He could not finish. He tried to let go of her hand, but Kit hung on. She knew it was dangerous—could feel it in her weakened body, in his strength—but there was a part of her that recognized this moment as something vital, infinitely important. Something to fight for.
Even if it’s for nothing. Even if it breaks your heart. Kit glanced down at the strong lean lines of M’cal’s throat and found his skin pale, free of blood and holes. Memory lingered, though. Death. She had caught more glimpses of it outside the Youth Center, inside Edith’s office. Almost tasted the scent of his murder.
But he’s not dead yet. Forget the how or why or when. You’ll never know the answer until it is too late. Focus on now.
Now. What a concept. Forgetting the future had never been an easy thing to do.
Kit’s back hurt; the fiddle case still hung against her. She tried to pull the strap over her head. Her arms were stronger, but it was still an effort. M’cal leaned in close to help her. Close enough to feel his warmth flow over her body; close enough to inhale his scent; close enough to kiss.
“How did I save myself?” Her voice sounded low, husky.
M’cal took his time pulling the strap over her head. She leaned in even more. His eyes flickered to her face. “Your music, Kitala. There is power in your music. You defended yourself with it.”
“I didn’t feel like I was defending myself.” On the contrary; Kit had felt like she was making the best music of her life.
The strap got caught in her wild mass of hair. She placed her hand on M’cal’s hard chest, tilting her head so that he could free the case. The arch of her neck lay exposed. M’cal faltered; one hand curled behind her back, supporting her. The other still held the fiddle case.
Kit met his gaze, and for a moment time stretched like a moonbeam reaching through a cloud, and she heard inside her head soft notes that could have been a voice, his voice, lilting like a ghost unseen. Music to love, even if everything else was strange. Music as blood and bone, another heart. Music that called to her soul.
M’cal’s gaze drifted down to her neck. She did not look at his, just kept her eyes locked on his face, suffering confusion, desire, fear and something more, deeper; the sense that once again this moment meant more than any other. That her life as she knew it was gone, dead, changed.
He kissed her neck. Kit closed her eyes, savoring the heat of his mouth, feeling it move through her, pool in her heart like a slow rhapsody. He kissed her again, and then once more, his lips trailing up her throat, and just when she thought her mouth would be next, he pulled her against him, tucking her close, in what had to be the most gentle embrace of her life.
“This cannot last,” he murmured. “Whatever you did will not last.”
Kit’s hand crept to his shoulder. “I don’t understand.”
M’cal began to pull away from her. Kit grabbed the front of his shirt. He covered her hands—one hand was large enough to warm both of hers—and crooked his mouth into a brief, faint smile.
“Playing rough,” he said. “That might be dangerous.”
“Only if you don’t explain some things to me,” she replied. She found it difficult to think, to speak, when he was so very near. “Make it simple, M’cal. I’m confused enough as it is.”
M’cal brushed his lips against her forehead. “Nothing is simple, Kitala.”
“Please tell me.”
“‘Please,’” he rasped. “You have said that word to me more than any other person has in years. Please. No one says that to me, Kitala. No one.”
“They should,” she murmured. And then: “I saw it in your eyes, but I want to hear it from your lips. You’re not human.”
“Not human,” he echoed, his voice catching. “Not fully.”
“Show me.”
He exhaled sharply. “I think you have seen enough.”
Kit looked into his eyes. “Please, M’cal.”
His jaw tightened. He held up his hand. At first nothing happened, but then as she watched, unblinking, odd faint lines formed against his pale skin; ridges that took on a glimmering iridescence, a sheen that looked like crushed pearls. Scales like tiny jewels. They spread higher, growing and growing until loose webbing draped between his fingertips. His nails lengthened into small, sharp hooks, darkening in color to silver blue.
Kit touched his hand, breathless. Here was proof, if she could believe her eyes and touch. Astonishing, shocking, ridiculous. His hand closed around hers, and the heat of it was immense. All she could do was stare, her mind blank for one brief moment, until something woke inside her and she analyzed his touch, the smoothness of his skin, like a snake. She was not afraid of snakes. It took a moment, though, to reconcile that she was touching the flesh of a man, a person not human but still with humanity.
