The Last Twilight (24 page)

“Eddie’s dead,” Rikki said, and this time she let her voice crack. “If you didn’t find his body, that’s your fault.”

Moochie’s arms tightened. His breath smelled like watermelon gum. “And the other dude? The woman at the camp said you weren’t alone.”

“He left. We split up.”

“Right,” Francis said, sighing. “Of course.”

Rikki heard the distant chop of helicopter rotors—a far too familiar sound—and all around the periphery of the camp, lights began flaring, bristling with sparks. She caught the outline of Francis’s face, watching as he pulled off his night goggles. Moochie let go of her and did the same. Neither man commented on the fact that she did not fight, or try to escape. Nor did they ask more questions about Amiri or Eddie. They simply stood with her, hands resting on their guns, as they waited for the helicopter to arrive.

And it did. Landing lightly, its rotors spun a windstorm through her short hair. Francis and Moochie each took an arm and guided her to the side doors, which slid open to reveal a very bristly Marco. He smiled, smug, and grabbed her arm, yanking her inside—throwing her down into a wide leather jump seat.

In front of her, wearing a tailored gray suit, sat Broker.

Rikki stared, utterly speechless. He smiled, and tapped his head. “Thick skull.”

“Not
that
thick,” she retorted, finally finding her voice. “I saw your brains.”

“As have many,” Broker replied easily, revealing a rather large gun. “But I never let anyone make the same mistake twice.”

And he shot her.

She used that memory to recite, word for word, all the books she had ever read in her employer’s library: Dickens and Shakespeare, Longfellow and Stevenson, Twain and others. Little of Africa—though Amiri did not understand enough to rectify the loss until he was much older.

Not that Wambui lacked her own stories, her own tales of the land and its people; of gods and magic.

Mwirigo juri iraa,
whispered her voice across the years.
Road of clay.
The Road of Light, the spiritual road connected to the Creator, to honey and milk. A road of kindness. A road without anger. Or fear.

No such thing here. Amiri ran. He ran upon the road of the forest with all his heart driving him, flying through the undergrowth as though the world lay open before him, unencumbered by nothing but the strength of his soul. Dying, breathing, fighting—blood thundering—and all he could see in his mind was Rikki.

Rikki. And him, running. Running away. Running to the possibility of help, but still running. Leaving his woman within the mouth of a lion.

I will find you,
he promised.
I will save you.

Find that radio. Get the word out. His only goal.

Ekemi’s directions to the Catholic Missionary— reluctantly explained while Rikki tended Rictor—were simple: Go east along the old woodcutter’s trail, which led from the park to a larger track, formerly used by loggers and their trucks. Follow that for ten miles to an actual road. And then keep on running.

An easy enough plan to follow, even at night, but sometime after Amiri left the base camp he began to wonder if he was being followed.

It was a small feeling: a prickle at the back of his neck, an involuntary hunch between the surging muscles of his shoulders. He remembered, too, what Ekemi had said:
Bouda.
Men who were animals, seen in these woods. Golden eyes.

He was not, therefore, entirely surprised when every hair on his body suddenly stood on end, and a pulse not unlike the throb from a very loud crash of thunder rolled through his chest. It was a shape-shifter call, one animal to another. Amiri was not alone.

He had no time for subterfuge. None for stealth. But he stopped running. Held himself very still, listening. Even so, he almost missed the approach, the soft pad of careful feet. He caught a scent that was old and dry—so familiar, Amiri had to take a moment to wonder if he was losing his mind.

A cheetah emerged from the undergrowth. Large, scarred, golden eyes bright as sun-fire. A lethal gaze. Familiar as his own spots.

Amiri stared, feeling his world burn. Pieces falling together in ways he could not bear to contemplate.

He shifted shape, flowing into his human skin. As did the other cheetah, though with much greater reluctance.

“Abuu,”
Amiri whispered, when he finally found his voice. He stared at the man who emerged from the cheetah’s body. Tall and sinewy, with blue-black skin like old leather. Straight nose, high cheeks, narrow jaw. Imperious stare. It had been fourteen years, but his father was exactly as he remembered.

“Cub,” said the old man. “Finally.”

Amiri could hardly hear him. His ears rang. “You are here.”

