She dreamed of M’cal. It was not a good dream. He lay on his back in a circle of sand, naked, but the lower half of his body was inhuman. He had the tail of a fish, iridescent and straining with long, rippling muscles. His body glistened with water, and his hair was wet, plastered against his face, framing eyes so anguished, so heartbroken, Kit could feel his pain like a punch in the gut.
There was blood on him. Bite marks. Nothing held him down, yet he seemed unable to sit up. Kit listened to him scream. Felt herself begin to do the same.
The dream changed. Kit staggered, temporarily blind to everything but M’cal’s voice inside her head, begging for help. Not her help. Not the help of any one person. But just someone. Someone, please.
Kit choked back tears, terrible inexplicable grief. She felt seared to the soul by his pain, by his impossible appearance, which had no precedent in her life or mind even if it was just a dream. She knew it was just a dream. It could not be more. Not after what she had just seen. It was too impossible.
Kit smelled mint. Her dream changed. M’cal’s voice died away, replaced by John Fogerty’s “Born on the Bayou,” turned way up on some radio. Beneath the pump and brawl of the song, she heard her grandmother singing along.
Old Jazz Marie, a woman of round curves, perched on a stool on the veranda, with the hot summer wind blowing through the cypresses from the swamp. Kit held her breath, staring. It had been a long time since she dreamed of her grandmother. A year, to be exact. The last time had been on the night of her death.
“Storm coming,” said the old woman, a thick bone needle in her hand. She threaded a narrow leather cord through a piece of hide. In front of her, on the battered table, Kit saw herbs and roots; a chicken foot, some bits of fur; a cup brimming with soft, rich dirt. Little stones. Little dolls. Little bones.
Kit watched her grandmother’s face, studying the high, wide cheeks, the polished amber undertones of her dark skin. Her hair had been gray for years—as steely and sharp as a thundercloud—and she wore it wild, held back only by a dark red scarf.
“You always say that,” Kit said. “There’s always a storm.”
“Hush. Don’t go twisting words on an old woman.” Her grandmother stopped sewing and looked at her, straight and clear. “You caught the mark on this one, Kitty Bella. Got eyes on you, for sure. Knew it would happen eventually. Women like us can’t go ‘round without drawing attention. Bad and good.”
“I’m nothing like you,” Kit said gently. “Despite what I see.”
“Because of what you see.” Old Jazz Marie spat into the leather, rubbing it hard with her thumb. “Because of what you do. You got power, little cat. And you’re gonna need it.”
“Tell me. I don’t understand.”
“You never did. Enough talent to choke a volcano, but you still don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground. Hell, child. Come here.”
Kit did as she was told, and watched her grandmother pierce her thumb with the bone needle. Blood welled. Just enough to smear across Kit’s neck wound. Old Jazz Marie’s breath quickened, and she mumbled a string of words in some indecipherable patois. She ended with a high mighty cry that cut Kit right down to the bone.
The old woman slumped over, closing her eyes. She looked tired, weary, as she had only days before her death. Kit reached out to touch her, but her grandmother knocked away her hand. Her eyes were still closed.
“Get going,” she murmured, breath whistling through her teeth. “Get gone. You been dreamin’ too long.”
“No,” Kit said. “I miss you.”
“No time.” The old woman’s shoulders hunched even more. “You gotta be strong, girl. Strong in the heart. Trust yourself. Trust him.”
“Him?” she echoed, startled; but it was too late. Her grandmother died again, slipped away with a breath, and Kit opened her eyes, awake. Her cheeks were wet. She was still crying.
Morning. Light outside. Kit stared at the ceiling and pulled her heart back together, listening to “Raglan Road” curl through her mind as she sewed and mended the cuts caused by seeing her grandmother again. By seeing M’cal.
She touched her neck, searching. Found no blood. No wound either. Her skin was smooth. The pain was gone.
Kit closed her eyes, suffering a deep chill, heartache. She did not bother rising to look into a mirror. It was not the first healing Old Jazz Marie had performed on her granddaughter. Of course, the last time she had done it, she had been alive.
