Soul Song

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Her grandmother picked up a conch shell from her small worktable, a pale fine thing the color of bone. She held it out to Kit. “Put that to your ear, little cat. Tell me what you hear.”

  Kit did as she was told, pressing the shell close. She listened, and at first heard nothing but the thrum of blood in her ears, the thud of her heart, like a drum. But that did not last, and in its place came something that at first seemed like a soft breeze full of dawn, all blushing rose and promise. A hushed sound, perfect and still. But that, too, did not last, and what followed was the lonely wail of something more than strings—as if strings could be made of earth and thunder, rolling and rolling like the first note of some distant creation.

  Primitive. Primal. Perfect.

  “What is this?” Kit breathed, cut with a sense of bitter disappointment as the music faded.

  Old Jazz Marie regarded her solemnly. “That is the song of your soul, Kitty Bella. A song of power. You hear that song in your head, you can do anything. You can move the stars, breathe life into a butterfly, walk that swamp outside and take a nap in the mouth of a ‘gator. You can even reach out to the dead. Talk a spell or two. All depends on how well you hear, and what you do.”

  “And what do I do?” Kit whispered.

  Old Jazz Marie smiled, gentle, and pressed her thumb against her granddaughter’s forehead. “Be good, little cat. Just be good.”

  Kit opened her eyes. This time, she was in a bedroom, on a bed, surrounded by strong arms and a strong body. Naked.

  She remembered. M’cal. Warmth flooded her, a true and delicious contentment. A well-loved woman—that was what she felt like. Up until now, Kit might have said she had felt that way a time or two; but no more. This was the real thing. This warmth—this bone-deep, down-to-the-soul satisfaction, tempered with heart—was what it meant for a woman to be well loved. Taken and reformed, made new from the old—because part of her now was composed of M’cal, and she had never felt that way about any other man. Never imagined that she could, if only because she had so much to hide. No trust, not really.

  But events had put her on the edge of a volcano, teetering above the lava, and there was nothing like almost losing one’s life to bring out the best or worst. Kit didn’t think it was possible to learn a person’s true mettle unless you put them in the fire. M’cal had not disappointed. She hoped he felt the same about her—but even if he did not, Kit thought she had held up fairly well. Kidnapped, shot at, still covered in blood; her career likely ruined; lives hanging in the balance, including her own—and oh, the fact that no one around her appeared to be fully human.

  No screams yet. No pleas of insanity. And only half a Xanax in a twenty-four-hour period. Fantastic.

  There were two windows, both curtains drawn, but with enough gaps for her to see that it was dusk. Kit had to go to the bathroom. Her skin felt disgusting. She tried to wriggle out of M’cal’s loose grip, but his arms immediately tightened. She smiled to herself and lifted his large hand to her mouth, kissing his palm. His skin was callused, the sinews and tendons of his wrist and fingers chiseled, smooth, and strong.

  “Hello,” he murmured, his breath stirring her cheek.

  “Hello,” she whispered, rolling over to look at him. He was a mess. Soaking in a bath of blood would have been kinder. His hair was crusty with it, his entire upper body dark and red and rough. But it was his blood, not a stranger’s—he is strange, unknown—and for some reason, that made all the difference. Gross, but not intolerable. In an odd way, even sexy. M’cal looked as if he had gone to battle in hell and had come out the other side, raw and ready for more. Ready for her.

  She remembered, too, how it had felt to have him moving inside her body, making love to her with such ferocity and tenderness—how all that mattered was his eyes, the way he looked at her. Like he would die if he did not touch her. Like he would die if he did.

  But he can’t die. He’s safe, no matter what you see. Safe for now, anyway. Which would just have to be enough. No turning back. She stroked his cheek with her fingers, marveling at his warmth. “I was going to take a shower. You want to join me?”

  M’cal smiled, but it was ragged, weary. His eyes were bloodshot. Kit frowned, touching his face. “Did you sleep?”

  He shook his head. “I was afraid the compulsion would return.”

  “You need to rest. Don’t be afraid.”

