Temple of the Jaguar Read online

  TEMPLE OF THE JAGUAR

  A Novella by

  J.R. RAIN

  &

  AIDEN JAMES

  Acclaim for the authors:

  “Gripping, adventurous, and romantic—J.R. Rain’s The Lost Ark is a breakneck thriller that traces the thread of history from Biblical stories to current-day headlines. Be prepared to lose sleep!”

  —James Rollins, international bestselling author of Bloodline

  “Aiden James has written a deeply psychological, gripping tale that keeps the readers hooked from page one.”

  —Bookfinds on The Forgotten Eden

  “J.R. Rain delivers a blend of action and wit that always entertains. Quick with the one-liners, but his characters are fully fleshed out (even the undead ones) and you’ll come back again and again.”

  —Scott Nicholson, bestselling author of The Red Church

  “The intense writing style of Aiden James kept my eyes glued to the story and the pages seemed to fly by at warp speed. Twists, turns, and surprises pop up at random times to keep the reader off balance. It all blends together to create one of the best stories I have read all year.”

  —Huntress Reviews for The Devil’s Paradise

  OTHER BOOKS BY J.R. RAIN

  The Lost Ark

  The Body Departed

  Elvis Has Not Left the Building

  Silent Echo (coming soon)

  VAMPIRE FOR HIRE SERIES

  Moon Dance

  Vampire Moon

  American Vampire

  Moon Child

  Christmas Moon

  Vampire Dawn

  Vampire Games

  Moon Island (coming soon)

  SAMANTHA MOON SHORT STORIES

  Teeth

  Vampire Nights

  Vampires Blues

  Vampire Dreams

  THE JIM KNIGHTHORSE SERIES

  Dark Horse

  The Mummy Case

  Hail Mary

  Clean Slate (coming soon)

  THE SPINOZA SERIES

  The Vampire With the Dragon Tattoo

  The Vampire Who Played Dead

  The Vampire in the Iron Mask

  THE GRAIL QUEST TRILOGY

  Arthur

  Merlin (coming soon)

  WITH PIERS ANTHONY

  Aladdin Relighted

  Aladdin Sins Bad

  Aladdin and the Flying Dutchman

  Aladdin’s Odyssey (coming soon)

  WITH SCOTT NICHOLSON

  Cursed!

  Ghost College

  The Vampire Club

  Bad Blood (also with H.T. Night)

  Spider Web

  WITH AIDEN JAMES

  Temple of the Jaguar

  WITH P.J. DAY

  Daughters of Eve (coming soon)

  OTHER SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

  The Bleeder and Other Stories

  Vampires Rain and Other Stories

  SCREENPLAYS

  Judas Silver

  Lost Eden

  NON-FICTION

  The Rain Interviews

  OTHER BOOKS BY AIDEN JAMES

  THE JUDAS CHRONICLES

  Plague of Coins

  Reign of Coins

  Destiny of Coins (coming soon)

  THE DYING OF THE DARK SERIES

  The Vampires’ Last Lover

  The Vampires’ Birthright

  Blood Princesses of the Vampires

  Scarlet Legacy of the Vampires (coming soon)

  THE TALISMAN CHRONICLES

  The Forgotten Eden

  The Devil’s Paradise

  Hurakan’s Chalice (coming soon)

  CADES COVE SERIES

  Cades Cove

  The Raven Mocker

  GHOSTHUNTERS 101 SERIES

  Deadly Night

  The Ungrateful Dead

  WITH J.R. RAIN

  Temple of the Jaguar

  COLLECTIONS

  Terror at Midnight

  Dark Legacy

  Twice Bitten

  Pray for Daylight

  Cursed Immortals

  In the Dead of Night

  Dying of the Dark Vampires

  Vampires, Ghosts, and God

  TEMPLE OF THE JAGUAR

  Published by J.R. Rain and Aiden James

  Copyright © 2011 by J.R. Rain and Aiden James

  Cover design by Carl at [email protected]

  All rights reserved.

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to your favorite ebookstore and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedications

  To Bartholomew, my friend and guide.

  —J.R.

  To my dearest Fiona, forever my love, my partner, and my greatest muse. And, to J.R. Rain, whose friendship, guidance, and steadfast support are beyond compare.

  —Aiden

  Temple of the Jaguar

  “What I seek I find, what I find I keep.”

  —H. Rider Haggard, King Solomon’s Mines

  Chapter One

  Ruinas, Honduras

  Present Day

  I found the ceremonial blade in the unmarked grave of some poor sap who had seen better days.

  We’d been digging all day in this remote section of the rain forest, sweat pouring down our bare torsos, hands blistering despite the gloves. It was the golden reflection that first caught my eye—that wonderful golden flash that brings a smile to all of us who call ourselves looters. Although, I prefer the term ‘creative archaeologists’.

  I used the trowel to scrape away the remaining dirt, revealing more of the blade, which consisted of a jade hilt, an emerald capstone, and six inches of pure gold. And if I wasn’t so tough, I could have cried right there.

