From the moment they had stepped through the portal, Juan had clung to Emilio’s theory that this was all one big game. An escape room. A performance.

That theory shattered like glass when someone was murdered right in front of him. Without the slightest hesitation, the priest drew the blade across a woman’s throat and caught the spurting blood in a large shell.

Juan doubled over and threw up.

It felt as though someone had slit his windpipe. He clawed at his throat. His fingers met no razor-sharp metal—only stubble scraping his fingertips. Still, he couldn’t breathe. Black spots danced before his eyes.

Fingers clamped around his upper arm.

“Follow my breathing, Juan. In… out. In… out.”

Juan wanted to scream that he knew how breathing worked, that he was trying, that it just wouldn’t, but not a single word made it past his lips. Something blocked his voice as relentlessly as it blocked the oxygen.

“Audi. BMW. Cadillac. Daihatsu. Audi. BMW…”

Juan focused on the words, clung to the letters until they were the only things that still existed. At first he mouthed them soundlessly; eventually he managed to say the mantra out loud.

He repeated the sequence five more times, and only then did the panic slowly begin to ebb—just enough for him to regain a sliver of control. Gratefully, he looked at Emilio, who was sitting backward on the bench in front of him.

The look in Emilio’s eyes, however, was worried—far more worried than Juan was used to seeing after one of his panic attacks, and this hadn’t even been a severe one.

Juan slowly looked past him.

He recoiled when he saw that two lifeless bodies now lay on the platform. He hadn’t even noticed that another murder had taken place.

The dead man’s eyes stared straight at him.

Audi. BMW. Cadillac. Daihatsu, he repeated silently.

“Look at me, Juan.”

His gaze snapped back to his best friend’s. “I get why you’re freaking out. I am too.” A muscle twitched in Emilio’s jaw. “I have no clue what kind of deranged cult we’ve landed in, but if we can’t convince that asshole next to me that we really are gods, we might end up just like those two. So we hold it together, and then we get the hell out of here. Fast.” Emilio’s dark eyes held his. “Okay?”

Juan nodded. His hands were shaking; he shoved them between his knees, forcing himself to steady up. James sat beside him, chalk-white, looking like he might pass out at any moment.

“He’s right,” Juan said, partly to convince himself. “We can’t blow our cover now.”

If it hadn’t already been blown. The ruler sitting diagonally across from him probably didn’t find Juan’s reaction appropriate for a god who demanded human sacrifice. Juan couldn’t follow the conversation exactly, but Sawa translated Emilio’s words—likely an explanation for his weak stomach.

Juan wiped his mouth, where traces of vomit still lingered. He wished desperately for something to wash the bitter taste away.

That wish was granted almost immediately—though in the most macabre way imaginable.

A large white shell was offered to him. Blood sloshed inside it.

Juan squeezed his eyes shut. Panic stirred again, freezing his fingers.

You have to get through this, Juan. Mateo’s voice echoed in his head. Otherwise, that’ll be your blood in there next, and I’ll never see you again.

Juan drew a deep breath and opened his eyes. With trembling hands, he accepted the shell. Could he pretend? No—he was too afraid someone would notice. He raised it, let the blood pool at the rim, and poured a small amount between his lips.

He gagged.

Quickly, he pressed his arm against his mouth, hoping no one noticed, then passed the shell to James.

The metallic taste of blood mixed with his stomach acid. He stared at his knees, silently wishing this nightmare would end. In his head, he repeated the four car brands that had carried him through countless episodes over the years.

Audi. BMW. Cadillac. Daihatsu.

He didn’t stop until drums began to sound and the blood-drinking ritual came to an end.

After the first couple was killed, many more followed. No more blood was offered, but that was little comfort. The shell might as well have contained drugs—it felt like he was tripping.

Maybe that’s all this is, he thought. Maybe we smoked something and I’m reacting way too hard. A few hours ago we were walking through ruins, and now people are being slaughtered in front of us. This can’t be real.

And yet…

His gaze was drawn to the pile of bodies. They were covered now with a colorful cloth, but that didn’t stop the images from replaying in razor-sharp detail.

He bowed his head again, staring at his hands as he waited for the spectacle to finally end. A tiny red speck dotted the knuckle of his pinky. Frantically, he rubbed it against his pants until his skin turned raw.

