Soul Song

by Marjorie M. Liu

“Merman,” Hari echoed. “I am not familiar with that term.”

  M’cal and Kitala shared a quick look of surprise, but the others did not seem at all taken aback. Amiri said, “It describes an individual who lives beneath the sea, who can take breath from water, and who has the tail of a fish rather than the legs of a man.” The shape-shifter met M’cal’s eyes. “That is correct, is it not?”

  “It is.” M’cal turned his attention back on Rik. “Krakeni is an obscure term. How did you know it?”

  “I swim as a dolphin,” said the young man. “I’m also from the sea.”

  “That is no answer.”

  Rik hesitated. Amiri moved close and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder, which seemed to relax him for a moment. Then he tensed up again, looked M’cal in the eyes, and said, “I’ve known your kind. A long time ago.”

  The uneasy tone of his voice was not a ringing endorsement of M’cal’s people. He wondered which of the colonies Rik had encountered. Some, he knew, were more territorial than others. And some, as he was painfully aware, were just plain dangerous. Even to their own kind.

  Kitala brushed against his hip. The brief contact made him warm, his heart jump. Even around so many others, he was affected—could not help himself. He wanted to touch her so very badly—to touch without pain, to touch a woman of his own choosing, to touch and be touched, and not be afraid. It gave him a sense of peace and wonder that he had forgotten—incredible, that he should forget—but being with the witch had made him lose more of himself than he had ever realized.

  Kitala had saved his life. She made him remember what it was to be himself. Fully himself. And that was a gift that could never be repaid. Never. Because even if the witch recaptured him—and she would, without a doubt—this time M’cal would refuse to let himself forget. Never again.

  Hari held up the phone. “There is news regarding Kit.”

  Kitala frowned, pulling the strap of her fiddle case over her head. “What kind of news?”

  He hesitated. “According to the agency’s contacts, you are wanted for questioning in the disappearance of Alice Hardon.”

  She froze. “Are you serious?”

  Hari nodded. “Police in the Vancouver and Seattle area have been alerted. They have your name and picture.”

  Kitala closed her eyes. “I’m gonna kill someone.”

  “They probably already think you did,” Koni muttered.

  She gave him a dirty look and laid her fiddle case on the dining table. Flipped the catches. Pushed back the lid. Her instrument rested on its bed of purple velvet. The color of the wood was a deep, gleaming amber. Kitala plucked a string, and the note shivered through M’cal like a cold wind.

  “Are you well?” Amiri asked him.

  “Fine,” M’cal replied, unable to look away from the fiddle.

  Kitala glanced at him, and there was a darkness in her eyes, an understanding; a promise. And then she tore her gaze away to look at Hari. “Was there anything else? Mention of a stolen car? Attacking two police officers?”

  “You attacked cops?” Rik asked.

  “Who do you think shot M’cal?” Kit said to him.

  Hari stared at the healing wound on M’cal’s throat. His eyes darkened into something threatening, wild. “There was no mention of an attack. Alice’s family reported her missing, a claim taken far more seriously given that her uncle John Hardon was gunned down in public last night.”

  “I was there.” Kitala gazed down at her fiddle. “We need to find her.”

  You need to stay alive, M’cal thought. One glance at the other men told him they felt the same, but no one said a word.

  Kitala closed the fiddle case, laid her hand upon the hard plastic shell with a thoughtfulness that bothered him. Like she was saying good-bye. But she put the case under her arm, picked up her suitcase with the other, and walked to M’cal. Kissed his shoulder and said, “I’ll be upstairs.”

  He watched her go. He wanted to follow, but stayed still. Looked at the other men. Waited until he heard the floor above them creak, then said, “Do you know how to find Alice Hardon?”

  “No,” Hari said quietly. “And that does not mean we will not try, but our first priority is keeping Kit safe.”

  “Keeping her safe means we must find Alice. We have no choice. And not simply because Kitala wishes it. If you do not find the woman, and the police continue this line of inquiry, it will ruin her life. Her entire career.”

