In the first century, he lived for vengeance.
During the second, he hungered for blood.
By the third, he yearned for destruction.
But eventually . . .
All he craved was the moon.
Chapter 1
"You got another letter from moldy, old Dr. Mecate."
Gina O'Neil glanced up from grooming a horse to discover
her best friend, Jase McCord, holding up a brilliantly white
business sized envelope. She knew exactly what business it
contained. How could she not, considering the obstinate Dr.
Mecate had sent her at least half a dozen others just like it?
It would behoove you to allow me to dig on your property.
What in hell was a behoove?
Proving my academic theory would increase the cachet of
your establishment.
She had the same question about cachet.
I would be happy to advance remuneration.
Who talked like that?
"Helloo." Jase waved the envelope back and forth, his
wide, high cheek-boned face softened by the chip in his
front tooth that he'd gotten when he was bucked from a horse
at the age of eight. His face, combined with his compact
but well honed body made him look like a marauding Ute
warrior, which is exactly what he would have been if born in
a previous century. "What should I--?"
Gina snatched the envelope from his hand. “I’ll take
care of it.” In the same way she’d taken care of all the
others.
By filing it in the circular file.
Gina turned back to Lady Belle, and Jase, sensing her
mood, left.
Nahua Springs Ranch was not only Gina’s home but her
inheritance. Once one of the most respected quarter horse
ranches in Colorado, Nahua Springs had become, after the
death of Gina's parents nearly ten years ago, one of far too
many dude ranches in the area.
They'd done all right—until recently.
Recently she’d begun to receive as many letters from the
bank as she’d did from Dr. Mecate. Certainly his
remuneration would be welcome, considering their financial
difficulties. Unfortunately what he wanted from her was
something Gina couldn’t give.
If she opened the letter she knew what she’d find. A
request for her to lead him to a place she’d sworn never to
go again.
The place where her parents had died.
Because of her.
Not only that but he wanted to dig there. He wanted to
find . . . it.
She couldn’t let that happen.
Gina crossed to the open back doorway drawing in a deep
breath of spring air as she stared at the ebony roll of the
distant mountains and the spring grass tinged silver by the
wisp of a moon.
Giiiiii-naaaa!
Sometimes the wind called her name. Sometimes the
coyotes. Sometimes she even heard her name in the calls of
the wolves that were never, ever there.
The singsong trill haunted her, reminding her daily and
nightly of all she had lost. She'd come to the conclusion
that the call was her conscience, shouting out the last word
her parents had ever uttered in an attempt to make sure she
remembered--as if she could ever forget--her parents, her
stupidity, their deaths.
Everything had both started and ended in that cavern
beneath the earth.
"Kids will be kids," she murmured, echoing her father's
inevitable pronouncement whenever she and Jase had gotten
into trouble.
Let them roam, Betsy. What good is having this place if
she can't run free like we did?
Gina's parents had been childhood sweethearts. Boring,
if you left out the star-crossed nature of their
relationship with Betsy as the daughter of the ranch owner
and Pete the son of the foreman. Everyone on the ranch had
considered them as close as brother and sister. When
Betsy's father had found out they were closer, he'd
threatened to send her to college on the East coast, right
after used his bullwhip on Pete.
The reality of his coming grandchild had ended both the
threat of a whipping and any hope of college. Not that
Betsy had cared. She'd loved the ranch as much as Pete had,
as much as Gina did now.
The two of them had always been connected in a way that
Gina envied. Her father could glance at her mother, and
vice versa, and know exactly what she was thinking, feeling,
what she wanted or needed or hoped. It had been kind of eerie.
Oh, I suppose, Betsy had agreed after one long look into
Pete's eyes. As long as they stay away from . . . well, you
know--
Gina swallowed her tears. She had, of course, not stayed
away from you know. And her parents had paid with their lives.
She and Jase had been kids that day, heading straight for
the place Jase's granddad had warned them against.
At the end of Lonely Deer Trail the Tangwaci Cin-au'-ao
sleeps. You must never, ever walk there.
According to Isaac, the Tangwaci Cin-au'-ao was an evil
spirit of such power that whoever went anywhere near him
died. Basically, he was the Ute Angel of Death, and he
lived at their place. What fifteen-year-old could resist
that?
Certainly not Gina.
She'd become obsessed with it. She'd crept closer and
closer. She'd taken pictures of the flat plain that seemed
to drop into nowhere, yet a tree seemed to grow out of the
sky. And when that sky filled with dawn or dusk, the tree
seemed to catch fire.
How could anyone not want to explore that?
Jase hadn't wanted to go, but she'd teased him
unmercifully.
It's dangerous, he said.
I know. Gina rolled her eyes. Tangwaci Cin-au'-ao.