The drop was gone.

Still, Juan felt indescribably filthy. He could wipe away a bloodstain—but not the blood he’d swallowed, now sitting in his stomach. It felt as though he’d drunk far more than a single sip, as though they had bathed him in it, tried to drown him in it so he’d be stained from the inside out.

It was Emilio who eventually shook his shoulder. His friend stood beside him now, concern in his eyes—an expression only Juan ever seemed able to draw from him.

“I had Sawa tell him we want to talk to some of the locals,” Emilio said. “Doesn’t exactly fit his image of gods, but too bad. That guy gives me the creeps.”

Juan couldn’t manage a reply; he only nodded.

James stood as well, and the three of them made their way to the opposite side of the square. The more people stood between them and that man, the safer Juan felt.

Juan was still trying to figure out how to put everything he was feeling into words when Emilio suddenly grabbed James by the upper arm and glared at him.

“What the hell are we doing here?” he growled.

James shook his head. “I know as much as you do!”

“Bullshit! You lured us to that portal. One more lie and I’ll have them slit your throat too. Sacrificing a demigod would probably make a great show.”

Juan stayed silent. The words were harsh, but he wanted answers too.

James sighed and bowed his head. “A woman promised me insight into Moche culture. Things no other scientist has ever uncovered. She said she was from the past. I didn’t really believe her—but she knew so much. Too much.”

“How does that answer my question? Why are Juan and I here?”

“It was important that I brought you both to the portal. That much I know. But I don’t know why it mattered so much to her.”

“And who is she?”

“Her name is Alva. She’s about fifty.”

Alva? Juan had never heard that name before. He glanced at Emilio. “Do you know an Alva?”

“Fifty?” Emilio scoffed. “I'm not into old hags.”

Juan turned back to James. “How do you know it had to be us?”

“She told me the date and location where I’d meet you—and your names.”

Emilio swore and dragged a hand over his head. “What kind of insane clusterfuck is this? Mateo booked this trip, right? Did that include the excursions?”

Juan shook his head. “No—we went to a tour operator ourselves.”

“I thought maybe Mateo put you up to it or something.”

“And why would he want us here?”

“Hell if I know—maybe Alva’s related to that guy he stabbed and this is some insane revenge scheme. Or he hacked the wrong organization.” Emilio frowned, clearly finding the idea plausible. “Say there’s someone out there with a serious grudge against Mateo, someone who thinks he still owes them. It wouldn’t be hard to find out who he lives with, who he cares about. Sending you to the other side of the world would be convenient. Murder’s risky—but this? You go missing, and whoever’s behind it stays clean. Because James here was the only link—and he was dumb enough to step through the portal himself.”

James grimaced. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Then tell us what is going on!”

“I don’t know! I only know that it wasn’t just Juan who needed to be here. You did. You have some kind of key role to play, and if there’s anyone who can’t imagine you being useful, it’s me!”

Emilio laughed bitterly. “Oh, so now I’m some sort of chosen one?”

“Yes!” James snapped. “And considering you just elevated yourself to godhood, that’s apparently not even that strange.”

Emilio snorted. “Just don’t think I’m going to be the one sacrificing myself for the good of the world.”

Juan’s head was spinning. He looked away, scanning the overcrowded square. People stared at them, tracking every movement. No one dared approach. Drums sounded somewhere to his right; flutes joined in.

Was there really someone who believed Emilio had an important role to play here? Why him? Not that Juan, with his anxiety disorder, was particularly suited for any grand task—but Emilio? Someone who provoked more hostility than admiration? Why not someone like James—someone fascinated by this culture, composed, good with people? Someone whose dream it might have been to walk through the past?

Because by now, Juan could no longer deny it: this wasn’t a performance like Emilio had claimed. This was real. They had traveled back in time through some kind of magical portal.

How were they supposed to get back?

James was the only one who knew anything, and even he hadn’t been fully informed.

Sawa.

The name suddenly surfaced in his mind. The girl who took far too much initiative. Who spoke the local language.

She had to know more.

With renewed focus, Juan scanned the crowd for her. At first glance, he didn’t see her.

Dimly, he was aware that Emilio and James were still arguing—but he didn’t have the energy for it. “I’m going to look for Sawa,” he said. “She knows more.”

