“I thought he was powerful. Who could do something like this to him?” Rikki whispered to Amiri, tugging up the blanket that covered Rictor’s lower body. Ekemi stood just outside the little building, talking to someone. Within earshot, if they were not careful. And they had to be. Rictor was going to raise too many questions. His wounds were fresh, wet, but there was no blood. No sign there ever had been. Just a trace of something green and iridescent against the ragged edges of his wounds.
Amiri rubbed his face. For the first time since meeting him, she thought he looked exhausted. “Only Rictor can tell us who did this. But I can say this much—it should have been impossible to make such wounds on his body. He is not like us.”
“Impossible men, impossible punishments. You’re talking in relative terms. No one is at the top of the food chain, Amiri.”
“How comforting.”
“Like a boot up the ass,” she muttered, placing a hand on her ribs; feeling the lines of her scars beneath the flimsy shirt. Remembering the hot wash of blood soaking into the earth beneath her.
No blood here. No blood.
Amiri caught her hand and squeezed. Rikki closed her eyes, savoring the safety of that touch. The heat, the shadows in this room, were suffocating—as it had been earlier, in the storage room, although in a much more pleasant fashion, one that was still making her body tingle. She had never felt such pleasure, such overwhelming lust, and the way Amiri had touched her, the reverence in his eyes as he had looked at her body …
She took a deep breath. “Rictor said you wouldn’t pay for helping Eddie. Do you think this is what he was talking about?”
Amiri hesitated. “That would require a selfless act.”
“You don’t think he’s capable of it?”
“Right now, I cannot imagine what to think.”
Rikki sighed. “I hope Eddie is okay.”
Ekemi returned to the room. He looked unhappy. Playing Good Samaritan had come back to bite him on the ass. He sighed wearily, pushing up his glasses. “How is our guest?”
“Alive,” Rikki said. “How are you?”
“Envying an unconscious man.” Ekemi smiled weakly. “The others want to fetch medical help. I have managed to convince them that it will be unnecessary, that you are skilled enough to care for this man, but the complications of his presence—”
“It cannot be helped,” Amiri interrupted. “He is … a friend.”
“A friend,” Ekemi echoed. “I thought you were all alone here?”
“He’s been looking for us,” Rikki explained, somewhat awkwardly. “We were separated early on.”
“The rebels must have gotten to him,” said the man, his breath whistling between his teeth. “But how he made it this far into the park, hurt as he is …”
Rikki frowned. “How do you know he wasn’t hurt inside the park?”
“Consider it another arrangement. Rebel forces do not step foot past the threshold of the reserve’s boundaries. Not for any reason.”
“Were their commanders paid off?”
“If the government was, why not them?” Ekemi shrugged. “It is one thing that I am not sorry for. And neither is Mireille, which is why she puts up with so much. She knows the price, otherwise.”
“Yes,” Amiri said grimly. “She made the price quite clear.”
Rikki’s hand ached. She had tucked the little scalpel back into the folded-down waist of her scrubs, much to Amiri’s amusement. “Have you heard the name Jaaved before? He’s associated with the rebels who destroyed the refugee camp where I was working.”
“I have not,” Ekemi said. “But it sounds foreign.”
Everything was foreign. Rikki felt like she was blind, deaf, and dumb. Nothing made sense. Except Amiri. Her leap of faith.
Rictor’s hand flexed. His eyelid fluttered. Ekemi said, “Finally, answers.”
“Not yet,” Rikki replied quickly, feeling Amiri’s tension rocket. “In fact, you should go. The fewer people around him when he wakes, the better. In my personal medical opinion.”
No one liked to argue with doctors; few ever presumed to do so. Ekemi nodded, somewhat reluctantly, and walked quickly to the door. He closed it after him with a soft click, shutting out the faint babble of voices, the buzz and chirr of night insects.
Rikki grabbed a bottle of water, upended it on a cloth. She dabbed at Rictor’s cheek, the back of his neck. He was a big man, taller than Amiri. She could not imagine him submitting to any violence, and she recalled that look in his eye, the cold profound intensity that was quiet and dangerous and wild.