  “That will fetch a pretty penny,” said Ishi from behind me in his native Tawankan tongue. Actually, in his native tongue, this was translated to mean that the knife could be exchanged for many shiny coins.

  “Yes, Ishi,” I said. “Many shiny coins.”

  I reached down between the ribs, plucked the knife by its hilt and hauled it out, letting the smattering of sunlight refract off its near-perfect finish. That drop of clear liquid on its golden blade was either a tear or sweat. Maybe I’m not so tough after all.

  Ishi helped me out of the hip-deep grave, which I was only too glad to leave behind. Any grave robber worth his salt is always happy to leave a grave behind.

  We sat back in the shade of a mangrove tree and I lit a cigarette and studied the knife, rolling it back and forth in the little sunlight that made its way to the jungle floor. The crimson glow of the cigarette tip reflected deeply within the blade. It was a rare find, indeed.

  “He was a warrior,” said Ishi, squatting next to me and drinking from a water jug. “Perhaps a very highly-esteemed warrior. The knife was for his protection.”

  I thought about that, then stood and moved over to the exposed grave. I unbuckled my pickaxe and dropped it down into the pit. I returned a moment later and sat down next to the Indian youth. “Can’t leave the old chap without any protection.”

  Ishi was smiling. “You are not like the others.”

  “We all steal,” I said, inhaling on the cigarette.

  “But you steal with a conscience.”

  “I know. It’s a terrible thing.”

  “At least you have not angered the spirits.”

 
“Yes,” I said, “there’s always that. C’mon, let’s re-bury this poor bastard and get the hell out of here.”

  * * *

  As Ishi drove through the thick jungle on a road that really wasn’t much of a road, I checked my voice mail on my looting hotline. One new message. Oh, fun. It was from a woman named Marie Da Vinci. She wanted to speak with me ASAP. Unless my ass was on the line, I rarely did anything ASAP, which is one of the reasons I became a self-employed looter. It was either that or open a smoothie shop in a strip mall.

  I listened to the message again. The voice was strong but firm, breathy and sexy. She wanted to meet me today at four, in the outdoor cafe at the Copan Rio Hotel, of which I happened to live on the fifth floor.

  After a moment’s contemplation, I dialed the number. It rang twice, and then went straight to voice mail. I heard the same sultry voice. I left a message: I would meet her at the hotel restaurant at four. I clicked off the phone.

  “Hot date?” asked Ishi. Actually, this was translated to mean: a formal assembly between two possible mates for the continuation of one’s paternal bloodline.

  “Yeah,” I said, “something like that.”

  “Does she know you’re a thief?”

  “She called me on my looting hotline,” I said. “So I’m thinking yes.”

  Ishi smiled and said to himself, “Looting hotline. Shit.”

  I leaned back in the front seat, closed my eyes and listened to the slapping of branches against the hood and fenders, the call of the distant howler monkeys, the chirping of hundreds of tropical birds.

  Breathy and sexy? Oh boy.

  Chapter Two

  Juan Esteban examined the knife closely, making excitable little noises that didn’t seem all that appropriate for the circumstances.

  He was using a jeweler’s glass, examining every inch of the artifact, and making notes on a small pad. Then he placed the knife carefully on a white cloth and moved over to his logs, pulling one from his shelf and flipping through the pages.

  We were alone in his shop. The shop itself was in Coco, a little town north of the Copan ruins. For all intents and purposes, Juan’s shop looked like a run-down pawnshop. There were a half dozen glass cases cluttering the store, most of them with broken doors, filled with very cheap watches and fake jewelry and rusted pistols from Honduras’s colonial days. I moved around the shop and examined a rifle that actually appeared to be bent, completely useless.

  This wasn’t exactly the famous “black market” people hear about, but Juan usually unloads any of the jewelry or specialty items I may find. The golden dagger would be considered a specialty item.

  “You sell junk,” I told him again.

  “Of course. It keeps the thieves and policia away, although sometimes they are one in the same.”

  I pointed to the bent rifle. “Have you ever sold any of this crap?”

  He chuckled. “Last week a tourist came by. She liked a plastic ring. I told her it was folk art.” He snapped shut his ledger, came back and sat behind his desk. “I’ve only seen one other dagger like this. Appears to be from the Mayan post-preclassic. Ceremonial. Never used for actual battle, of course. A jade hilt and an emerald capstone, and although the gold is low-grade, like most Mayan gold, it is a very rare find and very valuable indeed.”

  “I’m surprised, Juan. You’re not up to your old tricks. By now you’ve usually told me how worthless an artifact is.”

  “You’ve caught me on an off day, and I’ve never been able to take advantage of you, Nick, so I’ve given up trying.”

  “Very admirable of you to admit, Juan. But we both know that’s bullshit. What are you offering?”

  “Two thousand.”

  “American dollars?”

  “Of course.”

  I laughed appropriately. “Fifty thousand dollars, and not a penny less.”

  He sat back, shocked. “You would extort from a friend, my friend?”

  “You were never much of a friend.”

