“He wouldn’t! You take that back!”
They share a shoulder now. Vomit surges forward, Muzi’s insides gone hollow and icy as Nomvula reacts, bucking and writhing and cursing and crying so loud and so hard that Muzi’s spared from provoking her further. He’ll explain as soon as they’re safe. He’ll beg for her forgiveness a million times over if he has to.
They just need to survive.
Their hearts collide with a searing pain, and at last they are one. Muzi feels her wings now, both of them, and he peels back from the agave leaf and catches himself in the air. Each heartbeat wrenches his nerves, burning and coiling through him. But he keeps flapping—flapping because he knows Nomvula might be humanity’s last hope.
They reach solid ground, and on first impact, their bodies split apart. Muzi rolls, tumbling over loamy sand and dirt. The grit sticks to his skin, cakes his face, and gets caught in his chest as he gasps for air. On all fours, he scrambles back toward Nomvula, even though he feels like he’s trying to cough bricks up out of his lungs. He wraps his arm around her shivering body and presses his cheek to hers.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, their tears flowing into one unified stream. “I didn’t mean it . . . I’m so, so sorry.”
Chapter 43
Riya Natrajan
Riya Natrajan doesn’t have a whole lot of time to ask questions. The roof of the arena is about to cave in on them, and she’s having a hell of a time walking with her legs plunging through the floor with each step like it’s made out of flimsy Styrofoam. Her fans continue to breeze through her with a savage chill. She grits her teeth, struggles as Rife’s free arm reaches out for her, both his feet solid on the floor.
“Don’t fight it, love,” he says, voice calm, though Riya Natrajan sees the tension in the squint of his eyes. “Try not to even think about it. Walk like you normally do.”
“My legs are burning,” Riya Natrajan says with a groan as she tugs at the right one, freeing it from the floor only to have the left one sink down to her shin.
“Cha, mama. We’re out of phase, but just slightly. That means if that roof comes down on us, it’s still going to hurt like hell.”
“Pain I can handle,” Riya Natrajan rasps. “And stop calling me that. I’m nobody’s mama.”
Rife nods and pulls her up by her waist. Both feet firm now, she takes a moment to steady herself, calming herself as the sound of falling concrete echoes in the distance. His hand settles into the small of her back, pressing slightly.
“It gets easier.”
It’s no damn wonder Rife’s never been busted. Whenever the heat gets too close, he slips out of phase long enough to hide his stash, then disappears around a corner. Just like he slips in and out of her life.
Damn.
“This is how you know me so well, isn’t it?” Riya Natrajan snaps at him. “How you knew about my real birthday, how you knew about my multiple . . .” The words flare in her throat. “. . . my condition,” she says instead. “You’ve been stalking me, you asshole!”
Rife tips his head. “Never uninvited, ma—” He catches himself, flushes. “But the times you’ve asked me to stay, and I didn’t. Well, I did.”
Riya Natrajan feels her stomach churning, acid prickling the back of her throat, the back of her teeth. She keeps her lips pressed together as she makes a run for it, through the clog of people surging at the emergency exits, all the way out onto the pavement. She retches until she’s empty, not just because of Rife, but because of everything—for being the type of daughter who would choose getting into bed with big-name record execs over attending her own mother’s funeral, for being the type of person even those closest to her thought incapable of loving anyone other than herself, for being a cruel, cold bitch so she’d have an excuse not to let people know the real her, her real pain.
“This”—Rife dissolves right in front of her eyes, then appears behind her, a hand pressed softly at her back, breath warm and heavy in her ear—“is new. But how I’ve felt about you goes back years. I saw how you pushed everyone away. I didn’t want that to happen to us.”
Riya Natrajan shrugs him off. “You’re my dealer. Nothing more. So we fucked a few times. It didn’t mean anything. And it certainly doesn’t mean you know a damn thing about me.”
