Pachacutec interrupted again, his tone bitter. “But the time of peace ended. A hundred seasons passed, and men in tall ships came, men with strange beasts and stranger tongues.”

“The Spanish,” Sam mumbled to himself.

“They kill my people, drive them from their homes. Like the jaguar, there be no escaping their teeth. They come even here. I speak to them. Tell them of Inti. I show them the temple and how it protects us. Their eyes grow hungry. They kill me, meaning to steal Inti from us.”

“They killed you?” Sam blurted out before he could stop it.

Pachacutec rubbed the back of his neck, as if kneading out some stubborn pain. He waved his other hand at Kamapak, motioning him to continue.

The shaman’s words grew dour as Norman translated. “The Spanish came with lust in their hearts. And as Pachacutec had slain the Mochico king, the foreigners slew our king. Pachacutec was taken to the center of the village.” The shaman waved toward the plaza beyond. “And his head was cut from his body.”

Sam’s excitement about discovering the fountain of youth dried in his chest. This last story was clearly preposterous. And if this was false, then all of the others probably were it, too. Just fireside fables. Whatever cured Norman had nothing to do with these stories. Still, Sam was compelled to listen ‘til the end. “But you live now. How is that?”

The shaman answered, glancing almost guiltily down. “The night the Sapa Inca was slain I heard the Spanish speak of burning his body. Such a cruelty is worse than death to our people. So I sneaked out and stole my king’s head from where he lay dead. With the Spanish in pursuit, I took my king to the temple and prayed to Inti. Again the god heard and proved his love.” The shaman threw another pinch of dust on the fire, a clear obeisance to his god.

Pachacutec continued the last of the tale. “The temple carried me back from death. I opened my eyes as my head lay on the altar. From my bloody mouth, I warned the strangers of Inti’s anger. This show of Inti’s strength made warriors into women. They screamed, wailed, tore at their hair, and ran away. The dogs sealed the lower entrance, but word of my death be already flying. The killers were captured, and their shaman sacrificed.”

Sam frowned. He knew one way to test the veracity of these stories. “What was the name of this Spanish shaman?”

Kamapak answered, voice tight with old hatred, hands balled into fists: “Francisco de Almagro.”

Pachacutec scowled at the name and spat into the fire. “We had this shaman dog captured for his blasphemies. But he fled like a coward and fouled a sacred site with his own blood. After his death, we made holes in his skull and drove out his god with ours.”

Sam sat shocked. He remembered his uncle’s story of the golden substance that exploded from the mummy’s skull. The ancient and modern stories seemed to match. But what these two were describing—immortality—how could it be true?

As Sam’s mind roiled, the shaman finished the story as Norman continued to translate the ancient Inca language. “After the foreigners fled, the temple slowly grew Pachacutec another body. Inti warned our king that these strange men from across the sea were too strong and too many, and Inti must be protected. So the path here was left sealed. We allowed ourselves to be forgotten. But Inti had promised Pachacutec that there would come a day when the path would reopen, a time when the Incan dynasty would begin again. When that day came, for our loyalty, our people had been promised not only their own lands back, but also the rest of the world.”

Pachacutec’s eyes blazed with fire and glory. “We will rule all!”

Sam nodded. “Inkarri reborn from his secret cave.”

Pachacutec turned his back on the fire and them. “So my people have named me after my rebirth. Inkarri, child of the sun.”

“When does this path to the world below reopen?”

“When the gods of janan pacha are ready to leave,” Pachacutec answered, waving an arm toward the south. “Until then, we must live as the temple tells us. All who threaten Inti must be sacrificed.”

The shaman turned his back, too. Norman quietly translated, color draining from his face. “You have shown your deceit this night, hiding your shame in the cloak of night.” His last words came out pained. “At dawn, when the sun rises and Inti can see our loyalty, you will be sacrificed to our god. Your blood will stain the plaza.”

The shaman signaled with his right hand.

Sam shot to his feet, but he was too late. Incan warriors swarmed from adjacent rooms and swept over them. Sam fought, but with no success. His rifle was knocked to the stones. Disturbed parrots screamed in the trees.

“No!” Sam yelled, but neither the shaman nor the king would face them as they were dragged away.

Dressed in her own khakis and shirt, Maggie huddled in the shadow of the courtyard wall. Holding her breath, afraid to move, she watched Sam and Norman being dragged away. Sweet Jesus, what was she going to do? She silently cursed the mule-headed Texan. He had to go charging blindly into danger. She turned and leaned her back on the stone wall. Hiding as still as a mouse, she had heard most of Pachacutec’s and Inkarri’s stories and knew there was no way to talk them out of this jam.