  “Now you insult me. Well, I spit on your mother’s grave, goddammit.”

  I laughed at his showmanship and scooped up the knife. “My mother is alive and well, I think. Maybe I’m not ready to sell just yet. It is, after all, quite beautiful. Maybe it’s also good luck.”

  “Ten thousand, and that’s my final offer.”

  “I don’t think so. You’ll get ten times that from the New York collectors. Call me with a decent offer. Good day.”

  “Twenty thousand and consider it a gift.”

  “Adios, amigo.”

  I left his shop and stepped out onto the empty dirt street. Ishi was sitting in the Jeep with the windows down and his Panama hat pulled over his eyes. He was out like a light. As soon as I opened the door he snapped awake.

  “Well?” he asked, pushing up his hat.

  “We’ll hear from him soon enough.”

  “What did he offer?”

  “Twenty Gs.”

  Ishi whistled. “I would have taken it.”

  “We can get more. A lot more.”

  “Which is why you do the negotiating.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “So what good am I?” he asked.

  “You’re here for entertainment purposes.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Drive on, Ishi. Let’s get out of here. I have a date.”

  He shifted gears, and we left the small town in a cloud of dust.

  Chapter Three

  “Nick Caine?”

  I nodded and smiled. Ever the approachable stranger.

  Marie Da Vinci was a pretty woman with an angular face and muscular arms. Probably spent five to six days a week with a personal trainer. There were wet splotches under her breasts; a film of sweat coated her forehead and forearms. Sub-tropical humidity has that effect. She unconsciously pulled her sticky shirt away from her skin and grimaced, as if sweating through her clothes was distasteful.

  She looked good, distasteful and all.

  Having sworn off all women years ago, I was concerned by my immediate attraction to her. I thought: watch yourself, Nick Caine, Looter Extraordinaire.

  I was sitting in an outdoor cafe along the dirt streets of Ruinas, Honduras, just outside the Hotel Rio Copan. Drinking beer from the bottle. Or, as the song says, just wasting away.

  “Thank you for meeting me on such short notice,” she said.

  “Luckily, you caught me before my power nap,” I said.

  She smiled. “May I sit?”

  “Suit yourself.” Ever the courteous gentleman, I kicked out one of the whicker chairs opposite me. It skidded to a stop next to her feet. She brushed the chair with a paper napkin, and then sat on said napkin. The chair promptly creaked whicker-like. The alert Honduran waiter swooped in and asked in broken English if she would like a drink. He assumed correctly that she was both thirsty and a tourist. The copious amounts of sunscreen on her narrow nose and the bright pink blouse were the dead giveaways. In this humidity, the thirst was a given, of course.

  “A glass of water please,” she said.

  The waiter blinked, then looked at me. I shrugged at the waiter. The waiter waited. Marie looked at the waiter, then me and said, “What’s wrong?”

  “Ordering a glass of water is a bad idea,” I said.

  She nodded, blushed. “Of course. A bottle of water, please.”

  “Of course, senorita.”

  An old Miskito woman stood under an umbrella at the nearby street corner, encouraging all within earshot to try her amazing lemonade. I had tried it earlier. It was amazing.

  I said to Marie, “There’s a man out here named Da Vinci. Leonardo Da Vinci. And from what I understand he’s a shitty artist, which, I suppose, is kind of ironic.”

  At the mention of Leonardo Da Vinci she looked away. Her lower lip might have trembled, too. I continued, “He is, however, a murderous looting kingpin who would just as soon cut your throat open than lend you a dime. Rumor has it that he’s making a big move into the drug busi
ness.” I paused, studying her reaction. “No offense, but you wouldn’t happen to be related?”

  There was no hesitation. “He’s my uncle.”

  “Ah.”

  The old lady on the corner raised her voice even louder, shouting in English, Spanish, Miskito and a mixture of all three. Hell, I even detected some French. Finally, she stepped out from under her yellow umbrella and out into the heat of the sun. Like a lioness picking off the weak and sick from the herd, she picked out a young man from a milling crowd and guided him toward her lemonade stand. The young man looked confused and a little scared. I didn’t blame him. She thrust a waxy cup full of the good stuff and practically reached down into his trousers for his money. He thanked her but looked thoroughly shaken when he retreated to his pack.

  Marie continued, “He killed my father. His own goddamned flesh and blood.”

  She pulled out a tissue and dabbed her eyes carefully. Her eyes were round, like Japanese anime, and I noticed for the first time the faintish, darkish, puffy circles under them, like twin-blackened moons in their quarter phase. When done dabbing, she crumpled the tissue and held it in her fist, should there be later tears. Recycling in action, folks.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “Your uncle, Miss Da Vinci, is a cold-hearted killer. And not a very nice man,” I said. “However, killing his own brother seems to be a new low for Leo.”

  “You seem to know him.”

  “Let’s just say we’ve had reason to cross paths. Your uncle doesn’t like competition, and his competition has a habit of disappearing.”

  “But you’re still alive.”

  “No small feat. If it was up to your uncle, I’d be dead by now.”