Rife laughs, not out of amusement, but the kind where the only other option is to break down into tears. “I know you’re the kind of woman whose heart would break to pieces over the death of a complete stranger. I know you’re the kind of woman who would help others instead of saving herself. I know you’re the kind of woman who goes in front of her fans and gives the performance of a lifetime, even when every aching bone in her body cusses her for living another day.”
Rife touches her shoulder, and the air pressure changes sharply, bearing down on her with a vengeance, pressing the breath from her lungs. Her ears throb and her sinuses feel cavernous inside her skull. She swallows, once, twice, trying to find some relief, but the sensation is gone just as suddenly as it came, and now the world is completely solid beneath her. The sheer panic of those around them rings true to her ears. It angers Riya Natrajan that Rife sees those seemingly honorable actions, when in truth, they’re rooted in selfish motivations deeply buried in her heart.
“You’ve been hiding from the world,” he says. “And I know what that’s like. It’s like having this great secret with no one to share it with. Now you know mine.”
“That you’re an invisible, pervy, drug-dealing deviant with no respect for other people’s privacy? I feel so honored.”
“I deserve that.”
“Go to hell,” Riya Natrajan says.
“Been there,” Rife says, thumping at his chest right over his heart. “Highly overrated.”
Riya crosses her eyes at him, then fumes as she bolts across the street. There’s chaos everywhere, but the screams are more concentrated toward downtown. She walks toward the mayhem, checking over her shoulder once to make sure Rife’s not following her. He’s nowhere to be seen.
She gets a few blocks, but gets the odd sensation that she’s being watched.
“You’re still there, aren’t you?” Riya Natrajan asks.
Rife appears in front of her, face drawn like a kicked pup. “You’re not the only one who wants to prove to the world that you’re more than what you may seem, love. I had dreams once, too.”
Cry me a river. Riya Natrajan purses her lips. Yeah, he’s a blubbering asshole, but he’s still here by her side at least. “Fine. I’ll let you help, if you promise me you’ll never shift stalk me again.”
“I’d give up shifting altogether, if you asked, mama.”
She almost cringes, almost pushes him away, feeling smothered by Rife’s hard exterior gone soft. He’s exposed the flesh beneath his armor, his vulnerable side, something which those closest to her knew not to do. She resists the urge to shred his emotions to bits, and it’s one of the most difficult things she’s ever had to do. Instead of pushing Rife away, Riya decides to let him in. She smiles at him, takes his hand in hers. See, it’s not that hard. Warmth and tingles overwhelm her, and she almost allows herself to think that maybe they’re through the worst of this awful day . . . until she sees a horrid beast over Rife’s shoulder—a beast with wings and fangs and a hide thick as a rhino’s.
A beast flying right toward them.
Chapter 44
Sydney
Sydney preens her new form, so damn sexy that she can barely keep her eyes on the prize of world domination. Her skin is sleek, taut, her body long and muscular with patches of speckled down feathers tracing along her shoulders, her cleavage, down and around her thighs. Her breasts are small, but pert and exact. She can’t help but touch herself. The titillation from being rid of her human body and the swell of power inside her are enough for her to spontaneously orgasm, sending her shuddering to her knees.
Oh, yes. Oh, gods, yes.
The beasts sniff at her curiously, three of them now that she’d sent the oth
er to retrieve Nomvula, the last piece standing in her way. The lead beast curls up next to her, pressing its cold beak against her belly, the tip of its horn missing her skin by centimeters. She allows it to groom her, to taste her, its tongue broad and rough and nimble. Sydney scratches the tuft of fur between its ears and it purrs. The vibration surges through her like a passing freight train.
This one’s not afraid of her like the others are. He respects her, yes, but he doesn’t follow blindly, and deep in his eyes, she senses there’s more to him than raw animal instinct. He’s calculating and unforgiving, and Sydney knows that if she lets her guard down, he won’t think twice about disemboweling her right there on the spot . . . and that thrills her most of all.
She squawks back at him and digs her talons into the flesh at his throat so he won’t get any bright ideas, because for all his weapons, his mind is the sharpest, vilest, deadliest of them all. His mind is human.