Just like Amiri. Even like herself, down in the recesses of her heart. All of them different, but all of them fighters. As Eddie said, it took one to know one.
A long whisper breathed from Rictor’s mouth. A string of words like music, lilting and soft. Amiri knelt. Lanterns scattered the floor around the table, and Rikki shoved some of them out of the way. Just in time. Rictor’s eyes snapped open. He stared, blind. Not fully awake. Caught in a nightmare. She could see it in his gaze.
Right before he attacked Amiri.
Even wounded, Rictor was fast. Rikki barely got out of the way, falling backward as the two men slammed into the floor, striking each other, eerily silent except for the harsh hiss of their breathing. Rictor fought like a man on fire—desperate, one long screaming heartbreak, agonized and terrible.
Amiri twisted, trying to wrench him off, but Rictor’s hands caught his throat, squeezing, and Rikki watched in dazed horror as long black claws erupted from the shape-shifter’s fingers and toes. Golden light streamed. Amiri snarled and his teeth were long, bones shifting in his face. Rage burned.
Someone was going to die. Rikki grabbed a chair and slammed it down on Rictor’s head, shouting wordlessly at him. The man never budged. He turned to look at her, his eyes shining green—
—and then he screamed in pain, letting go of Amiri’s throat to clutch at his back. Rikki stared, stunned, as his wounds glowed.
Amiri used the distraction to kick Rictor hard in the gut. The man rolled off his body without a fight, slumped on his side, gasping for breath. Amiri also lay still, staring. Muscles twitched in his face. Claws became fingernails scraping the hard floor.
Rikki fell to her knees between the men, heart jack-hammering, sweat soaking through her clothing. Ekemi burst open the door, skidding to a stop.
“What has happened?” His eyes were wide, staring at them all slumped on the floor.
“Later,” Rikki said, her voice rising. “Get out. Get out now.”
He blinked, and she saw his fingers twitch for his gun. But she held his gaze, pointing like her own hand was a weapon, and he slid backward slowly. Looking at her like she was someone new. Rikki wanted to laugh. Jean-Claude should have provided a warning label.
Ekemi left, shutting the door. She thought about running to lock it, but could not move. Drained, deserted, devastated; her body was abandoning her, finally. All she could do was breathe, and throw out one hand to touch Amiri’s arm. He hardly noticed her. He was still staring at Rictor, wearing an expression she could not name. Rikki twisted slightly, to see … and felt the pit of her stomach drop away.
Rictor. His face was like some reflection in a mirror made of twisted steel—distorted, broken, gorged on agony—features slippery beneath a grief so profound it could have no name, no place, no firm fix as anything but otherworldly, beyond human. No human could feel the pain she saw on his face and survive. Her own sorrow was like some broken shadow in comparison.
The man shook. Curled around his stomach, trembling violently. She thought he might be cold, but his eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched tight. Fighting to keep it in, she realized. All that anguish, swallowed.
Rikki almost touched him. She stopped herself, though, remembering her father, Markovic. Those months she spent in the hospital, forced to face the endless trail of doctors and nurses and visitors. Torn down, again and again, but always able to stand. Too proud to let anyone see her
suffer.
Pride and stubbornness, all she had left.
She looked at Amiri. He stared back with a sharp clear gaze; furious, burning, primal as death. His lip was cut. Blood dotted his cheek. Beside him, Rictor turned over on his back and opened his eyes. Green, bloodshot, red-rimmed. He glanced sideways at Rikki, and then Amiri. His gaze lingered.
“Oh,” he said, slowly. “I am so fucked.”
A sentiment reinforced only a moment later when Ekemi slammed open the door and flew inside, gun out, glasses askew. Rikki’s stomach dropped so low she almost expected to see it hanging between her legs.
“They are here,” he said.
Amiri stood fast, taking Rikki with him. “How many?”
Ekemi looked as though he wanted to throw up. “Too many. Ten armed men, perhaps more. They must have hiked up the trail in the dark. They are at the edge of the camp. Coming in slow.”