“You are only the second person I have shown myself to,” M’cal said, which made her look at him. His entire body was tense, his eyes cold, hard. For a moment she felt threatened, but as she met his gaze, she glimpsed a glimmer of doubt roll through his face—one heartbeat, then gone—and she knew, without any uncertainty, that he was just as unnerved.
She squeezed his hand. He flinched when she did, almost like it hurt, and he stared at her. His cold mask fractured.
“Who was the first?” she asked, his skin still gleaming; inhuman, iridescent.
His fingers twitched. “Another woman. It ended badly between us.”
“How badly?”
M’cal looked away and pulled his hand free. “Badly enough that I often think it would have been better to die than to have ever met her.”
Screams—Kit could still hear his screams. She thought she might hear them forever. “What has this woman done to you, M’cal?”
“She owns me.” M’cal’s smile was raw, bitter. “I belong to her. She controls my actions. Makes me hunt.” He held up his arm and rolled back his sleeve, revealing a silver bracelet almost half the length of his forearm. The metal was engraved with odd figures and symbols, none of which Kit recognized. There was a multitude of white scars on his skin above the bracelet. “This forms the link. It binds me to her. Nor can I remove it. I have even tried cutting off my arm, but the blade does not sink far before I am compelled to stop.”
Kit stared. On any other day, with any other man, she might have called him a liar. But she had seen too much that she could not explain—felt too much of the same. She touched the bracelet and found the metal warm. “What else?”
He said nothing for a moment, simply studied her face. She let him, meeting his gaze, allowing him to see without fear everything she was feeling. She reached up slowly and brushed her thumb against his cheek. He caught her hand, kissed her palm, closed his eyes.
“The woman who did this to me is a witch,” he rumbled. “Or whatever you call a woman who wields magic as she does.”
Witch. Magic. Hard words to swallow. Nothing should have shocked her—not given her background, her grandmother, the things she could do—but somehow this did.
If Granny were here, she’d already be rolling up her sleeves, taking charge. None of this would make her bat an eye.
Hell, Old Jazz Marie had probably known that all of this fantastic stuff existed and just kept it to herself. The woman was probably looking over Kit’s shoulder even now, shaking her head.
Which made Kit take a deep breath, swallow hard, and summon up her courage. Just take it one step at a time. Go with the flow. Play it by ear.
In a slow, careful voice, Kit said, “This … witch. She’s the one who wants me dead, isn’t she?”
M’cal’s gaze darkened. “She asked for you specifically. I do not know how she learned about your abilities, Kitala, but after seeing some of what you can do, I understand her interest.”
“My abilities,” she echoed, thinking of murder and death. Of M’cal with a hole in his throat. “Just what do you think I can do?”
He hesitated. “Magic.”
“Magic.” This time it was Kit who tried to pull away, but M
’cal held her, and she did not fight him. Just sighed, closing her eyes. She felt weak, lightheaded. “I know about magic, M’cal. But what I do isn’t that. I don’t know what you call it, but I’m no … witch.” Not like her grandmother.
“You have power, Kitala. A great deal of it. And even if you are using nothing more than instinct to direct it, your potential is immense. You would not have been able to save yourself otherwise. No one turns aside such a call. Not even the witch can do that. It is why she protects herself with this.” He tapped the bracelet.
“That’s not what I do,” Kit protested. Yet, even as she spoke, the fiddle strings sang in her mind, and she felt something new within the music: a lightness, like a shot of sunlight in her soul, as though in her heart she stood on the edge of a cliff, ready to fly.
M’cal’s eyes narrowed; his hand flexed against her waist. “Then what do you think you do, Kitala? What are you sure of?”
“Death,” she said, the word slipping from her lips. She could not believe how easily it happened; for a moment she thought she imagined it. But, no. Death. She had said it, and M’cal was still looking at her, frowning.
