The Mayan Resurrection (25 page)

The Holy Office of the Inquisition in New Spain was quickly established, and soon thereafter Mesoamerican tribal members were brought to trial and convicted of being witches.

By bringing the Devil and witchcraft to the forefront, the Catholics inadvertently helped it to flourish. Secret societies formed among the conquered Mesoamericans, with the larger
cities becoming centers of sex and sin. Satan (appearing in the form of a goat) played host to witch parties. Pacts were made with the Devil. Black magic was introduced and passed from one generation to the next.

Where there was once innocence, sorcery now thrived. Thanks to the invading white man, fear of the Devil had become a real thing.

Etienne Rafelo arrived in Mexico in the fall of 1533, his mission: To spread the seeds of the ‘dark forces’ throughout the New World. His travels would lead him to Tecospa, a small Nahuatl Indian village situated across the mountains from Morelos. Here he would meet an Aztec leader named Motecuma, whose maternal ancestors were direct descendants of Quetzalcoatl, a member of the brotherhood of the Guardian.

Etienne would fall in love with Motecuma’s oldest daughter, Quetzalli, an azure-eyed beauty who possessed the Guardian’s Hunahpu bloodline. The couple would raise eight children in the southernmost part of the Valley of Mexico, a land the mighty Aztecs had once ruled.

Like her father, Quetzalli was a
Nagual
witch. Mesoamerican witches dated back a thousand years. They had counseled kings and could forecast events. It was said a
Nagual
could cause sickness by sucking the blood of his victim or by giving him the ‘evil eye.’ It was believed the more powerful witches could even capture a man’s soul.

Twenty-seven generations after the Rafelo-Quetzalcoatl bloodline began, Don Alejandro Rafelo was born. Like his ancestor, André, Don Rafelo sought a different path.

The villagers of Morelos both despised and feared Don Rafelo. They said his
ojo
made him powerful, that his
K’az-al t’an-ob
(curses) caused serious and painful diseases.

Blessed with intelligence and a feverish lust for power, Don Rafelo made it his life’s calling to learn the truth behind the power of the
Nagual
. Unlike the superstitious locals, he knew the witches gained their insight—not from spells and incantations, but from their bloodline. The Olmec, Aztec, Toltec, and Maya had risen to power under the tutelage of two great
Nagual
, Kukulcán and Quetzalcoatl. Don Rafelo knew these men had sired dozens of children, and that his own family’s spiritual abilities could be traced back to Quetzalcoatl. What Don Rafelo needed to increase the power of his lineage was a descendant of Kukulcán’s bloodline.

He would find his genetic link in Cecilia Meztli, a Mayan woman whose maternal ancestors were raised in the city of Chichén Itzá, sired by the great Kukulcán himself.

Too old to have children, Don Rafelo selected his sister’s son, Miguel Aurelia-Rafelo, to wed Cecilia. The
curanandero
warned the girl’s family to stay away from Don Rafelo, but the Meztlis owed Don Rafelo money, and the arranged marriage would pay off the debt.

The azure-blue-eyed Madelina Aurelia was born seventeen months later, and Don Rafelo had the minion he had long sought. The
Nagual
conspired against the infant’s parents, intent on raising the child himself. Following a series of tragedies, the family secretly fled Morelos and headed for America.

Seventeen years later, Don Rafelo’s prized apprentice died after giving birth to Lilith Eve Robinson.

Lilith finishes mowing the backyard lawn as Quenton returns home from church. Hearing him enter the house, she quickly positions the frayed lounge chair so it faces the sun, her heart racing. She removes her bikini top just as Don Rafelo had instructed, then lies back on the chair, rubbing oil over her exposed breasts, moaning just loud enough for her legal guardian to hear.

Quenton is in the bathroom urinating. Hearing the noise, he peeks between the curtains of the open window and stares at the topless teenager.

‘Sweet Jesus …’

Over the years, Quenton Morehead had convinced himself that his molestation of Lilith had been a necessary part of her ‘exorcism.’ He had already asked Jesus for forgiveness, and if the Lord could forgive him, then surely Lilith would. Now in his late sixties, he had eased up on the child’s ‘treatments,’ fearing the emboldened teenager might speak out against his acts.

But Quenton still had his needs, and the girl’s budding adolescence gnawed at him, creating desires that even prayer cannot staunch. But this public display of nudity—this was something altogether different. The girl was teasing him, charging his insides with electricity.

Lilith moans louder as she slips her fingers beneath her bikini bottom and pleasures herself.

It is more than Quenton can handle. Leaving the bathroom, he heads outside.

Feeling his presence, Lilith opens her eyes. ‘Something you wanted?’

Quenton grabs her by the arm, dragging her to her feet. ‘You wanna be a bad girl? I’ll show you what we do with bad girls—’

Lilith slips inside the nexus.

A moment later, Quenton Morehead finds himself on his back on the freshly mowed lawn, staring up at the blue heavens and his granddaughter’s surreal azure eyes.

Lilith’s fist blots out the view as it wallops his nose.

‘Oww … God … damn you, you little whore!’ Blood spurts from both nostrils.

‘Whore? Whores get paid, Quenton.’

‘I have paid you! Fourteen years I’ve fed you and clothed you and kept a roof over your head. You owe me!’

Still straddling him, she fondles her breasts. ‘You want this, Quenton? Come and get it.’

He reaches for her, but she hits him again, the furious, impossibly fast blow knocking loose his front teeth.

Lilith is on her feet, her bikini bottoms twirling around her index finger as she struts, naked, back into the house. ‘Be sure to put the lawn mower away before you come in.’

Quenton rolls over, spitting out two bloody teeth.
Only thing I’m gonna do is beat the hell outta you, then do you ’til you walk funny.

