The Last Twilight

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Amiri could hardly hear him. His ears rang. “You are here.”

  “Business,” said his father, staring—as though soaking in the sight of his son. Amiri could hardly let himself imagine the old man might have missed him. The possibility, far too remote; the chance, far too painful.

  “You mean the Consortium,” said Amiri heavily, following his intuition.

  His father’s expression never changed; inscrutable, cold. “That is one name. But yes. We have … an arrangement.”

  Amiri wanted to bend over and be sick. “Then you are no better than a butcher.”

  “Not a new sentiment, coming from you.”

  Of all the ways he had imagined seeing his father again, this was not it. “Are you aware of what they did to me? And others? The torture, the experiments?”

  The old man’s eyelid twitched. “Bottom line, cub. It all comes down to survival.”

  Not the answer Amiri had been looking for. “You have never trusted humans.”

  “Those in the Consortium are not human.”

  “And did they send you here to bring me back? Will you betray me?”

  “Will you come without a fight?”

  “No,” Amiri said. “I will not.”

  Which was enough. His father attacked. Faster than the wings of a hummingbird—faster than Amiri—his fists pounding his son’s stomach like a punching bag. Amiri managed to slip away, claws pouring from his fingertips. He swiped at his father’s chest, then higher, across his face. He nicked skin, and when his father stumbled, he dropped down and ran, throwing himself into the body of the cheetah.

  His father followed. Chasing him. Jaws snapping. Eyes hot as fire. And had the circumstances not been so dire, so incomprehensible, Amiri would have taken fierce pleasure in running with his father again.

  Unfortunately, that was not the case. Unfortunately, his world was going insane. Everything he thought he knew, betrayed. And by the one person who, though his methods had been abhorrent, had always protected him.

  Claws sank into Amiri’s haunches, dragging him off balance. He snarled, spinning, lashing out at his father. The two cheetahs rolled, mouths seeking each other’s throats. Screaming. His father left several openings that Amiri did not take—part of him, despite everything, afraid of the injuries he might cause—and the old cheetah sprang away, landing light in a tangle of vines. He shifted shape, just enough to regain his use of speech, spotted fur idling down his long lean body in a sheer golden mist. Humanoid, barely.

  “You have grown weak,” rasped his father, flexing fingers that were mostly claws.

  “Do you want me to hurt you?” Amiri replied harshly, also shifting. “Why are you doing this? It goes against everything—”

  “The woman,” interrupted the old man. “What is she to you?”

  Cold entered Amiri’s heart. “She is mine.”

  “She is human.”

  “As was my mother, and yours.”

  “But she knows. You have shed your skin for her.”

  Never mind how his father had discovered that. Amiri leaned close. “She loves me still. She loves me, Abuu.”

  His father waved his hand, disdainful. “Women always say what men wish to hear. She is no different. She will betray you.”

  “No.”

  “Fool.” The old man raised his chin, eyes blazing. “You never had the stomach for survival. Is she with child yet?”

  Abuu—”

  “You have no time. Ride her hard and fast. Get yourself a cub and then I will kill her for you.”

  Amiri struck his father. An unthinking act, but the pure raw fury that filled him was a heady wild thing; utterly satisfying. “You will not touch her.”

  His father’s lower lip bled. “Would you kill me for her?”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  “Ah.” His mouth slanted into an odd bitter smile. “That is something, I suppose.”

  Amiri stood back, staring. “I will not let you take me back, Abuu. Not before I find help.”

  The old man raised his chin, tufted ears swiveling against his head. “The Catholic Missionary. Their radio. That will be inadequate to reach your friends.”

  He wanted to hold his head and scream. “How much do you know of my life?”

  His father ignored him. “You have another option.”

  “And what could that possibly be?”

  Again, a smile. “Follow me.”

  It was an odd truce, between father and son. An unspoken promise not to kill each other.

  Amiri kept stealing glances at the old man. Fourteen years since they had stood in each other’s presence, and that last time had been ugly, as well.

  No stomach. Too soft, whispered his father’s voice. Angelique would have betrayed us all.

