Chapter 6: Murals and Gods

"An archeologist?" They both shared a skeptical glance with each other. The older one just shook his head with an expression that just said, probably best not to argue with her. It was an expression I recognized from my university years when I had confounded fellow students and professors alike with my far-fetched theories.

Some of which were borderline something that would come out of the American "History Channel," for all that I tried to be realistic. It was with some vindication that some of those hare-brained theories I had actually proven to be true. Of course, I never went so far as to actually believe that Kukulkan, and by extension, the rest of the Mayan gods actually existed. I suppose maybe I should've been more radical.

"I gave you my name," I said dryly, shooting a glare towards them, "The polite thing to do is reciprocate."

The younger one clutched at his sword, eying me for a moment, then spoke, "Iglesias."

A Spanish surname, from actual Spain, as opposed to Spanish America. Interesting. I raised a brow, which they could both now see, and shot a glance at the other, older man.

"Warden Harvill," he growled, making a gesture to indicate himself. He seemed quite uncomfortable without either his sword or staff.

Iglesias's eyes flickered over my face as I approached, striding through the clear knee-deep water. He was evidently searching for something, but he refused to make eye contact. I frowned, how rude.

I indicated myself again with a thumb pointed back towards my chest, "Croft."

Warden Harvill's brow furrowed, looking me over, before finally asking "What does it mean?"

It was my turn to frown, stopping close enough I could look into his face. His eyes were tired, and frown marks looked permanently etched into his face. It was the face of a man that seldom smiled and was perpetually stressed.

"It means, daughter of Lord Croft," I elaborated slightly. I wasn't quite sure exactly what he was getting at, why he needed some kind of elaboration. I mean, I suppose, I could've interpreted it a little more literally and launched into an explanation that croft was a Scottish origin word for a small homestead. Or, if you went with the Lancashire dialect meaning, it was related to drying textiles by bleaching…

Or even the exact origin of my family name of Croft which heralded back to the War of the Roses as a Yorkist loyalist, who somehow managed to rise to lordly stature during the conflict. That was all deathly interesting, but it also wasn't something that was supposed to come up in ordinary conversation. It also made you look pretentious when someone asked, oh what's your name? Then you launched into a long explanation on family lineage and how you were related to a duke somehow, and show me some bloody respect, peasant!

All very amusing and definitely annoying at the same time, depending on how much time you had available to waste. She had been on the end of that herself, once or twice, being a part of the nobility. While that example was kind of exaggerated in itself, more something at home in a telly drama than real life, variations of it, albeit heavily diluted, had still occurred.

"You're going to leave that athame there?" Iglesias asked, pointing at the Key of Chak Chel, still stuck in the Throne and still leaking golden sunlight. I frowned at it, noting to myself that while ordinarily shining a bright light into my eyes would be enough to leave temporary blotches, this light, did not. It was plenty bright enough, but even a quick glance away showed nothing. This was not the case with Iglesias and Harvill, they both were blinking rapidly and looking away.

"I think it wants to stay there," I shrugged, "I'll come back for it eventually."

Part of me just wanted to go back over there and pull the glowing dagger from the throne, but a niggling feeling in the back of my head whispered that it wasn't time yet, so I let it be.

I stepped past both and approached the mural on the wall and the outline of what looked like a stone door. Inglesias stiffened as I brushed past him, as if he was hit with static electricity. I spared a sideways glance and snorted slightly, at the way his hair was suddenly literally standing on end. My mind flickered back to the water, I had just emerged from, in thought. I really shouldn't have had a charge of static electricity at all, since it should have dissipated into the water when I was in it.

"Chak Chel," I murmured, tracing a hand just above the viridian paint of the mural, looking at the other figure, and the blue dyes there, "Ix Chel... Chaac."

A figure in Mayan white with a viridian headdress was obviously meant to be Chak Chel, she clutched a familiar knife in one hand, in the other an urn, its water overflowing. Chaac, the husband of Ix Chel was bare-chested, clad in green and blue with an obsidian studded blade clutched in one hand. In the other was pink lightning. Possibly red, if the faded nature of the mural was any indication. I ran a finger over the pink paint, it was dry but a few fragments were scraped free by my fingernail.

I stuck my finger in my mouth, "cochineal."

"Coche-what?" Inglesias stammered.

"Carmine dye," I simplified, "Made from beetles, this pink was red once."

The only way it would have faded like this was if it had been once exposed to sunlight for a long time… I cast a suspicious glance back towards the still glowing Key. Well, I suppose there was sunlight down here. The other parts of the painting-mural were unfaded though.

My eyes flickered over the mural, I unslung one of my climbing axes as I did so, holding it gently in one hand. Where was…

I slammed my axe into the wall, into an almost nonexistent seam.

"What are you doing?" Harvill queried behind me, alarm coloring his voice. I heard the shifting of cloth, the scrape of fingers catching on cloth. I could only imagine whatever was happening behind me, but it sounded like Harvill or Iglesias had been about to do something, and was only stopped by the other.

