Renea Mayhew shared one particular pet peeve with her impatient and often erratic husband. The pair of them loathed waiting. This included, but was not limited to, waiting in line; waiting in traffic; waiting for food to be served at a restaurant; and even waiting for their individual turns in games. Waiting to hear from the person she loved most in the world, not knowing whether she ever would, had to be the worst form of waiting Renea had ever endured.
But what else could she do? Peter was on the other side of solid rock, reportedly enforced by magic, deep underground and potentially in grave danger with nothing to keep him safe but the less-than-reliable Greg Van Helsing.
After an hour or so of frantic pacing between the trees and underbrush of the jungle, Renea took a moment to snap the heels off of her shoes. In the name of more efficient pacing, of course. And then she resumed her course between a massive moss-covered tree and a fern the size of a donkey. A path of trodden foliage was forming along her route.
Renea checked her phone at irregular but frequent intervals as she paced. When the battery died, she used a power bank that was always kept at full charge in her bag. When the bank was out of juice, and her phone’s battery was dangerously approaching the point where she would no longer be able to use it to call a lift back to the hotel, she was left with no choice but to leave the jungle.
Furious, frustrated, unable to do anything but walk away with the hope that Peter was alive and well, Renea lost her composure. Shrieking with unrestrained fury, she threw a fist into the nearby trunk of a towering tree with all of her strength. Several things about her wild haymaker were incongruous with everything Renea thought she knew about the human body. And trees. And physics in general.
First of all, the foreign energy she’d been noticing lately, the one that swirled angrily about in her gut, shot up her chest and into her arm as she swung. Second, the stump - which is what the tree had become - was singed black and smoke was now rising from the late tree’s desiccated remains. And lastly, Renea felt no pain whatsoever in the fist that had struck a tree with such force that its bulk was now toppling away from her, snapping the limbs of its long-time neighbors on its way to the ground.
A previously unnoticed jaguar stood with one paw off the ground, as if it were in the middle of taking a step in her direction when it froze in place. It stared uncomprehendingly at the human trespassing on its territory.
“What?” she asked it, taking a threatening step toward it. She threw her arms out. “You want some of this?”
The jaguar did not. It stared a moment longer, seemingly unable to move, and then slowly turned and disappeared into the jungle. It was a rather fortunate thing that the wild predator did not in fact want a piece of Renea Mayhew, because she suddenly began to feel incredibly weak.
Her vision became blurred, the myriad of jungle sounds a dull whisper in her ears. She staggered, backing into the smoking stump and sliding to land on her bum with a thump. The vignette of greens and browns darkened, and then Renea Mayhew lost consciousness.
***
The entire temple shook wildly, lurching and causing both Peter and Greg to stumble. And then it was there. Omacatl, the jaguar (minor) god in all of its feline glory, stood between the interlopers and the door. Its black fur had a sanguine undertone and stood on end as the massive cat hissed menacingly.
“Greg,” Peter said, speaking softly and making a conscious effort not to make any sudden moves. “I need you to trust me. I know what to do. Toss me your knife, then keep that thing from eating us for a few seconds. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Greg looked at Peter from the corner of his eye, considering the request dubiously, and then gave a slow but clear nod of affirmation. He tossed the knife, and the ancient minor god pounced.
Greg leaped to meet the big kitty’s pounce, the two of them clashing in the most violent hug Peter had ever seen. The oversized hunting knife clattered to the ground at Peter’s feet. He dropped to his knees, the figurine cradled in the crook of his elbow, and snatched the knife. After the briefest hesitation, he carved an opening in the palm of his left hand.
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“Ouch!” he cried. He’d known it would hurt. Obviously it would hurt. But knowing that ahead of time did little to lessen the pain.
Peter Mayhew had never been overly squeamish, nor was he at that moment. The amount of blood oozing up from the admittedly shallow wound, however, was more than he’d been expecting. In the movies, when someone cut their palm, usually to make a blood pact or whatever - which, in Peter’s opinion, was seriously overused by the media in general - it usually just trickled blood for a second or two before becoming a not-bleeding ‘wound’ that, only a scene or two later, simply vanished. Peter’s left palm was not painted red along the incision for viewer’s pleasure, but was instead coated with a layer of blood within seconds. He watched with morbid curiosity for a moment as the blood pooled in his palm and then began to drip steadily out from between his fingers.
