Juan nudged his shoulder, pulling his attention back. Emilio’s gaze met that of the so-called king. He didn’t know why, but his stomach clenched.

The man began to speak, his voice as dark as his eyes, and Emilio stubbornly held his stare.

“I don’t speak your language,” Emilio said in Spanish. “But I do speak this one. Or English.”

Sawa spoke next. He shot her a questioning look.

“I translated your words. What do you want me to say?”

Now he had to come up with something good. “Tell him we’re three gods who wanted to see for ourselves how our creations are doing here. And that you’re our… thing. Interpreter, mediator, you know? Blessed with the language of the gods—make it sound nice.”

Sawa turned back to the man on the throne. Emilio slid his hands into his pockets while he waited for her to translate the reply.

“He’s asking which god you are.”

“Oh.” Emilio rubbed his chin. “God of the underworld?” He chuckled. “Might make an impression. Then Juan’s the sun god and James… god of the wind?”

“This is ridiculous,” James muttered beside him.

“Oh, then you’re a demigod. You can be my humble assistant.”

James rolled his eyes.

Sawa resumed her conversation with the ruler. Emilio tried to make sense of the many u and ch sounds—it was nothing like any language he knew.

The man rose from his golden throne. He was still on a small platform, but that made him eye level with Emilio. Those dark eyes found him again.

“Aminakuyim,” he said, commanding.

“He wants you to show it.”

Emilio felt like the man was trying to intimidate him, so he stared right back. His hands—still in his pockets—closed around his lighter and phone. Which would impress him more? Making fire was probably nothing special here. Did they use flint, or had they found a faster method? And what could he set on fire? That monkey suit the guy was wearing would burn nicely. Maybe then they’d had enough of the game and escort them to the exit. On the other hand, it shouldn’t burn so badly that the guy caught fire—that would probably get him charged with assault.

“Tell him I have a fire box.” He took out his lighter, flicked the wheel, and showed the flame. Then he looked up again.

Instead of watching the trick, the man kept his gaze fixed on Emilio. It made his skin crawl.

“Got anything that burns?” he asked Juan.

Juan shrugged off his backpack and pulled out an informational booklet from an excavation they’d visited a week earlier. Emilio held the flame beneath it and watched with satisfaction as it began to smolder. Dark red edges formed, then the fire ate through the paper.

The man didn’t look impressed. This was more of a parlor trick than a divine miracle, Emilio realized. So—phone, then. He tapped the camera icon and aimed the screen at the king—or whatever he was.

“As god of the underworld, I can trap souls in here,” Emilio improvised.

Sawa translated. Emilio stepped closer to the man. Immediately, two warriors moved forward. At a gesture from the ruler, they returned to their positions.

Emilio paused the video, moved even closer, and shoved the phone under the man’s nose, then played it again.

The man’s eyes widened. He reached for the device, but Emilio pulled it back slightly. A grimace crossed the stranger’s face before he spoke to Sawa.

“He wants to know what it is.”

“I store a piece of his soul in there, for when I return to the afterlife. Hm, maybe I should become a screenwriter.”

“I don’t think you even know how to spell that word,” James scoffed right behind him. “This is ridiculous. They probably don’t even have a concept of ‘soul,’ and we know nothing about their cosmology.”

Emilio had no idea what cosmology was; it sounded like some dumb nerd thing.

“He’s intrigued, at least,” Emilio shrugged.

The man spoke to Sawa again, who then turned to them. “Tonight is the Blood Night. He invites us as his honored guests.”

Emilio grinned. “Fantastic.”

“What is that?” Juan asked. “That doesn’t sound fantastic at all.”

“It’s a religious ritual focused on fertility,” Sawa explained. “The timing of our arrival is very fortunate—gods visiting the world on such an important day.”

“Fertility rituals? Like orgies?” Emilio saw Juan turn white and burst out laughing. “You’re my assistant, remember? Don’t worry—you can undress all the pretty ladies for me.”

Juan rolled his eyes, though his face remained pale. “Unless all those ladies are menstruating, I don’t see why it would be called Blood Night.”

Emilio made a face, quickly shutting down the image that had formed. “Gross.”

“We might be lucky if that’s all it is,” Juan muttered. “After all those violent murals we’ve seen…”

Emilio thought again of the image of the naked prisoners. Good thing we’re honored guests.

If they’d run—like James had wanted—that might have been their fate instead.