The Last Twilight (12 page)

Amiri tasted blood in his mouth. “Lectures?”

“I haven’t done that in a hundred years,” Rictor said. “No. I’m here for another reason.”

“That does not provide me with the slightest comfort.”

“No trust?”

“Do you?”

Rictor’s smile was sour. “Only one. Me.”

“And yet.”

“Here I am.” Rictor’s eyes glowed briefly, and he glanced down at the dead. “Looking for prey and finding a hunter, instead.”

Amiri’s eyes narrowed. “Why
are
you here?”

“Obviously, to stare at naked men in the middle of the jungle. I have nothing better to do with my time.”

“Rictor.”

“Shape-shifters should really find a way to travel with clothes, you know.” He ripped away a wide leafy frond from a low-lying tree and tossed it toward Amiri. “Here. Pretend it’s a fig leaf. We’ll go find your Eve.”

Amiri batted away the leaf. “Answer my question.”

“You’re burning my eyes.”

“Then close them.”

Rictor shook his head and looked away. “Elena.”

One name: all the explanation Amiri needed. Rictor’s presence suddenly made sense. Mostly. “Elena asked you find me?”

His smile turned bitter, self-mocking. “She didn’t need to.”

Amiri regarded the man carefully. Elena was married to an agent of Dirk & Steele, and like her husband, Artur, she had … a gift. Her gift of healing had made her a target. All of them, even Rictor, had been held captive. Experimented upon, tortured, forced to endure impossible indignities. That was their bond. Strangers, working together to escape.

Rictor had been held the longest. Bound as a slave, compelled to obey every whim and command of his masters and mistresses, even those that hurt others. Not that such explanations made anything easier for Amiri. Rictor was a force to be reckoned with: incredibly powerful, human only in appearance—and perhaps not even that. Dangerous, unpredictable; sentimental about nothing. Except Elena.

Cold humor flashed over Rictor’s face. “My kryptonite.”

Amiri sighed. Smoke burned his nostrils, as did the smell of death. He wanted to leave this place. Rikki was waiting. He missed her face, her scent. Let Rictor read his mind about that, as well. He did not care.

“You should,” said the man. “She’s trouble.
You’re
in trouble, for helping her.”

“Apparently so,” Amiri replied, and gestured lightly at the carnage seeping into the ground beneath him. “Are you here to help me with that trouble?”
In any way, help me. Please. For this woman.

Rictor said nothing. Amiri nodded, not entirely surprised—not entirely without anger, either—and walked past him into the jungle. Arguments would gain him nothing. As Elena was fond of saying,
Rictor is as Rictor does,
and it was nothing more or less than that.

But Amiri glanced over his shoulder, anyway. Just in case.

Rictor was gone. Not even a scent to mark his presence. He might as well have been a ghost, some figment of the imagination. Which, in all honesty, was as good a description as any. Rictor guarded his secrets more fiercely even than Amiri.

Riddles and mysteries,
he thought, and felt his muscles turn liquid, warm. He shifted into the cheetah, settling into his second skin with a relief that felt like coming home.

He did not follow the same path back to Rikki and Eddie. He wanted to—it was direct, fast—but he forced himself to circle back along the trail the soldiers had used, and then snake out from that, weaving silently through the jungle. He smelled the faint wet musk of elephants, padded through the territory markings of leopards, and just when he thought his instincts were being overly cautious, he stumbled upon the traces of men.

The footprints were hours old, and several miles from where he had found the first group. Downwind, they smelled of death, of fire and ash and blood; the scents of the dead, of the refugee camp, were cloaks of shadow. Westward bearing, as well, the men followed a parallel path to where Amiri had left Rikki and Eddie. Careful movements, with little destruction left in their wake. These men were silent. Quick. Professional.

And they were hunting.