  “No one would have believed Angelique,” Amiri said, before he realized that his father had not spoken.

  But the old man’s gaze stayed steady and straight on their path, and he brushed lightly on the fur of his arms as he said, “She was terrified of you. A small heartless woman. But she was beautiful and people liked her. They would have listened. Asked questions. Made your life … difficult. I did what had to be done.”

  “Murder is never the answer.”

  “You know better than that,” said the old man, giving him a sharp look. “It is not murder when you are defending your life. Even you said that you would kill for your woman. You would kill your own father to keep her safe.”

  Pain bloomed in Amiri’s heart. “Will it come to that?”

  His father said nothing, but his pace quickened, and a moment later he dropped into the body of the cheetah. Amiri followed suit, and the shape-shifters ran, keeping low to the ground, moving through the night maze of trees and water and vines. The world burned inside Amiri’s ears—burned with the roar of his blood—and he was so caught up in his own private hell, he could hardly differentiate the sounds that poured into his ears.

  Until, quite suddenly, he heard men talking. Accompanied by a small sharp clicking sound.

  Amiri and his father crept through the twisting undergrowth, dragging stomachs over sharp rocks and snapped limbs, until they crouched on the edge of a small clearing. In front of them, men. At least thirty, gathered around scattered cook fires that cast a glow over their rough-hewn olive uniforms, bodies bristling with weapons. Much like the men he had killed and questioned.

  Standing in their midst was a man who wore no uniform, but lightweight clothes drenched in sweat, clinging to a lean body. Amiri glimpsed long hair, a silver pendant hanging against a dusky-skinned throat. A sharp, angular face; and sharper eyes. He watched the man’s jaw flex, and every time it did, he heard that clicking sound. Too metallic to be bone.

  The old cheetah shifted shape, melting into his full dark human skin. “Your other option, cub.”

  Amiri shifted as well, digging his fingers into the dirt. “What option? The man is likely a terrorist.”

  “But he hates Broker.”

  “Broker is dead.”

  “Broker never dies,” said his father grimly.

  Amiri studied his face, struck with an odd feeling. “You tried?”

  “I had an irresistible opportunity.”

  Realization stung. “You are with them against your will.”

  His father ignored him. “Broker had Jaaved’s wife kidnapped not one day ago. He sent pictures of what was done to her. What is still being done. Jaaved is not taking it well.”

  “You want to strike a deal.”

  “He knows me.”

  Amiri hesitated. “Why now? What hold does the Consortium have over you?”

  Again, his father did not answer. He stood, and began walking down to the gathered men. Exposed, head held high. As though he belonged. Amiri followed his example, focusing on Jaaved and no one else—not even when a shout went up, and thirty guns of varying sizes and pedigrees were suddenly aimed in their direction.

  Jaaved met them halfway, carrying himself with rigid precision. He h
eld a gun in his right hand. His jaw was tight, and he smelled like blood and smoke. He placed the tip of his weapon against the old man’s forehead. Amiri held his breath.

  “I have a fantasy,” rasped Jaaved, without preamble. “About cutting out tongues and slicing testicles. Perhaps serving them for supper. Recording the whole affair. Sending it to family members and young children.”

  “How vivid,” said Amiri’s father. “Any guests in mind?”

  Jaaved snarled, revealing a great deal of metal in his mouth. “I should kill you on principle. What do you want, Aitan? And why does Broker send his messengers to me naked? Another reminder of my wife?”

  “Hardly. Though I am certain my employer would be gratified to know you followed his instructions so … liberally … by crossing into his land with all these armed men.”

  “He asked me to come.”

  “Indeed. But I am not here to pass along his message.”

  Jaaved grunted, eying him … and then Amiri. “You are?”

  Amiri kept his expression flat, cold—though part of him was still shocked at hearing his father’s real name spoken out loud by this man. “I am someone with an offer. If you have a taste to kill.”

  “That depends.”

  “I will give you Broker,” said Aitan.

