Someone else had the same thought. A gun went off near her ear. One shot, then nothing. Silence rang dull in the fading echo; the air smelled like cooked meat. The water stopped splashing against Rikki’s thighs. Those arms around her body relaxed, just a fraction. She wanted to see, she wanted to know, but as she began to look over her shoulder those strong warm hands stopped her, sliding up her spine, into her hair. The familiarity of that contact made her breath catch—and then the hands were gone and the cold that surrounded her, the loss of that odd anchor, left her breathless.
She looked up. Stared into a pale gaze, golden and hot. Caught another flash of light in those eyes, though it lasted only seconds.
“Are you hurt?” murmured the man. Rikki shook her head, unable to speak—too rattled, too consumed. She heard her name shouted and tried again to turn. Her knees wobbled, making her stagger, but those long arms slid around her waist, holding her against a hard lean body. He was hot as hell; an invading heat, soaking through skin to bone. For one heartbeat she felt safe in that warmth, that embrace—utterly protected—and it was such a foreign startling feeling, she almost forgot what had happened. Or why feeling safe could never be possible.
Again, her name was called. She managed to turn, just enough to see Mack stumbling toward her, accompanied by members of his team. Another figure stood near, the second man on shore who had been watching her. He held a gun. She could not see his eyes behind the goggles, but he was staring at the crocodile, which was drifting, smoking, sparks and embers still clinging to its leathery hide.
Mack stopped just out of reach—teetering on his toes, hands clenched into fists. He tried to say her name but croaked, his voice breaking on every syllable.
“I’m fine,” Rikki said, but that was reflex talking and not the truth. She had just taken a bath in a soup made of death, swallowed it down into her body. Just like the man who had saved her life. His face was wet. His mask off.
Worse than Ebola. Not the same thing at all.
Rikki looked at Mack and saw it in his eyes. Horror.
“Isolation ward,” she whispered. “Two beds. Do it now, Mack. Hurry.”
But Mack said nothing, did nothing—staring instead like an idiot, all of his people blinking behind their goggles like owls. As though she were the crocodile, spinning and burning and dying. Rikki wanted to scream at them—she wanted to jump out of her skin and run until she died—and felt the beginnings of terrible nauseating panic swell hard from her heart to her groin.
No. No, no. Rikki dragged in a hard shuddering breath, and the hands at her waist tightened. The man. Rikki turned, meeting that long cool gaze, so calm, so steady; here was an anchor, safe in his unnatural stillness. For a moment it was just the two of them, no one else—and that was right, good, true—because it was just them. Same boat. Same death.
“We’re a disease now,” she whispered, shocked at herself but unable to stop; unable to curb the desperate haunting desire to make one last connection, to be seen, to be heard. “You and I are the only ones who will remember that we’re people.”
He stared, and in that moment the world began spinning again and the camp poured down upon them: bodies, voices, masked faces and gloved hands, all trying to pull her away. The man refused to let go. He held her close, tight, and she felt his lips touch her ear, his breath hot as fire.
“Then we will remember,” he breathed, and his words, the unrelenting conviction in his voice, shot like an arrow down her spine. He let go and she reached for him—instinct, raw—but everyone moved too fast—finally, fast—and a wall of people swept between them before she could so much as graze his sleeve. She glimpsed him only once, still watching her over the sea of heads, and his gaze was focused and hard, and only for her.
Disconcerting, thrilling, heartbreaking. She could not look away, and when Mack stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the man’s face, she could not say whether she felt relief or disappointment.
But she did feel alone. And for the first time in years, she hated herself for it.
The first isolation ward had been set up within an hour of Mack’s arrival two days before. This was standard protocol at any outbreak site, as a means of quarantining and treating the sick. Problem was, no one had been sick. Just dead.