Wooooo!!! You really believe there's an evil death spirit
at all, let alone on this ranch?
The Ute don't like it there. Have you ever noticed
they'll ride a mile out of their way to avoid going anywhere
near the end of that trail?
Gina figured that was because if you rode a horse--any
horse--within two hundred yards of the place, they bolted.
Which only made her curiouser and curiouser.
The Ute see monsters that aren't there, Gina scoffed.
Better than not seeing the ones that are, Jase returned.
But he'd gone with her, as she'd known he would. And to
Jase’s credit, he'd never once said: I told you so.
Not when the earth had crumpled beneath them.
Not when they'd tried to climb out and only succeeded in
pulling an avalanche of summer-dried ground back in.
Not when they'd been buried alive, unable to move, barely
able to breathe.
Not even when they'd both understood they would die there.
Because if Gina’s sleep was disturbed by the ghostly,
sing-song trill, if on occasion the wind also called her
name, if she felt every morning in that instant before she
awoke the same thing she'd felt in that cavern--the stirring
of something demonic, the reaching of its deformed hand in a
mad game of Duck, Duck, Goose--pointing first at Gina, then
at Jase, before settling its death-claw on her parents, well
. . .
That was probably I told you so enough.
* * *
Mateo Mecate stared at the hieroglyphics until they
blurred in front of his severely overworked eyes. He might
be one of the foremost scholars in Aztec studies but still
the letters sometimes read like gibberish. He shoved them
aside, removing his glasses and rubbing a hand over his face.
According to the calendar, May meant spring. As usual,
Tucson wasn't listening. The temperatures had been pushing
ninety for a week.
The door to Matt's small, dusty, scalding office opened,
and his boss, George Enright, stepped in. His gaze went to
the papers on Matt's desk, and he frowned.
"Mateo." Enright's voice held so much disappointment,
Matt waited for him to cluck his tongue then shake his head,
or perhaps his finger, in admonishment. "This has to stop.
I've put up with it thus far because of the respect I had
for your mother. But the time has come to move on."
Enright was the head of the anthropology department at
the University of Arizona where Matt was a professor of
archaeology--his specialty, like his mother's before him,
the civilization of the Aztecs.
Nora Mecate had been a descendant of that great
civilization. She'd been fascinated--some say
obsessed--with proving a theory she'd gleaned from ancient
writings passed down through her family for generations.
She spent her life--no, she gave her life--trying to prove it.
"You could become the chair of this department when I
retire. But you need to abandon your mother's ridiculous
theory. You're becoming a laughingstock." Enright lowered
his voice. "As she was."
Matt stiffened. Any academic who refused to face facts
became an amusing anecdote at the staff water cooler. Matt
had noticed a lot of the graduate students staring and
whispering lately.
Not that being stared at and whispered about was anything
new. For some reason the women around here liked to fashion
him a Hispanic Indiana Jones. He wasn't, but that didn't
stop them from staring and whispering and showing up during
his office hours with foolish questions they already knew
the answer to.
Matt wasn't interested. Not that he didn't occasionally
date--if the willing women he took to dinner, then back to
his bed, then never saw again, could be considered
dates--but his life was work, and he had little use for
anything else.
"I have one more location on my mother's list of
possibilities," Matt said.
Enright lifted his artificially darkened brows.
Everything about Enright was artificial--his gelled, black
toupee, his high gloss manicure, even his right hip.
When Matt did not elaborate, Enright sighed. His breath
smelled of the Jack Daniels he kept filed under W.
"The semester is nearly done, Mateo. By fall, be ready
to move on."
"Move on?" Matt echoed.
"Choose a different avenue for your research or choose
another university." The door shut behind Enright with a
decisive click.
Matt glanced at his mother's notes. As he shuffled them,
searching for something he might have missed during the
eight thousand other times he'd shuffled them, he could have
sworn the scent of her--oranges, earth and sunshine--lifted
from the pages. Sometimes, when he touched them in the
depths of the night, their whisper was her voice calling him
in from childish explorations across every dig they'd ever
shared.
He'd enjoyed a charmed childhood. What wasn't to love
about living in a tent, digging in the dirt, finding buried
treasure and never once--until he'd come here--stepping foot
in a school?
Nora had been the only child of the very wealthy Mecate
family. When she'd chosen to become an archaeologist more
than a few inky black Mecate eyebrows had been raised. She
didn't need to work for a living; she most definitely didn't
need to dig in the dirt. That she wanted to had been beyond
the comprehension of many, including her father.
However, only poor people were crazy. Rich people were
eccentric, and the more eccentrics in a rich family, the
greater their prestige. The raised eyebrows had lowered
before too long.
When Nora had turned up pregnant—not a boyfriend or a
husband in sight--no one had bothered to exert their
eyebrows at all. That Mateo would be a Mecate, and carry on
that precious name, had gone a long way to bridging the gap
between Nora and her father.
