Free Ruins by Kevin Anderson Page A

glyph-painted tiles. Fernando Aguilar would make up a fanci-ful story or legend for whatever Pepe found, increasing its potential worth. Pepe had merely to bring back the treasures, for which he received his share of the money.
    With a lightness to his step, he started forward into the plaza clearing—then Pepe looked up as he noticed a flash of movement, mysterious independent shadows gliding down the pyramid's crumbling steps, like hot oil trickling across water.
    He held still, but the shadows kept moving . . . toward him.
    Above, the branches rustled again with a slithering sound. On the ground, the tall feathery ferns waved as something large crawled through the leafy underbrush.
    Narrowing his eyes, Pepe flicked his gaze from side to side. Smearing cold perspiration away from his face, he held up the gleaming arc of his father's machete, ready to fight an attacking jaguar or wild boar. He drew a long breath, his senses fully alert, then took another step away from the trees, glancing up to make certain that no huge predator could drop down on him from above.
    The moon slipped behind a cloud, hiding its weak but comforting light. Pepe froze, listening—and the jun-gle seemed to become alive with movement, creatures slipping toward him with imperfect silence. In the renewed darkness, he saw a faint glow limning the edge of the Pyramid of Kukulkan, like a luminous mist that seemed to rise from the dark mouth of the cenote well.
    Swallowing hard, Pepe stepped away from the dan-gling branches of a tall chicle tree, wishing he knew where he could find shelter. He was far from any village, from any help. Could he hide inside the pyramid or one of the other temples? In the debris-littered ball court where Maya athletes had played a violent sport in front of cheering crowds? Should he run back into the forest, away from Xitaclan? Pepe didn't know where to go.

    With daybreak, the low jungle would be a much safer place. But not now, not at night. Never at night—he should have known.
    Then he saw two long, supple forms coming over the piled rocks, the stone blocks of another fallen tem-ple covered by moss and time. The creatures glided with reptilian, liquid motions mixed with a bird-like grace, jerky yet somehow delicate movements: the two shadows he had seen descending the steep pyramid steps. He found it entirely unlike the ominous, slug-gish advance of the scaly cayman he had seen in the jungle stream.
    At the edge of the ball court stood a glyph-adorned stela, a stone monolith used by the Maya to record their calendar, their conquests, their religion. A third shadow separated from the side of the stela, slithering toward him.
    Pepe slashed his father's machete in the air, hoping the threat would frighten the creatures off. Instead, they came at him faster.
    The high, thin clouds drifted apart, and the moonlight returned, spilling details into the murk of the excavated plaza. Pepe's heart pounded, and he gasped his amaze-ment in the ancient language his mother and father had spoken. In the plaza before him, he saw monsters that emerged from the myths and legends he had heard since he was a boy.
    The feathered serpents moved with the speed of danc-ing lightning—larger than crocodiles but with a power and intelligence that surpassed any other predator. They came at him from three sides, stalking, confident.
    "Kukulkan!" he cried. "Kukulkan, protect me!"
    The three feathered serpents hissed with the sound of water spattered on fire.
    They reared up, flashing long fangs as sharp as any sacrificial knife.
    With bright clarity Pepe knew what he had to do.
    In awe even greater than his terror, Pepe used the edge of his machete to slash open his arm, feeling the warm gush of blood, yet experiencing no pain whatso-ever. He extended his arm, offering them his blood as a sacrifice, hoping to appease the benevolent Kukulkan's servants with what he knew of the ancient rituals, the old religion.
    But instead of satisfying them, the