The Last Twilight

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Mireille nodded sharply. “I will find you extra hands. As for the rest, there is bottled water in the central tent, along with the medical supplies. You will find some food there, as well.”

  “Bottled water,” Amiri said dryly. “Evian, perchance?”

  Smart-ass, Rikki mouthed, over Mireille’s shoulder.

  The woman frowned. “Take it or drink from the pump at the center of the village.”

  Amiri inclined his head. “Later. First the phone.”

  “That will take time. There is a man with a phone, but he does not live here. I must send someone for him.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Hours, at the very least.” She raised her eyebrow. “Time enough for the children.”

  If you are telling the truth, she might have added. Amiri was quite willing to prove his worth.

  “Take this little fellow with you,” Rikki said, holding out her hand to the boy holding the ball. Silver flashed around his neck: a whistle, hanging from a cord covered in American flags. Rikki looked troubled when she saw it, but she said nothing as the boy took her hand, gripping his toy in the other like it was a lifeline.

  Rikki gave him to Amiri. He thought he must seem a monster to one so small; dangerous, intimidating, unsettling. But the boy did not turn away, and after a moment, Amiri picked him up. He looked like he needed to be held.

  “Your name?” he rumbled in French, noting scratches on the boy’s face, the red rims of his haunted eyes. His scent was odd, almost metallic. Like he had been riding in a machine for some time.

  “Kimbareta,” said the boy. “Kimbareta Adoula.”

  “That is a good strong name, Kimbareta. I am Amiri.”

  “Amiri,” echoed the boy, in a soft voice.

  Rikki watched them. Her expression was peculiar, inexplicable. Soft. It made his throat full, seeing her look at him like that. Made him ache and feel so full of emotion he thought every breath, every word he spoke for the rest of his life would be full of his heart.

  His father had been a fool. And maybe Amiri was, too, but he would take this way over the alternative, any day. No matter the danger.

  Amiri leaned in and brushed his lips across Rikki’s cheek. Her smile was soft, almost shy, and it made him warm like a lazy splash of sunlight on some golden summer day. Rikki was not a shy woman. This was a smile for him alone.

  There were words he wanted to say. Strong words. Powerful declarations. But he held them tight, wore them in his eyes. Rikki looked deep, searching his gaze. Nodded, just once.

  Amiri left with Mireille and Kimbareta, to go and teach the children.

  He was a killer, natural-born, had been raised to accept the price of blood. Not for murder, or pleasure, but survival. His father had been interested in little else, only strength, canniness, taking care. Amiri had failed him in all those things.

  But his life had been his own. His path, marked by nothing but his own sweat and ingenuity. And he had loved. He had loved his choices.

  Teaching felt like coming home again. It was the first time in years. Holding a book to a child. Feeling the child inside him bloom and swell. Even if he had never taught the alphabet with armed women breathing down his neck.

  There were ten in his impromptu class. Varying ages, but all of them were clean, moderately well dressed. They had books. A veritable library, surprisingly new—with letters in both English and French. A diversity of choices, some quite advanced, though nothing the children could not easily handle. Someone had been working with them.

  The boys and girls also presented him, with some pride, with pens and clean paper, rulers, calculators, new boxes of crayons—a treasure trove of school supplies so fresh and new they could have come straight from the aisle of an American grocery store. Amiri raised a pen to his nose and drew in the scent of cardboard and untouched plastic. New, indeed. It had hardly been unpacked from the box.

  “Who gave these to you?” Amiri asked the children, in French. It was the end of their second lesson, the third hour. Mathematics. Kimbareta leaned against his leg, still tracing numbers in the dirt with a stick. His other hand held the hem of the dark green wrap tied around Amiri’s waist. Mireille had practically thrown it at him, with orders to cover himself up.

  Amiri still held up the pen. One little girl, her hair pulled away from her face in neat narrow braids, reached out and took it from him.

  “The mondele,” she said, twirling the pen in her fingers. “They always brings gifts.”

  “Mondele,” echoed Amiri. “What does that mean?”

  Even Kimbareta looked at him like he was an idiot. The girl rolled her eyes. “The white man.”