  Jaaved raised his chin, staring. His jaw flexed—clicking—sharp and violent. Gun still pressed to the old man’s forehead. “Why would you do that?”

  Aitan gave him a long steady look. “Because we have both been hurt in similar ways.”

  Amiri managed not to react, but it was difficult. He kept his gaze focused on Jaaved, who stared into the old man’s eyes for quite some time.

  “You can promise Broker?” he said, slowly.

  “I can promise many things,” replied Aitan, “but Broker, I can deliver.”

  Something dark and frightening passed through Jaaved’s face. “He has something else of mine.”

  “Your wife.”

  “Another woman. A doctor,” the man said.

  “She is dead.”

  “Is she?” Jaaved’s eyes narrowed, and he looked at Amiri. “What do you get out of this?”

  “Satisfaction,” Amiri replied shortly, forcing himself not to tear the man’s throat out.

  Jaaved held his gaze, and grunted. He lowered his gun. “Come. Let us talk business.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Being kidnapped had, of course, its disadvantages. Complete and unremitting terror was one of them, as well as the certain promise of an untimely and, most likely, ugly death. Neither of which Rikki was entirely keen on experiencing.

  But when she opened her eyes, hours after first being tossed into that helicopter, and found herself nestled on a soft downy bed of raw white silk, she had to wonder what, exactly, she had been running from.

  Her head hurt. Her chest ached. She hardly wanted to move, but she touched herself, fingers sliding up her naked body, over her scars, to a tender spot just above her right breast. There was a bandage there. She remembered the gun, the sprout of a dart against her body. Her inner elbow was sore, too. She found needle marks.

  Rikki took a deep slow breath and turned her head. Past the bed, she saw creamy walls and dark wood trim, polished floors of the same kind and color. The air smelled sweet and cool, filled with the soft ambient glow of gentle lights shining from the ceiling. On the other side of the bed, on the nightstand, she found an artful arrangement of orchids. And beyond that, a large window that overlooked the jungle. It was light out, but only just—dawn or twilight, there was no way to know.

  Rikki sat up, clutching the sheet to her breasts. At the bottom of the bed she saw a folded set of soft clothes, also white, as well as a set of tennis shoes. And on top of those, much to her surprise, was the scalpel. Her precious little blade. It made her think of Amiri. She hoped he was safe.

  She slid out of the bed, looking for cameras. Found nothing, but that meant little. She dressed quickly. Located a bathroom, dark and rich with wood and marble and glass. Opulent. She stood inside, looking at herself in the mirror. Her face was gaunt, eyes glassy. Every bone stood out.

  Taking a hot shower would have probably made her high, but she did not feel comfortable exposing herself like that. She felt vulnerable enough, just using the toilet.

  She splashed water on her face, smothered herself with a soft clean towel, and went back out into the room. She thought about trying to break the window—a chair might do the trick, or there was always the lid from the toilet. Even her own body, if she got really desperate.

  Try the door first, stunt girl.

  So she did. And it opened. Rikki held her breath, listening, but when no one raised the alarm, she poked her head into the hall.

  It was empty—except for some magnificent decorating. Rikki wasn’t sure whether she wanted to live in this place forever, or find some matches and burn it all down.

  She stepped into the hall and closed her door. Started walking—listening hard, moving on light feet. She held the scalpel in one hand. Passed many doors, all of which had electronic locks and security pads set into the wall.

  The hall was long. Rikki began to worry she might never find the end of it, but after several minutes of rising panic, she heard the gurgle and churning bubble of water. A fountain. The air began to smell like orchids again.

  Rikki entered a large cavernous room, at the center of which was a magnificent stone sculpture that looked like nothing more than some mountain cliff torn off its edge and then planted, perpendicular, in the center of a rock pool. Water flowed down its ragged sides, the crevices of which were filled with dangling moss and orchids, occasionally shrouded by delicate ferns. Below, inside the deep waters of the pool itself, swam monstrous koi as long as she was tall, parting the waters beneath lily pads and flowers.

  She heard giggling, took a step back, raising the scalpel … just as two children ran into view. One of them to her shock was Kimbareta. Still wearing that whistle, though his clothes were different. Like Rikki—white, easy, a jogging outfit.

