Sam noticed the photographer’s tension. “What’s wrong?”
Norman shook his head. “Nothing. I’ve just seen too many cheap horror movies.”
“So?”
“Splitting up the group. In horror movies, that’s when the killer starts knocking off the college co-eds.”
Sam laughed, believing the photographer was cracking a joke—but Norman wasn’t smiling. Sam’s laughter died. “You don’t seriously think—”
Suddenly something huge crashed into the bonfire. Flaming bits of wrap and bone exploded outward, stinging bare flesh and rattling across the stone floor. Smoke billowed, and darkness threatened to consume the group as the campfire was scattered. Luckily, a large flaming brand landed atop the stacked mummies nearby and set them on fire, returning the light. Shadows from the various pyres danced across the walls of the tombs.
Sam spun around, pulling Maggie behind him. Amid the ruins of their original fire rested a large square block, clearly a hewn-granite brick from one of the structures. He glanced up. There was no overhanging cornice from where the huge block could have fallen.
Ralph voiced Sam’s own thoughts. “That was no accident.” The Alabama football player clicked on his flashlight and stabbed its beam into the darkness beyond the reach of the fires.
“Get the guns,” Sam said. “Now.”
Ralph nodded, tossing the light to Norman, then grabbed the rifle leaning against the stone wall. Sam bent and retrieved his own Winchester from beside his makeshift bed. Maggie kept close to his side, Denal at her hip.
Beyond the occasional crack and snap from the fire as dried bones burst from the heat, nothing could be heard. Yet all around them, Sam could sense movement. Shadows danced in the firelight, but some of the pools of darkness seemed to slink and slide. Something was out there, closing in on them.
“Ghosts come for us,” Denal mumbled.
Maggie put her arm around the boy’s shoulder. She comforted the lad, but no one argued against his words. The spread of the necropolis, limned in flame and thick with shifting shadows, made even their worst nightmares seem possible.
But what moved through the necropolis was much worse.
Norman’s flashlight caught one of the slinking interlopers in his beam. It froze for a heartbeat like a deer in headlights—but this was no doe or buck. As pale as the albino tarantulas, it stood on two legs, naked, hunched, knuckling on one long, thickly muscled arm. Sam’s first thought was ape, but the creature was hairless, bald-pated.
It hissed at the light—at them—huge black eyes narrowed to angry slits, teeth pointed and sharp. Then it flew from the light, disappearing into the gloom, moving faster than Sam would have thought possible.
It had appeared and vanished so quickly that none of the group had time to comment. Sam had not even thought to raise his rifle; neither had Ralph. Norman’s beam jittered as the photographer’s arm trembled.
“What in bloody hell was that?” Maggie finally whispered.
Sam positioned his Winchester to his shoulder. In the distance, faint echoes could be heard all around them: the scrape of rock, strangled hisses, guttural coughs, even one piercing howl, clearly a challenge being trumpeted. It sounded as if scores of the creatures had them trapped, surrounded, but the cavern acoustics were deceptive. Ralph met Sam’s gaze, fear glinting bright in the big man’s eyes.
“What are they?” Maggie repeated.
“Mallaqui,” Denal answered. Spirits of the underworld.
“And you wanted Ralph and me to go out there alone,” Norman said, voice squeaking, flashlight trembling. “Let’s take a lesson from horror flicks. We stick together from here on.”
No one argued. In fact, no one said a word.
All eyes stared into the dark heart of the necropolis.
Henry woke and wished he hadn’t. His head ached and throbbed as if someone had been using his temples for a drum solo. His mouth was full of sour acid and as sticky as Elmer’s glue. He groaned because that was all he was capable of doing for the moment. Taking several breaths, he concentrated on making out his surroundings. The only light came from a slitted window high up the rear wall of the tiny room.
Memories of the attack in the halls of Johns Hopkins returned. One of his hands crawled across his chest to finger a tender spot in its center. The feathered barb was gone. Slowly he pushed up to find himself lying atop a frame bed, poorly cushioned by a worn mattress. He still wore his same clothes—Levi’s and a grey shirt, only his Ralph Lauren sports coat was gone. Tossing aside a thin wool blanket, Henry pushed himself up.
The room was spartan. Besides the bed, the only other pieces of furniture were a wormwood desk huddled in the back corner and a prayer bench set before a plain wooden crucifix. Henry stared at the cross, its deep cherry stain stark against the whitewashed plaster. Before his mind’s eye, he again pictured the silver Dominican cross hanging from around his attacker’s neck. What the hell was going on?