Granny, Granny, Kit called out silently, touching the gris-gris tangled tight with her cross. What is going on?
No one answered. Of course.
Kit wiped her face and rolled over to look at the clock. It was eight. She had slept the whole night. Wasted all that time. Alice might be dead.
She’s already dead—today, tomorrow, or next week. You can’t change fate. Just walk away.
Walk away, as she should have done in the first place. As she had with so many others, including M’cal, who had saved her life. She’d taken the path of the cold heart, because there were just too many people needing help, and not one of them would have believed Kit if she had told the truth—which was unpleasant, unhelpful. Don’t get murdered were not words to inspire hope.
But this time was different. Kit had taken that step and Alice had believed her. For what good it had done.
Kit sat up slowly. Her muscles ached, and her mouth tasted rotten. She perched for a moment on the edge of the bed, staring out the window. The city was gray in the daylight. Gray skies, gray buildings. She could see Coal Harbor between the high-rises, wondered how many people could say they had ever almost drowned in that cold water. Probably more than she wanted to know.
Kit found her fiddle case and popped the latch. The airtight seal caused a sucking sound, but that only made her smile. She bought nothing but the best for her fiddle, which had a smooth sweet tone courtesy of a backwoods genius in Tennessee, retired from the craft except for the occasional custom job. Old Earl, who happened to be a friend of her father’s, could make violins that rivaled any Stradivarius. Not that the man was prone to bragging. Kit’s fiddle had been a gift on her tenth birthday, and it was made of Smokey Mountain blood and bones, with a sound just as powerful.
The interior velvet of the case, purple as a summer iris, was still dry. Thank goodness she had insisted on a waterproof construction, and a custom tight fit. The fiddle layin its soft foam bed like an amber jewel, fit for the hand of a queen. And when Kit played her music, she felt like one. She removed the instrument, made herself comfortable, and laid it on her stomach. Plucked a tune while she stared at the ceiling.
So. Men had tried to kill her. Men who worked for corrupt police officers. Corrupt police officers hired to murder and kidnap. She wondered if Officer Yu and her partner knew who she was. If they would come looking for her once they found out she was still alive.
Of course they’ll come. You saw everything.
And there was M’cal to think of, as well. What he had told her. Someone else wanted her dead.
Trust yourself. Trust him.
Him. M’cal. Kit recalled her dream, her vision: a hole in his throat gushing blood; his eyes, burning with heartbreak; his body, transformed.
He breathed underwater, said a little voice. He breathed for you both.
Kit still wore his coat. She buried her nose in the thick wool collar, caught a scent, strong and masculine; but it was nothing she could identify. Only, it was warm and dark, and made her think of the sea.
Kit set aside her fiddle and curled deeper inside M’cal’s coat, surrounding herself with the shadow of his presence, once again pretending it was his arms, his long, lean body. It made her feel safe. And stupid. The man was a killer. No matter his reasons.
Trust him, echoed her grandmother’s voice. Easier said than done. If he was the man she was referring to.
Kit forced herself to sit up and went searching for her jacket, which was still wet. She rummaged through the pockets and found the soggy r
emains of the business card Alice had slipped her. The card was simple and white. It belonged to an Alice Hardon, Youth Counselor, at 300 Templar Street.
A youth counselor worth killing over? Worth paying cops to break the law?
Kit blew out her breath. Alice had given her the card for a reason. Perhaps someone at her workplace would know what kind of trouble she was in. Maybe even how to find her. Not that Kit could go to the police with that information. She wasn’t sure she could trust any cop now.
Kit drummed her fingers against the bed, weighing her options. There were only two: run or fight. Both were poor. She was no Rambo Tomb Raider Amazon who kicked ass on her days off.
But she was no coward either. Not even close.
Kit grabbed the phone. Hesitated, then dialed a number. Held her breath. Because when times were tough, it was good to have a best friend. Maybe her only friend, given that Kit socialized about as much as a rock. Delilah Reese was another fine artist, but her medium was metal, not music. Not that it mattered. Their grandmothers had been friends, and had introduced the two girls at the tender ages of twelve and thirteen. No looking back after that.