  “She cannot go to the police to clear her name,” Amiri stroked his jaw with long, elegant fingers. “Only Alice Hardon can do that.”

  “If she’s alive,” Koni muttered, giving M’cal a hard look. “We know why we’re here. Why are you? What’s a merman doing on land anyway?” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I said that word.”

  “This, coming from a shape-shifter.”

  “Takes all kinds, man. I thought I’d seen everything.” Koni flung himself down on the couch and removed the pack of cigarettes from his jacket.

  Hari moved closer, his golden eyes sharp, intense. “Your throat. I can see the remains of your wound. That is where you were shot, yes?”

  “It is almost healed,” Amiri noted quietly. “Is that a trait of your kind?”

  M’cal did not answer.

  Hari closed his eyes, as if it pained him to look at the injury. “Did someone give you the ability? Was it against your will?”

  A striking question, full of implication. M’cal hesitated. “You know this. You have seen it before.”

  Hari unbuttoned his shirt and pulled the material apart. On his chest was a grotesque mass of burn tissue—scars—in the shape of words. The other men looked away. M’cal stared.

  “This was done to me,” Hari rumbled. “By someone who also gave me the power of regeneration. Of immortality. But it made me a slave as well, and I was compelled to do anything asked of me. I was a prisoner for more years than I care to think of.”

  M’cal’s breath snagged in his throat. He held up his arm and tapped his bracelet. “You and me both.”

  “Christ,” Koni muttered. Rik slumped down over the dining table. Amiri approached M’cal and peered at the engravings, his long fingers touching the air above the metal. The air smelled like power, old magic; mystery. Even M’cal could not escape the sense that this was a moment that might not come again; that perhaps it was the first of its kind in this modern age. Men who had become nothing better than myth, together, breathing the same air. And if this should become normal—if the world had changed so much, if the circle had come around again … then M’cal could not predict the changes he might live to see; he did not dare.

  Hari buttoned up his shirt, very slowly, his eyes hooded, dangerous. “Who did this to you?”

  “A woman,” M’cal replied, choosing his words carefully. “A witch. She also wants Kitala dead.”

  “There are two groups that want her life? Why her?”

  M’cal hesitated, weighing his trust, what he had heard in the voices of the men around him. Truth, honesty. Nothing hidden, except their own uncertainty.

  You must trust. For Kitala, you must.

  He stepped closer to Hari, better to see his eyes. “I cannot speak for those who came after us today, but as for the witch … I believe she is interested in Kitala because Kitala is gifted in magic. She was able to temporarily free me from my bonds. Though not, thankfully, of the regenerative power the bracelet provides.”

  Koni sat up sharply. “What kind of magic?”

  “Enough,” Hari interjected. “We should not discuss Kit outside her presence.” He gave M’cal a long, steady look and clapped a hand on his shoulder, shaking him slightly. “Go, rest. We will begin looking for Alice. And we will find a way to free you. I promise.”

  M’cal nodded and began to back away. He stopped, though, staring thoughtfully at his hands. “My knowledge of this matter is limited, but it seems that it should be highly unusual—even impossible—for two spells, from two different individuals,
to be so similar in power and direction. Not unless there is a substantial connection between them. Would you agree?”

  “Yes,” Hari rumbled, his expression deadly. “I most definitely would.”

  It was a big house, with at least four bedrooms on the top floor. Sterile, empty, just a shell. Dust bunnies swirled around M’cal’s feet as he walked down the long hall, searching for Kitala. He found her in the last room, the master suite, sitting on the edge of the bed with her fiddle case in her lap. She was still covered in his dried blood.

  M’cal closed the door and went to her, dropping to his knees. He took her hands, found them cold to the bone. Her face was gaunt, her eyes tired, skirting the edge of hollow. It made M’cal afraid. He blew on her hands, rubbed them. When she did not immediately respond, he set aside her fiddle case and pulled her up into his arms. He forced her to look at him, and finally she gave him a crooked smile.

  “Don’t look at me like I’m done for,” she murmured, running her fingers down his face. “I’m tired, not beat or broken.”