Sydney doesn’t hold that against him. He’s hung like a rhino after all, and, Lord, it’s been decades. She releases his throat and pushes her palm flat against his horn, pressing up until its sharp point draws blood from her flesh.
They did this to you, Sydney pushes into his mind. I freed you.
His thoughts surge—snippets of thoughts really, intertwined with animalistic impulses. This one owes to you this debt. This one can.
Good, Sydney says. Tell the others that it is time. Blood must be spilled today. Human blood.
This one and its others taste not for man. Sour. Awful. This one and its others cannot.
Sydney’s feathers ruffle. She’s not wasting her powers on micromanaging a bunch of beasts. They need to obey her commands, and they will if she can sway the leader to her side. She grabs the beast’s horn and tilts it down so she’s glaring directly into its big, gray eyes. The humans made you that way so you wouldn’t turn on them. You are stronger, more agile, better than they ever could be, so they kept you locked up in cages, and kept your minds locked up as well. Sydney traces the tips of her talons up and between its ears, then down and along its back, all the way to its feline tail. It is our duty to cull the weak so that only the strong remain. Right now there are too many weak. We can save humanity from itself. It’s the way of nature, is it not?
It is, says the beast, its rumblings gurgling in its chest. It is nature.
He stands suddenly, his tail whipping in an agitated fashion, which quickly infects the others. He paces back and forth—in contemplation, Sydney thinks—before finally he lets out a roar that causes her insides to cramp up at the thought of such unbridled power. The beast returns to her, grazing the side of its head against the skin of her stomach. Marking her as his. A bold move, but Sydney allows it.
This one and its others can taste for man, it purrs. For the weak.
Sydney smiles as her hand glides against her own skin—the hardness of her thighs and the slickness between them. The ripples of her abs beneath down feathers and the gentle swell of her breasts. She grates her beak against his.
“Its others can go,” she growls as she lets her eyes drift shut, then exposes her throat toward the tip of its horn. “This one stays.”
Chapter 45
Muzi
Muzi clutches Nomvula’s body close, watching the twitch of what he hopes are dreams beneath her eyelids. She’s feverish, skin damp and hot, and it’s getting worse as they bake in this desert. The dead tumble over the cliff by the dozens, though occasionally, one of them will make it across the expanse—walking through air to the great forest. Muzi tries to guess which ones will make it and is almost always wrong. Some get farther than others, but the worst are those who come within a few steps of safety, only to go plunging into the sea of souls.
Muzi wonders about the pureness of his soul, the strength of his belief. He’s been no angel, God knows, but he’s loved hard and played hard, and studied hard for the most part. He’s made more friends than foes, and he had risked his life to save Nomvula’s. That has to be worth something.
Nomvula’s fever spikes, her clothing completely damp with sweat. She needs help. Now. Muzi hefts her up into his arms and steps toward the cliff. If this doesn’t work, he’s doomed anyway. The whole world might be.
Muzi clears his mind, then focuses on the spark inside him, his true self, unpolluted by the outside world, by temptation and hatred and lust. He surrounds his spark with kindness, love, and compassion, with the faces of those he cares about most—his parents and his sister for their unfailing love, his cousins for all their unending laughter, Elkin for his undying friendship, and Nomvula for her bravery in the face of danger and for her tears in the face of sadness. He keeps them all clutched close to his heart as he raises his foot and allows his center of gravity to shift into that most uncomfortable place.
His foot catches on something invisible yet solid, and he exhales the faintest sigh. He pushes away the pride creeping into his soul, no place for that. Not right now. Each step requires more focus than the last, and by the time he’s halfway across, he feels the outside world pressing against his thoughts, his concentration.
The temptation is subtle at first, the brusk scent of marijuana drifting on the breeze. Muzi’s lips moisten, and he spends half a thought imagining he’s puffing a joint to calm his nerves, to ease his mind. He pushes it away. That’s not who he is anymore. Not some kid looking for the easy way out, burying his problems under plumes of tacky smoke. He’s a man, now. But men, they have their own temptations, don’t they?