He swung his feet to the floor, causing his ears to ring and his vision to dim for a fraction of a second. He took a deep breath, but not before noticing a strong, familiar smell from the tattered blanket on the bed. He fingered the coarse wool which was slightly greasy. He raised it to his nose and sniffed. Llama. Wool from the llama was the poorest quality of the textiles produced in South American countries, used by the peasants only. It was seldom exported.
Understanding slowly dawned. South America?
Henry quickly stood, wobbling for a moment on his weak legs, then quickly regaining his strength. “No, it can’t be!”
He stepped to the only door, short-framed but solid. He tested the latch. Locked, of course. Moving to the room’s center, he stared up at the high window. Birds whistled in some nearby tree, and a warm breeze stirred the dust motes in the stream of sunlight. Too bright. Henry sensed that this was not the same day when he had been shot by the tranquilizer dart. How long had he been out? The thin breeze smelled of frying oil, and in the distance rose the vague noises of a market, its strident voices hawking wares in Spanish.
Henry’s heart sank as he realized the truth. He had been abducted, whisked out of the country. Another face appeared to him: straight fall of midnight hair, bright eyes, full lips. His breath caught in his throat as he remembered Joan pulling the feathered dart from between her breasts and slumping to the floor. Where was she?
More worried about Joan than himself, Henry stepped to the door and pounded his fist, shaking the planks in their frame. Before he could even call out, a small peekhole slid open near the top of the door. Dark eyes stared at him.
“I want to know what—!”
The peephole slammed shut. Muffled words, too low to hear distinctly, were exchanged a few paces down the hall. Someone left in a hurry. Henry pounded the door again. “Let me out of here!”
He had not truly expected a response; he had only been venting his frustration. So he was shocked when someone responded to his call. A voice called to him from down the hall. “Henry? Is that you?”
Relief flooded his chest, cooling his hot blood. “Joan!”
“Are you okay?” she yelled back.
“Fine. How ‘bout you?”
“Sore, sick, and mad as hell.”
Henry heard a lot of fear in her voice, too. He didn’t know what to say. Apologize for getting her in this trouble? Offer false promises of rescue? He cleared his throat and called back. “Sorry… that wasn’t much of a second date, was it?” he called out.
A long pause… then a soft chuckle. “I’ve had worse!”
Henry pressed both palms against the door. He longed to wrap his arms around her.
From outside the cell, the sound of someone approaching suddenly echoed down the hall. Joan must have heard, too; she grew quiet. Henry held his breath. Now what? A voice, firm and curt, spat just outside his door. Henry recognized the cadence of an order.
The grate of a sliding bolt sounded, then the door to his cell swung open. Henry did not know what he had expected, but he was shocked when he discovered two robed monks outside his cell. Their cowls were tossed back and prominent crucifixes hung from beaded chains around their necks.
Henry stepped away as his gaze fixed on the familiar face of the taller monk. It was the gunman from Johns Hopkins, the one named Carlos. Once again, the man held a pistol in his grip, but this time there was no silencer. “Be cooperative, Professor Conklin, and all will go well.”
“Wh… where am I? What do you want with us?”
Carlos ignored him, instead signaling his companion. The guard crossed to another door down the hall and freed the bolt. Swinging the door open, he barked in Spanish and pulled a gun from a slit at the waist of his robe. He waved its muzzle, signaling the occupant to vacate the room.
Joan stepped out cautiously, her eyes instantly finding Henry’s. He saw the clear relief in her gaze. Tears glistened. She wiped brusquely at her face and needed no further prodding from the guard to join Henry and Carlos. Her eyes flicked a moment to the pistol in the taller monk’s hand, then back to Henry. “Why are we here?” she whispered. “What do they want?”
Before Henry could answer, Carlos spoke. “Come. Your questions will be answered.” Turning on his heel, the tall monk led them down the hall. The other monk, gun in fist, followed.
Joan slipped her hand into Henry’s. He squeezed as much reassurance into her grip as possible. If these men had meant them dead, they wouldn’t have drugged them and dragged them all the way here. But where was here? And what did they want? There was only one way to find out.
Henry followed Carlos. He studied the swish of the gunman’s robe, sandals tapping quietly on the flagstone floor. And why these damnable disguises?
As they were led down a maze of halls and up two flights of stairs, Joan remained silent at his side. Her gait was stiff. They passed only one other monk in the hallway, a cowled figure, head bowed. He stepped aside to let the procession pass without raising his face. Henry heard a mumbled prayer upon the man’s lips as he walked past. He never looked up.
