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Lost, he realized. Utterly and hopelessly lost.

No.

He hadn’t made the single greatest revelation of his life, only to be thwarted by something as mundane as directions. He was a scholar, for pity’s sake, and an Eagle Scout. He could figure this out.

“Okay, okay,” he said to himself, pacing to find a piece of sky underneath the thick canopy of trees. “At the overlook, the sun was directly above us…but it had been rising ahead, since we were traveling east.”

He closed his eyes, trying to remember where the sun’s position had been after the boat crash. Had it impeded his vision? Beat on his neck? He struggled to recall the moment but could only see Ali’s drawn face and the dark ink of the mascaipacha tattoo.

He shook his head. That wasn’t helpful. Time to try something else.

In his walk through the forest, had there been moss on the trees? On what part of their trunks? He knew some types of moss preferred growing on north-facing surfaces. Maybe he could figure out his position that way.

Santiago couldn’t recall a thing. And none of the trees surrounding him had any moss to speak of. He paced the edge of the clearing, searching for flattened brush or muddied boot prints that might signal from which direction he’d entered it last night.

But he was just one man, and the jungle had a way of bouncing back. His tracks had been swallowed. How was he going to find his way out again?

He crumpled back down to the ground, the wind most decidedly knocked out of his sails.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he moaned into his hands. There had to be some way to retrace his steps to the river. The sun was already rising, misty sparkles of light filtering through the mass of leaves above his head.

The instructions within the chakana had been clear, and if he was going to make it to Atahualpa’s tomb before noon, he needed to move now.

A cool, wet sensation brushed against the knuckles of his hand and Santiago jerked back, violently startled.

Only to find the delighted face of a chimú dog inches from his own.

Her tongue, the source of Santiago’s now wet hand, lolled out the side of her mouth. When Santiago did nothing but blink, stupefied, she bounced forward and licked his face for good measure.

Despite the situation, Santi couldn’t help but laugh. He pet her velvety skin, marveling at how warm and soft she was, despite her lack of fur.

“Hey, girl,” he crooned softly. “Don’t tell me you got lost, too?”

She was far from where they had last seen her, but Santiago held no doubt that it was the same dog he’d fed their jerky to a few days prior.

The dog barked, a high, assertive sound, then tore back into the trees. Santiago felt himself deflate. He knew she was a wild thing, with no loyalty to people, but he had been glad of the company. He was sorry to see her leave so quickly.

Before Santiago could miss her too keenly, she reappeared at the edge of his clearing, poised regally between two trees. He began to smile, but she barked and then disappeared once more.

Santiago frowned. After a moment, she came back again, darted toward him, and caught his sleeve with her teeth. Then she pulled, her hindquarters wriggling with effort, a small growl vibrating from her throat.

Surprised, Santiago stood. Seeming satisfied, the chimú dog ran back the way she had come, turning to stare at him.

He shifted hesitantly. It was almost as if—

Could she want him to follow her?

No, that was silly. Wasn’t it?

The dog circled in place, emitting a pitchy whine. Finally, she stopped, facing him straight on, her eyes boring into his own. She gave a small huffing snort of displeasure before straightening.

Then she changed.

She was taller now and more barrel-chested. The tuft of hair on her head was no longer a patchy sprig of weeds but a sleek, elegant mohawk. Her muzzle elongated, and her eyes narrowed, staring him down imperiously.

For a moment, as sunlight darted through the trees and hit her chest, she wore a solid-gold breastplate and chain. The illusion vanished as quickly as it had come, but Santiago felt his breath catch in his throat.

“The Shepherd,” he said, remembering his conversation with Ali. Black dogs had always ushered the souls of those crossing the bridge to Ukhu Pacha. They were the guides to the dead.