The word "harvested" hung in the air. It was a maize grower's word, a word of gathering and sustenance, and in this context, it was the most terrifying word Etalcaxi could have chosen.
The porters, who had been listening from the edge of the firelight, reacted as if a serpent had been thrown into their midst. Coyotl let out a high, thin sob and scrambled backward on his hands and knees, crab-walking away from the conversation. Ixa and Zolin, their faces identical masks of white, bloodless shock, were clutching each other. Xochi finally broke. Her hand went to the hilt of her obsidian knife, her knuckles white, her stoic demeanor shattered by a raw, primal fear as her eyes darted frantically along the dark, watching treeline.
Citli, his young face with an expression of horrified disbelief, stared at his commander, his hero. The glorious tales of jaguar-gods and jungle guides had been a beautiful, thrilling story. This was a butcher's tale. "Harvested?" he whispered, his voice a choked, reedy sound. "Eaten? Like... like deer?"
Etalcaxi's face was grim, his own terror making his voice hard and unforgiving. He was trying to build a wall of logic around a nightmare to keep it from consuming him. "No," he said, the word sharp as a shard of obsidian. "Not like deer. This was a ritual. There was no struggle because there was no fight. The victims were lured into a trap, just as we were lured onto that easy path."
Tlico, who had been standing silent and frozen, let out a long, shuddering breath. It was the sound of a man who had been holding his breath for some time. His usual cynical mask, the hard, leathery shield he wore against the world's foolishness, had crumbled into dust, revealing the face of a genuinely, deeply terrified man. He looked around at the vibrant jungle, at the great trees that had seemed merely inconvenient before, and now saw them with the pure, unadulterated dread of his youth.
"This is unnatural," he whispered, his voice trembling. "This is wrong. This is why the old traders say to take the long road. To travel the extra three days. This is why sensible men do not enter this jungle." His eyes grew distant, lost in a memory. "When I was a boy, no older than Citli, my first caravan came to this jungle. My grandfather was with us. The master of the caravan, a wise old man, forbade anyone from leaving the path. Not for any reason."
He swallowed hard, his throat working. "One of the porters, a young man from the coast, a fool who wanted to catch a blue butterfly, wandered off. He stepped between two trees." Tlico pointed a shaky finger toward the dark wall of the jungle. "Just for a moment. We called his name. He did not answer." He looked at the horrified faces around him. "We found his satchel, torn to shreds. Nothing else. No tracks. No blood. The master said the jungle had taken him. I thought he was a superstitious old fool."
Tlico's gaze, filled with a terrible, dawning understanding, moved from the jungle and settled directly on Etalcaxi. "I was wrong."
The old merchant's fear now sharpened, honed by a lifetime of suspicion into a fine, sharp point of anger. His mind, a shrewd and calculating instrument, was racing, connecting the dots of the last several days, the strange, convenient calamities, the warrior's bizarre behavior. He took a heavy step toward Etalcaxi, his eyes narrowed, his face a mask of accusation.
"These 'calamities'," he began, his voice a low, trembling growl. "The broken wheel. Good ironwood, splintered from the inside out. The sudden rain that fell only hard enough to separate you from us. The coatimundis that knew the value of a map but not of food." He took another step, closing the distance, his voice dropping to a low, trembling accusation that was for Etalcaxi alone. "Every time, you vanished. For hours. And every time, you returned with that foolish, satisfied grin on your face. You returned... marked by the jungle."
Tlico's gaze flickered to where the bite mark once was on Etalcaxi's lip, then to the dark, vine-like tattoo on his throat.
"That girl," Tlico hissed, the pieces slamming together in his mind. "The 'local guide' from your ridiculous story about the jaguar-god. The woman you have been sneaking off to meet in the dead of night." He jabbed a finger at Etalcaxi's chest. "What do you know about her people, warrior? What curse have you brought down upon this caravan with your lust?"
The direct accusation hit Etalcaxi. He was cornered, his secret exposed. All the lies, all the deceptions, all the sweet, stolen moments, were now laid bare as a monstrous betrayal.
"I was deceived!" he cried out, his voice defensive, pleading. "Tricked by her magic! By her beauty! I did not know what she was!"
Citli, his face a mask of disillusionment, took a stumbling step back. The hero he had worshipped, the man who had supposedly tamed a jaguar-god with his pure heart, had been lying all along. "Commander..." he whispered, his voice cracking with the pain of his shattered faith. "The flowers in your hair... the mark on your lip... the scent of flowers that clung to you..." He looked as if he were about to be sick. "How... how close did you get to this... this monster?"
The question hung in the air. Etalcaxi was forced to confront the truth of his intimacy with the creature that was a cannibal. The memories of their passion, of the taste of her kiss, of the feel of her body against his, were now visions of him writhing in the arms of a demon, a willing participant in his own defilement. His face turned pale with a wave of self-loathing and a terror that threatened to stop his heart.
"Too close," he choked out, the words tearing from his throat. "By the gods, Citli... far too close."
He instinctively touched the hollow of his throat, his fingertips tracing the outline of the mark she had left upon him. He remembered the claiming ritual, the searing heat of her thumb against his skin, the feeling of her magic pouring into him, branding him not just on the surface, but in his very soul.
She did not just seduce me, he thought, a fresh wave of horror washing over him. She marked me. She tasted me. She bound me to this place. The horrifying image of the silent, empty Nictex camp filled his mind. The Nictexs... they were just an appetizer. His own words, spoken in confidence to a beautiful, smiling monster, echoed back at him. Rivals. Obstacles. He had served them up to her on a platter. And now, his own turn was coming. I am the feast.
The weight of his situation crashed down on him. He looked at the small, terrified group of people who had been entrusted to his care. Their mission was a forgotten memory. Their precious cargo of honey and feathers was meaningless. They were within a hostile, hungry jungle, led by a commander who had been sleeping with the monster that hunted them. Their only goal now was to escape Coatl-Cuahuitl before it decided to harvest them too. And he, their leader, was the one who had led them to the slaughter and painted them with the scent of blood.