Free Cult of the Black Jaguar by JG Faherty Page A

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.
    â€œThe 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 grass, reflected the red flames as if they were windows to the burning passion inside her.
    Unfortunately, Ethan reminded himself, that passion was for history.
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œQuite 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.
    â€œAnd this Ah Puch is where we’re supposed to find the Temple of Blood?” Harrison asked.
    â€œYes. 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.”
    â€œAh, yes. Cutting out the hearts and whatnot. Good thing that’s done with.”
    Hector directed an angry glare at the doctor.
    â€œDo not be so sure, Señor Harrison. The people of my village still fear the Temple de Sangre.”
    â€œSurely you don’t believe that superstitious muck?” Harrison shook his head, a condescending smile spreading under his pencil-thin mustache.
    â€œI do not disbelieve, Dr. Harrison. There are many tales of the Balamob , the Jaguar God. 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.”
    â€œHmph.” 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.
    â€œ Balamob! ” Luz, a short, thin local with coal-black hair and eyes, crossed himself in Christian fashion. Popi, who looked so much like his brother they could have passed 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.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, Ethan? I didn’t think jaguars would attack the camp.” Heathcliff Pascal closed the notebook he’d been writing in.
    â€œThat wasn’t a jaguar,” Ethan said in a curt voice. He peered into darkness, wishing the presence of the others didn’t limit his options for ensuring their safety. If it was just him and Heathcliff…
    â€œThen 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