“Business,” said his father, staring—as though soaking in the sight of his son. Amiri could hardly let himself imagine the old man might have missed him. The possibility, far too remote; the chance, far too painful.

“You mean the Consortium,” said Amiri heavily, following his intuition.

His father’s expression never changed; inscrutable, cold. “That is one name. But yes. We have … an arrangement.”

Amiri wanted to bend over and be sick. “Then you are no better than a butcher.”

“Not a new sentiment, coming from you.”

Of all the ways he had imagined seeing his father again, this was not it. “Are you aware of what they did to me? And others? The torture, the experiments?”

The old man’s eyelid twitched. “Bottom line, cub. It all comes down to survival.”

Not the answer Amiri had been looking for. “You have never trusted humans.”

“Those in the Consortium are not human.”

“And did they send you here to bring me back? Will you betray me?”

“Will you come without a fight?”

“No,” Amiri said. “I will not.”

Which was enough. His father attacked. Faster than the wings of a hummingbird—faster than Amiri—his fists pounding his son’s stomach like a punching bag. Amiri managed to slip away, claws pouring from his fingertips. He swiped at his father’s chest, then higher, across his face. He nicked skin, and when his father stumbled, he dropped down and ran, throwing himself into the body of the cheetah.

His father followed. Chasing him. Jaws snapping. Eyes hot as fire. And had the circumstances not been so dire, so
incomprehensible,
Amiri would have taken fierce pleasure in running with his father again.

Unfortunately, that was not the case. Unfortunately, his world was going insane. Everything he thought he knew, betrayed. And by the one person who. though his methods had been abhorrent, had always protected him.

Claws sank into Amiri’s haunches, dragging him off balance. He snarled, spinning, lashing out at his father. The two cheetahs rolled, mouths seeking each other’s throats. Screaming. His father left several openings that Amiri did not take—part of him, despite everything, afraid of the injuries he might cause—and the old cheetah sprang away, landing light in a tangle of vines. He shifted shape, just enough to regain his use of speech, spotted fur idling down his long lean body in a sheer golden mist. Humanoid, barely.

“You have grown weak,” rasped his father, flexing fingers that were mostly claws.

“Do you
want
me to hurt you?” Amiri replied harshly, also shifting. “Why are you doing this? It goes against everything—”

“The woman,” interrupted the old man. “What is she to you?”

Cold entered Amiri’s heart. “She is mine.”

“She is human.”

“As was my mother, and yours.”

“But she
knows.
You have shed your skin for her.”

Never mind how his father had discovered that. Amiri leaned close. “She loves me still. She
loves
me,
Abuu.”

His father waved his hand, disdainful. “Women always say what men wish to hear. She is no different. She will betray you.”

“No.”

“Fool.” The old man raised his chin, eyes blazing. “You never had the stomach for survival. Is she with child yet?”

“Abuu
—”

“You have no time. Ride her hard and fast. Get yourself a cub and then I will kill her for you.”

Amiri struck his father. An unthinking act, but the pure raw fury that filled him was a heady wild thing; utterly satisfying.
“You will not touch her.”

His father’s lower lip bled. “Would you kill
me
for her?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Ah.” His mouth slanted into an odd bitter smile. “That is something, I suppose.”

Amiri stood back, staring. “I will not let you take me back,
Abuu.
Not before I find help.”

The old man raised his chin, tufted ears swiveling against his head. “The Catholic Missionary. Their radio. That will be inadequate to reach your friends.”

He wanted to hold his head and scream. “How much do you know of my life?”

His father ignored him. “You have another option.”

“And what could that possibly be?”

Again, a smile. “Follow me.”

No stomach. Too soft,
whispered his father’s voice.
Angelique would have betrayed us all.

“No one would have believed Angelique,” Amiri said, before he realized that his father had not spoken.

But the old man’s gaze stayed steady and straight on their path, and he brushed lightly on the fur of his arms as he said, “She was terrified of you. A small heartless woman. But she was beautiful and people liked her. They would have listened. Asked questions. Made your life…difficult. I did what had to be done.”

“Murder is never the answer.”

“You know better than that,” said the old man, giving him a sharp look. “It is not murder when you are defending your life. Even
you
said that you would kill for your woman. You would kill your own father to keep her safe.”