Three distance barriers covered the entrance to the ward, as well as a separate isolated exit, which held a contaminated-materials bin and disinfectant boot baths. A rough structure—the camp’s former medical center—built from wood and canvas. Mack’s team had duct-taped layers of plastic sheeting over the flimsy walls and across the dirt floor, sealing in the room except for small vents in the ceiling. A portable air conditioner run by a rumbling generator pumped in cold air. Rikki felt the chill of it race across her skin, then Mack pulled her to a curtained area just outside the ward. Floodlights burned. Mosquitoes buzzed.
Mack brought out a bottle of bleach. Rikki’s heart jumped.
“We need to get this over with,” he said. Rikki nodded, jaw tight as steel, and watched as he began diluting the disinfectant with water. He poured it all in a pump and screwed on the hose. Ready to spray her within an inch of her life and send every germ packing to hell.
“I’ll do it myself,” Rikki said.
“You can’t reach everywhere,” Mack replied.
“Still looking for an excuse to see my ass?”
The skin above his surgical mask reddened. “You know the protocol.”
Yes, she did. She’d been the one holding the hose on several occasions, and this, she figured, was karma coming to kick her derriere. “Bend the rules, Mack. I’m trained. I won’t miss any spots. I’ll come out of here so clean I’ll be raw.”
Mack hesitated, then shook his head. “I know how to be impersonal. Let’s just do it fast and get it over with.”
Not the words she wanted to hear. Panic touched her throat. Walls, closing in. Rikki reached for the hose, but Mack pulled it away, out of reach. She tried again and he did the same, frowning. “Rikki. Let me.”
“Jesus, what am I, five? I’m a big girl.” She tried one more time to take the hose, but Mack stepped back, eyebrows furrowed in an obstinate frown. It was a look she wanted to wipe right off his face. Her hand closed into a fist. He gave her an even sharper look. Rikki did not care. She wanted to hit him. She was desperate to hit him.
Get hold of yourself. It’s not his fault. He doesn’t know. He wasn’t there.
Just doing his job. Being thorough. Refusing to leave her the hell alone.
Rikki held her ground. She did not unclench her fist. Mack stared like he was seeing her for the first time, and she supposed he was. She just did not want him to see the rest of her.
The plastic curtains rustled. One of the nurses poked her head in. Her name—RUTH—was scrawled in black letters on the forearm of her biohazard suit sleeve.
“The other man is prepped and ready to be disinfected,” she said, talking slower and slower as her gaze darted between the two doctors. Picking up on the tension.
Rikki still held Mack’s gaze. Her fingers uncurled, painful. “Take him first.”
Mack’s eyes narrowed. “No.”
“Fuck you, Hardson.”
“You first,” he replied, so quiet anyone else would have thought he was being gentle—except for that edge, that soft edge. “Now get undressed. We have to get you clean. There’s still a chance.”
“I am not getting naked in front of you.”
“Then Ruth.”
“No.”
“For fuck’s sake, this is serious. You need help—”
The curtain rattled, interrupting him. Ruth—who had been shamelessly watching their exchange—yelped rather loudly as a long dark hand reached around her. It was the man. And he was naked.
Rikki tried not to look, but there was too much muscle and smooth rich skin, and his eyes—those eyes watching her like she was a prism burning rainbows—were so intensely hot she felt branded with his stare; cut, cocooned, pinned, and wrap
ped so tight she could hardly breathe. Goddamn, but she was sick. In the head, sick.
The man hardly glanced at Ruth and Mack. “Is there a problem?”
Mack frowned. “And you are?”
“Sent from Larry,” replied the man shortly, giving him a piercing look. His voice was buttery, with a slight accent that was educated and refined. The Naked Professor, Rikki wanted to call him. Except that he held himself like a fighter, sleek and fast and hard. She still felt the branding weight of his arms around her body. That heartbeat moment of safety.
“Larry,” she echoed, hoarse. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Never mind,” growled Mack, with a look in his eyes that Rikki might have called uneasiness. “Clean first, talk later.”
Rikki set her jaw and reached for the hose. Mack blocked her, still sharply disapproving, and a shot of pure despair raged so hard through her heart she wanted to cry—or smash his brains in.
“Please,” she said to Mack. “Don’t force this.”
