“Sacrifice,” KuTu said, pointing at Quint’s arm. “NowCamazotzcome.” He looked beyond Quint. “Go.”
The whistling started again. It was close this time—right next to Quint. He looked over. Fernel held the bone with the carvings to his lips, his forehead pinched as he blew through one end.
They’re both in on this, the goddamned motherfu—
A guttural, snarling growl rumbled up from the hole in the floor, rattling Quint’s eardrums.
Oh. Holy. Shit.
He took a step back on wobbly knees, staring down at where he’d been dangling only minutes before.
That didn’t sound like a big old bat.
Angélica led the way into the ruins and down the tunnel, her flashlight beam bouncing as she ran. She had her machete out, in case she ran into any more of those huge bats.
“Quint’s okay,” she kept telling herself under her breath. He was smart and strong. Not to mention he might possibly be some kind of good demon fromXibalba. As crazy as that sounded, right now she was banking on it to save his ass. She had certainly witnessed him healing quickly before from wounds that would land most in dire straits … or dead.
“Angélica, wait up,” Pedro whisper-called from behind her. “Bronko hit his head on a rock sticking out of the ceiling.”
She stopped and turned, shining her light the other way. The two of them were a short distance back, Bronko leaning against thewall, while Pedro inspected the guy’s forehead.
She jogged back, setting her machete on the floor. “Is he okay?” She nudged Pedro aside and checked the wound. It was a jagged gash bleeding freely. “A few stitches might be needed, if you’re worried about ending up with a scar.”
“I’m fine,” Bronko said, wiping at the blood with his shirt sleeve. “Scars are good in my line of work.”
Angélica stepped back. “Pedro, did you look in his eyes?”
Pedro started to raise his flashlight, but Bronko knocked it away. “It’s just a flesh wound.” He tried to stand slightly bent over, but then stumbled sideways into the opposite wall.
“You might be concussed,” Pedro said.
“Just give me a minute. I’ve had my head busted open before. This dizzy feeling will pass.”
Angélica frowned at the sicario. She didn’t doubt him on that, but … “Maybe you should—”
A piercing screech-like scream echoed out from farther back in the tunnel.
The hairs on her neck prickled. She shined her flashlight in that direction. “Quint?” she breathed.
“What was that?” Pedro asked.
“It sounded like a scream from one of those Aztec death whistles,” Bronko said, his voice higher than usual.
Angélica looked back at them both. “You two stay here.”
“No,” Pedro shot back.
“Yes. I’m going to go help Quint. You need to get Bronko out of here and ready to shoot whatever comes out the entrance next.”
“Angélica,” he started.
But she shook her head at whatever he was about to say. “Get him out, Pedro.” She picked up her machete and then grabbed a few of the vine coils. “Be ready to fire,” she ordered, pointing at Bronko. “But don’t shoot if it’s me, sicario.”
“What was that?” Quint asked, his ears ringing from the screech-scream that had blasted out of the hole in the floor.
Rocks clattered below.
Quint took a step back toward the partially opened wall as two huge fur-covered hands gripped the edge of the hole. They were double the size of Quint’s, each with four, multi-jointed, webbed fingers that ended in claws as long as a grizzly bear’s.
