The Last Twilight Page 3

  And then the void disappeared, and in its place was a hard bitterness. Memory. Loss. He turned away, bracing himself against the sink. “He wants me to go, does he?”

  “It’s urgent.”

  “No doubt.”

  “He thought you would understand.”

  “Then he is no mind reader,” Amiri replied. “And neither are you.”

  Max fell silent. Eddie might as well have been a ghost. Amiri wished he could be so insubstantial. Memories had teeth. Biting hard with gasps of sunlight, the sensation of heat. Feet digging into hot earth, the clean scent of some dry blowing wind. Racing antelope. Drowsing with elephants. Crying lonesome music with the screams of eagles winging low over the golden rolling grassland. That last day, that lovely foolish day. Leaving the city for the wild to shed his human skin. Believing in safety. Taking freedom, secrets, for granted.

  And for that carelessness, nothing but needles and machines and that doctor with his smile.

  Max sucked in his breath. Amiri cursed himself, turning. “I am sorry.”

  “No.” Max pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s my fault I can’t stop hearing what people think.”

  Eddie studied both men like they were breaking beams holding up a bridge; serious, sober, watching the world fall down. Amiri fought himself, wondering what his own face must look like. “Why Zaire?”

  Max looked away from him. “Roland has an old army buddy who works at the CDC. A guy named Larry Coleman. He called last night and asked for Dirk & Steele’s help with his operations in Central Africa. Off the record.”

  “And what are we to do for this man?” Amiri’s voice sounded cool inside his ears; distant, calmer than the quickening beat of his heart. The cheetah stirred within his skin. Claws idled beneath his fingernails.

  Max’s jaw tightened. “Investigate. Protect. Coleman is afraid that one of his people is in danger. A doctor named Regina Kinn. Rikki, for short.”

  “What is the threat?”

  “No specifics. Coleman didn’t want to share too many details. We’re supposed to learn more once we reach our target.”

  “I don’t like that part,” Eddie said quietly, playing with a sugar cube. “We’ll be running blind.”

  “Roland wasn’t happy, either. But he trusts Coleman. Owes him.”

  I do not owe him, thought Amiri. “If he thinks the woman is in danger, he should bring her home.”

  “Already suggested that. Was told she’s needed there. Maybe that makes her a target.” Max hesitated. “Neither of you have to go, you know.”

  “No,” Eddie said, tossing the sugar cube into his cup. Amiri remained silent. It had been almost two years. Two years since he had been kidnapped from Kenya, his native land. Nearly two years since he had regained his freedom. Not that it mattered. Even when opportunity and time had conspired to make travel a possibility, he had not returned to the continent of his birth.

  Zaire is not Kenya, a small voice whispered. And you cannot stay away forever.

  “Amiri,” Max said softly.

  Amiri ignored him, glancing down at his hands, momentarily overwhelmed by homesickness, heartache; for the sun, the hot stiff winds, his little flat in that charming Nairobi slum that probably no longer existed. Worse, his students. Those shining eyes, voices chiming. Little hearts straining to learn, and him … him, just as eager to share his knowledge. No better than a child, himself. The human world, still new and fresh and lovely.

  Good memories and bad. Nothing that could be returned to him. That life, so carefully constructed—nourished from nothing—murdered. In more ways than one.

  “Why us three?” Amiri asked softly. The cat walked back into the kitchen, flopped down on the tile, and proceeded to clean himself—noisily, leg rudely lifted; in public, no less. He would need to call someone to watch the cat. Perhaps Elena or Aggie. He had few female friends. Married women. Safe women. Like that sweet elderly clerk at the bookshop. No temptation.

  Max gave him a long thoughtful look. “I asked Roland. He said he had his reasons.”

  “Reasons.” Amiri closed his hand into a fist. “He is a telepath. He should know my reasons.”

  “Amiri—”

  He cut Max off with a hard stare. “No. I will go. But you and I both know this should have been handled differently.”

  Face-to-face, with Roland himself. He was their boss, in the loosest sense of the word—their coordinator, the center of the agency’s worldwide dealings. Not its founder, though he spoke for them. Roland was a powerful man. Dangerous when cornered. Amiri respected that.

