The Cure. Part 35

In the depths of the jungle lie mysteries drenched in blood.

Cult of the Black Jaguar.

2015 JG Faherty.

Ethan Foster has spent a lifetime as a guide and bodyguard for archeologist Heathcliff Pascal. They've survived more adventures than they can count, but now, deep in the jungles of Central America, they discover a secret hidden from the world for centuries: the Cult of the Black Jaguar, presided over by an immortal G.o.ddess whose beauty is matched by her cruelty. She needs the blood of a virgin to bring her army back to life, and she's found one in Heathcliff's daughter, Jenny. It's up to Ethan to stop her. It might seem an impossible task, but Ethan has secrets of his own. Dark secrets.

Before the night is over, blood will be shed, and only one man-or monster-will survive.

Enjoy the following excerpt for Cult of the Black Jaguar: Ethan Foster smiled as a tortured, undulating wail shattered the relative stillness of the sultry jungle night. On the other side of the fire, Elton Harrison's cup fell from his hands, spilling hot coffee onto his boots.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l! What was that?" Harrison stared into the darkness, his eyes wide.

"Jaguar." Hector Veracruz nonchalantly tossed another branch into the crackling campfire.

"Jaguar? It sounded like someone being murdered." Harrison mopped a thin, shaking hand ineffectively at his pant cuffs.

"Balam," whispered Popi from the smaller fire he and his brother, Luz, had made for themselves off to one side of the main group. Ethan wasn't used to having porters sit separately on his expeditions, but he figured it was their choice if they wanted to be anti-social.

"Eh? What?" asked Harrison.

Ethan, who'd been humming the latest song by Glenn Miller, put down the long-barreled, pearl-handled Colt .45 he'd been cleaning and wiped his long fingers on the front of his pants, leaving streaks of oil that quickly blended into the myriad stains on the fabric.

"Balam is Mayan for jaguar," he informed the expedition's diminutive physician. Lighting one of the foul-smelling black cheroots he preferred to cigarettes, Ethan continued his explanation, the cigar bobbing between his lips as he spoke.

"The Mayans revered the jaguar the way the Egyptians wors.h.i.+pped the sun, or that big dog-headed thing that guarded their temples."

"Anubis."

At the sound of Dr. Jennifer Pascal's voice, Ethan paused so he could watch her emerge from the tent she was sharing with her father. His body instantly responded to her presence, the same way it always did when she was near.

As the only woman in a months-long expedition comprised of eight people, it was inevitable that all eyes would follow her every move in camp, but even if they'd been in the middle of Manhattan, Jenny Pascal would command the interest of every man around her. Like a glowing light calling to love-starved moths, she couldn't help drawing attention to herself.

Completely unaware of the effect her presence had on the rest of the party, she reached back with both hands and untied her hair from its usual ponytail. Long, curling waves of flaming red cascaded around her thin shoulders like molten lava flowing down a hillside. In the fire's light, each strand glowed as bright as the embers themselves.

Ethan felt his heart come to life, his pulse speeding up and thumping like war drums in his veins. During the day, her field vest and pack had done an adequate job of hiding her womanly a.s.sets, but now her plain t-s.h.i.+rt and hiking shorts accentuated her pinup-girl figure to its fullest.

The tall, sandy-haired guide smiled to himself as he noticed the way the other men, even the native help, stared at her. Most guides believed bringing a woman on an expedition was bad luck. And he had seen instances where that was the case; a woman could be a dangerous distraction in the field. As far as Ethan was concerned, though, if you had to have a woman in your camp, you could do a lot worse than Jenny Pascal, with her long, toned legs and innocent, Midwestern girl-next-door looks.

Of course, if the girl next door happened to be a double-Ph.D. and an expert on ancient Central American civilizations, like Jenny, then you were doubly lucky.

Taking a seat by the fire, Jenny continued her impromptu lecture. "The Mayans held great reverence for the jaguar. Jaguar spirits, called balamobs, guarded the people from harm."

The tent flaps opened again and Dr. Heathcliff Pascal, senior archeologist of the expedition and one of the world's greatest authorities on paleo-Indian civilizations, emerged to join his daughter. The gray-haired historian might as well have been invisible for all the notice anyone paid him. Jenny Pascal's beauty held peoples' attention with its own mystical gravitational field, allowing nothing to escape. Only Jenny paid him any mind, scooting over so he could take a seat next to her.

The two-week hike through the jungles of Guatemala had left Heathcliff tired and weak. But Jenny had a way of energizing him. She always had. His eyes took on a hint of their old energy as he sat down.

"The jaguar played a very important role in the city we're searching for." Jenny's normally soft voice became stronger, more animated, whenever she spoke about the subject most dear to her heart. Her eyes, green as summer gra.s.s, reflected the red flames as if they were windows to the burning pa.s.sion inside her.

Unfortunately, Ethan reminded himself, that pa.s.sion was for history.

"The cult of the Black Jaguar began in this area around five hundred A.D., and Ah Puch, the City of the Dead, remained as its capital throughout its entire reign."

"Quite right, my dear," said the elder Pascal. He removed the battered straw hat he habitually wore in the field, a gift from Ethan many years and many expeditions ago, and fanned himself. Sweat stains created dark swaths under his arms and across his back, but he gave no indication of discomfort.

"And this Ah Puch is where we're supposed to find the Temple of Blood?" Harrison asked.

"Yes. For the Cult of the Black Jaguar, the Temple de Sangre was the focal point for their most sacred religious ceremonies. Including," Heathcliff added, "their blood sacrifices, which continued until the Spaniards wiped them out four hundred-odd years ago."

"Ah, yes. Cutting out the hearts and whatnot. Good thing that's done with."

Hector directed an angry glare at the doctor.

"Do not be so sure, Seor Harrison. The people of my village still fear the Temple de Sangre."

"Surely you don't believe that superst.i.tious muck?" Harrison shook his head, a condescending smile spreading under his pencil-thin mustache.

"I do not disbelieve, Dr. Harrison. There are many tales of the Balamob, the Jaguar G.o.d. Tales of great cities hidden in the jungle, where the priests and priestesses are able to turn into jaguars. Places," he said, his dark eyes matching his serious tone, "where curious men and women disappear forever."

"Hmph." Harrison sipped at his cup, which Ethan suspected held more than just coffee. Not that it mattered. As long as the doctor could shoulder his pack in the morning and keep up, he could drink whatever he wanted. "Well, I for one..."

Another ululating scream sounded from the depths of the jungle, cutting short the latest in Harrison's unending string of pompous remarks. In the humid, dense air and near-impenetrable tropical forest, it was impossible to tell which direction the wail originated from.

"Balamob!" Luz, a short, thin local with coal-black hair and eyes, crossed himself in Christian fas.h.i.+on. Popi, who looked so much like his brother they could have pa.s.sed for twins, swiftly repeated the gesture.

Ethan rose to his feet, gun in hand, as a third high-pitched cry, this one much closer, filled the air. Veracruz stood up also.

"What's wrong, Ethan? I didn't think jaguars would attack the camp." Heathcliff Pascal closed the notebook he'd been writing in.

"That wasn't a jaguar," Ethan said in a curt voice. He peered into darkness, wis.h.i.+ng the presence of the others didn't limit his options for ensuring their safety. If it was just him and Heathcliff...

"Then what...oh!" Jenny Pascal's hand flew to her mouth. "Mr. Amos is still out there!"

Ethan nodded. "Hector, come with me. The rest of you stay here."

Veracruz was still reaching for his rifle when they heard a loud noise, as if something heavy moved within the ropey tangle of vines and trees surrounding the camp, just past the light thrown by the fires.

end.