"There's another painting under this one," I spoke, levering my axe's edge into the seam, long-dried mud crumbling away slowly, piece by piece. I really wished I still had my camera, the surface picture probably should've been preserved for posterity.

For a moment, my thoughts wandered to what exactly future archeologists were going to think of me. Yep, I would probably be painted as some antiquity hungry tomb raider, high on her own hubris, destroying priceless sites chasing after myths and folklore. In other words, a real nut.

My axe slipped at that thought, it was so startling. That was exactly what people thought of my father before the end, didn't they? I bit back the grimace that threatened to form and focused on peeling back the first layer of the mural. Chunks of mud, the green scales of Ix Chel's serpent crown falling to the ground steadily.

Slowly, another mural was revealed, this one solely of Kukulkan. However, something was off with this depiction. It was in the customary green and red colors that Kukulkan was associated with but the Kukulkan in this depiction wasn't quite a serpent. Instead, he had arms, reptilian arms ending in sharp claws.

I stepped back to take in the new mural. It was large, and now that I could see the whole picture, Kukulkan didn't look very serpentine at all. The snout was too narrow, but it wasn't crocodilian or lizard-like. The whole shape was fundamentally odd, the ridges above the eyes... Were those teeth supposed to be serrated?

"So…" I asked my two new silent shadows, "What brought you two to Chichen Itza?"

There was silence for a few seconds, before Harvill decided to speak, slipping into a low drawl, "As you probably know, the war with the Red Court ended recently-"

"Yes, the Red Court, who did you say they were fighting again, Trinity?" I asked, still holding my axe in one hand. My senses were on full alert as I probed for information again.

"Trinity?" I heard the confused mumbled reply, "No, they were fighting the White Council."

The confusion in Harvill's voice was genuine, so I could discard the idea that these were direct Trinity agents, but they could be unwitting plants or not know who they were working for exactly. White Council sounded more like some kind of overseer organization rather than a name for a nation or paramilitary group.

It evoked images of, admittingly, wizards and Tolkien. Scholars and thinkers, rather than soldiers.

"What does the White Council represent?" I asked, turning around, still holding my axe loosely. Harvill seemed to be thinking, Iglesias seemed to be studying the mural with what I thought was amusement.

"Humanity," Harvill answered, frowning. Now that, sounded like a very Trinity-like answer. He paused, and I just watched him for a long moment. Finally, he continued, "Who-I mean what is 'Trinity'?"

"Well," I replied, buying time to think. It was obvious that he didn't seem to have any real knowledge about Trinity. On the off chance that he was a member as was just really good at hiding things, perhaps I should throw some shade, "Very questionable morality, Illuminati-type organization, tried to end the world in numerous ways. Wanted to summon Kukulkan to devour all reality. Stuff like that."

Harvill's eyes bulged, and Iglesias gaped. Iglesias grasped for his sword, seemed to think better of it and just stood there, staring.

"Trinity," Harvill spoke, and he seemed to be really thinking hard, before his eyes seemed to flash intently, "We haven't heard of an organization by that name."

"We?" I asked. The way he said 'we' seemed to imply more than just Iglesias and him, and combined with the pride in his voice earlier, "You're part of the White Council?"

"Yes," Iglesias responded, fumbling under his grey robe, "even got a stole here…"

"Iglesias!" Harvill said curtly, rebuking him before his gaze snapped back towards me, "You still haven't explained what group… under whose orders you're acting here."

"I wasn't aware I needed to explain anything I did to you?" I responded, fingers creeping up to play across the edge of my pistol.

"Chichen Itza has been claimed by the White Council as a spoil-of-war, a claim recognized by the Unseelie Accords," He grumbled a bit, then added, "at least the parts that Winter did not take."

I felt a little petty, and quite a bit irritated at his attitude, especially by the fact that none of those terms really meant anything to me. Unseelie? Faeries, really? Winter, spoken of as if it was an actual polity?

"To the Yaaxil I am the Queen of the Damned," I hissed out, "And I am here, by the will of Kukulkan."

See, I can use terms that are confusing too.

I ignored the fear in his eyes, not acknowledging the slight satisfaction that it curdled in my chest. It was a tainted satisfaction, it was nice to be respected, but fear was unpleasant. I already regretted what I said, since it certainly made me sound unhinged. Probably, insane.

Mayan pictographs were embossed in gold around the edge of the mural, out loud I read them, approximating for context. Of course, I didn't read it in English, but in the original ancient Mayan, "Here lies the withered mortal vessel of Kukulkan."

I hope that wasn't supposed to be the thing on the throne, I thought, slightly amused. With a groan of stone-on-stone, the stone door shifted to the side. This time I actually pulled my other climbing axe from its clip. Voice-activated doors in ancient tombs were usually bad signs, even if this one didn't seem as unoccupied as usual, but that made it even worse because so far the occupants were vampires.

My nose scrunched up as the air from inside reached me, a heavy smell of reptilian scales and stale air.

I decided to break the sudden silence, proclaiming, "Well, I think there's a giant snake in there."