They were taking a brief rest, sitting on a pile of old dead leaves, sheltered and hidden by the claustrophobic clamoring undergrowth of brush and saplings and thorny vines. There was hardly room for people, and if they had been carrying anything more than the clothes on their backs, Rikki felt quite certain it would have taken a machete to make room for them both, even on the ground.

Eddie held sticks. He broke them, bent them, twisted their pliable forms into pretzels and knots. Quick hands, nimble fingers—though faint scars surrounded his thumbs and wrists. Burn marks, maybe. Small, round—like cigarettes had been put out on his body.

“You remind me of my brother,” she told him, which she did not mean to say, though it slipped so easily free she did not regret the words, afterward.

Eddie smiled. “In what way?”

“Your appearance.” Rikki pointed at the sticks in his hands. “The things you do.”

“Keeping busy,” he replied. “Where is he now?”

“Dead,” Rikki said, without preamble or hesitation. No good ever came of either when saying that word.

To Eddie’s credit, he made no gestures of solicitude, no sympathetic apologies. He blinked once, nodded slowly, and said, “How long did you know him?”

It was the first time anyone had ever asked that question. Rikki had to take a moment. “He was seven. I knew him seven years. I was nine when he died.”

He looked at his hands, the burn marks. “And then?”

“My mother left.” Rikki also looked at his hands. “Who did that to you?”

“Someone who left,” Eddie replied, and gave her a faint smile. “Funny how that works.”

Rikki fingered the edge of her shirt. “Yes, I know.”

Eddie’s smile faded. “Someone hurt you.”

Her hand stilled. “What makes you say that?”

“I can tell. Takes one to know one.”

She forced herself to breathe. “You’re something else, kid. You should be in college, chasing girls and making fun of frat boys. What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“Taking care of you,” he said—so easily, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to care for strange women.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need help. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Depends,” Rikki said. “You’re an idealist.”

“Idealists are wishful thinkers,” he replied, with surprising sternness. “I deal in reality. Besides, there’s nothing ideal about being in trouble and not having anyone to watch your back.”

“You’re speaking from a point of luxury. You
have
friends.”

“So do you.”

“No,” she said, unable to shut her mouth. “I don’t have anyone like that.” Except, perhaps, Bakker and Jean-Claude—but Rikki had done her best to keep them at a distance, and where were they now? Far away, and in a hospital. Bakker was hurt because of her.

Eddie’s mouth settled into a crooked line. Rikki wanted to run from him, insult him, do anything but have herself laid out for him, but she stayed still, letting the young man study her.

“Well,” he said finally, slowly, “Amiri and I are here now.”

“Here,” she echoed. She did not understand, could not interpret. His gaze said one thing—many things—but she was too practical, too afraid to accept the possibility he might actually intend something more than some naοve kindness. “You’re here, yes. But only because it’s a job. Because you have to be. I don’t appreciate it any less, but that’s…that’s not friendship.”

Eddie gave her an inscrutable look, then turned away, focusing on the slender twigs in his hands. In a voice so quiet she hardly heard him, he said, “We don’t trust you either, you know.”

It took her off guard. Hurt her, too, though she deserved it. “I wouldn’t expect you to trust me. We’re strangers.”

“Maybe.” He did not sound convinced, which also surprised her. “But it makes things…difficult. You know?”

“Well…yes,” she said slowly, not quite certain what he was getting at, but having her own sense that it was, indeed, a sticking point for all of them. Trust, it seemed, was a commodity they all valued—apparently to the point of distraction.

Eddie held out a twisty riddle of twigs: a bouquet of leaves and slips of wood. Rikki took it from him, twirling it between her fingers, and he said, “You thirsty?” The kid was all over the place.

“Yeah. You?”

He nodded and flashed her a weak smile. “I just wanted someone to complain with.”

“Go for it.” Rikki stretched out, closing her eyes. She tried not to think about their conversation, the isolation of it.
No friends.
She had no real friends, none that she had allowed herself—and not just in the last two years, but since her father and Markovic. Sooner or later, she always drove her acquaintances away—or lost them to death— and the absurdity of that, the tragedy, hit her hard.

