Beautiful Sacrifice

sea.
    Gradually Hunter noticed a random scattering of modern debris mostly hidden among the vines and moss—cigarette butts, scraps of greasy paper, broken glass winking from beneath green leaves, petals where no flowers were blooming nearby. Some of the petals were fresh.
    Lina paused, listening.
    Faint voices came from ahead.
    Hunter’s hand touched the small of her back. His lips brushed over her ear.
    “More villagers?” he asked very softly.
    “Sounds like.” Her voice wasn’t as soft as his. She was curious rather than wary. “Probably they’re including some of the old places in tonight’s celebration. It’s a very big moment for the Maya.”
    Hunter was remembering Crutchfeldt’s words about grave robbers and a man whose name it was death to speak. All things considered, assuming El Maya was a legend wasn’t smart.
    “We’ll come back tomorrow,” Hunter said.
    She waited, listening. “They’re gone now.”
    “The back of my neck itches,” he said.
    “Use more insect repellent.”
    “Lina—”
    She held up her hand, stopping his words.
    Nothing came through the jungle but silence.
    She waited for a long ten count, then another. When the small and large sounds of the jungle slowly returned, she looked at him.
    “They’re gone,” she said.
    “So are we,” he said, turning back toward the Bronco.
    “I’m on Reyes Balam land. The locals know me. As long as you stay with me, they won’t bother either of us. In fact, they probably left rather than disturb me.”
    Hunter stood and smelled the air, listened, and waited.
    “Smoke of some kind,” he said finally.
    “The jungle is too wet to burn,” she said impatiently.
    “Cigarettes aren’t.”
    “I’ve seen the litter. We’ll pick it up on the way out. If it’s messy again in a week, Abuelita or Carlos will send someone to clean up. The locals can treat their villages like garbage dumps, but not the rest of the Reyes Balam lands, especially around ruins.”
    With that, Lina headed up the trail once more, her stride purposeful. Hunter knew he had the choice of dragging her screaming back to the Bronco—dumb idea, considering the protective natives—or following her.
    Muttering curses that could shrivel leaves, he walked quickly after her.
    “It’s just over the next rise,” she said without turning around.
    Hunter eyed lichen-covered rubble that was more green than gray. Emerald spikes of aloe plants dotted the ridge like a low fence. Where the limestone pushed through the thin soil in great lumps, shrubbery flourished in the sun beyond the overwhelming reach of ceiba and copal trees.
    Lina pushed through the undergrowth, gathering new welts to match her old. Behind her, Hunter did the same. Neither of them commented on the small wounds. Both understood that the jungle was its own master and exacted its due from soft-skinned trespassers.
    In tandem, Lina and Hunter climbed down to a low outcrop of limestone that overlooked a small clearing ringed with more of the misshapen ceiba trees. The roots were unusually gnarled and twisted, more like strangler figs than ceiba. Even for vegetation powerful enough to hold overworld and underworld together, life right here was a raw struggle.
    At the center of a clearing Hunter saw a mound that had once been far taller than he was. Now it was about his height. The rubble surrounding it was at least twenty yards across. All of it had been consumed by the jungle, though the biggest limestone blocks were still fighting for their place in the sun.
    Hunter took a slow, deep breath. Perhaps smoke from clove cigarettes, perhaps a dead campfire, perhaps his instincts working in overdrive. Whatever had happened here recently wasn’t happening at this moment. He no longer felt watched with predatory interest.
    And he still didn’t like the fact that he had felt that way.
    “Any back roads from here to Tulum?” he asked.
    “None that don’t pass over estate lands. As a cat sanctuary, we’re off-limits to tourists and hikers. Besides, there’s not much here to see. No beaches. No mountains or canyons worth mentioning. No striking ruins. No village fairs. Bird-watching is average, at best. Cenote de Balam is barely known beyond the boundary of the estate itself.”
    Hunter nodded slowly. “What you’re saying is that the area is pretty much a blank spot on the map.”
    “A lot of the Yucatan is like that. Without rivers to provide food, freshwater, and relatively easy access, or any