Page 37 of The Lost Guardian

His face tightened, but he quickly schooled his expression. After all, it wasn’t the man’s fault that he was so damn good-looking.

If you like that rugged adventurer sort of thing, he thought.

Santiago took a breath, remembering himself. He couldn’t wait to tell Dr. Silva and his cohort that he had gone to dinner with Professor Fernandez—with José. He bounced a little at the thought, deciding not to sour this opportunity over a woman who wasn’t interested in him anyway.

“José,” Ali continued. “How well did you know Manco Rios?”

“Manco was a wonderful friend of mine for many years,” José answered, shoulders collapsing by a fraction. “I was so sorry to hear of his passing.”

“Do you…” Santiago hesitated. “Do you know how he died?”

José’s face became very serious. He glanced at Ali, then focused intently on Santiago.

“Do you?” the professor asked him.

Slowly, Santiago nodded. Again, José looked back toward Ali.

“It’s okay,” Santiago said. “She knows everything.”

“But how much do you know?” José asked him.

Santiago hadn’t always been good at making decisions. It wasn’t so much that he was indecisive, just that he liked to weigh his options and consider all angles before making up his mind. But at that moment, he made a fast choice.

This was the man Abuelo Manco had trusted to guard his ashes until his family could retrieve him. He was an archeologist and historian who Santi had admired since his earliest days in undergrad. If he was going to take the risk of trusting anyone, it would be him.

“I know about the Guardianes de la Tumba,” he confirmed. “Though I didn’t find out that they were real until very recently. And I have a feeling that I don’t know as much as I should.”

The professor’s brows furrowed and he stared off into the distance, tapping the knuckles of his middle fingers together.

“José?” Ali prodded. “Please, tell us what it is that you know.”

He was quiet for a while longer and then seemed to come to a decision himself.

“I also know of the Guardianes,” he said. “It’s how your grandfather and I met, actually. Many years ago, I discovered a text translated from Quechua to Spanish by a Jesuit priest in the sixteenth century. A poor translation, but it led me to something big. Something written by Pizarro himself.”

Santiago’s eyes widened. He was certain he would have heard of such a thing.

José poured himself more pisco, then offered the bottle to them. Santiago declined with a wave of his hand, but Ali nodded, and he served her.

“The text had been attributed to an unknown author,” he continued. “No one paid it much attention. But it alluded to the Guardianes.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Ali ventured. “I know a little about this, of course, from school. And I believe the legend of Atahualpa’s lost tomb.”

She shot Santiago a pointed look.

“But are you saying that there is history, actual proof of it?” she continued. “Of the Guardianes de la Tumba? How?”

José’s face brightened.

“Ah, my dear!” he exclaimed. “You give me a chance to tell a story, which is a gift among my people.”

Santiago chuckled to himself, wondering if José was referring to the Peruvian or the academic in him.

“You know that the Inca never had a formal written language, yes?” the professor said. “But the tradition of oral storytelling is in our blood.” He stood, crossing to an accent cabinet. From inside, he pulled out a painting that Santiago recognized as a depiction of Atahualpa. José passed it to Ali.

“Atahualpa was the son of Incan emperor Huayna Cápac, who died in 1524 from what we believe to be smallpox introduced by Spanish conquistadors. His first choice as heir, his infant son, soon died of the same. This left two of Huayna Cápac’s sons as the obvious successors: Huáscar and Atahualpa.”

“And they did not resolve things between themselves peacefully,” Santiago added dryly.