“Rictor,” Amiri said. “Do something.”
“I can’t.”
“Rictor—”
“I can’t,” he snarled, staggering to his feet. “I’ve been neutered, Amiri. For helping you. I put myself back in the cage.”
Amiri stared. Ekemi threw up his hands. “You should be running now, not fighting. Go, go! I will try to stall them.” The man dashed through the open door.
Rikki grabbed Amiri’s arm. “Go. You still have time.”
“I won’t leave you. Not like this.”
“Screw that. They want me alive.” Rikki shook him. “Run. Get help. Come back for me. You know where to search now.”
“If I lose you—”
“Never,” she interrupted harshly. “You will never lose me.”
Amiri gave her a look so fierce she felt as though it would melt her bones. The golden undertones in his skin intensified, like an aura of sunlight burning from his body. He snared the back of her neck, dragging her close. No words. Just his heat, his calm steady eyes, filled now with lethal promise. She stared, lost in the power of his gaze, and hardly noticed as light poured off his skin, followed by a wave of spotted fur. His face began to transform, and he leaned close, pressing his shifting mouth to her ear.
“I love you,” he rasped, and then his hand fell away and so did his wrap, and she watched, stunned, as Amiri fell on all fours, his human skin, his human body absorbed and molded and liquefied, until all that remained was the cheetah.
But his eyes—his eyes were the same—and the look he gave her was grave as death. He turned that stare on Rictor, who stayed silent. Implacable.
Amiri ducked his head, backing away. He padded to the door, looked back once—holding Rikki’s gaze—and then he was gone, into the darkness. She stood for a moment, staring at the open door, straining to listen to shouts, gunshots—anything—but all she heard was silence, not even the approach of those men who wanted to harm her.
She turned to Rictor, studying the hard chiseled lines of his face. Enigma. Magic. Finally regaining his composure. “Why did you come back?”
“I had no choice.”
“Eddie?” Her heart ached, thinking of the young man. And of her brother.
“Safe. Alive. I left him with his friends.”
“It cost you.”
“Everything but my life.”
“Then you have everything you need,” Rikki replied, and grabbed his arm, yanking him toward the storage room. He was twice as big as her, but she caught him by surprise. That, and Rictor was much weaker than he was letting on. He could hardly stand straight, let alone fight her off, and the look he gave her was so ridiculously incredulous, she wanted to laugh.
“At least try to hide,” she said, and she shoved him inside and slammed the door in his shocked face.
Rikki took a deep breath, swallowed down her terror, and ran from the building. It was pitch dark, most of the pit-fires having died down. She heard muffled cries all around her, and thought of Kimbareta and his babysitters. She stayed away from their home, though, angling toward the farthest edge of the camp, where Ekemi had said the men were coming in. She ran, because she thought it might look more suspicious if she walked, but she made no effort to hide herself—and sure enough, strong arms caught her up around the waist, hauling Rikki against a broad hard chest.
She thought about using the scalpel, but a rough voice said, “Lady, you should have kept running,” and she could not bring herself to stab that hand.
“Moochie,” she said, proud her voice did not quaver. “Where’s the second Hardy boy?”
“Right here,” Francis rumbled, out of sight. Rikki hardly heard him past the chaos that suddenly filled the night: men, women, voices high and frightened—pots crashing, the tear of paper and fabric. Ekemi’s voice, ringing out in protest. And somewhere, a whistle blowing.
She strained against Moochie’s arms. “Call them off. You’ve got me.”
“You’re not the only one we want,” Francis said. “Where are the two men you were traveling with?”
“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.
Chapter Sixteen
For much of his youth, until the age of ten, Amiri knew only one human, an old woman named Wambui, who lived alone at the base of Nyiru, a remote and sacred mountain located on the edge of the Great Rift Valley.
Wambui was the only human his father trusted with his life, and Amiri spent a great deal of time with her, learning what she had to teach. In the old colonial days she had been the nanny for a British family. She spoke English. She could read, had command of numbers. She also possessed a remarkable memory that allowed her to see something only once and remember every detail in its most minute form.
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.”
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