It is, says the beast, its rumblings gurgling in its chest. It is nature.
He stands suddenly, his tail whipping in an agitated fashion, which quickly infects the others. He paces back and forth—in contemplation, Sydney thinks—before finally he lets out a roar that causes her insides to cramp up at the thought of such unbridled power. The beast returns to her, grazing the side of its head against the skin of her stomach. Marking her as his. A bold move, but Sydney allows it.
This one and its others can taste for man, it purrs. For the weak.
Sydney smiles as her hand glides against her own skin—the hardness of her thighs and the slickness between them. The ripples of her abs beneath down feathers and the gentle swell of her breasts. She grates her beak against his.
“Its others can go,” she growls as she lets her eyes drift shut, then exposes her throat toward the tip of its horn. “This one stays.”
Chapter 45
Muzi
Muzi clutches Nomvula’s body close, watching the twitch of what he hopes are dreams beneath her eyelids. She’s feverish, skin damp and hot, and it’s getting worse as they bake in this desert. The dead tumble over the cliff by the dozens, though occasionally, one of them will make it across the expanse—walking through air to the great forest. Muzi tries to guess which ones will make it and is almost always wrong. Some get farther than others, but the worst are those who come within a few steps of safety, only to go plunging into the sea of souls.
Muzi wonders about the pureness of his soul, the strength of his belief. He’s been no angel, God knows, but he’s loved hard and played hard, and studied hard for the most part. He’s made more friends than foes, and he had risked his life to save Nomvula’s. That has to be worth something.
Nomvula’s fever spikes, her clothing completely damp with sweat. She needs help. Now. Muzi hefts her up into his arms and steps toward the cliff. If this doesn’t work, he’s doomed anyway. The whole world might be.
Muzi clears his mind, then focuses on the spark inside him, his true self, unpolluted by the outside world, by temptation and hatred and lust. He surrounds his spark with kindness, love, and compassion, with the faces of those he cares about most—his parents and his sister for their unfailing love, his cousins for all their unending laughter, Elkin for his undying friendship, and Nomvula for her bravery in the face of danger and for her tears in the face of sadness. He keeps them all clutched close to his heart as he raises his foot and allows his center of gravity to shift into that most uncomfortable place.
His foot catches on something invisible yet solid, and he exhales the faintest sigh. He pushes away the pride creeping into his soul, no place for that. Not right now. Each step requires more focus than the last, and by the time he’s halfway across, he feels the outside world pressing against his thoughts, his concentration.
The temptation is subtle at first, the brusk scent of marijuana drifting on the breeze. Muzi’s lips moisten, and he spends half a thought imagining he’s puffing a joint to calm his nerves, to ease his mind. He pushes it away. That’s not who he is anymore. Not some kid looking for the easy way out, burying his problems under plumes of tacky smoke. He’s a man, now. But men, they have their own temptations, don’t they?
Muzi feels the breath running down his neck, unseen hands against his chest, strikingly cold and unworldly. He feels every single hair on his skin stand alert as those icy hands make their way toward his budding erection. He hears his name in the wind, fainter than a whisper, but unmistakably Elkin’s voice. Muzi shudders, his step falters. Eyes half lidded, he almost calls back. It isn’t real, he knows, but a part of him doesn’t care, a part of him bigger than he wants to admit. Muzi bites his lip, keeps his gait steady. Lust is fleeting. Love is what makes you traipse across the afterlife, hoping against hope that you’ll be reunited, if only for a single moment to say good-bye.
The air thickens around him, heavy in his lungs. He’s so close, he could lunge for the cliff if he didn’t have Nomvula in his arms. The smell of fruit is sweet, the greenery lush and cool, and so thick Muzi barely sees the dark figure standing in the shadow of an acacia tree near the ledge. Muzi swallows hard when he recognizes the face . . . his grandfather, dressed in khakis, a gun clenched in his hand. Papa Fuzz steps out of the shadows, his brow coarse and pulled tight.
Muzi missteps, his right leg fishing around in front of him for a footing he can’t find. He backs up, shaking. From Nomvula’s weight. From fear. From anger.
“Muzikayise,” Papa Fuzz says, his voice low and rumbling inside Muzi’s chest. “He who builds his father’s house.”
Muzi’s known the meaning of his given name from the time he was big enough to play with toy blocks. Papa Fuzz would sit Muzi in his lap, and together they’d build—forts, towers, castles with moats. His grandfather would tell him amazing stories of Xhosa courage, strength, and valor. Muzi had wanted so badly to grow up to be like Papa Fuzz. But now Muzi realizes those stories were just that. Stories.
“I’m disappointed with you, son. How many times did I tell you that boy was trouble?”
Muzi falters. He knows it’s not real, but the shame welling up within him is. Maybe Papa Fuzz was right all along. Muzi wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for Elkin. The spark inside Muzi starts to fade, but then he remembers what his sister had said.
Don’t let anyone extinguish the spark inside you, Muzi. It’s what makes you, you.
For better or worse, Elkin’s always been there for him, and he’s not about to let him down. “Elkin may be trouble, but he’s my best friend, and nothing you say will change that.”
“It’s not too late, son. Forget about him and join me. We can build castles here like you wouldn’t believe! It could be like old times, Muzikayise. Just you and me.” Papa Fuzz comes closer, drifting through the air. He reaches out, and Muzi expects for his ghostlike form to pass through him, but instead his withered hands latch around Nomvula and peel her from Muzi’s trembling arms.
“Don’t!” Muzi screams, shaking so badly that he dares not take a step to follow.
“She’s safe. Don’t you trust your own grandfather?” Papa Fuzz returns to the cliff’s edge and places Nomvula in the shade of a lush, low-growing palm tree. Its broad fronds wrap around her like swaddling blankets. Vines tumble down from taller trees, then worm their way around Nomvula’s cocoon, lifting her from the ground.
“No, I don’t trust you,” Muzi spits. “I don’t even know who you are, and as far as I’m concerned, you can build your own damn house!” Anger swells within Muzi, his thoughts racing every which way, face flushed, his heartbeat pounding in his neck. “You’re a poacher! I saw you kill that elephant!”