“I have to,” he said, the expression in his eyes truly baffled. “For God’s sake, Rikki, you’re not that shy.”
Oh, God, she wanted to tell him. Oh, Mack.
But there was nothing else to say, because the other man, that naked watchful man, suddenly moved. Reached out with one long arm to grab Mack’s shoulder and pushed him past the curtain. Taking Ruth with him.
Mack was big, but he might as well have been made of cotton candy for all the fight he put up. He cursed. Ruth squeaked. The other man said, “Stay out.”
“You’re crazy,” Mack said.
“Not yet,” replied the man.
“Rikki—”
“I’m fine,” she found herself saying, and then, more forcefully, “I’ll be fine, Mack.”
He stared at her like she was a stranger. She felt like one, even to herself. But she held her ground, even as Mack said, “I’m getting help.”
“Do so,” said the stranger. “See if it makes you feel safer.”
Mack’s eyes flinched. The other man dropped the curtain in his face. Rikki half-expected her colleague to burst back through, fighting, but he did not. She heard voices—another man, younger—and then footsteps, shuffling quickly away. Leaving her. Rikki wondered idly if she should feel abandoned, even betrayed, but she dug deep and found nothing of the kind. Just an odd terrible relief that was stronger than fear … and almost as confusing as the man standing in front of her.
Rikki searched his eyes, looking for that unnatural light. Nothing, only amber, gold, pale as honey. Too much to stare at for long. Like being scorched by the sun. An intense look, eerily intimate. It made her afraid, but she buried it. Made her uneasy, but she buried that, too. Never mind the man was a stranger, naked as day. He wore his nudity like it was nothing—another skin, another kind of clothing. Easy and proud. She envied him for that.
They stared at each other. Silence burned. Rikki remembered the river. She could taste it in her mouth. A chill burst over her body, but even so, just then, a faint smile touched the man’s mouth, heart-stopping, and she forgot for one moment that they were both dying, alone, strangers. She did not mean to—her own mouth curved faintly—and she felt the roots of that smile curl up from her heart.
Cut short. His gaze lost its steadiness and something flickered hard in his face; it looked suspiciously like grief. Rikki swayed toward him, caught up, and the man turned away, facing the curtain. “Hurry.”
She was losing her mind. “I don’t understand.”
“I am buying you time,” he said harshly. “And I will make certain no one sees you.”
Rikki froze. “How—”
“I heard you talking. Here. Out there.” He glanced over his shoulder and his gaze was raw. “I listened.”
Listened. Such a small thing. But this … what he was doing, unasked, without her needing to explain …
Saving you again.
Rikki pressed her palm against her gut, steadying herself, staring holes into the back of his head. “Thank you.”
“Hurry,” he said again, and Rikki did. She was careful as she stripped down. Had to talk herself through the act of peeling off her tank top and bra.
The man never turned. After a time, she began to relax enough to trust his word. His unspoken acceptance of what she needed.
She blasted herself with the hose. The water was lukewarm. The bleach burned her nostrils. She began to shake after less than a minute. Violent tremors, uncontrollable. Not from cold. She could not stop looking at the man.
“What’s your name?” she managed to utter.
“Amiri,” he said.
“Call me Rikki.”
“As you wish,” he replied softly, not turning, and Rikki closed her eyes. She closed her eyes and did not think about anyone watching her. For the first time in years, she touched her scars in the presence of another living person.
And she was not afraid.
Chapter Four
Bathed, dressed, inside the isolation ward, Rikki sat on a cot. She wore loose green scrubs, still damp. A new pair of tennis shoes were on her feet. Ruth had left clothing outside the curtains during the wash, and Amiri had passed a set over his shoulder. Mack had still protested afterward—promised to send a formal complaint to Larry—but that was fine. Let him. Just as long as he left her alone, unprofessional hypocrite that she was.
Amiri had not attempted to look at her body. No words of comfort, either. There was not a sound as Rikki had hosed him down with disinfectant. He had submitted with quiet dignity, certainly more than she possessed, and no trace of that broken grief she had glimpsed in his eyes. She might have blamed her imagination, if she had one.
