The Last Twilight Read Online Free PDF Page A

was heartfelt, its public face was simply a cover for the truth: that the men and women of Dirk & Steele were remarkable for reasons entirely separate from their skills at sleuthing—and that, indeed, not all of them were completely, definitively, human.
    But they are home, Amiri reminded himself. Home and family.
    Mysteries, living riddles—psychics and gargoyles, mermen and shape-shifters, creatures beyond legend—hiding in plain sight, mingling with humanity. And, oh, how miraculous not to be alone. Even if Amiri so often was.
    The three men flew out on a private jet, a concession to Max, who found the packed quarters of a commercial airliner and all the minds within too much to bear for any extended period of time.
    Amiri, too, disliked air travel. The scents were always bitter and cold, the people worse, stress rolling from skin to rub against his nose like sandpaper soaked in sweat. Breathing through his mouth never helped; his tongue could taste the ugliness. It reminded him of a cage. But he endured, in the relative comfort that only money could buy, and twenty-four hours later, he found himself back in Africa. Not Kenya, but close enough.
    The Kinsangani airport was a mess. Crowded, hot. The immigration officials wanted bribes, which were paid; taxi drivers and beggars mobbed the outer doors of the terminal. Chaos, with a voice. But Amiri ignored it all the moment he stepped outside. Warmth washed over him, soaking into his muscles. He did not shield his eyes when the sun burned his face. He gazed up and up, staring into the white burning bloom.
    A dusty dented van pulled alongside them and a dark-skinned man with even darker freckles peered out the window. He motioned with his hands and yelled, “From Larry, yes? I am Duna, his liaison!”
    Amiri, Max, and Eddie got in, and were blasted immediately by a rattling air conditioner that sounded less gentle than a chain saw. Amiri slammed shut the sliding door, nearly taking off fingers as the crowd surged around them, banging on the windows. Duna shouted. Eddie looked concerned and Max simply winced. Amiri closed his eyes and put his head back, listening to the babble of voices. A rainbow of sound. He had forgotten what that was like.
    “They want money before they let us leave,” said Duna, but a tight grin passed over his face and he put the van in gear, gunning the engine. The vehicle rocked once, then pushed through the shouting crowd like a fat slug squeezing through a keyhole. Amiri glimpsed moving hands, the glint of steel tire spikes, but the van lurched free before its wheels could be turned into flapping rubber and he gripped the seat as they careened onto the road, narrowly missing an oncoming flood of bicycles and motorbikes.
    “Jesus,” Max said.
    “Eh,” shrugged Duna, and flung his arm back, nearly jabbing Amiri in the eye as he pointed toward the rear of the van. “Gifts. With Larry’s best regards.”
    Amiri shared a quick look with Eddie, and bent over the seat. Pulled back a blanket. Stared at an open crate filled with AK-47s, several handguns, and a bin filled with Band-Aids.
    “Huh,” Eddie said.
    “You’re not a typical assistant,” Max added.
    Duna merely shrugged. Amiri reached down and fingered the Band-Aids, which were an astonishing shade of purple. He bit back a smile. “For bullet wounds, I assume?”
    “Blood does stain, after all,” Duna said, slyly.
    “How very true,” Amiri replied, and patted Eddie on the back as he began to cough.
    Duna did not take them far—hardly more than a mile off the narrow freeway, down a rough side street where he parked beside a billboard covered in hand-painted French. Advertisements for a film development service, antiques, and Jesus. A chicken scratched the dust, and nearby in an open red shed, Amiri saw a barbershop— men on chairs staring into cracked handheld mirrors while shears clipped and danced. He heard laughter, American rap blasting through stereos, the murmur of women,