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anybody but Jase or me,” Hunter said.
    Without another word, she pulled over an electronic notebook, turned it on, tapped the screen to create a new document and a keyboard, and began typing.
    “You said you could multitask,” Hunter said, “so talk while you type.”
    “The knife is most likely obsidian, which is volcanic glass. Unusually refined, delicate flaking pattern. The goal was beauty, not durability. Ceremonial. Probably to be used only once, or at most in a brief series of highly important ceremonies. There is a sigil etched into the blade.”
    “What does it mean?”
    “Unknown. The photographer used too much flash for me to read beneath the glare.”
    Hunter came and stood behind the desk, close to her. Too close. He knew it and he didn’t care. He really liked the scent and feel of her near him.
    “Show me,” he said.
    “Here,” she said, pointing to the photo.
    The flash had made an explosion of light against the highly reflective obsidian. The result obscured part of the knife while throwing the rest into relief.
    “Go on,” he said.
    Her full lips tightened, but all she said was “These are first, very quick reactions to the artifacts. A gut response. If you want academic detail, I need more time.”
    “Give me what you can right now. I’ll wait for the rest.”
    There was no double meaning in that, Lina told herself. And he’s not breathing in the scent of my skin.
    She forced herself to think, to multitask despite the looming presence of Hunter Johnston, but every breath she took was flavored with warmth and something clean, healthy, male.
    “Give me room,” she said tightly.
    He shifted an inch away. When she met his eyes, she knew that he was as aware of her as she was of him. She set her teeth and forced herself to concentrate on the second photo.
    “A mask,” she said. “Those are feathers or wings flaring away from the sides of the face.” Inhuman lips parted, a god’s words pouring out. “Gaping mouth, eyes large and not filled in with shell or obsidian. This was designed to be worn, to give some visual freedom to the wearer. Again, likely for ceremonial use.”
    Her fingers paused.
    “What?” Hunter said instantly.
    She shook her head as though throwing off cobwebs. “It…echoes something, but I’ve never seen a piece like it before.”
    “What’s the echo of?”
    “I don’t know. It was just a feeling. Nothing academic.”
    “I do feelings.”
    Lina felt a wild laugh bubbling in her throat. She swallowed it. Twice. The idea of someone as hard-looking as Hunter “doing feelings” was far too intriguing. She forced herself to look at the third photo.
    Her breath caught.
    “Talk to me,” Hunter said, his voice flat.
    “The bundle is vaguely heart-shaped, wrapped in clear plastic.” Her fingers moved silently over the electronic keyboard. “Color beneath could be white or beige. Again, the flash interferes.”
    “What are the stains?”
    “Mud, blood, coffee, cinnamon, chocolate. Impossible to say without chemical analysis.”
    Hunter grunted. He wasn’t getting much that was useful. He watched her fingers—clean, short nails, no rings—touch the edge of the first photo.
    “The glyph in this,” she said, tapping the photo of the ritual knife, “looks like it has some jagged lines. Or it could be glare.”
    She shifted the photo of the knife, changing the light, trying to peer through the glare.
    It was impossible.
    “Is it a common glyph?” he asked.
    “As I can’t really see it, I can’t make a judgment.”
    “This isn’t academia. Give me your best guess.”
    “If the artifacts came from the same area as the stolen truck—a big ‘if’—then the glyph might possibly be related to Kawa’il, a Maya deity worshipped after the destruction of the Maya rule by the Spanish.”
    Lina’s father probably knew more about Kawa’il than she did, but she had no intention of mixing Hunter with her obsessive, erratic father.
    “Do you have an