Beautiful Sacrifice: A Novel

end could have been for corn pollen or blood or some other ritual material. There’s no way of knowing without examining the object itself.”

“Blood again.”

“Blood was central to Maya sacred rituals. Everything depended upon and sprang from blood.” She shifted the photo. “Again, this is ceremonial, finely made. Note that the protruding, carefully worked obsidian flakes run the entire length of the scepter. Whoever gripped this would be cut deeply enough to bleed freely. It’s a sign of a priest’s or king’s willingness to sacrifice his own blood for the god or gods.”

“Beats the foreskin-piercing routine,” he said.

“I’ll have to take your word on that.” A hint of huskiness was back in Lina’s voice, ice melting, white teeth sinking into her full lower lip as she bit back a smile.

Hunter’s body came alert. He leaned over, getting closer to the photo. And Lina. There was a hint of cinnamon in her scent, either from the spilled coffee or just a natural part of her.

He wanted to taste.

“So this scepter goes with the ceremonial theme of the other artifacts,” he said.

The extra depth in his voice was like a stroke over her senses. “Yes.”

The word was breathless. She yanked her mind back from Hunter’s male body so close to her.

He blackmailed me into helping him.

For a friend, she reminded herself. Hunter wasn’t after personal gain.

Part of her wondered if he would really ruin her reputation. Then she remembered the look on his face when he said that Jase had two kids and his wife was expecting a third. To protect the children, Hunter would do what he had to.

She couldn’t really blame him, but she didn’t have to like it.

Just once, I’d like to be the most important thing in someone’s life.

Lina squashed the thought as soon as it came to her. Her childhood was what it was. Her adulthood was her own responsibility.

She cleared her throat and said crisply, “Yes, ceremonial.”

“Late Terminal Classic?”

“From all appearances.”

“What about the Chacmool?” he asked.

He was so close to Lina now that he could see his breath stirring the tendrils of hair that had escaped the severe bun at the nape of her neck. Goose bumps rippled over her skin, telling him just how sensitive she was, how aware of him.

“Ceremonial.” It was more a husky whisper than a word. Then, “Stop it.”

“What?” he asked, his breath against her ear.

She opened her mouth to tell him precisely what he was doing, then realized how easily he could deny everything, making her feel a fool for noticing him so intensely, allowing him to affect her so much.

It could be an accident, she told herself. I’ve often leaned over someone’s shoulder to look at something.

But it hadn’t made her skin feel too tight, her breath too short.

“I have an American’s sense of personal space,” she said. “You must have spent a lot of time in Mexico.”

“Busted.” He moved away just enough that she could no longer feel his breath. “Better?”

She let out a long, almost silent rush of air. “Chacmool figure, including a bowl to catch blood. Ceremonial. New World jade. Jaguar glyphs engraved around the edge of the figure. The glyphs around the lip of the bowl appear to be Late Terminal Classic.”

Hunter barely kept himself from leaning closer. He’d liked the scent of Lina’s skin, the creamy texture, the pulse beating rapidly at the base of her neck.

“So, this represents the god’s mouth?” he asked, pointing to the shallow bowl that was the reason for the Chacmool’s existence.

“Are you sure you need me?”

“Very sure.”

Lina told herself there was no double meaning in his words. She couldn’t quite believe it. But then, she’d never been flirted with in such a bold yet indirect way.

“If you already know the purpose of the Chacmool…” she began.

“Your course work covered it—a reclining man-god figure with knees bent and head raised, providing a rest for a shallow bowl.”

“You missed half the classes.”

“The syllabus was excellent.”

Lina gave up and concentrated on the photo. “The glyphs I can see are what I would expect on a ceremonial object. The date. The royal hierarchy. Man’s reverence. The gods’ awful power.”

“Is Kawa’il a part of the Chacmool and its ritual?”

“Without seeing the entire rim, I can’t answer that.”

“Is it possible?”

“I’m told anything is possible, including the Maya millennium,” she said dryly. “Ask Melodee.”

“Pass. I prefer women who haven’t been cut-and-pasted.”

Lina shook her head, smiling. Hunter Johnston was very much to her taste. Too bad he was little better than a blackmailer.

“You still mad that I twisted your arm to help me?” he asked.

“Are you a mind reader?”

“No. You were smiling, then you looked like someone had asked you to eat a bug. Since I’m the only insect- eating SOB here, it was a logical connection.”

Hunter was entirely too quick, or she was too easy to read. Or both.

“The fifth photo fits with the time frame and ceremonial theme,” Lina said, sticking to what she knew rather than what she feared or desired. “The censer appears to be clay, beautifully crafted so that the incense smoke would seem to be pouring from the mouths of gods.”

“Looks like snakes to me.”

“The feathered serpent was a common Maya theme. If the censer was originally found with the other objects—”

“Unknown.”

“—the assumption would be that you have the trove of a high priest or a king.”

“You keep saying priest or king,” Hunter said.

“The English language makes the distinction. There is no proof that the Mayan language did. From all we have learned, it appears that nobility supplied the priest-kings. The duties, if they were separate at all, overlapped so heavily as to make a distinction meaningless.”

“I love it when you go all academic on me. Such a contrast to your—” Abruptly Hunter closed his runaway mouth.

Lina raised one dark, wing-shaped eyebrow.

“Off the subject,” he said. “I’m a man. My thoughts sometimes wander.”

She didn’t ask where they went. She knew. And she liked it, which confused her. He had strong-armed her into helping him, but she wasn’t as mad as she should be. He was flirting with her, and she liked it way too much. She’d slapped down less aggressive males without a thought.

Hunter took thought.

“The Maya believed that a god’s words could be seen in smoke, in dreams,” she said.

“Drug-induced?”

“Perhaps. Peyote enemas are a documented archaeological reality, as are mushroom and other psychotropic substances. But there are other ways to induce visions.”

“Such as?”

“Pain. Enough pain, enough self-bloodletting, can cause what Western people label hallucinations and Maya called communication with the gods.”