You trust no one,
she told herself, curling onto her side.
You’re afraid of everyone.
Afraid of losing pieces of her heart. Afraid of judging wrong. Afraid of betrayal.

Afraid of being seen.
Her hand rested against her stomach. Beneath the flimsy cotton shirt she could feel the ridges of deep scars that crisscrossed her ribs. She did not search out the rest; she knew where they all were. She remembered each cut that had made them.

And she was still here. Two years later. Still alive, still working, still living. Better than going back to Atlanta, where Larry had promised her a cushy spot in his office and lab. Better than running and hiding. She could do that here, in plain sight, and still pretend she was her old self.

But change always comes,
she heard Markovic whisper.
Always, change. And be grateful, too…for when it stops, you are dead.

A person can die from too much change,
she wanted to tell him, but had the old man been alive, it would have fallen on deaf ears. No whining was allowed. Eyes on the future. Adaptability, survival, determination: this was the golden triangle, the roots of a long life. Champions could not be weak. And neither could orphaned little girls.

I like whiners,
Amiri’s voice whispered.
One, anyway.

Rikki heard Eddie stirring, felt a breeze against her cheek; she listened to the ghost calls of birds and tried to find peace. And for one brief moment, lost in the warm languor of the jungle twilight, she allowed herself a turn of fantasy; an escape. Stupid, impractical, but she let herself slip away, searching out the quiet, the old careful dream—of an embrace so tight, so warm, she would have no choice but to feel safe. As though a man could be home; a man she would have no need to hide from, who would turn her loneliness into some unimaginable myth.

It was a dream as ancient as her teens; romantic and droopy-eyed, conjured heroes in her mind. Knights, soldiers, scoundrels with hearts of gold sewn on their sleeves. Mysterious, enigmatic.

Eminently impractical. Rikki had gotten over those old fantasies, mostly. Bad relationships could do that.

But this time was different. Dream mixed with memory. Real arms surrounded her; warm strong arms, holding her close against a hard dark chest vibrant with heat and heartbeat and a low murmuring softness; promises of gentleness. A fantasy with a face, a scent, a voice. Eyes to stare into. Lips that pressed against her forehead, her hand.

Amiri,
she thought, battling an insufferable ache. Unwanted feelings, which she did not understand—except that there was something about him, the way he touched her, the way he
looked
at her, his actions and words and even the goddamn way he breathed, that made her feel like the tender spot on a bruised heart. He made her feel too much, and with nothing but a glance. He made her want to talk. He made her want to trust.

Dangerous. Don’t lose yourself. Don’t let go.

Though what she had to let go of felt as much a mystery as the one she had left behind in the refugee camp. Let go of control? Let go of stability? She had pretended to have both for her entire life, and it had kept her alive. But not happy. She was not happy, had not been happy even
before
the first attack, and the realization of that— sudden, sharp, in her face—cut hard and deep.

No self-pity,
she told herself.
You’ve got no time, no place for it.

Not when Amiri was alone, playing bait. Throwing himself to the wolves and without a complaint or hint of regret. Whining? The man would probably sew his own lips shut first. He was too dignified—had too much pride—for anything else.

Beside her, Eddie made a low sound. Like he was clearing his throat. Rikki opened her eyes, thinking he was going to say something, but there was an odd expression on his face and he swallowed like it hurt. She stared, thinking hard. Then sat up, slowly.

“You okay?” she asked, trying to sound casual. Failing miserably.

Eddie coughed, nodding. Smiling weakly. Like it was nothing. Then he coughed some more. Small, at first, like something was caught in his throat. He was fine for a minute—long enough for Rikki to wonder if she was being overly cautious, but then his face turned red and his shoulders shook and he had to bend over. The cough that ripped from his chest made an ugly sound, closer to a gag, and it sent such fear down her spine she felt breathless.