He had no chance to ask. Kit heard a soft knocking sound. They both flinched, but there was not enough time to move before the door opened. A boy poked his head into the room. He could not have been older than sixteen, but there was something in his eyes that looked more ancient than dirt. He was painfully skinny, dressed in a loose T-shirt and black jeans, with a metal-studded belt slung loose around his hips. He wore a Mohawk, spiked blue, and a tattoo of a dragon curled around his forearm. A cigarette slanted from his mouth.
“Fuck,” said the kid, staring at M’cal. “It really is you.”
“Billy,” M’cal said quietly, shocking Kit. He said nothing else, but very gently untangled himself from her, continuing to pull the fiddle-case strap over her head. When that was done he stood and faced the boy. Each movement was careful, methodical, controlled. He did not look Kit in the eye. His expression was totally flat, all his raw emotion gone. It made her afraid—and curious.
Billy entered the room and shut the door behind him. He gave Kit a cautious glance, and to M’cal said, “I’m not interrupting anything, right?”
M’cal said nothing, and Billy shrugged. “Well, okay, yeah, I get it. I’m interrupting. But I thought I saw you come in, and it looked … bad. Not normal. And it’s been a while. You left.”
There was an accusation in those last two words; hurt, as well. A thread of emotion entered M’cal’s eyes: pain, regret. “I had to go away, Billy. I had no choice.”
“You picked up somewhere else.”
“Like I said.”
“Yeah. S’okay.” Billy scuffed his tennis shoes on the floor and gave Kit a sharp look. “You Mikey’s friend?”
M’cal hesitated. Kit said, “Yes. I’m his friend.”
“You sick?”
“I was.” Kit glanced at M’cal. He still refused to look at her.
The boy seemed satisfied with her answer, and took another step toward M’cal—hesitant, like some beaten dog ready to run. Kit checked for track marks on his arms. She did not see any, but there was a nervous quality to the boy that was either natural or the edge of some high. He scratched his arms, the side of his head; fidgeted.
“Cooley’s dead,” Billy blurted out.
“Is that so?” replied M’cal.
“Reena said you were talking to him the night he died.”
“I do not remember.”
“Right.” The corner of the boy’s mouth curled; it was a surprising expression, both sweet and sinister. “Just wanted to say thank you.”
M’cal did not bat an eye. “Who is the new management?”
“No one. We’re, uh, taking care of ourselves. Each other.”
“What about the man downstairs?”
“He won’t try anything. He only handles women. Fags make him sick.”
“You live in this neighborhood?” Kit asked. The boy looked surprised that she spoke, but he nodded, still scuffing the floor, swinging back and forth on one foot. “You ever go down to that Youth Center on Templar? Talk to an Alice Hardon?”
Billy looked affronted. “Fuck, no. Those bitches don’t know shit.”
“But have you heard of Alice?” M’cal asked.
The boy’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?”
“She was kidnapped,” Kit said. “According to her friend, she was looking into something she shouldn’t.”
“People need to mind their own fucking business,” muttered Billy. “All kinds of shit someone could get into.”
“Something the cops have a hand in?”
Billy snorted. “Take your pick.”
Kit hoped he was exaggerating.
M’cal stirred, taking a step toward the boy. “If you hear anything, will you let me know?”
Billy did not immediately answer. He looked at M’cal with a hard, clear gaze, and then glanced at Kit, studying her with the same intensity.
“You’re done, aren’t you?” he said to M’cal. “You’re leaving.”
“If I can,” M’cal replied, without hesitation. “You should, too.”
For a brief, startling moment the curtain dropped and all Kit could see on Billy’s face was raw, naked sorrow—but it disappeared in the blink of an eye, and he became once again nothing but a shuffling punk.
“I’ll ask around,” he mumbled, eyes downcast. “I owe you.”
“You do not—” began, but the boy walked to the door. He stopped just before leaving.
“Where do I find you?” he asked Kit.
“My hotel,” she said. “The Hyatt. I might not be staying there long, but I’ll leave a message. Ask for Kit Bell, room 2610.” Her room number, so casually given, when with Edith she could not say the same. Something had made her hold back.
Billy nodded, gave M’cal one long last look—a hungry, hard gaze—and left.