At least, she had hid Denal before coming here.

Earlier, she had heard the music in the plaza stop abruptly. She had peeked out and watched as Sam and Norman were seized. While instinct had told her to run with Denal as far and fast as possible, she had fought against it. The other two were her friends, and she could not abandon them without trying to help. So she had whisked Denal into the jungle’s edge and told him to stay out of sight. Then she had sneaked back here to discover the fate of her friends.

Now she knew. Maggie peeked through a crescent-shaped hole in the courtyard wall. It was empty. Even the king and the shaman were gone. Maggie stared at the sole reason she still tarried here. Sam’s Winchester rifle lay on the granite cobblestones of the courtyard. If a rescue was going to succeed, she would need that weapon.

Listening for voices, she studied the surrounding rooms for any sign of motion. It seemed clear. Her hands trembled with fear at what she was about to attempt. She bit her lip, refusing to let panic into her heart. Sam and Norman were depending on her. Taking a final deep breath, she grabbed the top of the wall, pulled herself up, and hooked a leg over the edge. She struggled for a few moments, then managed to boost herself over.

With her heart thundering in her throat, Maggie dropped into the courtyard. A blue-and-gold macaw ruffled its feathers, watching her, still tense from the excitement a few moments ago. Maggie willed the bird to remain quiet and crept to the foliage’s edge. The rifle lay only ten meters away. She just needed to dash across the open space, grab the rifle, then flee back over the wall.

It sounded easy until Maggie’s legs began to tremble under her. She knew she would have to act now or lose herself to panic. Clenching her fists, she pushed from the shadows of the trees and ran across the cobbles. Her hands settled upon the stock of the rifle just as voices sounded behind her. Someone was returning! She froze like a deer in headlights, fear paralyzing her. She could not move, could not think.

Suddenly, a log in the fire popped, loud as the blast from a starter’s gun.

It was what she needed. A gasp of fear escaped her throat, releasing her. She snatched the rifle and ran, not caring who might hear her. Terror gave her legs. She flew through the foliage and over the wall in a heartbeat.

She sank gratefully into the shadows, rifle clutched to her chest.

The voices behind her grew louder. Gulping air as silently as she could, she turned and peeked into the courtyard. It was Kamapak and Pachacutec returning. She watched the tattooed shaman cross to the yard’s center and throw a handful of powder into the fire. Azure flame danced to the rooftops, then died back down.

The two men spoke in their native tongue. The only word decipherable was the name Inkarri. The king seemed reluctant to do what the shaman wanted, but finally his shoulders sagged, and he nodded.

Straightening and stepping near the fire, Pachacutec reached to his shoulder and pulled the gold tupu pin that held his robe. The fine cloth fell like a flow of water from his body to pool around his ankles. The Sapa Inca stepped free of his robe, naked of all except his llautu headpiece and his staff.

A hand flew to Maggie’s lips, clamping away her cry of shock. But something must have been heard. The king glanced to the courtyard wall, staring for a long breath, then turned away.

Maggie’s stomach churned with acid. But she knew better than to move. She could not risk the scuff of stone alerting them further to her presence. She stared.

From the neck up, the king’s skin was the familiar mocha brown of the Andean Indians, but from the neck down, his skin was as pale as something found under a rock. It reminded Maggie of the beastly predators that haunted the caverns below. But Pachacutec’s skin was even paler, almost translucent. Vessels could be seen moving blackish blood under his skin; bones appeared as buried shadows. The man’s belly and chest were flat, hairless. Not even nipples or a navel marred the smooth surface. He was also sexless, completely lacking external genitalia.

Sexless and unnaturally smooth. Maggie found one word coming to mind as she stared at this strange apparition. Unformed. It was as if the king’s body were a blank slate waiting to be molded, like pale clay.

Oh, God. The realization dawned on her.

The story of Inkarri was true!

Day Six.

The Serpent of Eden

Saturday, August 25, 4:48 A.M.

Andean Mountains, Peru

Henry stared out the window as the helicopter banked over the jungle-stripped ruins. He had not slept all night. Worries and fears had kept him awake as their bird flew over the midnight jungles. He had yet to come up with any plan to thwart his captors. And without the additional stop to refuel, their flight from the guerrilla airstrip had been shortened. Time was running out.

Below, the campsite was still dark. The sun had yet to rise. Only a set of work lights near the base of the buried pyramid illuminated the dig. Apparently, even after the news of the students’ escape, work continued to open the temple. The abbot’s people sought every scrap of their precious el Sangre del Diablo.