Page 71 of The Lost Guardian

“I have good news and bad news.” He milked it for a second.

“Okay…” she responded, drawing out the word.

“The good news is that I don’t think we need to kill anyone,” he said.

“Oh, good.” Ali sighed.

“The bad news is that one of us is still gonna bleed.”

22

Ali had suggested, voted, and then unilaterally decided that if he thought they should spill blood to uncover their next clue, it should be his own.

And so, moments later, Santiago stood on top of the sacrificial stone with a hunting knife clasped threateningly tight within his hand.

“You have the blood of the Guardianes, after all,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him. “It probably wouldn’t even work with mine.”

Santiago had a sneaking suspicion she thought his theory might not work at all. Not that he could blame her. He wasn’t so sure himself.

José, on the other hand, looked utterly convinced. He was pacing around the base of the stone, eyes as bright as a kid on Christmas morning.

“Life’s water could have two meanings.” He nodded along as Santiago prepared to make himself a human sacrifice. “Life’s water, as in water that brings life, like the aqueduct…”

Santi swallowed. The knife’s blade was enormous.

“And life’s water as in blood, the liquid that keeps us alive. Oh, and the Inca would have loved that.”

Was that bloodlust in the professor’s eyes?

“Come on, Rios, let’s get this moving,” Ali called out from below him.

He laughed nervously. The edge looked really sharp.

Gritting his teeth, Santiago held his left hand directly over the center of the stone and lifted the blade to his palm.

“Not your palm!” Ali cried, interrupting him.

“Damn it,” he swore, jerking the knife upward. “Ow!” he said as the sharp edge nicked the pad of his thumb. A few droplets of blood dribbled onto the rock’s surface.

And then they moved.

“What?” Santiago gasped, leaning down to watch.

The stone’s surface had a mazelike design, with pathways etched out by smooth grooves in the rock. His blood, which had fallen at the center, followed only one.

The Inca were meticulous masons. Had they relied on the force of gravity, carving one path microscopically deeper so that liquid flowed into it?

“Give me your water bottle?” he asked Ali, reaching down without tearing his gaze from the stone. Cold metal pressed into his hand.

Carefully, Santiago tested his theory.

He poured some water over his blood, and it moved again, carving the path forward. A rush of satisfaction washed through him.

I figured you out. He smiled.

But he hadn’t. When the maroon of his blood was diluted to a soft red, it stopped traveling. His stomach turned.

“Blood it is,” Santiago murmured. Before he could reconsider, he pressed the knife against his forearm—Ali was right, of course, cutting his palm was unnecessary and inconvenient—and sliced into his own soft flesh.