Kit watched him go. She did not say a word, just sat staring at the door as it closed. Sat some more, thinking about everything she had just seen and heard. She looked at M’cal, and found him staring back. She could not read his expression. He looked bored, but she knew it was an illusion. M’cal was not, she thought, the kind of man who ever felt bored about anything. He was too smart for that, his life too difficult.
“Billy seems like a good kid,” she said carefully.
“He is,” M’cal replied.
“He’s also a prostitute.”
Long silence. “Yes.”
“So are you.”
M’cal’s gaze finally faltered. “I have done such work. In this neighborhood and others. It was how I knew we could come here to rest and hide. I have … used this room before.”
Kit tried to get off the bed and stand. Her legs gave out, but M’cal was suddenly at her side, his arms around her waist, holding her up, engulfing her.
“The witch made you do it,” she murmured, and a tremor passed through him; all that fine control finally melting away. His arms tightened, and he carried them both back to the bed, where they lay on their sides, curled around each other; a cocoon, made of them. The mask was gone. His eyes were haunted but not broken. She saw resolve, acceptance. Anger.
“It was part of the hunt,” he told her. “But it was also one of her ways of degrading me. Breaking me.”
“By having sex with strangers?”
“There was no sex,” M’cal said, though there was a bleakness to his voice that made Kit sick. “Sex was not her objective. Not in those situations. What she wanted—what she has always wanted—was my soul. And because she could not take it, she found other ways to shame and corrupt me.”
“By making you feel like a thing, an object for sale. Nothing but flesh. No soul, no heart that mattered.”
“You understand.”
She understood that she wanted to find this woman and beat the living shit out of her. Acts of cruelty were nothing new to Kit—she had seen enough of it in her life
—but this, no matter how strange or impossible, went beyond what her sense of justice could accept. It was too terrible.
Maybe her anger showed; maybe her disgust. A faint sad smile passed over M’cal’s face.
“Little warrior heart,” he murmured. “I wish I had met you first.”
Kit closed her eyes. No words, no thoughts—all she could do was feel, and what flowed through her, slow and warm, was a familiar mix of loneliness and sorrow, her secret companion, a cold, hard knot only music could soften. Always on the go, always on her own, with only her fiddle as a friend.
But this time, what she felt was not for herself alone, but for M’cal too; his isolation, his grief, his forced betrayal of dignity and heart. She felt raw for him, cut; so full of emotion she could not speak with it.
So she touched him. She opened her eyes and brushed her thumb over his lips. He seemed to savor it, more than she expected, as though he was unused to such a thing. Perhaps he was. His eyes darkened, and his hand crept up her waist; slow, tentative.
Do not touch me, Kit remembered him saying outside the Youth Center, and she imagined what that would be like, to live knowing that one touch could compel murder.
You already know, she told herself. Just one look and you know. Every time you look at someone, you run the risk of seeing death. Alice, M’cal, so many others.
But at least she did not run the risk of killing. Not by her own hand. Though she wondered if doing nothing was not the same. A more distant murder. Her fault for staying silent.
She almost told him right then. Almost said, You are going to die. But the words would not come, and her own throat felt raw, broken.
You are accepting his murder with your silence. Even though he did not accept yours. Even though for Alice, a woman you barely know, you are risking your life. You made the leap for her. Why not him?
Because Alice was a stranger, Kit realized. An unknown, distant. Even now, Alice was fixed in her head as a woman little better than a caricature, someone in trouble who needed help. Help that Kit could not deny, despite herself. But M’cal, on the other hand …
It’s become personal with you. You care.
Shocking, how much she cared. It was an involuntary emotion, a compulsion not unlike falling in love with Mozart or the fast pluck of a rangy banjo, the crest of the sun on some rosy spring morning in the Smoky Mountains with the dew glittering like diamonds on the green crisp leaves of trees. Natural, brilliant, easy. And though she had struggled not to think of it, to refuse those emotions, they bubbled up inside her heart like laughter or acid or a sob. The truth hurt. The truth overwhelmed.
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