pieces took generations to finish. It’s not impossible that the Maya did the same.”
“No,” she said huskily, “it’s not impossible.” But you are, Hunter Johnston. You’re the most impossible thing about this whole situation.
Lina forced herself to look away, to concentrate on the obsidian mask, volcanic glass lovingly worked and polished until it shone like a gold-tinted mirror beneath the harsh flash used to take the photo. Hunter’s like that. The surface isn’t what is important.
“Lina?” he asked.
Belatedly she realized that she was looking at him again, falling into darkness and light.
“The central part of the mask is human,” she said, her voice low. “The eyes are heavy-lidded, half open. The nose is a blunt blade of nobility, the cheekbones high and broad, the mouth a grim slit of judgment. This is a god on the brink of a catastrophic temper tantrum.”
“Not a gentle god.”
“The Maya revered the jaguar, a climax predator. If tenderness was valued, we’ve seen little indication of it in their religious-civic art.”
“Sounds like the Yucatan I know and love,” Hunter said dryly, thinking of his last assignment. Being a courier in a kidnap-ransom scheme wasn’t his favorite job, but it brought a lot of money into the family business. And saved lives. Sometimes. If he was very lucky, very careful.
“Do you know the Yucatan?” Lina asked, surprised.
“Better than most, not as well as you do. What are these things along the edges?” he asked, pointing to the mask. As he touched the photo, it shifted, making it seem alive, breathing, waiting.
“Symbolic feathers or flames or even lightning. It’s difficult to tell against the flash.” As Lina spoke, she typed into her notebook. “These are very vigorous symbols, incised and brought into relief. Delicate and vivid, polished to the same hard gleam as the face itself. See the drill holes that would hold cord or leather, allowing it to be fastened to a man’s head? Amazing, incredible artisans created this.”
Hunter watched her profile, a more feminine, much more elegant echo of the mask.
“Imagine this in torchlight,” Lina said. “It would be inhuman, terrifying, awesome in the original sense of the word. It’s clearly a ceremonial piece, but who wore it? For what purpose? It must have been traded for, but why and when?”
She made an exasperated sound and smacked her palm on the desk.
Hunter waited.
“This is maddening,” she said. “Without context, my questions can’t be answered. I might get a chemical analysis and be able to match the obsidian to the original quarry site, but that’s such a tiny part of this mask’s history. To date it, I would need to know where it was found, in what layer of dirt, with what other objects or signs of habitation. All I have is this photograph.”
Hunter noted the flush of temper darken her high cheekbones. The lady had passion. It was part of what attracted him to her. Then he watched anger fade into something close to puzzlement.
Silence stretched.
“What?” he asked.
She flinched as though she’d forgot he was there. “I’m not sure. I feel like I’ve seen something similar to this, but I can’t remember where or when. The shining…” She smacked the desk again with her palm. “Damn the grave robber who cared more about money than knowledge!”
“Grave robbers are poor. Only the endgame is rich.”
She blew out a hard breath. “I know. I spent most of my childhood running barefoot through villages that depended on my family’s generosity for food, clothing, everything but water. And sometimes even that. I didn’t understand then. I just laughed and played with the village children while Philip and their fathers dug through the jungle, seeking Maya heritage.”
“You can’t eat heritage.”
The air-conditioning kicked on, a cool breath settling over the office.
Suddenly Lina looked defeated. She shook her head. “I know. If my child was hungry,
“No,” she said huskily, “it’s not impossible.” But you are, Hunter Johnston. You’re the most impossible thing about this whole situation.
Lina forced herself to look away, to concentrate on the obsidian mask, volcanic glass lovingly worked and polished until it shone like a gold-tinted mirror beneath the harsh flash used to take the photo. Hunter’s like that. The surface isn’t what is important.
“Lina?” he asked.
Belatedly she realized that she was looking at him again, falling into darkness and light.
“The central part of the mask is human,” she said, her voice low. “The eyes are heavy-lidded, half open. The nose is a blunt blade of nobility, the cheekbones high and broad, the mouth a grim slit of judgment. This is a god on the brink of a catastrophic temper tantrum.”
“Not a gentle god.”
“The Maya revered the jaguar, a climax predator. If tenderness was valued, we’ve seen little indication of it in their religious-civic art.”
“Sounds like the Yucatan I know and love,” Hunter said dryly, thinking of his last assignment. Being a courier in a kidnap-ransom scheme wasn’t his favorite job, but it brought a lot of money into the family business. And saved lives. Sometimes. If he was very lucky, very careful.
“Do you know the Yucatan?” Lina asked, surprised.
“Better than most, not as well as you do. What are these things along the edges?” he asked, pointing to the mask. As he touched the photo, it shifted, making it seem alive, breathing, waiting.
“Symbolic feathers or flames or even lightning. It’s difficult to tell against the flash.” As Lina spoke, she typed into her notebook. “These are very vigorous symbols, incised and brought into relief. Delicate and vivid, polished to the same hard gleam as the face itself. See the drill holes that would hold cord or leather, allowing it to be fastened to a man’s head? Amazing, incredible artisans created this.”
Hunter watched her profile, a more feminine, much more elegant echo of the mask.
“Imagine this in torchlight,” Lina said. “It would be inhuman, terrifying, awesome in the original sense of the word. It’s clearly a ceremonial piece, but who wore it? For what purpose? It must have been traded for, but why and when?”
She made an exasperated sound and smacked her palm on the desk.
Hunter waited.
“This is maddening,” she said. “Without context, my questions can’t be answered. I might get a chemical analysis and be able to match the obsidian to the original quarry site, but that’s such a tiny part of this mask’s history. To date it, I would need to know where it was found, in what layer of dirt, with what other objects or signs of habitation. All I have is this photograph.”
Hunter noted the flush of temper darken her high cheekbones. The lady had passion. It was part of what attracted him to her. Then he watched anger fade into something close to puzzlement.
Silence stretched.
“What?” he asked.
She flinched as though she’d forgot he was there. “I’m not sure. I feel like I’ve seen something similar to this, but I can’t remember where or when. The shining…” She smacked the desk again with her palm. “Damn the grave robber who cared more about money than knowledge!”
“Grave robbers are poor. Only the endgame is rich.”
She blew out a hard breath. “I know. I spent most of my childhood running barefoot through villages that depended on my family’s generosity for food, clothing, everything but water. And sometimes even that. I didn’t understand then. I just laughed and played with the village children while Philip and their fathers dug through the jungle, seeking Maya heritage.”
“You can’t eat heritage.”
The air-conditioning kicked on, a cool breath settling over the office.
Suddenly Lina looked defeated. She shook her head. “I know. If my child was hungry,
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