But Dela was more than a good friend; she was a friend with connections. The kind that carried guns.
She answered on the third ring, sounding calm, alert. Probably up to her elbows in hot metal. She had an art exhibit soon.
Kit exhaled. “It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Hello to you, too,” Dela said slowly. “But why do I get the feeling this isn’t a pleasure call?”
“Because it’s not,” Kit replied, and after making sure her friend was sitting down, told her entire story. Mostly. She left out the part about how she knew Alice was going to die. Nor did she mention how M’cal had breathed for her underwater, or forced men to kill themselves with nothing but his voice. That was too … strange. And disturbing. Something Dela would never believe. Something Kit did not want to explain. She had secrets, just as Dela, she suspected, had her own.
Her friend remained silent for a very long time. Kit said, “Hey.”
“Hey. Would it be impolite of me to say that you’re screwed?”
Kit rolled her eyes. “Anything else?”
“You need to get out of town?”
“I wish.”
“Well, wish your way onto an airplane. I’ll even spring for the ticket.”
“It’s not that easy, Dela. I can’t go until I know this woman is safe.”
“Bullshit. You’ve done your duty with this phone call. The agency will handle the rest. They’re the best, Kit.”
They, meaning Dirk & Steele, the detective agency Dela’s grandparents had founded and run for the better part of sixty years. According to her, it had one of the finest reputations in the world; and Kit believed it. She had even dated one of its agents—Blue Perrineau, a real boy scout. All of the agents were to some degree, best as she had seen. She doubted Dela and her family would settle for less.
“I have to be involved,” Kit said.
“You’re in danger. On more than one front.”
“Doesn’t matter. I feel responsible for Alice. You’d feel the same if you had been there. They were brutal, Dela. Ruthless. But she still tried to help me. Those men were forcing me out of the car, and she …” Kit stopped, swallowing hard. “I have to do this.” Had to help one person, as if it would make up for all the others. Though if Alice, then why not M’cal as well? Why had she resisted telling him?
He said he was going to kill you. What do you owe him for that?
Easy answer. She owed him her life. Kit counted heartbeats. Listened to the wind howl outside the hotel window. A storm was coming.
Dela finally sighed. “We need to find out what Alice Hardon and her uncle were into.”
“Hope you’re not planning on involving the cops,” Kit said.
“No. Not yet. Just the Gunslingers.” That was Dela’s pet name for the men and women of the detective agency.
M’cal’s coat collar still pressed against Kit’s cheek. She did not push it away. Inside her head, a passage from Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain pounded, keeping time with her heart. The music reminded her of M’cal’s eyes. She inhaled, tugging the coat closer.
Crazy. You are so damn crazy to still want his scent.
But it was a shield; better than thinking about those men, what they had done to her. What they would have done. Better to remember M’cal and his scent. His mouth. His arms. His hands.
Hands that had broken Dutch’s neck. Hands that belonged to a man who could sing others to death, who had impaled another with a long steel pipe.
Kit closed her eyes. “I appreciate your help, Dela. More than I can say.”
“You’re my friend,” Dela said quietly. “I would come myself if I could, but Mahari is sick, and even if I could find someone to watch him, I shouldn’t travel right now. I shouldn’t even be at the forge.”
“Three months left, right?” Kit smiled, feeling wistful. “I’m surprised you can walk.”
“I think I’m having a litter,” Dela said, with so little humor Kit bit back a joke that sprang to mind. “Just you wait until it’s your turn.”
“Never,” she replied, making her voice light, breezy. “Never going to happen.”
Dela, thankfully, was a good enough friend not to give her the obvious lecture. Like, It won’t happen if you don’t make time for it, or, It’ll happen when you least expect it. She left it alone. Moved on.
“It just so happens that Hari is in Seattle for the weekend,” she said. “He’s with some of the other guys. They’re, um, having a reunion of sorts.”
Hari was Dela’s husband, a giant of a man who looked like a warrior out of a fairytale but who held his wife’s hand like it was made of snow and glass; precious, delicate. Dela had met him in China under mysterious circumstances—which she had still not shared—and dragged him home, willing that he was, like a prize from war. The two had been joined at the hip ever since.