  M’cal began to breathe again. “You worried me.”

  “It’s you we should be worried about.”

  “Not yet,” he said, though he felt the pressure, the fear, building inside his heart like a bomb. It made him clumsy as he crushed her against him. Every moment was precious; every act, every word, something that might have to anchor and strengthen him for a very long time to come. Nothing could be taken for granted.

  Kitala clung to him, her arm snaking around his ribs. He could feel the power in her body—physical and spiritual—could still remember the taste of her soul as he had begun to draw it into his body. That was a terrifying memory, but M’cal had a love for human myth, and in that moment between life and death, he had imagined her as the fire from the phoenix, raging and dying and ready to be born again. A fire deep as her soul—a fire that was her soul.

  Kitala pulled away just far enough to look into his face. The weary tenderness in her eyes made his heart ache. He could not recall anyone ever looking at him like that; he was not certain anyone ever would again. She touched his face, very lightly, and brushed back his hair. No words—no words that would be enough—but her eyes spoke, as did her hands as she slowly began to unbutton his shirt.

  He stood very still as she undressed him. It was a somewhat grisly task; his shirt stuck to his body because of the blood. But they shared grim smiles, and it was all right, fine, because with Kitala he needed no explanations, no hesitation. She simply understood.

  His shirt dropped to the floor. She touched his chest. Her hands were no longer cold. She stood on her toes and kissed his throat, and the heat of her mouth raked a fierce path to his sex, which had remained semihard ever since their encounter in the stolen car.

  The memory of her lips and tongue made his blood surge even more, and he was suddenly quite hard, quite constricted, and quite ready—a sensation that intensified as Kitala zeroed in on his chest, slowly licking in a circle around his nipple, circling closer and closer. She flicked it with her tongue, then gently bit down.

  M’cal’s control shattered. He dragged them both to the floor, attacking her mouth in a raw, wet kiss that sent her writhing against him, wrapping her legs around his hips and thrusting up. The sensation of her moving against him made him wild, and he pushed her blouse over her breasts—round, lovely, so firm she did not need to wear a bra. Her skin was a lovely rich shade of caramel, toned and silken—so good to touch—and her taste turned his body into one long endless ache.

  Kitala’s hands gripped his hair. She flung back her head, gasping, and he leaned over to recapture her mouth as his fingers slid beneath the waistband of her jeans into her underwear. She was wet, hot, but he struck a rhythm that made her cry out, her breathing so ragged it sounded like she was dying.

  She fumbled with his pants buttons. He tried to help her, but she batted his hand away with a fierce grin—so lovely to see her smile—and then she was pushing his slacks down to his knees, wrapping her warm hand around him. He shuddered, and she laughed—then stopped laughing as he kissed her again and undid her jeans. He wanted to see her naked. He wanted to feel her naked beneath him, around him, holding him.

  In moments he had his wish. Kitala lay before him, propped on her elbows, her chin up and her perfect breasts jutting. Her legs were impossibly long, smooth and soft. Spread wide. Blood covered her face, but she was still the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. His heart pounded so hard he thought he might die, but looking at her made him feel something else—like he had come home to fate, destiny. Like he should get down on his knees and pray to some God he did not believe in, because surely, surely, what he was feeling must be proof of something greater.

  M’cal crawled over her body, fighting for control—an almost impossible feat when she reached down, smiling unrepentantly as her fingers stroked him in places that made his back arch, his breath rattle in his throat. He wanted to give up, to collapse, but he kept himself together, even when she guided him right against her slick, wet heat, rubbing and rubbing, rolling her hips. M’cal thought he heard music in his head; strings, voices.

  “Kitala,” he rasped, pouring all his heart into her name. Her eyes darkened with understanding. No fear. No manipulation. Just honest, breathless desire.

  He pushed into her body, and the sheer pleasure that rocked through him almost made M’cal lose himself. Her legs wrapped around his hips, her feet digging into his buttocks, goading him harder, faster, the both of them violently taking each other’s pleasure, swallowing breath and sound and thunderous heartbeat. A stream of images passed through his mind—the witch, riding him; men and women, touching his body, right before their deaths—but then he looked into Kitala’s eyes—her sparkling, pleasure-heavy eyes—and all of that old pain burned away.

