After adopting the minor god, Omacatl, Peter Mayhew and his broody companion were left to struggle with the same problem of how to escape Kuzco’s domain. Technically, he enslaved the deity, but felt better about the term ‘adopting’. Asking the cat, who had of course spent quite some time in the underground metropolis, for guidance on the topic garnered only a bored expression, the flick of a tail, and silence from the creature.

“It’s a cat, Peter. You didn’t honestly expect it to just tell us how to get out of here, did you?” Greg asked, looking at Peter like one may look upon a bone-thin orphan on a television commercial designed to elicit generous pity. He may as well have said, “Oh, honey…”

“It’s a god cat,” Peter countered, folding his arms over his chest. “So… maybe? I hoped it would. And it was worth a shot. Not like you’re overflowing with helpful insights at the moment.”

It was true. Greg had not contributed a single suggestion on the topic. Peter had come up with a few, but it turned out that nowhere in the massive monument to Kuzco was there a ‘secret portal’ to whisk them back above ground. Nor did the uppermost point of the temple lead to a second tunnel to the surface. After hours of wandering aimlessly, Omacatl padding silently behind them, throughout the entirety of the temple and even the majority of the surrounding city, Peter and Greg were left with a single escape route.

“Italy, then?” Greg asked, face sour at the thought.

Peter frowned, considering. “That, or wait around to die, or be rescued. But won’t we exit the portal inside the Italian vampire’s lair? Do they have lairs? They probably do,” he verbally decided.

“They do. And yes, that was my concern as well. But, hey, I’m already at five vamp kills for the day. Who knows, I might even get a new high score.” Greg stopped and then turned to Peter curiously. “Wait for rescue? Who do you suppose might come into the ancient domain of a long-dead vampire, which is magically sealed shut and hundreds of feet underground to rescue the pair of us?”

Peter’s expression was that of a teacher who had just been asked a very obvious question. One that the child knew the answer to, if they only took a moment to think about it.

“Have you met my wife, Renea?”

“You know that I have.”

“Then you know that she will stop at nothing if she thinks I’m in trouble. And her definition of stopping at nothing is…” Peter paused searching for the right word. “Literal. If we weren’t trapped in an underground vampire city that I desperately want to leave, I’d bet you a hundred bucks that, if we waited long enough, Renea would show up. And then she’d probably kick your ass.”

Greg looked hard at Peter for several silent seconds. And then burst out in a fit of booming laughter. “She might be part witch, but I don’t think even the formidable Renea Mayhew can get to us down here. But, hey, you know her better than I do. What’s it going to be, Peter? Do we wait for Mrs. Mayhew to show up or take our chances through the sarcophagus portal?”

Peter was not going to wait for Renea to show up. The longer she was unable to get a hold of him, likely worried sick, the worse it would be for him and Greg when they were finally reunited. If they took the portal to Italy then he would at least be able to call her and let her know he was alright, considering they weren’t immediately killed and eaten by vampires.

“I’ve never been to Italy,” he said with the tone of a man considering where to take his next vacation. “It’s too bad we can’t bring Flapjack. He’s never been either.”

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“You and that damned dog,” Greg said, voice oozing with fond exasperation. “Speaking of, how do you think the old boy is going to feel about his new… sister? Brother? I can’t tell the difference with cats.”

“Sister,” Peter informed him. At Greg’s disgusted expression, he elaborated. “It’s not like I checked her parts, Greg. I can just tell with cats. It’s something about their body language I think.”

Not entirely convinced, but not remotely interested one way or the other, Greg shrugged the matter off. “Italy?”

“Italy.”

***

The sun was low in the sky when Renea Mayhew made a groggy return to consciousness. The jungle was filled with a different orchestra of sounds in the twilight hours than it had been only hours before. Instead of the myriad of bird calls, the muggy air was now filled with a chorus of crickets, loud frog croaks, and rustling branches.

Her eyes moved slowly as her mind caught up to what had brought her here, to the middle of the Veracruz jungle, napping with her back against the stump of a once majestic tree. She brushed a large spider off of her lap dismissively. Knowing what she’d see before even looking, Renea pulled her phone out of her pocket. The screen remained dark. It was dead.

Scrunching up her face in irritation, Renea sighed. It was going to be a long night.

It was fortunate that she had a reliable mental compass, but the setting sun was also a helpful instrument in plotting her course back to the tourist attraction that was the El Tajin ruins. It was getting late, but not so late that her destination would surely be void of humans. The odds weren’t great, though.

With all possible haste, Renea hurried through the jungle. As she hopped over ferns, ducked under branches, and navigated her way between towering trees, she had time to consider what the hell happened that caused her to pass out in the middle of a jungle. If she were to ask Peter what he thought, she was fairly certain his answer would be.

“Magic,” he might say. Or perhaps, “You’re a witch,” he may tell her as though that explained it entirely.

But Renea couldn’t dismiss it so easily.

She continued contemplating the implications during her trudge through the jungle. Which was unpleasant, to say the least.

When she made it back to the ruins, a show of prowess Peter would never have been able to duplicate without GPS assistance, she approached a man who worked at the gift shop. He was clearly closing up for the night, and sighed when he saw her coming but, after a look at her filthy and torn but obviously expensive clothing, he was nice enough to allow her the use of his phone. Renea called a taxi, waited for altogether way too long, and then was finally driven back to the hotel. She held onto a small hope that she’d find Peter and Greg there, drinking and laughing, but she was far from counting on it.

Instead of Peter and Greg, Renea found a very frantic Flapjack when she opened the door to their suite. The old boy yipped urgently and began to whine as he circled Renea’s legs. He’d been alone in the hotel suite for hours and desperately needed to be let outside. Over the years, Flapjack had proven to have more control over his bladder than Renea felt any creature should. Even when left alone in the house for 10 hour stretches, he kept everything in until help arrived with a perfect track record. Still, being able to hold it and being forced to were very different things.

“You poor thing,” Renea said, bending to set down her things and pat Flapjack lovingly on his head.

Flapjack yipped with increased urgency, scrambling around an end table and jumping up on the couch in the suite’s living area to grab his leash. He hurried back to Renea, who was putting her phone on the charger, and spat the leash out pointedly.

“I know, I know,” she said, plucking the leash from the floor and clicking it into place on his collar. “Alright, buddy, let’s go.”

When Renea and a much more relaxed Flapjack returned to the suite, she rushed to turn on her phone. She began tapping her toes impatiently as she waited for the device to power up. When it did, and she saw the notification of a new voicemail from Peter, Renea let out a sigh of relief. He was alive. She kicked off her muddy, ruined excuse for shoes as she tapped the notification and then sank into the couch wearily as Peter’s voice came through the speakerphone.

“Hey my sweet everything! It’s me. Your husband…” there was a pause. “Peter. It’s me Peter. I called but it went straight to voicemail and now I’m worried that something happened to you so please, please, please call me as soon as you get this. Also me and Greg are in Italy, we’re working on getting back home. Home, home. Not Mexico. Call me. I Love you!”

Renea and Flapjack shared a look when Peter’s voicemail ended.

That man…

Now that she knew that Peter was alive and, from the tone of his voice, not in grave danger, Renea allowed herself to breathe easily for the first time all day. Until she realized that, with Peter and Greg heading straight back to Portland, dealing with their ludicrous amount of luggage was going to fall on her shoulders. And she’d have to find a way to get Flapjack back home.

Leaving her phone on the couch, she got up to pour herself a drink. She finished it, and then another, before once again picking up her phone and, for the 49th time that day, dialed Peter’s phone.