  But this was not right. It was not time. Amiri was not ready to face what he had lost. What he might lose again. He had a new life now. Delicate, quiet, anonymous.

  Your friends need you. They need you more than you need your fear.

  Such a little thing, fear. So irrational. Amiri almost laughed at himself, though it would have been a bitter sound.

  He slung the cat over his shoulder, needing something warm and living to hold. Taking a book with him, he left the kitchen to pack.

  In the two years that Amiri had been with the Dirk & Steele agency, he had done little that could be spoken of in an open manner. As far as most people knew, Dirk & Steele was nothing more than an internationally respected detective agency, and while that was true on paper, and though the agency’s mission to help others was heartfelt, its public face was simply a cover for the truth: that the men and women of Dirk & Steele were remarkable for reasons entirely separate from their skills at sleuthing—and that, indeed, not all of them were completely, definitively, human.

  But they are home, Amiri reminded himself. Home and family.

  Mysteries, living riddles—psychics and gargoyles, mermen and shape-shifters, creatures beyond legend—hiding in plain sight, mingling with humanity. And, oh, how miraculous not to be alone. Even if Amiri so often was.

  The three men flew out on a private jet, a concession to Max, who found the packed quarters of a commercial airliner and all the minds within too much to bear for any extended period of time.

  Amiri, too, disliked air travel. The scents were always bitter and cold, the people worse, stress rolling from skin to rub against his nose like sandpaper soaked in sweat. Breathing through his mouth never helped; his tongue could taste the ugliness. It reminded him of a cage. But he endured, in the relative comfort that only money could buy, and twenty-four hours later, he found himself back in Africa. Not Kenya, but close enough.

  The Kinsangani airport was a mess. Crowded, hot. The immigration officials wanted bribes, which were paid; taxi drivers and beggars mobbed the outer doors of the terminal. Chaos, with a voice. But Amiri ignored it all the moment he stepped outside. Warmth washed over him, soaking into his muscles. He did not shield his eyes when the sun burned his face. He gazed up and up, staring into the white burning bloom.

  A dusty dented van pulled alongside them and a dark-skinned man with even darker freckles peered out the window. He motioned with his hands and yelled, “From Larry, yes? I am Duna, his liaison!”

  Amiri, Max, and Eddie got in, and were blasted immediately by a rattling air conditioner that sounded less gentle than a chain saw. Amiri slammed shut the sliding door, nearly taking off fingers as the crowd surged around them, banging on the windows. Duna shouted. Eddie looked concerned and Max simply winced. Amiri closed his eyes and put his head back, listening to the babble of voices. A rainbow of sound. He had forgotten what that was like.

  “They want money before they let us leave,” said Duna, but a tight grin passed over his face and he put the van in gear, gunning the engine. The vehicle rocked once, then pushed through the shouting crowd like a fat slug squeezing through a keyhole. Amiri glimpsed moving hands, the glint of steel tire spikes, but the van lurched free before its wheels could be turned into flapping rubber and he gripped the seat as they careened onto the road, narrowly missing an oncoming flood of bicycles and motorbikes.

  “Jesus,” Max said.

  �
��Eh,” shrugged Duna, and flung his arm back, nearly jabbing Amiri in the eye as he pointed toward the rear of the van. “Gifts. With Larry’s best regards.”

  Amiri shared a quick look with Eddie, and bent over the seat. Pulled back a blanket. Stared at an open crate filled with AK-47s, several handguns, and a bin filled with Band-Aids.

  “Huh,” Eddie said.

  “You’re not a typical assistant,” Max added.

  Duna merely shrugged. Amiri reached down and fingered the Band-Aids, which were an astonishing shade of purple. He bit back a smile. “For bullet wounds, I assume?”

  “Blood does stain, after all,” Duna said, slyly.

  “How very true,” Amiri replied, and patted Eddie on the back as he began to cough.