  He felt the swell of her body as he brought her close, could hear it in her gasps and cries, and he knew the moment she broke. He gathered her close in her arms, savoring her pulsing shudders as he finally let himself go, his senses rocking with pleasure as he buried himself thick and furious with one long last thrust. She cried out, writhing against him so fiercely he almost became hard all over again. She kept moving, and he rolled on his back, taking her with him as she reached between them, touching herself, swiftly climaxing for a second time. At which point he was truly—and impossibly—hard and ready again.

  Kitala threw back her head and began riding him, slowly swiveling her hips. He reached for her breasts, straining, thrusting up to meet her as she played with his senses. Until finally, finally, she took mercy and stretched out against him, bringing her legs together until their two bodies pressed so close there was not a hairbreadth between them. Rocking, rocking, rocking into another break of pleasure so powerful, M’cal almost went blind with it.

  Everything stilled. He could not move. He lay on the floor with Kitala on top of him, listening to her make small sounds of pleasure with every ragged breath. Sleek and brown and beautiful, totally limp within his arms.

  After a while, they managed to make it to the bed, but they did not talk. M’cal curled around Kitala, tucking her into the curve of his body, sharing warmth, comfort. She held his hand in an iron grip, which did not relax—not until her breathing eventually evened out, deepening, drifting her into sleep. M’cal tried to do the same, but he could not settle down. Too much fear. Time was running out. The compulsion could return at any moment, and he had taken enough risks, touched Kitala too many times than was safe for either of them.

  Only, her presence was a drug, a lifeline, and he could not stop. So he stayed awake, watching her, holding her, listening to the sleeping monster inside his throat, and tried to think of all the ways he might stop himself from killing the one person who suddenly meant most to him.

  He came up with nothing. No answer, no solution that he could manage on his own. Unless the witch changed her mind—or unless he and Kitala could find a way to permanently break the spell—he was going to be a constant
threat to her. One merely postponed.

  And in that case, the witch might just kill Kitala herself. If no one else did it first.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “I Put a Spell on You” was playing softly on the radio when Kit, dreaming, opened her eyes and found herself back on her grandmother’s screened veranda, some wild bird crying all lonesome and heartbroken from the swamp. It was twilight. Candles burned. Old Jazz Marie sat on her stool. The pouch was done, but the hard part had come: mixing magic, sparking life. Not real voodoo, according to her grandmother, but something she had taught herself, learned through hard years of scrabbling for some understanding of the power flowing through her mind. Old Jazz Marie’s own grandmother had had the gift, but she died too young. Kit was luckier. Except she had not been so interested in learning. Irony could run both ways.

  “Mmm, mmm,” murmured the old woman. “I told you trust, and you just ran all the way, didn’t you, girl?”

  Kit tried not to blush. “Not that I don’t love seeing you, but why am I here? I know this isn’t a normal dream.”

  “Nothing in life is normal,” replied Old Jazz Marie. “But folks sure try to convince themselves. Never could figure out why.”

  Because the alternative is too frightening, Kit thought. Her grandmother gave her a sharp look.

  “Wouldn’t be so frightening if you had listened to me while I was still alive and kicking. When it came to learning about your heritage, though, you were always about as happy as a dead pig in sunshine. No worries, no cares—not about the possible dangers. Playing opossum with your life, Kitty Bella. That’s what you did.”

  “I didn’t want any part of it,” Kit said. “All those dead people—”

  “But you’re still seeing them, and it won’t ever go away. Least you can do is learn to control it. That’s all I ever wanted.”

  “Didn’t seem like that at the time.” Kit scuffed the floor with her bare feet. “Just felt like more nightmares.”

  Old Jazz Marie sighed. “Stubborn as a mule. And in such danger, too. Things are not what they seem, child. Illusions are being cast. And the one responsible is worse than you can imagine.”