NOVEMBER 1, 2027: FEDERAL CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTE, MIAMI, FLORIDA

‘… nineteen … twenty … twenty-one …’

Eighty-two-year-old inmate Pierre Robert Borgia sucks air through his teeth, his face red, his muscles trembling as he completes his daily regimen of sit-ups.

‘… twenty-two … twenty-three … twenty-four …’

It has been nearly fifteen years since the former secretary of state was incarcerated for ordering the murder of Michael Gabriel.

‘… twenty-five … twenty-six … twenty-seven …’

Borgia has been a model prisoner. He has helped tutor inmates in a literacy program. He has led prayer groups on Sundays.

‘… twenty-eight … twenty-nine … thirty …’

Daily video-mail has kept him apprized of his family’s efforts to reduce his sentence. He knows parole is just around the corner.

‘… thirty-one … thirty-two … thirty-three …’

Exercise has helped keep Borgia’s blood pressure in check. Daily meditation has preserved his sanity.

The thought of revenge keeps him alive.

‘… thirty-four … thirty-five … thirty-six …’

Borgia’s anger had once been directed solely at the son of his arch rival—a man who had assaulted him onstage three decades earlier, costing him his right eye.

With Michael Gabriel dead, Borgia’s anger has been redirected at someone else.

‘… thirty-seven … thirty … eight … thirty … nine … forty!’

Borgia lies back on the cold linoleum floor of his four-by-seven-foot cell. He gazes at the projection of a tropical shoreline on his wall as he catches his breath.

‘Computer … activate CNN.’

The holographic ocean disappears, replaced by cinder block. The news broadcast begins a moment later.

‘… in the wake of Jordan Ann Katras’s death late last week, former U.S. president Ennis Chaney was nominated earlier today as Secretary General of the United Nations Security Council.’

‘Ahhhh!’ Borgia kicks the wall, Chaney’s face distorting on his shoe.

‘In other news, the World Basketball Association has added two new European teams to its Eastern Conference …’

‘Computer, cease broadcast!’

The transmission ends.

Borgia’s pulse races, his blood pressure soaring. He wheezes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. Repeats the exercise
until his pulse stops pounding in his ears, then gets on his hands and knees, resuming his workout.

‘One … two … three … four …’

There is one person Borgia despises more than any other human being, one person whose very name causes his blood to boil, his ulcer to bleed …

‘… five … six … seven … eight …’

Parole is coming.

Pierre Borgia counts the days.

‘Come on, Manny. Apply the formula, then figure out the answer!’

Immanuel Gabriel stares at his Vision-Station, a high-resolution curved computer monitor, five feet tall and six feet wide, that encompasses his entire forward field of vision. ‘I told you, Mr. Hopper, I can’t do it.’

‘Sure you can,’ the tutor insists. ‘Watch and learn.’ Scott Hopper leans over the teen and types in an equation designed to calculate G forces and the speed of light. ‘There, I plugged in the values, now you do the math.’

‘Who cares about this stuff? I’m not interested in being an astronaut, I’m gonna play pro ball.’

‘Sure you are. Now just apply the damn formula so we can end the lesson.’

‘I’m ending it now.’

‘Sit down, please—’

‘No. I want to shoot hoops before dinner.’

‘Not until you finish the rest of these problems. Your brother finished an hour ago, and he’s doing quantum physics.’

‘Whoop-dee-do.’

‘Sit down!’

‘Drop dead.’

Hopper swallows his retort as Jacob enters the classroom. ‘Jacob, see if you can talk some sense into your brother; he won’t listen to a damn thing I have to say.’

The instructor walks out.

Immanuel kisses his middle finger, then flips it at Scott Hopper’s back.

‘I need to talk with you, Manny. I spoke with our father again.’

‘And I spoke with the Easter Bunny. He says they need you back at the Funny Farm—’

In a lightning maneuver, Jacob grabs his brother by his hips and hoists him clear off his feet.

‘Let me go—’

‘I’ve had it with you, Manny. You’re way behind in your training and—’

Immanuel kicks his brother in the chest, the blow powerful enough to send both boys tumbling to the floor.

The dark-haired twin leaps to his feet. ‘I’ve had it with you, too, asshole. I’ve had it with your stupid delusions, and you always bossing me around. Most of all, I’m sick of living in this prison camp.’

‘It’s for our own good. There are crazy people out there—’

‘There’s crazy people in here!’ Immanuel picks up his chair in frustration and smashes it through the computer screen, sending shattered fragments flying in all directions.

‘Stop! Do you have any idea how much that costs?’

‘Doesn’t cost me a damn thing.’ Immanuel reaches for another chair.

Jacob intercepts, grabbing him in a powerful wrestling hold. ‘Knock it off, Manny. I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘Hurt me?’ Tears of frustration flow from Immanuel’s ebony eyes. ‘You’re killing me.’

‘How am I killing you? Answer me!’

‘Get off—’

Jacob releases him. ‘We live in paradise. You have everything you could ever want or need.’

‘Bullshit, What I need is freedom. I need friends my age. I’m tired of playing pick-up games with the guards. I want to compete on teams. And I want to meet some girls. Girls, Jake, as in the opposite sex, or did that Hunahpu gene take away your balls?’

‘I have sexual desires, I even have a girlfriend.’

‘Yeah? Who? Rosie palm and her five sisters?’

‘Her name’s Lilith. We talk on … on the Internet. She wants to get together, but I can’t.’

‘See, that’s what I’m talking about. Go see her! Screw your brains out.’

‘It’s not like that. I love her, which is why I have to break it off.’

‘Huh?’

‘She’s becoming a distraction.’

‘A distraction? From what?’

‘You still don’t get it, do you? You still refuse to acknowledge who we are, or what’s at stake.’

‘Oh, God, here we go again—’