  Duna did not take them far—hardly more than a mile off the narrow freeway, down a rough side street where he parked beside a billboard covered in hand-painted French. Advertisements for a film development service, antiques, and Jesus. A chicken scratched the dust, and nearby in an open red shed, Amiri saw a barbershop—men on chairs staring into cracked handheld mirrors while shears clipped and danced. He heard laughter, American rap blasting through stereos, the murmur of women, the brush of their clothing and the slosh of water in the buckets they carried on their heads.

  Amiri listened, and watched, and felt like a stranger. Not Kenya, true—but he wondered if it would matter, whether too much time had passed. He had always been an outsider; his father had seen to that. But this was different. The pain, different. He had never truly learned how to be human—not until he was more man than child—and he felt that now more than ever. The lack of connection. Isolation, loneliness. Stranger. Strange land. All because of his blood. Because of bad luck, bad timing, his own stupidity.

  The cheetah rumbled. Amiri chided himself. No self-pity. Do not dare. You are alive. You are strong. You have friends. You have purpose. Nothing else matters.

  Nothing, except the hole in his heart. Nothing, except the quiet knowledge that he could never go home again. And oh, he had not felt this way in years. Too occupied, too content with his new life. But being here brought it back, all the very worst and best.

  Duna reached beneath his tattered seat for a manila folder. He passed it back to Amiri and said, “This is Doctor Kinn.”

  Rikki, he remembered Max calling her. He held the file in his hands, uneasy. Occupied with his thoughts. It was only when Eddie began reaching over did he flip open the file. He was uncertain what to expect, but he got his answer, fast. Found himself struck hard, unprepared for yet more heartache.

  It was a photo of a woman. Still young, but no girl. A body shot, a candid photo that could have been taken from a personal album. There were potted flowers behind her, and the edge of some corporate building, all steel and glass. Impossible to tell her height, but she was slender, compact, with short brown hair and a dark gaze so intense it was like looking down the barrel of a gun. Her face was shaped like a heart, her skin the color of pale Saharan sands—blindingly warm, shifting colors of cream—and her smile was fierce as a lion’s grin, wry and sharp, with a brilliance to it that was breathtaking in its sincerity. She was a woman who made promises with her smile. A woman who broke hearts with it, as well.

  Amiri liked her face. He liked the spirit shining there, as though there were sunlight beneath her skin, bright and breathtaking, burning. Bold as fire in a bowl of ice. He could not stop staring.

  Not for you, whispered a dull voice. She is not for you.

  Bitterness crawled up his throat, as well as an ache so close to loneliness he clutched for something, anything, to fill the gaping hole in his chest. He chose pain. Dug his nails into his palms, cutting himself. No one seemed to notice—except Max, but that was to be expected. Amiri trusted him to keep a secret. He had no choice.

  “She’s cute,” Eddie said, peering over his shoulder. Amiri forced down a growl. Cute was not an accurate description. Beautiful, maybe; utterly unattainable, perhaps.

  Dangerous, whispered that same deadened voice, which was his father now, and hateful. Human women are dangerous. Use them, leave them. Do not trust them. Do not love them.

  Or they will pay the price, recalled Amiri, and against his will, suffered yet more memories: Ebony skin damp with sweat, rolling soft under his hands. A husky voice, whispering his name with pleasure.

  And later, fear. A woman’s awful, terrible fear.

  He took a deep steadying breath and forced himself to look past the photograph to the documents underneath. There was little to find, other than a description of Rikki Kinn’s education and degrees, as well as some personal observations cobbled together by someone with a very colorful opinion.

  Demanding, read Amiri. Stubborn as hell. Occasionally makes shit smell good.

  “Sounds charming,” Max said, leaning over to read. “So, why is she in trouble?”

  A loaded question. Giving Duna direction, focus, something that Max could eavesdrop on. Amiri watched his gaze turn distant, contemplative—then worse: startled, horrified. Never a good sign.

  Duna hesitated. “One thousand people are dead. Killed by disease, all in one night. Ebola, we think. Deep in the Congo.”

  Amiri’s stomach dropped. “We have not heard anything.”

