Prologue-KOJO （ALEMAYEHU） #3
She lives, my Bouda whispers, and the voice is hollow now. Broken in a way I have never heard. Hold onto that, brother. Your sister lives.
I stay on that hillside until dawn, watching my home become ash.
The screams fade eventually. The gunfire stops.
The humans load their vehicles with whatever they came to take and drive away into the brightening sky, leaving nothing behind but smoke and ruin and the scattered remains of everyone I ever loved.
We must move, my Bouda says when the sun crests the horizon. They will search for survivors. We cannot be here when they come back.
I do not respond. There are no words left in me.
Alemayehu. Brother. We must survive. Zaki may need us. Your fated mate may need you. We cannot die here.
I turn my back on the smoldering ruins and walk into the wilderness without looking back.
SIX MONTHS LATER — SOMEWHERE IN EAST AFRICA
The dumpster smells like rotting vegetables and old meat and fish that died weeks ago.
I shove my arm deeper into the refuse anyway, my claws scraping against rusted metal as I search for anything that will not kill me when I eat it.
My body burned through its reserves weeks ago.
The furnace that once made me the strongest hunter in the clan now consumes me from the inside, demanding fuel I cannot provide.
Left side, my Bouda directs. Near the bottom. I smell bread. And what might be cheese if we are lucky.
I shift my weight and dig in the direction indicated.
My fingers close around something solid, a chunk of stale bread, covered in a film of green mold.
I bring it to my nose and inhale, trying to determine if it will sustain me or make things worse.
The mold is surface only, my Bouda assesses.
Scrape it off. The inside is still good.
We have eaten worse. Remember the rat in Nairobi?
I would rather not remember the rat in Nairobi. That rat kept us alive for three days. Do not be precious about your food when you are elbow-deep in garbage, Alemayehu. Beggars and scavengers cannot afford pride.
I scrape the mold off with my thumbnail and shove the bread in my mouth. It tastes like cardboard, but my stomach cramps with what passes for gratitude. I keep digging, and my Bouda keeps directing me toward the least rotten options.
I have been moving west for six months, staying off the roads, avoiding the cities, hunting when I can and scavenging when I cannot.
The poachers are still out there. I have seen their vehicles, heard their radios, caught the scent of their weapons on the wind.
They are hunting someone. You, my Bouda confirms. They are hunting you.
You are the last witness to what they did.
They will not stop until they are certain the Bouda are extinct.
I do not know why I keep running. The clan is dead. Zaki is gone, swallowed by the chaos of that night, probably dead like the rest of them despite what I saw on that ridge. I am a male without a Queen, a guardian without anyone to guard. In the old ways, I should have died fighting.
You want to die, my Bouda says. You have wanted to die every day for six months. But I want to live. And between the two of us, I am the one who controls the legs when it matters. We have had this conversation a hundred times.
I never win.
You do not win because I am right, he says. Dying is easy. Any idiot can die. Surviving when everything in you wants to quit? That takes something special. That takes a Bouda.
A sound behind me. Footsteps. Human. I spin, my Ridge calcifying, my claws extending, a snarl building in my throat.
One human, my Bouda assesses instantly. Male. Unarmed. Heartbeat elevated but steady. He is nervous, but not afraid. Interesting. Most humans are terrified of us.
The human stands at the mouth of the alley, backlit by the afternoon sun. Dark skinned. Dressed in layers meant for travel despite the heat. He carries a bag over one shoulder, some kind of small sleek device.
“Easy.” His voice is calm and controlled, and he raises both hands with palms out. “I’m not here to hurt you.” I do not relax. His scent is clean, my Bouda reports. Not a trace of weapon oil or gunpowder or those blue rifles. This man has never killed anything larger than a mosquito.
“I’ve been looking for you,” the man continues, taking one slow step forward. “For six months. Ever since the massacre.”
Massacre. My claws extend without my permission, digging into my palms. Such a small word for the end of everything.
“You know what I am.” My voice comes out rough and cracked from disuse. I have barely spoken since that night.
“I do.” He stops three meters away, close enough to talk, far enough to run if I lunge.