Kit could only imagine the trouble those other guys were getting him in. “Did the big men bring teddy bears and matching pajamas?”
“You have no idea.”
“Darn,” Kit said. “My world for a camera.”
Dela snorted. “They can get to you in less than three hours, maybe two. Think you can stay put for that long?”
“Sure.”
“Kit.”
“Relax,” Kit replied, fingering Alice’s business card. “Where could I possibly go?”
She took a shower after she got off the phone with Dela. Washed away the night. Touched her neck, prodding the skin. There was no sign of any wound, not even on her scalp where she had been hit. A chill settled through her. She pretended it was her grandmother, and the cold turned warm.
Her hair remained a soft mess—more frizz than curls—but Kit tied it back with a red scarf that draped over the collar of her denim jacket. Shades of Jazz Marie. Thinking for a moment, Kit slipped on her reading glasses with their thick tortoiseshell frames, trying to pull a fast Clark Kent. Secret Identity 101. She looked into the mirror and studied her face. She imagined her grandmother staring back; she had the old woman’s eyes.
Uncanny, her father had once said. Uncanny and beautiful.
Kit almost called her parents. She wanted to hear their voices; something warm, familiar. Someone to reassure her. Someone to say good-bye to, just in case.
She checked her cell phone. It was wet, much like everything else in her green leather purse. She tried to turn it on, and nothing happened. Busted. She tossed it back into her bag, glanced at the hotel phone, and looked away. Grabbed her fiddle case and left the room.
There was an ATM in the marble lobby. Kit withdrew as much as she could and paid for another night. Pocketing the rest, she grabbed one of the idling cabs waiting in the cramped drive just outside the glass doors.
The cabbie was a swarthy man; dark beard, sharp eyes, white turban. He had an Indian accent. He looked at the address on
Alice’s business card and said, “That’s right off East Hastings. Not a good neighborhood. You sure you want to go there?”
“Have to,” Kit said. “You won’t take me?”
“No, no,” he said, handing back the card. “Just a warning. You stay in this place, you have money. People with money don’t go to that street. Not on purpose. Too much shit.”
Kit did not say anything. She knew poor. Poor did not frighten her. Finding Alice dead with a knife in her eye, on the other hand, did. Ending up like Alice, or worse, scared her even more.
The cabbie drove fast. Downtown spirited by in a rush, sleek and tall and modern. It was a Saturday, and the sidewalks were full of youthful athleticism, cool charm. Vancouver felt like a young city. Kit wanted to stand on some street corner and play her fiddle, to busk as she had on the sidewalks of New York and Nashville with her father.
Good training, he liked to say. Nothing keeps an artist sharper than trying to reel in folks who don’t want to be reeled.
Kit wondered what else she needed to sharpen up on. Maybe kickboxing. Swimming. Running like hell. Or better yet, shutting off her mind so she never saw another murdered man or woman in her life.
They drove through Gastown; all brick and cobblestone, buildings that reeked of the historic, spilling over with shops and restaurants; quaint, elegant, hip. Just like any other tourist-trap shopping district in any other city in the world. Kit thought it needed music to make it click.
Then the neighborhood changed. Several turns down some narrow streets and the city crumbled, right before her eyes, transforming like Cinderella’s pumpkin carriage at midnight into a street of torn facades and broken windows, boarded-up restaurants plastered in paper advertisements of indie concerts and movies. There were some signs of life: several 99-cent stores, some diners, a liquor depot. Billboards painted on tall buildings declared them to be hotels—rooms rented by the week or the hour. Nothing Kit hadn’t seen before. Or hadn’t lived in.
Templar Street appeared to be in the heart of the Hastings district, a block down from a long line of homeless people waiting to enter a soup kitchen. It was chilly out, overcast, but women trawled the street corner in short skirts and high heels, jacket collars piled high with fake fur rubbing their cheeks. Some of them were marked as dead—strangled, beaten, shot. Hard to look at; visions of murder swam hot in Kit’s head.
Soul Song Page 6
