Page 49 of Badlands (Nora Kelly #5)

S KIP, FROZEN WITH horror, stared at the litter.

When the blanket was whisked off, he saw, with shock, that it wasn’t the leader of the cult after all.

In fact, it wasn’t even a person—at least, not one still alive.

It was a desiccated body, sitting cross-legged in a lotus position, hands pressed together as if in prayer—and grotesquely mummified, the skin pale as dust and as wrinkled as a dried apple, the wizened lips drawn back from a gleaming row of perfect white teeth.

Most bizarrely of all, the figure wore a pair of thick glasses, the shriveled-raisin eyes behind them disgustingly magnified.

At the unveiling, a murmur of veneration rose from the group.

The sound grew in volume until it became a thrumming chant.

One by one, each in turn bowed down to the figure—in a pantomime of worship.

Skip’s handler dragged him to his feet and, when the bowing reached their position in the line, forced him to genuflect like the others.

The handler then pulled Skip back to his feet and half-dragged, half-jerked him along.

For a terrible moment he thought he was headed toward the second tripod and the agony that would follow, but then it became clear he was being pushed in the direction of the kiva entrance.

He could see the rough ladder poking out of the hole.

Without warning, the guards shoved him into the hole and he tumbled down the ladder, landing hard on the dirt floor.

As he lay in the dirt, half-dazed from the impact, needles of agony shot through the shoulder he’d landed on, the pain driving away his anger and replacing it with fear.

He couldn’t get the grotesque vision of Edison out of his head: skinned, hanging upside down like a butchered cow.

He’d seen the second tripod—they were going to do the same to him.

One of the guards descended the ladder and busied himself in a corner of the kiva, picking up torches, lighting them, and placing them in holders around the interior.

For the first time, Skip got a clear look at the kiva.

It was stunning. The walls were covered with an ancient mural, cracked and faded, of a giant snake, its body seemingly made of feathers and smoke.

It coiled around the circular space, mouth open, fangs spouting fiery venom.

In a series of niches carved into the walls of the kiva, Skip could see a number of prehistoric treasures displayed: golden micaceous pots; glittering obsidian spearpoints and knife blades; bones flutes; carved fetishes of mountain lions and bears; painted kachina masks with grimacing visages; a bow and arrow set and some clubs.

And finally, in one niche, stood a large bowl filled with emerald-green lightning stones.

Beside it, in a throne made out of sandstone slabs, sat a figure in white.

In his haze of fear, Skip had forgotten about the leader.

He hadn’t seen him since the procession that brought up the wizened corpse.

How, or when, this figure had gone into the kiva, Skip wasn’t sure.

But now—as the guard dragged Skip over and threw him down at the man’s feet—it was clear he was about to be given an audience.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

Blustering and cursing at the man who’d presided over the skinning of his friend was not, he thought, a good idea.

He stared at the white figure; at the black handprints that covered him like leopard spots.

Through the eyeholes carved into the mask, he could see a pair of eyes staring back at him—glittering in the firelight, bloodshot, pupils contracted into points.

“Why…,” Skip began, tasting blood in his mouth.

“Why are you doing this to us?”

No response.

“You killed my friend. Why? You skinned him alive! Are you crazy?” Skip realized he was starting to babble—but he also realized he was fighting to save his own life.

“We didn’t mean any harm. Let me go. Let me go, and I’ll never come back… I swear.”

The figure in white stirred, and then—at last—spoke.

“You don’t understand.”

Through his haze of dread, Skip was shocked to hear a smooth, educated voice.

“What don’t I understand?” If this masked person was cultured, maybe he could reason with him.

Skip had to keep the conversation going, look for an opening— any opening.

“You think coming here was a mistake,” the figure said.

“It was not. You were summoned .”

Summoned?

What the hell?

“Summoned by who?”

“By our diablero .”

Jesus, this really was some batshit crazy cult.

Out of the corner of his eye, Skip saw the guard begin to approach.

What did they want? Power?

People groveling and writhing at their feet?

He had to think of a way to get out of this.

“I was summoned,” he said, seizing on the figure’s words.

“Well then. I… I wish to join.”

“Join,” the figure repeated slowly.

“Yes. Join. I… You said I was summoned. It must have been for a reason.” Skip was thinking furiously.

Even fanatics could be reasoned with.

After all, the man painted white was surrounded by other followers.

Find an opening . “I can offer a lot. I work for the Archaeological Institute. They have collections, wonderful collections. Things you need.”

The figure remained silent.

He appeared to be listening.

Skip, encouraged, went on.

“And I have a knowledge of ancient things, a deep knowledge that could help you. I want to be part of all this. Become one of you.”

“Is that truly your wish? To become—like him?” And the man gestured toward the guard standing behind Skip.

“Yes. Yes .” God, if he could just prolong this, maybe they’d have a council or something to determine if he could join.

The more time he could buy, the better his chances of getting the hell away…

These thoughts were cut short by the leader, barking what sounded like an order to the guard in a strange tongue.

As Skip watched, the guard bowed deeply, walked to the far side of the kiva, and then returned with something wrapped in animal hide.

He held it out to the leader with both hands and stepped back.

“Those who join us,” the leader said as he held the raw leather bundle, “must abandon their future and choose our path instead. We will give you something that wasn’t offered to your friend. Are you willing?”

“Yes. Yes .”

“We can trust that you are sincere in making this gesture? If so, it will spare you the agony your friend went through. Can we trust you?”

“You can trust me, I swear I’m sincere. I swear it.”

“Very well.” And the man on the throne unwrapped the hide to reveal an obsidian dagger, long and wickedly sharp, similar to the one used to flay Edison.

In fact, it was the one: it was still streaked with blood.

“In that case,” the man said, “you must sacrifice yourself.”

Skip wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

“What?”

“You now have the choice to sacrifice your own life. It is my gift of mercy to you—compared to what happened to your friend.”

Skip, staring at the glittering blade, felt sick.

“You want me to… kill myself?”

The figure paused.

“Of course.”

“No. Hell no. That’s not what I meant.”

“Ah. Not so eager, after all?”

“I want to join, but not that way!”

For a moment, the figure did nothing.

Very slowly, he wrapped up the dagger again and handed it to the guard.

Then, to Skip’s vast surprise, he raised his hands and removed his mask.