The Last Twilight (20 page)

It was hard to breathe. “They were bored.”

“Bored,” he rasped, and Rikki stifled a gasp as claws erupted from his hands. Light ran golden up his arms, like a violent mist, tendrils sucking against his skin. He saw, and turned away fast. Hiding.

Rikki hesitated, then reached around him and grabbed his wrist. Her fingers touched fur, sleek and soft. She could not fathom the difference, and held him as she slid around his body. It was dark, but she could see the variation in his skin, running from human to fur—the line so blurred she could hardly tell where one began and the other ended—only, that his hands were not human, but long and contorted with arcing black claws that jutted like hooks from the tips of his fingers. Dangerous, lethal. Inhuman.

She held his hand. She twined her fingers through his. Pale skin riding spotted fur. His claws, sharp and glinting. She forced herself to breathe, slow and even, listening to her heart thunder. Looking into his eyes. He was shaken. Unnerved. Frightened?

“So, you see,” he whispered. “You see what
I
am.”

“I see,” she said. “But I know you, Amiri.
I know you.”

He shuddered, inhaling sharply. Then glanced down at her breasts. Rikki did not think. She began to cover them. His hand shot out, stopping her.

“Not from me,” he rumbled. “Never from me.”

She fought tears, breathless. “It’s hard.”

He leaned close, and his hand was suddenly bathed in golden light, shifting to dark human skin. He cupped her face, gaze hot, wild. “For us both, it is hard. We are too used to hiding. But we cannot hide from each other. I could not live that way, and neither could you.”

“Can you live with this?” She swallowed past the lump in her throat, pointing at herself. “Day in, day out? It will never go away, Amiri.
Never.”

“Better to ask if I can live with your temper. Or your smile, your courage…your stubbornness. Better to wonder if I can love a woman who is strong, who can survive.” Amiri leaned close, eyes far too bright. “What do you think I care about, Rikki Kinn? Truly. What do I care about
scars,
if you do not care about this?”

He held up his hand, and she watched again as claws pushed through his fingernails, fur running rampant down the shifting muscles of his arm. But the light did not stop, and neither did the fur. It spread like wildfire across his body, muscles fading beneath a sleek spotted coat that bristled and shone. Still shaped like a man. Only … not. Rikki had the distinct and unfortunate desire to start calling him a Thundercat.

She was so caught up, she almost missed the transformation of his face—bones shifting, lips fading into a cleft that was more animal than human. His forehead receded. His ears grew sharp and tufted. Golden fur, teardrop lines, spots like black roses.

Breathtaking, astonishing. And yet, she could still see Amiri in that alien visage. Not just in his eyes, but in the structure, the sharp angles and curves. The man was still there. He would always be there.

“Rikki,” he murmured.

She placed her hand on his chest, fingers sinking into fur, and looked him dead in the eyes.

And then she kissed him.

It took Amiri by surprise; she could feel it. His muscles tensed, his breath caught. He did not touch her.

Rikki leaned into him. His mouth was oddly shaped, but it was warm and firm and she would not pull away. She was afraid to pull away. There were too many holes in her heart, and she was making another—another way to grieve—but God help her, because she could not help herself.

His hands crawled into her hair—trembling, light as air—and finally, finally, he kissed her back. Tentative, with heartbreaking gentleness. This man, so much the warrior, alien and primal, touching her like she was made of butterfly wings. Shifting, fur receding, bathing her in a light that tingled sweet. His mouth transformed, as did his kiss; wet and slow, so deep Rikki lost herself, hanging limp, held to him only by the strength of his arms.

Amiri broke away, slowly, pressing his lips to her throat. “You terrify me,
mpenzi.”

Rikki smiled, eyes still closed. “You the running kind?”

“As much as you are,” he said, surprising her. “But I think … I think I am ready to stop.”

She opened her eyes, searching his face—human now, sleek and sharp and wild—but before she could say a word, he turned his head to look at the curtain covering the door. She did not ask. She listened.

“Helicopters,” Amiri said, eyes distant.