Muzi feels the breath running down his neck, unseen hands against his chest, strikingly cold and unworldly. He feels every single hair on his skin stand alert as those icy hands make their way toward his budding erection. He hears his name in the wind, fainter than a whisper, but unmistakably Elkin’s voice. Muzi shudders, his step falters. Eyes half lidded, he almost calls back. It isn’t real, he knows, but a part of him doesn’t care, a part of him bigger than he wants to admit. Muzi bites his lip, keeps his gait steady. Lust is fleeting. Love is what makes you traipse across the afterlife, hoping against hope that you’ll be reunited, if only for a single moment to say good-bye.
The air thickens around him, heavy in his lungs. He’s so close, he could lunge for the cliff if he didn’t have Nomvula in his arms. The smell of fruit is sweet, the greenery lush and cool, and so thick Muzi barely sees the dark figure standing in the shadow of an acacia tree near the ledge. Muzi swallows hard when he recognizes the face . . . his grandfather, dressed in khakis, a gun clenched in his hand. Papa Fuzz steps out of the shadows, his brow coarse and pulled tight.
Muzi missteps, his right leg fishing around in front of him for a footing he can’t find. He backs up, shaking. From Nomvula’s weight. From fear. From anger.
“Muzikayise,” Papa Fuzz says, his voice low and rumbling inside Muzi’s chest. “He who builds his father’s house.”
Muzi’s known the meaning of his given name from the time he was big enough to play with toy blocks. Papa Fuzz would sit Muzi in his lap, and together they’d build—forts, towers, castles with moats. His grandfather would tell him amazing stories of Xhosa courage, strength, and valor. Muzi had wanted so badly to grow up to be like Papa Fuzz. But now Muzi realizes those stories were just that. Stories.
“I’m disappointed with you, son. How many times did I tell you that boy was trouble?”
Muzi falters. He knows it’s not real, but the shame welling up within him is. Maybe Papa Fuzz was right all along. Muzi wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for Elkin. The spark inside Muzi starts to fade, but then he remembers what his sister had said.
Don’t let anyone extinguish the spark inside you, Muzi. It’s what makes you, you.
For better or worse, Elkin’s always been there for him, and he’s not about to let him down. “Elkin may be trouble, but he’s my best friend, and nothing you say will change that.”
“It’s not too late, son. Forget about him and join me. We can build castles here like you wouldn’t believe! It
could be like old times, Muzikayise. Just you and me.” Papa Fuzz comes closer, drifting through the air. He reaches out, and Muzi expects for his ghostlike form to pass through him, but instead his withered hands latch around Nomvula and peel her from Muzi’s trembling arms.
“Don’t!” Muzi screams, shaking so badly that he dares not take a step to follow.
“She’s safe. Don’t you trust your own grandfather?” Papa Fuzz returns to the cliff’s edge and places Nomvula in the shade of a lush, low-growing palm tree. Its broad fronds wrap around her like swaddling blankets. Vines tumble down from taller trees, then worm their way around Nomvula’s cocoon, lifting her from the ground.
“No, I don’t trust you,” Muzi spits. “I don’t even know who you are, and as far as I’m concerned, you can build your own damn house!” Anger swells within Muzi, his thoughts racing every which way, face flushed, his heartbeat pounding in his neck. “You’re a poacher! I saw you kill that elephant!”
“They’re just animals.” Papa Fuzz laughs, then drifts toward Muzi. “People hunt animals all the time.”
Muzi detects a slight twinge in Papa Fuzz’s voice, a slighter twitch in his eye. “You don’t believe that. It was your darkest hour, otherwise why would I have seen it?”
Papa Fuzz’s brow tightens. “You didn’t see the whole vision, son.”
“I’m not your son!” Rage surges through Muzi’s muscles, and he stiffens with the tension of a coiled spring. Papa Fuzz is so close now that he reaches out, touches Muzi’s forehead with one of his dark, slender fingers and memories come with the force of a shotgun blast.
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