Burial Ground

I

Andes Mountains, Peru

October 30^th

11:09 p.m. PET

There was just enough definition to the dark silhouettes for Tasker to know he was in big trouble. Lithe bodies sprinting close to the ground. Slender necks and tails held parallel to the rock ledge. Spindly legs with absurdly long strides. He had already turned to run by the time he heard the first skree.

Tasker scrambled back up the slick slope of crumbled bricks, shoving with his feet and grabbing the loose stones with his hands. He risked a glance back over his shoulder. They were closing fast. Too fast. Several of them leaped down from the cliff and slipped sideways in the mud. Once they regained traction, they launched themselves along the northern wall of the fortress into the dwindling torchlight. He tried to formulate a plan on the fly. Another fifty yards and they would overcome him. His best chance was to reach one of the stone huts. He could take his stand with his back against the rounded rear wall where he could cover the lone entrance. But if they could jump high enough or somehow scale the outer walls, he was screwed.

He looked ahead again as he reached the crumbled summit, searching for the nearest ring of stones, and nearly ran straight into a man who appeared from nowhere. The rain shimmered on the black paint covering the man's scarred chest and face. A wicked smile filled with sharpened teeth. Iridescent feathers braided into long black hair, hanging from his earlobes. Two more natives materialized from the jungle behind the first.

A blur of motion. The man's arm lashed out like a striking rattler.

Tasker managed to squeeze off a single shot that grazed the native's shoulder. He registered pain in the side of his neck at the same time that warmth flooded down over his chest. The rifle fell from his grasp, freeing both of his hands to grapple with the object lodged in his throat. His mouth filled with blood, through which he could draw no breath. He sputtered and coughed as he jerked at what felt like a handle wedged against his clavicle. With a slurping sound, he yanked the object out of his flesh and collapsed to his knees. His blood dripped from a hooked talon that had been affixed to a sanded piece of wood, similar to the implement farmers used to haul baled hay.

The painted man knelt in front of him and tipped up his chin so that their eyes met. Rage and hatred radiated from the man, who snarled, grabbed fistfuls of Tasker's jacket, and lifted him back to his feet.

Avian shrieks echoed from the mountainside.

His vision began to darken as his lifeblood fled him. A cool, tingling sensation spread throughout his body. He could no longer feel his hands, which pawed at the man's slippery chest. His feet dangled uselessly several inches above the ground.

He tried to speak, to plead for mercy, but only managed a gurgle through the blood.

A skree pierced the confusion and understanding dawned.

The two other natives retreated into the forest and vanished, leaving only the man who held him suspended over the rubble.

Tasker read his fate in the man's eyes.

With a growl, the native shoved him backward over the crest of the hill.

For a moment, he felt weightless as he fell through the air.

And then his world became a lesson in pain.