(Note—Maybe think of a better metaphor here than seeds.)
Anyway, Dr. Clifford Fernel appears to be traveling down the path to madness. What dangers lie ahead as his treasure hunting disease festers? Death of his reputation? His career? His mental health? His life, period? Or something even worse?
Actually, what’s worse than madness and death?
This damned jungle is worse, that’s what.
And don’t even get me started on that article I read about a botfly larva infestation some guy got in his scrotum during a …
Quint paused his penciled ramblings to scratch the side of his neck.
Christ! He needed to focus, but the damned gnats kept swarming, fixated on the salt in his sweat. The little bastards needed to go practice running their kamikaze raids on some other flesh monkey. There were plenty of others here inside the wall of Site 5 to pick on.
Hell, maybe he was the one sliding into madness, with the jungle chewing up his sanity, one bug bite at a time.
His tail bone beginning to ache, he shifted on the lichen-coated chunk of limestone he was using for a seat. It was that or the ground, and after Bronko reiterated the dangers hiding in the grass around these parts, the rock won. There were plenty of other potential block seats that were left over from Mother Nature’s leisurely assault on the tumbledown structure behind him, but they all looked equally hard and uncomfortable.
Quint tapped his pencil on his paper, staring at the vista of greenery spread out before him while trying to organize his thoughts. But his mind kept taking side roads.
Everyone had made it safely over thewall, so apparently the Maya gods were okay with trespassers this morning. Make that everyone except for Teodoro and María, who’d stayed behind at the camp to keep watch in between trips to haul water from a nearby spring.
Pedro wasn’t joining them today at the site either. The lucky dog had the excuse of being able to fly a helicopter. He’d flown off after breakfast to bring back more camp necessities—and plenty of beer, according to Juan, who’d handwritten his addition on Angélica’s supply list.
Bronko and KuTu were the first to scale the wall, using the ladder built a few days back from leather and saplings. No snakes awaited them up on top today, much to everyone’s relief.
Raul held the ladder steady as Angélica and Dr. Fernel climbed up next. KuTu stayed on top of the wall to help, while Bronko waited at the base of the makeshift ladder they’d set up days ago down the other side, holding it steady.
Quint had to hand it to the three assigned guards, who were taking their roles of keeping everyone alive quite seriously, even though Quint doubted this level of help had been part of the job description.
Next over the wall were Fernando and Daisy, in that order. Quint had stayed behind with Raul to help make sure Juan with his bum leg had made it up and over, and then down and through the rubble on the other side without a hiccup, which he did, much to his daughter’s obvious relief.
As soon as the whole crew had their feet safely on the ground, KuTu and Bronko began searching the surrounding vegetation for any potential dangers, especially the slithering kind.
Swish swish swish. They’d plowed along with their machetes swinging in ever-widening arcs.
Raul had lay down the law earlier at breakfast—snake gaiters were required to be worn by everyone at all times while at Site 5 due to what was likely a lack of human disturbance at this site for so long. According to Raul, the jungle often had a fun time surprising even the best-prepared ranger traipsing through the tall weeds and thick brush. He’d witnessed snakes divebombing from the trees and lizards biting wannabe herpetoculturists, adding that there was even a small chance the venomous Mexican beaded lizard may now livein the habitat after years of on-and-off droughts triggering a change in the biosphere’s fauna.
Although if Teodoro and KuTu were right about Quint’s Maya Underworld status, then he shouldn’t have to worry about any snakes. Demon or not, he wasn’t about to go testing their theories.
A good demon … sent to protect.
Hmm. At the last dig, Quint had been called a different name by someone he hadn’t been able to protect in the end.
Der Beschwörer,he wrote the German word in his notes.
And there was a different task to go with this title.
The Summoner, he scribbled next on the page.One who calls for those who need to be executed.
He’d looked up the name after returning to Cancun, scouring the internet for any truth he could find behind the story he’d been told about a caste war that had raged centuries ago between rogue demons and their guardians. There was nothing to be found on such a war, but he did find mentions ofDer Beschwöreron videogame world-building websites, along with some cool graphic art of overly muscled, leather-clad Summoners.
He scoffed. Imagine wearing all of that hot, tight leather in this jungle. He’d sweat to death within hours, melting at Angélica’s feet before the bad demons could work their nightmarish magic.
Good demon or Summoner, he wasn’t going anywhere without Angélica, not after what he’d experienced at the last dig. If she stayed, he stayed, no matter how many worried looks she sent his way when she thought he wasn’t looking. Besides, if Teodoro was right about him being sent from the Underworld to protect, then it was even more imperative he stick around to fulfill his calling.
A yellow and black butterfly flitted in front of him, circling twice before landing on the eraser end of his pencil. It was a two-tailed swallowtail—Arizona’s state butterfly, a fact he’d learned years ago while on a job to write a piece about the history of train robberies in the American Southwest.
“Hello little guy,” he said quietly, holding still. “Word on the street is you find me utterly irresistible. Did I summon you with some help from Aunt Zoe’s ring or are you just stopping by on your way north?”