  “Of course not.” Duna turned and slammed his hands down on the wheel. “We have worked hard to keep it that way. All the secrecy and games? Done to prevent a panic. It is bad enough when only a handful die of that disease, but now? If word got out, even by accident, there would be chaos.”

  “And Doctor Kinn?”

  “The CDC’s lead investigator in this region. She is at the camp even now, trying to determine what happened.” Duna rubbed his head and leaned against the wheel. “There are very few left with her capabilities. Other doctors have gone missing. Locals, no one foreign, but prominent in their fields. Only a handful of physicians have ever encountered these particular hemorrhagic fevers. And now, in all of Central Africa, there are only two. Doctor Kinn, and another CDC employee, Mackenzie Hardson.”

  Max sat back, closing his eyes. “Why isn’t this Hardson guy on the protection list?”

  “I do not know. Larry was only concerned about Doctor Kinn.” He grimaced. “Some peacekeepers have disappeared as well. Just … gone. This is not out of the ordinary, you know. Rebels are not above a bit of ransom, or leverage.”

  Amiri glanced again at the photograph in his hands; those eyes, that smile. “Is this conjecture, rumor? Or has anyone actually threatened Doctor Kinn?”

  Duna did not answer, but Amiri was not looking at him. He watched Max instead, and when the man stiffened, eyes turning cold and hard, no words were necessary. Any fool could see the answer.

  Max’s hair fell over his eyes. “You have something to tell us.”

  Duna faltered. He looked uneasy, and Amiri did not think it was entirely because of what he had to say. “Yesterday morning, foreign mercenaries attempted to intercept Doctor Kinn. The attack was brazen. She was in the presence of UN peacekeepers when it occurred.”

  The men stared. Amiri dug his nails deeper into his palm, fighting to maintain his calm. It was difficult, which was a surprise. He was good at containing himself. Had a lifetime of practice. Strong emotions were always ill-advised. Passion was dangerous. Anger, worse. Repression as a means of survival was an important lesson for any shape-shifter.

  But even so, Amiri could not fathom himself the depth of his rage at the idea of that shining woman at the end of a gun. It made him sick.

  Max glanced at him. “You should have told us. Called us in transit. Made it clear what happened the moment we got in this van.”

  “It would have changed nothing. You are still here to protect the doctor.”

  “Is she well?” Amiri nearly had to repeat the question; his voice belonged to a different man—low, hard, more growl than speech.

  “She is fine,” Duna said quickly, giving him a worried look. “But one of her escorts died and the other is in critic
al condition.”

  “Fuck,” Max muttered. “Rebels are one thing, mercenaries another. Those guys don’t get called in for cheap shit. What else do you know?”

  Duna studied Amiri’s closed fist, which was beginning to drip with pinpricks of blood. “Rumors. Politics. The war machine continues to turn. Corruption has ruined this country, and foreign scavengers sniff at the borders, trying to broker deals for Zaire’s minerals. Mercenaries are used to … persuade people. And to pave the way for enterprising businessmen who travel the interior, making their own deals with those self-proclaimed local warlords who hold military power over valuable areas.”

  Amiri looked again at the woman’s picture. He wanted very much to take it with him, and felt irrational for that desire, for the hunger he felt when staring into her eyes. “What does any of that have to do with her? Or those other doctors?”

  “We do not know. That is the problem.” Duna tapped his watch. “Time to go back. The UN convoy will be departing from the airport in two hours. Larry arranged for you to travel with them. We must not be late.”

  Not enough time. “I thought Mr. Coleman wanted subtlety. Traveling with others will expose us.”

  “Subtle is slow. It gets you nothing.”

  “And lies are just as easy,” Max added, giving the man a sharp look.

  Duna’s expression never changed. “The soldiers you will be traveling with do not know you are providing extra protection for Doctor Kinn. Only that you are independent security specialists hired by the CDC.”

  Eddie frowned. “We just came from the airport. Why did we even bother?”

  “It was at Larry’s request. Too many wagging ears.”

  “Whatever. What you’ve given us isn’t enough to do shit, not even to pretend.” Max gave Eddie and Amiri a thoughtful look. “You’ll have to leave me behind.”

  “No,” Eddie said, straightening.