time, dying at a very old age. But he was always sad for the wife and children that he remembered from his last life.
“And on the day that boy died, a child was born in a nearby village—another boy, who was often sad, filled with memories of a beautiful temple, a loving wife, and smiling children whom he loved and would never see again.” She paused and looked around at each of them. “Need I continue, or do you understand what happens next?”
“We get it,” Pedro said, following with a heavy sigh.
