âPlease tell me I didnât kiss an agent of the IRS. Iâd have to shoot myself. Youâre who?â
âRaine. Raine Ashaway. You wrote me about the temple at Teotihuacan, and yes, the Feathered Serpent looks like a dinosaur.â
Bang!
âOh!â She lunged for McCord and hung on as the Land Rover swerved. âWhat wasâ?â
âThat was my left headlight clipping the mountainside. So do you know of any place in the Copper Canyons where such a beast might have been found?â
She was no longer seeing triple. He had wonderful lips, though she knew that already. The man was a natural-born kisser. âWhatâs your angle on this?â
âAw, jeezâyouâre going to hold out on me, after I risked my neck to rescue you?â
âI never said that.â But was she?
âSo say it! âMcCord, I owe you my life. If I know where to find a dinosaur, itâs yours with a bow on it.â Or would you rather I turn around and hang you back in the tree where I found you?â
Dear Reader,
Sometimes itâs hard to say goodbye to a particularly vivid character. After An Angel in Stone, I meant to put professional bone hunter Raine Ashaway on the back burner, and move on to her younger sister Jaye. But then while prospecting for my next plot, I happened on a book on the Aztecs. I flipped to a page and there was a photo of the Temple of Quetzalcoatl, aka the Feathered Serpent. Good Lord, I thought, that carving looks like a dinosaur!
Next thing I knew, Raine had dashed off to the Copper Canyons of Mexico to check out the situation. A long, tall, wise-mouthed renegade Texan came wandering in from left field with his own agenda. I found a charming villain with a weakness for hummingbirds andâ¦
Well, anyway, sometimes all an author can do is run at her heroineâs heels, taking dictation as fast as the adventure happens. This was that kind of story. Hope you enjoy it!
Peggy Nicholson
grew up in Texas with plans to be an astronaut, a jockey or a wild animal collector. Instead she majored in art at Brown University in Rhode Island (LARGE welded sculptures), then restored and lived aboard a 1920s wooden sailboat for ten years. She has worked as a high school art teacher, a chef to the countryâs crankiest nonagenarian millionaire, a waitress in an oyster bar and a full-time author. Her interests include antique rose gardening, Korat cats, ethnic cooking, offshore sailing andâbut naturally!âreading romances. She says, âThe best thing about writing is that, in the midst of lifeâs worst pratfalls and disasters, I can always say, âWow, what a story thisâll make!ââ You can write to Peggy at P.O. Box 675, Newport, RI 02840.
To Ron duPrey, stars in his bow wave, attended by dolphins, reaching toward the dawn. Fair winds, my darling.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Tenochtitlan, Valley of Mexico. Spring, 1520 A.D.
âT his Cortés is a man, I say, and not a god! All this foolish talk in the marketplace that he is the Quetzalcoatlâpah!â The high priest spat into the brazierâs flames. âYou have only to look at his eyes, how they glow when he sees our gold! He burns for it like a boy in rut. Heâs no sort of a god. Heâs a soulless, hairy dog of an unbeliever, come to rob the Aztecs of all but their clouts!â
âIf you say so, my lord.â Like most traders, the pochteca was a practical man. He believed in a fair weight of cacao beans, and the sheen of parrot feathers. A leather pouch clicking with turquoise or coral. Heâd leave the gods and their savage requirements to the bloody priests. One had to make a living in this world before he faced the gods in the next, he knew, though heâd never dare give voice to such an opinion.
âI do say it. But though this Cortés is a man, he brings our ruin. The city will fall.â
The trader grunted in surprise. âI heard Cortés had fled, he and his men. After they murdered King Motecuhzoma. That theyâd been driven from the city and were running for the east.â The pochteca had returned only this morning from a profitable venture to the western ocean. Heâd barely had time to bathe himself, then hurry his laughing young wife to bed, before the summons had come from the temple. From the high priest of Quetzalcoatl himself!
âCortés will return, with more warriors than the fire ants. We have asked the one true Feathered Serpent, the real Quetzalcoatl, and so he says. Tenochtitlan will fall. Our men will be trampled like corn stalks beneath the hooves of their terrible beasts. Our women will be driven weeping into slavery. Our children will be meat for their sacrifice.â
The pochteca swallowed a protesting laugh. One didnât laugh at a priest and live. âThe god says this?â he asked weakly. Or his old women priests putting words into the Quetzalcoatlâs mouth? Tenochtitlan was the finest, largest city in all the world, home to two hundred thousand of the bravest. Floating like a lily on its lake, the imperial capital could be approached only by guarded causeways or by canoe. To think that it could fall to a handful of rude, hairy, sweat-soaked foreigners? What nonsense.