Rikki did not hear anything but the distant laughter of children, but knew better than to doubt. She threw on her shirt, then joined Amiri as he stalked to the curtain and pushed it aside. A woman stared back at them, stony-eyed, rifle sharp against her shoulder—standing too far away for them to contemplate stealing the weapon.

She made a sharp gesture. Amiri held his ground. Rikki touched her stomach, fingers grazing the scalpel still hidden in the rolled waist of her scrubs and took a quick look around. The other guards were gone, and several women were rounding up the playing children, shooing and dragging them into the scattered shelters.

Mireille appeared from within the maze of homes. Walking fast. When she saw them standing in the doorway of the hut, her pace faltered—and then she broke into a run toward them.

“You called them,” Amiri said, glancing pointedly at the sky. Rikki heard the distant chop of rotors.

“Before our last encounter.” Mireille fingered the cross at her throat, and looked at Rikki. Stared too long, her gaze dropping—just like all the others—to her covered breasts.

“Need another look?” Rikki asked.

Mireille’s eyes grew cold. She flung out her hand to the other woman and snapped her fingers. Took the rifle and pointed it at them. “Walk. Walk fast.”

Something hard settled in Amiri’s face. He touched Rikki’s elbow, and guided her so that she walked in front of him, protected from the gun. Mireille hung back, keeping a safe distance, and directed them on a straight-line path past the huts, past the makeshift refugee tents, toward a clearing at the jungle’s edge. No one else joined them. Several times, Rikki thought she glimpsed movement at the edge of her vision, but when she looked, nothing was there.

The grass was tall in the clearing, though some had been flattened into narrow trenches. A regular landing pad. The distant thundering chop of the helicopters grew louder, throbbing with Rikki’s blood, her terror. Sweat trickled down her back, between her breasts.

“You’re sending us to die,” Rikki said—truth or lie.

“I am not a sentimental woman,” Mireille replied. Behind her, the grass tugged slightly apart. Rikki saw a small face watching them. Kimbareta. Spying. His eyes were large. He still held his ball. The whistle was clutched in his hand, near his mouth. Rikki did not want him to see this.

“Sentiment and compassion are two different things.” Amiri replied. Rikki was certain he must see the boy. “Apparently, you have neither.”

“So quick to judge,” murmured the woman, her gaze flickering back to Rikki. “Too quick.”

Hope flared. “Does that mean you’ll let us go?”

Mireille shook her head. “I negotiated an award for this camp. Those men…they want you quite badly.”

“You cannot trust them,” Amiri said. “Please.”

“Please,” she echoed dully. “And if I suddenly believed you? If I believed
her?”
Mireille looked at Rikki. “Those scars…what was done to you. That means something. It makes you one of us.”

“One more to sacrifice.”

“One life for many,” Mireille whispered. “Surely you understand the alternative.”

“Every night, in my nightmares,” Rikki told her. “Every time I look in the mirror. But that doesn’t make it right.”

Mireille’s jaw settled. She hefted the rifle higher against her shoulder. To their left, two helicopters flew into sight. Still far away, just toys in the sky. But too close.

Kimbareta saw them, too. He scrambled to his feet, eyes huge. Absolutely terrified. Rikki recalled what the adults had said: the refugees had been transported in by helicopter. Not good memories, apparently. Bad men. The boy raised the whistle to his lips and blew hard.

The sound was like a hundred fingernails on a dozen chalkboards—piercing, unbearable, and one hell of a distraction. Mireille whirled, and Amiri moved with her—a blur, a heartbeat, a breath of nothing but devastating violence—and suddenly the gun was in his hands and the woman on the ground, staring at him with no small dismay and fear. His hand was on her throat. His knee on her chest.

Amiri held out the rifle and Rikki took it from him. Her heart pounded so hard she felt sick with it. Stunned with the knowledge that he could have stolen the gun from Mireille earlier, had he wanted to. Amiri was that fast. Faster than human.

“Where is the phone?” he asked, voice tight, deadly.

“Given back,” Mireille stammered. “The man who owns it came and went.”

“Where?”

She tried not to answer. Amiri snarled and she flinched, trembling. A different woman, smaller and more frightened. Not the person who had argued so passionately about survival, strength. Rikki tasted something bitter, and grabbed his shoulder. “Get off her, Amiri. Do it now.”