“I’ll come with you,” Emilio said.

Juan shook his head. “You’re too worked up. You’ll scare her off.”

“That kid can handle herself.”

“We should try separately,” Juan insisted. “Not waste all our chances at once.”

With a sigh, Emilio gave in.

Juan turned away from the two men and made his way through the crowd—which wasn’t difficult. People immediately stepped back, dropped to their knees, and muttered incomprehensible words.

He also drew the attention of the king—or whatever that man was. It felt as though every movement was being watched. Did he really believe Emilio’s story? Or would they be thrown into dungeons later—or worse? Pretending to be a god couldn’t go unpunished.

Don’t think too far ahead. Talk to Sawa first.

He eventually found her at the edge of the square. She stood beside someone whose face was wrapped in a sash, leaving only a slit for the eyes. The figure appeared female, judging by her shape, but her age was impossible to guess. Her shoulders slumped; one hand rubbed over the cloth covering her face.

Juan hadn’t seen anyone else wearing such head covering, which piqued his curiosity.

“Hey, Sawa.” Despite the questions bursting in his head, a gentle approach seemed best. “Could we maybe talk for a moment?”

He was grateful she spoke good English—unlike most people they’d met in Peru. His Spanish extended only to a few phrases. His roots might be Puerto Rican, but he’d never been there, and his mother rarely spoke of her family. She refused to speak Spanish. Juan had always found that a shame; he loved the language, felt connected to it. When he and Emilio had ended up in the same elementary school class and Emilio spoke almost exclusively Spanish, it had instantly sparked Juan’s interest.

“Later, okay?” She took his hand and pulled him slightly closer. “This is Si. The first man and woman who died—those were her parents.” Sawa pointed toward the platform where the prisoners had been executed.

Shocked, Juan turned to Si. Her brown eyes stared at him, the whites tinged pink from crying. “That’s horrible…”

“Yes. She’s devastated.”

Juan looked away. It felt as though someone had clenched his insides. Would they have died just as brutally if Emilio hadn’t pretended they were gods? It had felt as though the ruler wanted to please them.

“I—I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do for her?”

He immediately regretted the question. She had just lost her parents. He couldn’t change that—and suggesting otherwise made him feel ridiculous. I’m not a god. Realizing Si couldn’t understand him, he added, “Don’t translate that. It was a stupid question. I just wish she hadn’t had to see this.”

Juan swallowed hard. Images flashed through his mind—his mother’s bloodied face, the red-stained sink. And what this girl had witnessed was so much worse. He blinked the images away.

“Maybe you can help her,” Sawa said softly. “She’s sort of a princess. Her parents are dead, her younger sisters were taken, and she doesn’t know where her little brother is. She wants to find them—but she can’t do it alone.”

And we can help.

“Is that why you brought us here, Sawa? Do you think Emilio and I can find them?”

“You,” she said. “Emilio follows another path.”

“What do you mean, Emilio follows another path? We’re not going anywhere without each other!”

Sawa smiled sadly. “That’s how it has to be.”

Stunned, Juan shook his head. Si’s situation faded into the background. “Send us back, Sawa. We don’t belong here.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?” His throat tightened, his voice rising. Panic surged, heat flooding his body. “Just take us back to the portal!”

“It’s not open right now.”

Juan shook his head violently, fists clenched. “Stop this bullshit. Take us back.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

His heartbeat thundered in his ears. No. Not again. He fought to push the panic down, focused on another emotion instead.

Anger.

She brought us here. Just like that.

He grabbed her arm. He ignored the way her face twisted. “Tell us why we’re here.”

Sawa met his gaze. “I can’t. This is how it must happen. If you’re mean, I’ll leave.”

With a growl, Juan let go. She was the only one he could communicate with; the last thing he wanted was to drive her away. He rubbed his forehead with a sigh. “So you want us to look for her sisters?”

Sawa nodded, smiling in satisfaction.

Juan cast a hesitant glance at Emilio on the other side of the square. “And Emilio can’t help?”

“Emilio has a different task.”

Her cryptic answers frustrated him; his hands clenched into fists. “Let me guess—you can’t tell me what that is either?”

“Everything will become clear.”