  “And the man with the golden eyes,” said the boy, pointing. “Eyes like yours.”

  “Unnatural eyes,” Mireille said, speaking over Amiri’s shoulder. Her approach had been no secret. Neither were his questions. He turned, meeting her gaze. Letting her see his eyes.

  “Golden like mine?” he asked, as something hard squirmed in his gut.

  Mirielle’s mouth tightened. “I think you have taught the children enough for today. They can learn the rest on their own.”

  “They are gifted,” Amiri said, tearing his gaze from her to look at the boys and girls. They beamed at him, shuffling their feet. “All of you, quite brilliant.”

  “Doctors and lawyers,” Mirielle said, with the first real kindness he had seen since meeting her. It did not last, though. Her face hardened, and she clapped her hands. Children scattered. All except Kimbareta, whom Amiri hefted up into his arms. The child squirmed slightly, reaching down for his ball, left alongside the numbers written in the dust.

  Amiri picked it up. Handed it to the boy, who held it high. The sewn hide came quite close to the shape-shifter’s nose and he caught an unusual scent. Like monkeys. Blood.

  Again, something cold settled in his gut. Amiri steadied his breathing and began walking back to the tents, scanning the jungle border, which loomed impenetrable: the fields, with those long straight lines and soft soil, which he realized now had been plowed with machines; and the women, all the women, armed with guns. Watching the jungle as he did. Watching him, as well.

  Mirielle kept pace. She was the only unarmed woman he had seen in this place. He said, “You have foreign aid?”

  “One or twice a month,” she said, with some stiffness, fingering the cross at her throat. “They come with the mondele, their employers. They bring us supplies, protection, more refugees. And sometimes, they take women. For immigration to Europe and North America.”

  “They tell you this?” Amiri could see Rikki in the distance, bent over a prone figure resting on a cot. She seemed to be administering a shot. “Have they told you why they are helping?”

  “Goodwill,” she replied carefully. “They have interests in this region.”

  “Interests,” he muttered, and picked up his pace. He was almost running when he reached Rikki, and when she turned and saw him the raw relief that filled her face rocked him hard.

  He walked straight to her, ignoring the eyes scrutinizing him, the whispers, the child in his arms. He walked a straight line, unfaltering, and Rikki held her head high, watching him like a queen.

  He walked to her and he kissed her. Hard, full on the mouth. She leaned into him, her hands crawling up his ribs, and he felt somewhat delirious, like he was running through fire, on the edge of death, on the verge of the profound. The cheetah rumbled.

  Rikki broke off first, blinking hard. Breathless. Amiri’s heart pounded so violently he could hardly hear himself as he murmured, “We must leave this place. Now.”

  She did not look surprised, which told him something. A strained smile touched her lips—a grimace—and she looked down at Kimbareta. Touched the whistle around his neck.

  “Sweetie,” she said, in French. “Who gave you that?”

  “Doctor,” said the boy. “For my friend.”

  “A doctor.” Rikki exhaled slowly, like something was hurting inside
her.

  “Does that mean something to you?” Amiri murmured, conscious of Mireille listening.

  She sucked in breath, eyes hard, distant. “Nickel-plated, brand new, shining like a mirror. Attached to a shoestring covered in the old Red, White, and Blue? Yeah, that means something. There was a box of them on a doctor’s desk back at the camp. Never seen so many whistles.” Rikki turned toward Mireille. “And your medicines. I found coolers full of antibiotics, antimalarial drugs, anti-retroviral treatments for HIV … not to mention enough brand-new over-the-counter medication to kill a horse. You can’t get that here. Even the Red Cross jumps through hoops for some of what I found.”

  Mireille’s jaw tightened. “I will not deny help when offered.”

  The back of Amiri’s neck prickled. “Who offered? Who brought these new refugees to your camp?”

  “Ask them yourself,” she said coldly.

  “I did,” Rikki snapped. “They don’t remember how they arrived, but they sure as hell recall the camp they were dragged from. People started getting sick there. Men arrived. Foreigners. UN peacekeepers. They grabbed a handful of women and children, and put them in trucks. Administered shots. Next thing they knew, they had been relocated here.”