“Lie down,” she ordered, crawling to him. He shook his head, but she pressed on his shoulders and he was so overcome, trying to catch a break between those terrible shuddering coughs, he had no choice but to obey her. Rikki pressed her hand against his forehead. He was hot to the touch. Even through his T-shirt, she could feel him burning up. All that talk earlier about him being fine? Bullshit. She wanted to wring his neck.

“I don’t have a fever,” he muttered. “I’m warmer than other people, that’s all.”

“Whatever.” Rikki cast around for something, anything she could use, and pulled the backpack over to her. She unzipped the bag, rummaging. Found a cell phone— useless, no reception—a white envelope filled with enough cash to be a personal ATM, and several passports bound together with a rubber band. At the bottom, a bottle of aspirin. And a photograph. Of her. Larry had taken it on her last trip to Atlanta, on the day after she cut her hair.

“You guys travel light,” she said, voice strained. She tossed the photo aside and opened the aspirin bottle. She handed Eddie two. “Chew.”

He did, grimacing. “Anything we need, we usually buy on the run.”

“Too bad there’s no mall in the middle of the Congo,” Rikki snapped, and sat on her heels as he began coughing again. She thought back to the notes the doctors at the refugee camp had left behind, and the first thing she remembered was a hastily scribbled letter to a woman named Mary.

I love you. Remember that.

The letter, just like all the paperwork, was probably nothing but ash now. Mack was dead. Rikki was the only one left who had handled those notes directly.

Coughing was one of the symptoms. She remembered reading that in the notes. Coughing, raging fever, muscle weakness. Then blood. And death. The puzzle was, why now. Why him. If anyone should have been showing symptoms, it was her—or Amiri. Eddie had been in the biohazard suit far longer.

Except for exposure to the powder.

Eddie sat up, just a little wild-eyed. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine.”

“Yes,” she lied. “But you need to rest.”

“I don’t,” he protested, then stopped, whipping his head around to stare behind them into the jungle. His body shuddered, and he clapped his hand over his mouth to stifle another coughing fit. Rikki began to ask him what was wrong, but he held up his other hand and gave her a sharp look.

She listened … heard nothing—then realized that was part of the problem. No birds, no monkeys. Even the drone of the insects was gone. And in that silence, not so far away, she heard something snap. It was a metallic sound. Like someone was loading a gun.

Eddie shot to his feet and grabbed Rikki’s hand. No hesitation. She slung the backpack over her shoulder and they ran, keeping low to the ground. The young man’s hand burned with a heat she felt in her bones, searing like fire. She did not know where they were going, only that her heart pounded so hard she felt sick. Sick and terrified—and not just for herself, but for Eddie. Amiri.

It was happening again. Memory flashed: her team, her friends, dragged from the Jeep, too stunned to fight, the sun on their faces, the thunder of the guns…

No,
she told herself, squeezing Eddie’s hand.
No.

Rikki did not hear pursuit, but that was little comfort. Eddie’s pace faltered. He began coughing again and she pulled back on his hand and forced him to rest. All around, the jungle twisted with vines and root clusters larger than her body. She saw a hollow near the base of several trees, shrouded on one side by thick vegetation. She tugged on Eddie’s hand and pointed.

“Can you keep running?” she asked, knowing that if it was just herself she’d run right into the sunset and back again if it meant staying alive.

“I can keep going,” he rasped, and past the youth of his face she saw once more the hard glint of those old, old eyes. Remembered the burns on his hands.

But it ‘was too late. She heard another snap, almost on top of them, and they dove toward the hollow, scrambling into its moist darkness. It was just big enough for them both; it felt like a small cave, and the vines that curled over its entrance were thick, bruising with shadows. Eddie shoved Rikki all the way to the back, then huddled in front of her. His spine pressed against her cheek. Their breathing sounded loud, harsh. Her hands touched the guns at his waist.