He hesitated, glancing at her. Then back at Mireille. His shoulders stiffened, and he carefully, slowly, let go of her neck and stood off her body. She lay frozen for a moment, eyes wide. Amiri tried to say something, stopped, then turned away. Rikki saw him focus in on Kimbareta. Hesitate. He took two long steps and swept the child up into his arms.

The helicopters were close. Debris kicked up into Rikki’s face and the grass began to flatten. Hot air blew like a hurricane around her body. She knew the passengers inside the craft could see them. And if they could see them, shoot them. Rikki knelt by Mireille. She could hardly hear herself as she shouted, “I’m sorry!”

Mireille frowned. Rikki punched her in the face. Bone crunched. Her knuckles screamed. So did Rikki, but thankfully, the object of her violence slumped in the grass, unmoving. She hoped the men in the helicopter had paid attention to that little display. She did not want Mireille to bear the burden of their escape. Which she might, anyway, but this—as Rikki was certain she would understand—was all about survival.

Amiri grabbed her arm and they started running toward the jungle. Bullets slammed into the ground behind them, barely missing their heels. Rikki tried moving faster, but it was Amiri who pushed and pulled, making them fly until her feet hardly seemed to touch the ground.

They threw themselves into the underbrush, which was thick as a wall. Rikki went down immediately and Amiri hauled her up, carrying her for several steps against his side before her feet touched the ground. Her finger nursed the rifle’s trigger. Behind them were shouts, and, less than a minute later, the distant crash of vines and leaves, muffled grunts.

They ran for a long time. Late afternoon sun gilded the canopy. Monkeys shouted. The air was hot, heavy to breathe, like her lungs were made of stone. Rikki thought about dying, the dead, weapons and disease. She thought about magic, and knew that if it were just Amiri, he could escape. Get help. She was holding him back.

She stopped running. Amiri spun around. Kimbareta had one fist in his mouth. There was a new scratch on his cheek.

“Do
not
even say it,” Amiri growled.

“What,” she snapped, “you’re a mind reader now?”

“I am not leaving you.”

“If they get me, they won’t look as hard for you.”

Amiri snarled, grabbing her arm. “You will have to shoot me first.”

“Man, I will put a hundred bullets up your ass if it means you get away from me.”

“I am terrified,” he said dryly, and yanked her back into a hard run. Not far, though. Not far enough. He stopped suddenly. Listening. Kimbareta stayed very still in his arms, still clutching his ball. Eyes huge and far too old. Like Eddie, like her dead brother.

Goddamn.

Amiri edged forward, tapping the stock of her rifle. She raised it, aiming where he pointed. Easing out her breath, slow and silent. Watching the undergrowth as he set down the child, tucking him low behind the cracked damp remains of a fallen tree. Amiri pressed his finger against Kimbareta’s mouth and the boy nodded gravely.

The shape-shifter reached up and tugged on Rikki’s shirt hem, drawing her down behind the same tree. She lay flat, on top of the child, and Amiri covered her in leaves. She kept the rifle at her side, finger on the trigger. The heat was intense, the sensation of insects crawling on her skin, worse. Fear burned. Her throat felt raw. Beneath, the child lay still as a corpse. Amiri mouthed,
“Stay here,”
and then he was gone, sliding sideways into the underbrush, fading from sight like a ghost.

Rikki and Kimbareta waited a long time. The child hardly breathed, was so quiet she would have hardly known he existed, had she had not been so concerned about smothering him. She did not dare move, though. Certainly not when she began to hear voices, close. Familiar.

Moochie. Talking into a radio. He was missing men. Rikki bit back a fierce smile.

Then, nearby, commotion. A shout. Rikki’s heart twisted, thinking of Amiri, but she waited, listening to the crash of a body being dragged. Moochie moved into sight. So did two other men, a ruddy-faced behemoth jabbing his gun at a tall man in a tan uniform, green badge prominently placed over his heart. He wore glasses, and his dark brown cheeks were round and fit for smiles—or in this instance, a deep frown. Around his hip was an empty gun holster, and clipped on the other side, inside a black case, a rather clunky phone.