  “Were they sick at the time?” Amiri asked.

  “Not from the disease. They were the only ones standing at that point. Easy to find.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mireille asked sharply. “What is this?”

  “Don’t play dumb,” Rikki replied, cheeks flushed. “This place isn’t just any refugee camp or hidden fucking village.”

  “It is a holding ground,” Amiri finished, feeling Kimbareta twitch. “The men who help you are not doing so out of goodwill. They are using you.”

  Mireille’s gaze darkened, filling with a sharp weariness that was old and drawn. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

  Rikki stared. “I told you. We were ambushed.”

  “No,” she snapped. “Who sent you?”

  Amiri set his jaw. “No one.”

  Mireille’s raised her chin. “You lie.”

  “So do you,” Rikki said. “You knew where these people were from. You knew everything. You just didn’t give a damn.”

  The woman shot her a scathing look. Amiri heard movement behind them. Turned, just enough to see the guns pointed at his head. Kimbareta’s eyes widened. Rikki said, “Shit.”

  Mireille took the child. The boy resisted her, but Amiri made him go. Rikki moved close. He grabbed her hand, spinning slowly. Five guns. No escape. Everyone was staring.

  “I will go and find that phone,” Mireille said. “And then we will see.”

  And then we will fight, thought Amiri, squeezing Rikki’s hand. And you will die.

  Chapter Thirteen

  There was a scalpel in her pants, hidden in the folded-down waist of her scrubs. She could feel the cold metal through the cloth. The blade was very sharp. Rikki had put it there while rummaging through the medical supplies. No one had seen her. Mireille had left a guard, a woman with a gun, but Rikki used her to administer some aspirin and that was that. She had quick hands. A bad feeling. Which was now paying off.

  Two of the armed women led Rikki and Amiri to a small mud structure in the center of camp. Not a high-security outfit, but difficult to escape, nonetheless. Too much activity: children playing all around, women preparing meals, the main water pump right across from the door, not to mention guards. Four, that she counted, surrounding the hut. Mireille took no chances.

  The hut had only one room and no windows. No furniture, not even a bucket for a toilet. She sat down on the brushed dirt floor, chin on her knees, thinking. Amiri did not join her. He paced, movements aggressive, so tightly coiled she half-expected him to start kicking a hole through the wall.

  “What are we going to do?” Rikki asked him.

  “I do not know,” he replied tersely. “Escape. Gain control over the phone she mentioned.”

  She stood and grabbed his hands. He pulled away from her. “No. I will not go back to that place. I will not let them hurt you.”

  “We’ll escape.” Rikki was proud her voice did not waver. She felt light-headed, but a few quick breaths worked wonders to clear her mind; razor sharp, steady as a rock. Amiri, however, seemed to lose yet more of his composure. He began pacing again. Hands clenched into fists, loosening and squeezing; quick, violent.

  And then he stopped, directly in front of her. Looming over her body with lethal grace, leaving her breathless and overwhelmed with nothing but his presence, which burned into her skin like fire.

  “How did you cope when you were taken?” Amiri asked, voice flat, dull. “How did you control your fear?”

  Rikki did not know how to answer. No one had ever asked. “Moment by moment, I suppose. Each breath, every heartbeat. I didn’t think about the future or the past, just the present. Surviving, staying sane, one second after another.”

  He nodded, almost to himself. “I was tortured. It was not just experiments. Not only blood tests. They wanted to break me. And in a way, they did. Afterward, I gave up my earlier life. I could not rebuild it. I let fear rule me.” He gave her a piercing look. “But you … you did not. Why is that?”

  Again, she felt taken aback. “There was never a choice. I had no home, no family. If I had run, I would have been finished. I would never have owned my life. And I was … I was all I had.”

  “So you kept it. You fought for it.” Amiri gave her a faint smile. “I think I envy you, Rikki Kinn.”

  “You could still have it back, if that’s what you want.”