Peter glanced up to see Greg Van Helsing going toe-to-toe in a wrestling match with a literal god. The sleeve of Greg’s black v-neck t-shirt had been ripped off by the same slash that left three cuts, each significantly deeper than Peter’s self-inflicted one, along his shoulder. Peter dismissed a joke about how ‘ripped’ Greg’s shoulders were that came unbidden into his mind. The monster slayer was on the big cat’s back, one arm around its thick neck and the other under one of its front legs. His hands met over the cat’s shoulder, and were locked into a tight grip. Omacatl hissed in rage and writhed wildly, but Greg seemed to have a handle on it. For now, at least. Peter spared a moment to simply appreciate just how badass Greg really was before getting to the next step of his don’t-get-eaten-by-a-huge-ass-cat plan.
Holding the figurine’s open mouth beneath his left hand, Peter made a fist and squeezed. Blood poured from his hand and into the figurine’s mouth, though most of it missed the target and instead coated the tiny caricature of Omacatl. As more of Peter’s blood vanished into the ornament, a red glow appeared from within, intensifying rapidly.
“Whatever your plan is,” Greg hollered between grunts of effort, “do it fast.”
Omacatl finally managed to rip itself free and Greg jumped back to narrowly avoid a slash from its wicked claws. When the figurine’s ominous glow reached its zenith, the cat god turned sharply, eyes locked on Peter with pure, fiery rage.
It pounced without hesitation, but Greg barreled into it, leading with his shoulder and knocking the beast off course. Omacatl slid to a stop to Peter’s right, crouched and then, just before the pounce that would surely be the death of a very mortal Peter Mayhew, the figurine chimed loudly, resonating throughout the temple like a gong. A gong that was rung directly into a microphone, and then played through every speaker in the world at maximum volume.
Ears ringing, heart pumping, hand bleeding, mind racing, Peter held his breath in the silence that followed. Only seconds before, Omacatl was a several hundred pound mass of fur, claws, and teeth. Now, it was just about the size of a typical house cat and sitting calmly at Peter’s feet. It looked away from Peter to shoot Greg a glare, and then yawned - revealing its long, black, and, strangely, forked tongue.
It was a handsome creature, even by feline standards. The coloring remained the same through whatever transition had taken it from a monstrous killing machine to the adorable creature sitting before Peter now - black with a deep red undertone. A majestic mane of slightly longer and poofier fur sprouted from its neck. From its ears to the slope of its nose, the shape of its mouth, and everything in between, Omacatl’s features exemplified the ideal feline aesthetic.
Without knowing exactly where the knowledge came from, Peter now had an innate understanding of, not only the extent of his control of the creature’s actions, but also its size. With the fear of death looming, he’d unwittingly sized Omacatl down to the tiny beast now sitting calmly between himself and Greg. He knew, somehow, that there were limits to the size options Omacatl could fit into, however.
The size it had been while attacking Peter and Greg was its maximum, but Peter knew now that he could reduce its size even further than a regular house cat. First, he shrunk the minor god down to the size of a small kitten - which was so cute that Peter squealed in an undignified manner. After that, he made it even smaller. When Omacatl was only the size of a field mouse and Peter could hold it in the palm of one hand, and did so, he received an annoyed grreoow from the deity. He promptly returned it to house cat size.
There was a new connection in Peter’s mind. A sort of link between himself and Omacatl. It wasn’t anything as convenient as his magical power, but he could project thoughts, images, and commands to the minor deity. This connection allowed Omacatl, too, to project into Peter’s mind - though he was only getting vague impressions from her now. Impressions of apprehension and annoyance.
“This should go without saying, but you’re just standing there. So… Peter, I feel like this,” Greg said, gesturing at the now-harmless house-cat-sized god, “demands an explanation.”
The toothy smile stretching across Peter’s face threatened to tear it apart at the cheeks.
“Allow me the pleasure of introducing the newest addition to the Mayhew family, Omacatl,” Peter said proudly, bending to pet the subservient deity.
Omacatl was hesitant to allow its new master to touch it for a moment, pinning its ears back, but remained still as Peter scratched it gently on the back of the neck. The cat remained still for a moment, eyes narrowing, and then it began leaning into the scritches. Before long, the ferocious dark deity was purring contentedly as Peter stroked its glossy black fur.
“I have no reservations in saying that you, Peter Mayhew, are the strangest man I have ever met.”
“Wow, Greg.” Peter said, looking up at Greg with a warm, genuine smile on his face. “Thank you. That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”