Pain bloomed in Amiri’s heart. “Will it come to that?”

His father said nothing, but his pace quickened, and a moment later he dropped into the body of the cheetah. Amiri followed suit, and the shape-shifters ran, keeping low to the ground, moving through the night maze of trees and water and vines. The world burned inside Amiri’s ears—burned with the roar of his blood—and he was so caught up in his own private hell, he could hardly differentiate the sounds that poured into his ears.

Until, quite suddenly, he heard men talking. Accompanied by a small sharp clicking sound.

Amiri and his father crept through the twisting undergrowth, dragging stomachs over sharp rocks and snapped limbs, until they crouched on the edge of a small clearing. In front of them, men. At least thirty, gathered around scattered cook fires that cast a glow over their rough-hewn olive uniforms, bodies bristling with weapons. Much like the men he had killed and questioned.

Standing in their midst was a man who wore no uniform, but lightweight clothes drenched in sweat, clinging to a lean body. Amiri glimpsed long hair, a silver pendant hanging against a dusky-skinned throat. A sharp, angular face; and sharper eyes. He watched the man’s jaw flex, and every time it did, he heard that clicking sound. Too metallic to be bone.

The old cheetah shifted shape, melting into his full dark human skin. “Your other option, cub.”

Amiri shifted as well, digging his fingers into the dirt. “What option? The man is likely a terrorist.”

“But he hates Broker.”

“Broker is dead.”

“Broker never dies,” said his father grimly.

Amiri studied his face, struck with an odd feeling. “You tried?”

“I had an irresistible opportunity.”

Realization stung. “You are with them against your will.”

His father ignored him. “Broker had Jaaved’s wife kidnapped not one day ago. He sent pictures of what was done to her. What is
still
being done. Jaaved is not taking it well.”

“You want to strike a deal.”

“He knows me.”

Amiri hesitated. “Why now? What hold does the Consortium have over you?”

Again, his father did not answer. He stood, and began walking down to the gathered men. Exposed, head held high. As though he belonged. Amiri followed his example, focusing on Jaaved and no one else—not even when a shout went up, and thirty guns of varying sizes and pedigrees were suddenly aimed in their direction.

Jaaved met them halfway, carrying himself with rigid precision. He held a gun in his right hand. His jaw was tight, and he smelled like blood and smoke. He placed the tip of his weapon against the old man’s forehead. Amiri held his breath.

“I have a fantasy,” rasped Jaaved, without preamble. “About cutting out tongues and slicing testicles. Perhaps serving them for supper. Recording the whole affair. Sending it to family members and young children.”

“How vivid,”‘ said Amiri’s father. “Any guests in mind?”

Jaaved snarled, revealing a great deal of metal in his mouth. “I should kill you on principle. What do you want, Aitan? And why does Broker send his messengers to me
naked?
Another reminder of my wife?”

“Hardly. Though I am certain my employer would be gratified to know you followed his instructions so… liberally… by crossing into his land with all these armed men.”

“He asked me to come.”

“Indeed. But I am not here to pass along his message.”

Jaaved grunted, eying him…and then Amiri. “You are?”

Amiri kept his expression flat, cold—though part of him was still shocked at hearing his father’s real name spoken out loud by this man. “I am someone with an offer. If you have a taste to kill.”

“That depends.”

“I will give you Broker,” said Aitan.

Jaaved raised his chin, staring. His jaw flexed— clicking—sharp and violent. Gun still pressed to the old man’s forehead. “Why would you do that?”

Aitan gave him a long steady look. “Because we have both been hurt in similar ways.”

Amiri managed not to react, but it was difficult. He kept his gaze focused on Jaaved, who stared into the old man’s eyes for quite some time.

“You can promise Broker?” he said, slowly.

“I can promise many things,” replied Aitan, “but Broker, I can deliver.”

Something dark and frightening passed through Jaaved’s face. “He has something else of mine.”

“Your wife.”

“Another woman. A doctor,” the man said.

“She is dead.”

“Is she?” Jaaved’s eyes narrowed, and he looked at Amiri. “What do you get out of this?”

“Satisfaction,” Amiri replied shortly, forcing himself not to tear the man’s throat out.

Jaaved held his gaze, and grunted. He lowered his gun. “Come. Let us talk business.”