  “No,” he murmured. “I came to Nairobi with nothing. No friends, not two pennies, hardly an idea of what it meant to live amongst humans. My head was full of stories, and I was too young to know better. But I survived. I made a life. And now … now I have another.”

  “Also built from scratch.”

  “With friends. This time, friends.”

  “You know how to keep your friends. You don’t push them away.”

  “Friends who are meant to be do not allow themselves to be pushed. They stick, because they must.”

  “Shape-shifter wisdom?”

  “Experience.”

  “What about family?”

  His expression turned impossibly grave. “I never knew my mother. I never knew her name or where she lived. Only that she was human. My father used her to bear a child, nothing more. When I was born he stole me away and had me raised on the teats of a wild cheetah who had lost her cubs. I did not meet another human until I was three.”

  Rikki stared. “Those are the best parts?”

  “Essentials,” he replied, with a faintly bitter smile. “I have never lived an ordinary life.”

  No, she supposed not. “Why did your father keep you in such isolation?”

  “Shape-shifter children start changing their shapes at a young age. It happens naturally, without thought. But it makes us vulnerable to discovery. Imagine a human baby sprouting fur in the middle of an airplane or restaurant.” Amiri shook his head. “Isolation is safer.”

  “Or having a child with someone you trust.”

  Again, bitterness flooded his face. “My father, as you say, was a pragmatist. Far more than either of us. He did not believe in trust. Nor did he see the point in taking the time to learn the worthiness of a mate before convincing her to bear his child. I suppose I cannot fault him entirely. It was how he was raised, as well. Those who run as cheetah are so few, it has not been safe to mate with others of our particular kind for several generations.”

  It was like listening to the dry recitation of a nature special on PBS, only far more alien. “Do shape-shifters … only run as cheetahs?”

  “No. There are other kinds. Clans, if you will. Crows, leopards, dolphins, more and more that I cannot name. And other creatures that are even farther from humanity than we are.”

  “You could have children with them, couldn’t you?”

  Amiri hesitated. �
��With some, perhaps. But shape-shifters who are of different breeds … to take each other as mates … that is forbidden. The children would not be … normal.”

  “What do you mean by that? Why normal with humans, but not with other kinds of shape-shifters?”

  He shrugged, almost helplessly. “It is taboo.”

  “In other words, stop asking?”

  He smiled faintly. “What else would you like to know?”

  “Do you want children?”

  She watched him freeze, staring, and her heart ached so deep she had to force herself to breathe.

  “Forget it,” she said. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes,” he replied firmly. “Yes, I would. But I never thought—”

  Amiri stopped, looking past her at the curtained flap—the makeshift door. Rikki heard a scuffing sound, and then the material was pushed aside by Mireille. She held a pistol in one hand. In the other, rope.

  “Fuck that,” Rikki said immediately. “I’m not getting tied up again.”

  The woman tossed the rope at her feet. “Do it or I will kill you.”

  “No,” Amiri told her. “No, you will not.”

  Mireille’s eyes narrowed. Her finger rubbed the trigger. Safety off. “Orders, from you? Just who do you work for? A newspaper? Or with the United Nations?”

  Now Amiri was calm, steady as a rock. “Who do you work for? Who pays for this? Who keeps you safe?”

  Mireille’s eyes flickered. “You talk like you know so much, but to ask these questions …”

  “Questions you should ask,” Rikki said.

  Mireille’s mouth tightened. So did her trigger finger. “I have. I know who I work for.”

  “Do you really?” Amiri asked, far too softly. “Do you know everything?”

  She made a disgusted sound. “I am not the police. I receive what I need to keep my people safe, and that is all I care about. I do not want to know the rest. Details are irrelevant.”

  Rikki wanted to strangle her. “If the men helping you are who we think they are, none of you are safe.”

  Mireille made a hissing noise, pure fury flickering across her face. “What do you know of safety? All of us here have been tortured, thrown away by men and our country. We cannot work, because we might be raped. We cannot farm, because we might be raped. We cannot send our children to school, because we might never see them again. You could never understand that kind of fear. Never. But here—here—we are armed and fed. And if I have to cut out my soul and bury it, I will do so if it means we stay alive.”