her
pulse pounding. A man’s shadow loomed over the hammock, thrown by the flames in the
fire pit suddenly leaping toward the sky. She never would have seen him otherwise.
Jubal Sanders was that quiet. She twisted fast to face him, but he’d gone past her
to take up a position at the head of Annabel’s hammock. Had he wanted to kill her
mother, she would already be dead—he’d been that close without Riley’s knowledge.
She knew, almost without the confirmation of turning her head, that Gary Jansen was
at the foot of her mother’s hammock. She’d spent the last four days trekking through
the hardest jungle possible and she knew the way he moved—silent and easy through
the rough terrain—but it still surprised her. He just seemed as if he’d be more at
home in a lab coat, the absentminded professor. Clearly he was brilliant. You couldn’t
talk to him and not realize he was extremely intelligent, but he moved every bit as
easily through the jungle as Jubal and he was equally as well armed and probably just
as proficient with weapons. She was glad they had chosen to help her protect Annabel.
The terrible buzzing in her head increased so that for a moment her head felt as if
it might explode. She pressed her fingers tightly against her temple. She was looking
directly at Gary when the pain exploded through her skull and rattled her teeth. He
gripped his head at the same moment, shaking it. His lips moved, but no sound emerged.
She looked at Jubal. He, too, was feeling the head pain.
The words were foreign. Jumbled together, almost like a chant, but definitely words.
She had excelled in studying ancient and dead languages as well as modern ones, but
she didn’t recognize even the rhythm of the words—but both Jubal and Gary clearly
did. She saw the expressions on their faces, the alarm exchanged in their eyes.
Ben Charger staggered up to the other side of Annabel’s hammock, pressing his hands
to his ears. “Something’s wrong,” he hissed. “This is about her. Something evil wants
her dead.”
Jubal and Gary nodded their agreement. The bats overhead stirred. Riley’s heart pounded
hard enough that she feared the others could hear. She took a better grip on her knife
and torch and waited in the darkness while Annabel moaned and writhed, as if evading
something terrible chasing her, haunting her dreams.
Raul came out of the shadows, machete clutched in his hands, muttering the same phrase
over and over. “Hän kalma, emni hän ku köd alte. Tappatak naman. Tappatak naman.”
Riley heard the words clearly as the porter repeated them over and over. She knew
most of the dialects of the tribes spoken in this part of the rain forest. She knew
Spanish and Portuguese. She knew European languages and even Russian and Latin, but
this was nothing like she’d ever heard before. Not Latin in origin. Not any of the
dead languages she was familiar with, but the words meant something to the porter
and—she glanced at Jubal and Gary—to the two researchers.
Raul chanted the sentences over and over in a guttural, hypnotic voice. His eyes glazed
over. She’d seen ceremonies that had placed recipients into trances and the porter
definitely appeared to be in one, which made him doubly dangerous. Sweat poured from
his body, dripping from him to
splatter darkly across the leaves that were now crawling with thousands of ants. He
shook his head continually, as if fighting the sound in his head, stumbling backward
a few feet and then relentlessly moving forward again.
Her mouth went dry as the bats overhead began to descend, dropping to the ground like
menacing raptors, creeping through the vegetation. Beady eyes stared at Annabel as
they used their wings like legs, propelling themselves toward their prey. Raul shuffled
closer, his movements awkward, very unlike his normal easy movement, the murmured
chant growing in volume and
pulse pounding. A man’s shadow loomed over the hammock, thrown by the flames in the
fire pit suddenly leaping toward the sky. She never would have seen him otherwise.
Jubal Sanders was that quiet. She twisted fast to face him, but he’d gone past her
to take up a position at the head of Annabel’s hammock. Had he wanted to kill her
mother, she would already be dead—he’d been that close without Riley’s knowledge.
She knew, almost without the confirmation of turning her head, that Gary Jansen was
at the foot of her mother’s hammock. She’d spent the last four days trekking through
the hardest jungle possible and she knew the way he moved—silent and easy through
the rough terrain—but it still surprised her. He just seemed as if he’d be more at
home in a lab coat, the absentminded professor. Clearly he was brilliant. You couldn’t
talk to him and not realize he was extremely intelligent, but he moved every bit as
easily through the jungle as Jubal and he was equally as well armed and probably just
as proficient with weapons. She was glad they had chosen to help her protect Annabel.
The terrible buzzing in her head increased so that for a moment her head felt as if
it might explode. She pressed her fingers tightly against her temple. She was looking
directly at Gary when the pain exploded through her skull and rattled her teeth. He
gripped his head at the same moment, shaking it. His lips moved, but no sound emerged.
She looked at Jubal. He, too, was feeling the head pain.
The words were foreign. Jumbled together, almost like a chant, but definitely words.
She had excelled in studying ancient and dead languages as well as modern ones, but
she didn’t recognize even the rhythm of the words—but both Jubal and Gary clearly
did. She saw the expressions on their faces, the alarm exchanged in their eyes.
Ben Charger staggered up to the other side of Annabel’s hammock, pressing his hands
to his ears. “Something’s wrong,” he hissed. “This is about her. Something evil wants
her dead.”
Jubal and Gary nodded their agreement. The bats overhead stirred. Riley’s heart pounded
hard enough that she feared the others could hear. She took a better grip on her knife
and torch and waited in the darkness while Annabel moaned and writhed, as if evading
something terrible chasing her, haunting her dreams.
Raul came out of the shadows, machete clutched in his hands, muttering the same phrase
over and over. “Hän kalma, emni hän ku köd alte. Tappatak naman. Tappatak naman.”
Riley heard the words clearly as the porter repeated them over and over. She knew
most of the dialects of the tribes spoken in this part of the rain forest. She knew
Spanish and Portuguese. She knew European languages and even Russian and Latin, but
this was nothing like she’d ever heard before. Not Latin in origin. Not any of the
dead languages she was familiar with, but the words meant something to the porter
and—she glanced at Jubal and Gary—to the two researchers.
Raul chanted the sentences over and over in a guttural, hypnotic voice. His eyes glazed
over. She’d seen ceremonies that had placed recipients into trances and the porter
definitely appeared to be in one, which made him doubly dangerous. Sweat poured from
his body, dripping from him to
splatter darkly across the leaves that were now crawling with thousands of ants. He
shook his head continually, as if fighting the sound in his head, stumbling backward
a few feet and then relentlessly moving forward again.
Her mouth went dry as the bats overhead began to descend, dropping to the ground like
menacing raptors, creeping through the vegetation. Beady eyes stared at Annabel as
they used their wings like legs, propelling themselves toward their prey. Raul shuffled
closer, his movements awkward, very unlike his normal easy movement, the murmured
chant growing in volume and
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