Amiri sat across from her on another bed. Cross-legged. Eyes closed. A stranger, her rescuer; a dark Buddha, maybe. Serene and unaffected, his face nothing but a smooth mask. Rikki envied him. She could still taste the river in her mouth.
Stay clinical. Stay detached. Her mantra. Her prayer. Not that it helped. She needed another distraction. Her nostrils still ached, and bleach burns covered her body. A dull throb gathered at the base of her skull. She thought of that bad afternoon two years past. Friends dead. A gun jammed in her mouth. Knives flashing.
A certainty of death, she told herself. Her father’s face swam to mind. His gruff smile, his gnarled wrists bound together in handcuffs. That last wink before the bailiff took him away. Always trying to make her feel better.
Rikki could use some of that now. She dug her hands into the mattress and glanced at Amiri. There was no way to tell how he felt. She wanted to poke him in the chest, rattle his chain, start a fight. Make him show something other than that deep damn calm.
“Amiri,” she said, breaking the silence between them.
He looked at her. In this light she could see that his eyes were a true gold, like a cat. She remembered them glowing. Told herself it was a trick. Eyes did not glow.
The rest of him was singularly elegant: that chiseled face, the long lean body; strong arms and tapered fingers. Every movement—the turn of his head—preternaturally graceful. Beautiful. Predatory. Rikki felt like she was staring at someone who was only pretending to be human. It made her feel strange, like she was losing her mind.
“Amiri,” she said again when still he did not speak, regarding her instead with those uncanny eyes: farseeing, dangerous.
“Doctor Kinn,” he replied. She liked how her name sounded in his mouth, as though she were a lady. Soft and gentle. Something she had not felt for a long time.
They stared at each other. Rikki said, “I never thanked you.”
“I believe you did.”
“Not about the river.”
“Ah,” he said. Then, after a brief pause, “I would rather you did not.”
“Oh.” She felt stupid. “Of course. I’m sorry for what happened.”
“Sorry,” he echoed, frowning.
“It doesn’t mean much, I know,” she told him, trying to keep her voice empty, flat. “You saved my
life. You helped me. And this is what you get.”
His frown deepened. “You misunderstand me. Thanks and apologies are unnecessary. I did not save your life. Quite the opposite, given our current circumstances.”
Rikki hesitated. “The crocodile might not agree.”
But Amiri shook his head, as though it meant nothing. Like crocodiles were small things. She wished she could feel that way. Teeth still filled her head. Teeth and fire. Swallowing water fresh with bobbing bloody corpses.
Raw memories. Rikki tried to hold it together, but it was not her night. A violent shudder tore through her body, shaking her from head to toe. Filling her with a chill so profound she imagined her bones were knitted from ice cubes. Her teeth rattled. Fingers dug into her thighs. She could not stop quaking.
Amiri watched. Rikki forced herself to meet his gaze, daring him to say something. She hoped he would. All she needed was an excuse. Any excuse. Maybe then she would stop finding him so mesmerizing.
But he surprised her, again. She watched, suspicious and confused, as he slid off his cot and walked to one of the large plastic tubs stacked against the sheeting. He peeled back a lid and pulled out a folded blanket. Shook it loose, and before she could protest, was at her side, throwing the soft cotton over her shoulders like a cape. He tucked the edges around her legs.
Rikki never felt the weight of his hands. A light touch, delicate; it was in sharp contrast to his size, the strength she remembered so well, sharper still to the heaviness of his golden gaze, which held an odd mix of melancholy and determination. Hooks in her heart; like an echo resounding. His eyes were a mirror. All Rikki could do was stare.
Amiri’s fingers grazed her jaw. “I should call for someone.”
Hot. Each breath felt hot. Her lungs burned. Rikki stopped shaking, but only just. She clutched the soft blanket closer. “It’s nothing. But thank you.”
He shrugged and sat back on his cot, watching her carefully. “Are you warmer now?”
The Last Twilight Page 5