Accidentally in Love With a God (2012) by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

slammed the door shut, turning toward Pizzaro who cowered in the corner of the room.
    “What—what are you?”
    “Ahhh, now that’s more like it!” Votan said, shamelessly contented by the other man’s terror. He paused for a moment, his thoughts vacillating between extracting the man’s heart with a spoon or making him watch as he executed the crew.
    Votan couldn’t help but feel grumpy at the whole situation. Eenie, meenie, minee, moe. “Perhaps a spoon is a bit harsh—you did kill the Maaskab with admirable ruthlessness. I will be back to deal with you.” Votan pointed at Pizzaro. “Stay.”
    Votan marched up the stairs, gripping a razor sharp machete in each hand. Several large men lunged as he emerged on deck. He could smell the darkness seeping from their skin. No. The Maaskab weren’t the first these men had killed. That foul smell only came from a lifetime of dedicated, unrepentant violence. Votan turned into a whirlwind of slicing blades. Before he took one breath, five men lay gasping in a tidy heap, their dark red blood forming a puddle.
    The others stopped their advances, careful to step away from the syrupy crimson pool spreading at their feet. Their bearded faces, dirty and pale, transformed from angry to fearful.
    Votan wiped away the splatters of blood from his face and smiled. Feeling a set of eyes on his back, Votan spun to find Pizzaro standing behind him, shivering with repulsion at the pile of bloody corpses.
    The captain hitched up his pants as if rallying his bravery and ran his eyes over the faces of his terrified men. “I—I, uh,” he stuttered, “th-th-think this demon has come for our souls, gentlemen, and I do not believe any of us are going to heaven.”
    “Right you are, my friend. No heaven for you. But, I am no demon. I am a god. A very, very cruel one.”
     

Chapter NINE
     
     
    Present Day. Mexico.
     
    The bus driver pulled to the side of the highway. It was late afternoon, but with the heat, it felt like high noon in hell. “Señorita, aquí estamos.”
    “Here? You want me to get out here?” I questioned, having no idea where “here” was.
    The last road sign said it was still several kilometers to the town of Bacalar and to its nearby lake, but which direction? I was one of those people who immediately lost their sense of direction if I wasn’t driving, which, obviously, I wasn’t. I’d encountered several mechanical difficulties with my rental Jeep, including not one, but two flat tires and an overheated engine.
    Guy immediately accused me of being bad luck, and if I were a superstitious person, I would’ve believed the universe was trying to tell me something. But it wasn’t. Because that would be just be crazy-talk.
    Now, after ditching the Jeep, successfully hailing a third-class, chickens-ride-for-free bus, bound for Bacalar—near the Belizean border—and five hours later, I was almost to Guy. This was it. But why weren’t my legs moving me off the dang bus?
    The other passengers, all locals, turned their heads to dish healthy portions of glare in my direction. The inconsiderate tourist was holding them up.
    “Aquí se puede esperar por un taxi,” said the driver, pointing to the side of the road.
    A taxi? In the last hour, I hadn’t seen more than two cars on the road.
    The driver turned all the way around in his seat and gave me a nasty look. “Señorita? Se sale o me voy.”
    “ What are you waiting for? Get out,” Guy pushed.
    I quickly glanced out the dust-coated windows, seeing nothing but a long stretch of highway ahead and dense dark green jungle on either side of the road.
    The portly driver revved the engine to make his point.
    “I’m going, I’m going! Don’t shut the door.” The back of my white sticky-wet tee-shirt made a ssshhhlep sound as I rose from my vinyl seat. As soon as I stepped out, peeling my sweat-soaked khaki shorts from my rear end, the doors of the silver bus screeched shut. A cloud of black exhaust engulfed me