She'd dragged Matt with her all over Mexico and the
southwest. She'd taught him everything she knew about how
to research and explore. Then she'd died on a dig the
summer before he left for college.
"Hell," Matt muttered, tracing one finger over his
mother's chicken scratch scrawl.
While still a young woman, Nora had translated the
ancient Aztec writings she'd uncovered in the musty library
of the family estate and discovered something amazing.
The reason the Aztecs never lost in battle was that
they’d possessed a secret weapon, what Nora referred to as a
super warrior, a being of such incredible strength and power
she believed him to be a sorcerer. That warrior had been
buried somewhere in the American southwest. All she had to
do was find the tomb.
Scholars would have accepted her searching for remains
north of the Rio Grande, even though most believed the
Aztecs had not ventured farther than Central Mexico. But
the tomb of a supernatural warrior? A sorcerer?
No one but Nora believed that.
Certainly, when Matt was a child, his mother’s tales had
captivated him. He’d believed in them as completely as he’d
believed in her. But as time went on, Matt’s belief in a
supernatural warrior waned.
However, Nora’s research on the tomb itself was solid.
There was something buried at a site north of the Rio
Grande. Perhaps nothing more than a very large, freakishly
strong and more deadly than usual Aztec, but if Matt found
that tomb and those remains, he could vindicate his mother’s
theory. Or at least those parts it was possible to
vindicate. Then she would no longer be a laughingstock.
And neither would he.
Nora had translated a list of half a dozen possible sites
from the hieroglyphics she’d found. Unfortunately, they'd
explored all of them--save one--and to date they'd found
nothing but rocks.
Scholars pointed out that the Spanish had destroyed most,
if not all, of the Aztec records--flat, accordion-like books
known as codices, fashioned from deerskins or agave paper.
Any texts that survived had been written under the strict
supervision, and often with the help of, the Spanish clergy.
Therefore, the writings Nora Mecate had based her life's
work upon--Super-warrior? Sorcerer? Indeed!--were nothing
more than a hoax perpetrated by some laugh-a-minute priest
in the fifteenth or sixteenth century.
"Because priests back then were known for being extremely
'ha-ha' kind of guys," Matt muttered.
Matt had been studying the documents himself ever since
Nora had died. He could find nothing wrong with her
translations. He had found no other viable sites.
Therefore, Matt had one last chance to prove her theory.
If the final location yielded nothing new, he'd have little
choice but to give up his mother's dream--which would be
tantamount to admitting she was a crackpot--and move on.
However, he'd encountered a problem with the remaining site.
Matt pulled a glossy, three-fold brochure from the center
drawer of his desk. The front panel revealed majestic
mountains--four shots--spring, summer, winter and
fall--green, blue, gold, brown, white, purple and orange
abounded. Horses gamboled. He turned the brochure over to
see if bunnies hopped and cattle roamed.
Instead, he found an artsy portrayal of a cowboy in
silhouette, head tipped down, hat shading his face.
However, the outline of the body was every
ride-em-cowboy-wanna-be's dream.
Inside lay the propaganda--several gung-ho paragraphs
superimposed over a sepia print of what he assumed was the
main house, which, despite the "old time" feel of the
photograph had obviously been updated and well maintained.
According to the text, gourmet food complemented an
authentic western experience.
"Yee-haw," Matt murmured, rubbing the slick brochure
between thumb and forefinger before removing another older,
less slick, more crumpled paper from his desk.
He wasn't an expert on photography, but he was still
fairly certain the person who'd taken the pictures for the
brochure was the same person who had taken the image he'd
uncovered on the Internet about a year ago. The one that
matched the final descriptive translation for the burial
site of Nora Mecate's super-warrior.
Somewhere on this dude ranch lay his last chance to
vindicate both his mother's, and his own, life's work.
Sure, he'd had his assistant leave a dozen unanswered phone
messages, followed by as many unanswered e-mails. Then Matt
had taken over and begun to write letters, reiterating the
request for permission to dig. He'd yet to receive a single
response. It infuriated him.
Deep down he knew that his single-minded devotion to
proving his mother’s theory, or as much of it as could be
proved, was based on guilt. He’d stopped believing in the
super warrior long ago. He’d started to wonder himself if
his mother was the kook everyone thought her to be. Then on
that last night, he’d lost his temper, told her to—
Grow up. I did.
Even now, Matt winced at the memory. She’d died still
believing and he’d--
“Gone on,” Matt murmured. He hadn’t really known what
else to do.
So, if Gina O’ Neil, owner of Nahua Springs Ranch,
thought her silence would make him go away . . .
Matt booted up his computer and clicked the tab for
expedia.com.
She’d soon find out how wrong she was.