  The boy skidded to a stop when he saw her, and she dropped to her knees, holding out one arm. He threw himself against her body, clutching her neck. The kid might not know her worth beans, but Rikki was gratified that he seemed so happy to see her face.

  “You okay?” she asked him, her French rather poor. The boy nodded against her shoulder, and she rose slowly, holding on to his hand. In front of them was another child, one Rikki had not see before. A girl, no older than eight or nine. She was lovely—brown skin, high cheekbones, and hair that curled and flowed, shot through with gold.

  Her eyes were gold, pale and rich as metal.

  Rikki stared. “Hello.”

  “Hello,” said the girl, first in French, and then English. Utterly composed. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Rikki. And you?”

  “I am A’sharia.” Spoken with the dignity of a young queen. Rikki thought she could see a resemblance to someone she knew, and it made her light-headed.

  Kimbareta stiffened. Rikki turned. Broker stood behind her, flanked by Marco. Terror clawed up her throat, but she took a deep breath, and then another, forcing herself to stay calm, sharp—in the moment, second by second. She could do this. She was going to survive.

  “Already awake and about,” said Broker. “I gave you enough sedative to leave anyone else unconscious for three days.”

  Rikki shrugged. “So?”

  He raised his brow. “It’s only been ten hours.”

  “Good metabolism.” She squeezed Kimbareta’s hand. “Why are these children here?”

  “They are my guests.”

  “People don’t keep children as guests. Not unless they have a good reason.”

  “Ready to fight for them?” His smile widened. “Never fear, Doctor Kinn. I may hire perverts, but I can assure you, my proclivities do not run any younger than the age of good intellectual discourse.”

  Which was not a terribly satisfying answer, but
as good as she could hope for. Rikki swallowed hard, squeezed Kimbareta’s hand one more time for good measure, and then gently pushed him toward A’sharia.

  Broker said, “Go on. Both of you play.”

  The children looked at Rikki with some pity, and gave Broker stares of incredible distrust. He made a shooing motion. A’sharia grabbed Kimbareta’s hand and tugged. They ran away. Very fast. No longer laughing.

  “Smart kids,” Rikki said dryly.

  “Most are,” Broker replied, and held out his hand. “Please join me, Doctor Kinn.”

  Rikki did, though she refused to take his hand. Indeed, she still held the scalpel—though she failed to see any use in stabbing Broker, as crushing his skull had done little to hinder him. Nor did he seem at all troubled that she was carrying it around in such an obvious manner. She was not much of a threat, apparently.

  She held the scalpel tight though. Felt better for it. A nice, sharp accessory.

  Marco smiled. Rikki wanted to set his eyebrows on fire. She ignored him and kept pace with Broker. He led her down another hall, this one considerably shorter. At the end of it was a large dining room, finely appointed, mostly empty. Moochie and Francis sat at the far end, eating. They looked up when she walked in, but only briefly, and showed nothing on their faces.

  Broker held out a chair for Rikki. She sat, facing a long line of windows overlooking the jungle. Marco took a seat nearby. A small round woman emerged from behind a swinging set of doors and looked at them enquiringly.

  “Tea or coffee?” Broker asked.

  “Arsenic,” Rikki said. “Lighter fluid.”

  “Bring both,” he said to the woman, with discomfiting ambiguity.

  “I was expecting a house of horrors,” Rikki told him, her palm sweaty around the scalpel. “This feels more like a resort.”

  “I prefer luxury to cold sterility,” Broker replied. “It makes my work easier.”

  “Kidnapping, torture, the manufacture of biological weapons …”

  “High enterprise. Very lucrative.”

  “Money isn’t the reason you do it,” she said, searching his eyes. “Not in the slightest.”

  The woman returned carrying a tray laden down with coffee and a pot of hot water, with tea bags, lemon, and sugar. No chemicals or poison. Not now, anyway. Broker took coffee. Rikki began steeping her tea. Such a normal thing to do. So mundane.