Page 33 of The Lost Guardian

“Once we reach Lima, what next?” he asked as he buckled himself back in.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Ali responded, frowning. “Your grandfather didn’t leave you any instructions?”

Santiago shook his head. “His note to me was brief. But I did receive communication from a morgue, telling me that his ashes had been collected by a José M. Fernandez…”

Santiago trailed off as it hit him. The name in the email had seemed familiar, and now he knew why. Professor José M. Fernandez. Or, as Santi knew him: Fernandez, J.M., star of bibliographies and academic conferences alike. Santi had always longed to hear him speak instead of simply reading his words.

No fucking way. What are the odds?

Ali’s frown deepened, a sharp line creasing the skin between her brows. “I recognize that name…” she murmured. “Do you know him?”

Santiago nodded vigorously. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but if it really was the same guy… “I’m pretty sure I do.” He grinned.

The thought made him nervous, but in a good way. His mind swirled with a million questions he wanted to ask the more experienced scholar.

Ali tipped her head in question. Probably wondering at his sudden change in demeanor.

“I can’t believe he was a friend of my abuelo’s. He’s the head of Andean Studies at the University of Lima.” That was an understatement. The man was practically a celebrity in their field.

Excitement buzzed through him like lightning. He imagined an older man, with white hair and thick glasses and a lifetime’s worth of knowledge in his brain. An explorer, an educator. A shy, quiet soul, like he was. A kindred spirit.

“Then that should be our first stop,” Ali said. “By the time we get through customs and get a ride, the university should be open.”

Santiago gnawed on his lower lip. “Shouldn’t we call first?” There was every possibility Dr. Fernandez took Fridays off for conferences.

Ali took a deep breath but didn’t sigh in exasperation, the way Santiago suspected she wanted to. Something inside him withered with embarrassment.

“Fine, we’ll do it on the way,” she agreed. “We need to get as much of a head start on Torres’s people as we can.”

He nodded. “Okay.” What else could he say?

Ali jerked her chin in the direction of the window.

“Look, Rios.” She smiled. “Welcome home.”

Santiago lifted his window cover as high as it would go, then gasped.

There it was. Peru.

The sunrise sat on the horizon, painting the clouds the color of an overripe peach. The edge of the city danced around a curling coast, the white foamy crests of waves visible even at this height. In the distance, mountains rose and fell, casting sharp silhouettes against the early morning sky.

He was so entranced that he forgot to be afraid of landing, and before he knew it, the plane bumped along the runway, firmly on the ground once more. A scattering of applause was heard around the cabin. He hurried to imitate it.

“I didn’t realize people actually clapped when planes landed,” he said, feeling ridiculous.

Ali laughed, and Santiago felt himself flush. “Not everyone does. It’s a habit that some Latin people have adopted for whatever reason.”

Oh.

He and Ali were, of course, two of the first to exit the plane, and the moment they reached the gate, Santiago felt like a puppet on a string, the way his head would swivel this way and that to take in his surroundings. There were colorful textiles hanging off wooden display cases, wind instruments and llama-themed souvenirs. The air smelled of coffee and chocolate and something savory and spicy that felt both foreign and familiar. It was nothing like the terminal in California.

There were murals of ancient ruins and depictions of rainforests on the walls. Travelers laughed and chatted with friends and staff alike. He recognized Peruvian instruments—pinkillos, cascabeles, maracas, and more—playing lightly over the sound system.

The world was alight with color and music and life, and he hadn’t even left the airport yet.

“What is your business in Peru?” a customs agent asked with a heavy Latin accent, flipping through the empty pages of Santiago’s passport.

I’m here to spread my grandfather’s ashes at the lost tomb of the Incan emperor Atahualpa and protect the treasure that has been hidden within it for centuries from dangerous grave robbers with guns, Santiago thought.