Smart positioning. “I’m a journalist. I document what’s happening to shifters, the ones who choose not to migrate to Wintermoon.
I was in the region when your clan fell.
” He swallows, his composure cracking for just a moment.
“I heard the cackle. I’ve never heard anything like it. ”
He is telling the truth, my Bouda observes. His heartbeat did not spike. His scent carries no deception. This man believes every word he is saying.
“Why are you here?” I demand.
“Because you’re the last one.” He meets my eyes without flinching, despite the inhuman amber that should send any sensible human running. “The last Bouda in Africa, maybe the last in the world. And you’re going to die out here if someone doesn’t help you.”
“Maybe I want to die.” He shrugs in response.
“Maybe. But I don’t think your other half agrees.”
I do not agree, my Bouda confirms. Tell him he is correct. I like this human. He has a spine.
“What do you know about my Bouda?” I keep my voice flat despite the surprise.
“I know that Bouda shifters are different.” He speaks carefully now, picking his way through the words. “I know that your beast isn’t just instinct. It’s a voice. And I’m betting that voice has kept you alive when you wanted to give up. Am I wrong?”
He knows too much, my Bouda growls. This is suspicious. Test him.
His scent. Smell deeper. There is something underneath the soap and the coffee.
I inhale, filtering through the layers until I catch it. It’s faint, the scent of Jasmine and old blood, and beneath that, a cold trace that makes my Ridge prickle. Vampire.
“You’ve been around vampires,” I say. The man blinks, genuinely surprised, and then laughs.
“You’re good. Yeah, I have contacts in Wintermoon. That’s where I want to take you, if you’ll let me.”
Wintermoon. My Bouda tastes the word like meat.
The sanctuary. The place where shifters go to hide from humans who want them dead.
I think it could also be a place to die with dignity, surrounded by our own kind.
Or to live, my Bouda counters. Zaki may have survived.
She may have made it there. We do not know she is dead.
And your fated mate could be anywhere. She could be on Wintermoon right now, waiting for you, and you are standing in a dumpster feeling sorry for yourself.
“What is your name?” I ask.
“Aiden.” The human extends his hand, then seems to think better of it and lets it drop. “And you?”
I open my mouth to speak my birth name. Alemayehu.
What my mother gave me, what the Matriarch spoke when she touched my head and called me sister-son.
It dies on my tongue. Let him go, my Bouda says quietly, and his voice is gentle now in a way he rarely is.
That man burned with the village. Watched his Queen die and could not save her.
Carrying his name will not bring him back. It will only make the weight heavier.
A new name for a new life? It is survival, he says. And survival is what we do. Pick a name. Something that does not taste like ash.
I think of the old stories, the names from before the clans fractured and scattered across the continent. Names that meant endurance, persistence, the will to continue when everything said stop.
“Kojo,” I say finally. The word feels foreign on my tongue.
Borrowed. It means born on Monday, my Bouda observes.
Were you born on Monday? I do not remember anymore.
It does not matter. Close enough, my Bouda decides.
Kojo. It is a strong name. Simple. A name for a man who is starting over. I approve.
“Kojo.” Aiden nods like the name carries weight. “Alright, Kojo. Let’s get you out of this dumpster and somewhere with actual food. We’ve got a long way to go.” He turns and starts walking without checking to see if I follow.
I like him, my Bouda announces. He does not beg or grovel. He just expects us to be smart enough to recognize a good opportunity when it is standing in front of us. That is a man who understands how survivors think.
He could be leading us into a trap. He could be, my Bouda agrees. But he smells like hope, and we smell like garbage. I know which scent I prefer. Follow him, Alemayehu. Let’s see where this leads.
I step out of the dumpster and follow him into the blinding sun.
Good, my Bouda whispers, and his voice holds something it has not held in six months.
We survive, scavenge, and adapt. That is what Bouda do.
And somewhere out there, a woman is waiting for us.
A mate whose scent will make all of this running mean something.
We just have to stay alive long enough to find her.
Wintermoon. I hold the word close as I walk, and for the first time in months, my Bouda goes quiet.
Not for lack of words.
He is finally, cautiously, allowing himself to hope.