  “You are asking the impossible. If I hurt you—”

  Kit covered his mouth with her hand and then carefully, slowly, scooted backward until she left his embrace. She felt cold without his arms around her. “How about this? Better?”

  “No,” he said ruefully.

  “Tough,” she said, rolling onto her back and stretching, wriggling her hips, arching her spine. M’cal watched her body. He reached out to touch her breast. Kit swatted his hand.

  “No touching,” she said. “You need to rest.”

  “You make it impossible.” He lifted up the covers, revealing just how impossible. Kit laughed quietly and rolled back on her side, cushioning her head on her arms.

  “Merman,” she said. “Man of the sea.”

  M’cal scooted closer, his hand resting just a breath from her own. “Do you have trouble believing?”

  Kit hesitated. “Not exactly. I trust my eyes. I trust what you tell me. But it is … alien. I have trouble reconciling it, even understanding how something like you—you, who look so human in every way—could exist.”

  “And the men downstairs?”

  Kit closed her eyes. “They make it worse. I still don’t know what the hell is going on with that. I should call my friend. Ask her. But I don’t want to. I can’t.”

  “You feel betrayed?”

  “No,” she said, and it was true, so true. “Something that big? I wouldn’t tell. I certainly never mentioned what I can do. But it’s just … too much. I don’t want to deal with it. All I can handle right now is you and me. And Alice.”

  “Alice,” M’cal murmured. “If we find her alive, I hope she appreciates all the things you have done to help her.”

  “It wouldn’t matter if she did.” Kit sighed. “I don’t know what I’m doing, trying to circumvent fate. For all I know, I’m putting into motion the events that will kill her.”

  “All you can do is follow your heart.” M’cal traced the air above her face. “Be good, Kitala. No matter what else happens, if you are good, you can have no regrets.”

  “Be good,” she echoed, feeling a tingle run up her spine. “You know, the path to hell is paved with good intentions.”

  M’cal smiled crookedly. “So?”

  Kit laughed quietly. “So, tell me about your … people? Is that the right term?”

  “It is as good as any. And there is not much to tell. We are like humans in many ways, though the Krackeni are fierce isolationists. Xenophobic, even. There is no real sense of property, but there are territories, fiercely guarded, with a great deal of ceremony required before entering such waterlands.”

  “Pity the unwary sailor?”

  M’cal frowned. “Human myth has its Amazons. The Krackeni have their version as well. Once, in the distant past, a particular colony of Krackeni females wanted to take revenge on human sailors for an unfortunate encounter they’d had with them.”

  “Huh.” Kit chewed on her bottom lip. “What happened?”

  “Others of our kind stopped them. By that point, we had already begun retreating from human activity. It had become unsafe to mingle—though it had not always been so. In the ancient ports of the old world, we lived side by side with humans—trading the fruits of the sea, selling our services as guides and musicians. Some of us even ventured farther inland—into two lost colonies that disappeared into what is now Europe and Asia. We were searching for new water alternatives, new trade routes. I suppose remnants of those bloodlines might still exist.”

  Kit shook her head. “I never imagined that the world could be so big.”

  “Even with what you can do
?”

  “It’s not the same.”

  M’cal shrugged, his eyes drooping slightly; sleep, finally. But his voice still sounded strong when he said, “It has become more difficult for us. Every year my kind must go farther, deeper than we ever have before. And it is still difficult to avoid discovery.”

  “It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Which is why some of us have been sent away to live on land, why our colonies have been split and divided, and flung across the ocean. It is dangerous for all of us to be in one place. And for those like me, on the surface, we are here to watch and learn, and if necessary, fight.”

  “Fight,” Kit echoed, surprised. “Why not try to get along? If you are discovered—”

  “We will be treated like animals. Experimented upon. And even if we are not, there will be those who fear us, who will try to control us. Humans scarcely tolerate each other. How will they accept us?”

  “I accept you. Would your people accept me?”

  M’cal said nothing, which was all the answer she needed. She began to pull away, but he grabbed her hand.

  “My mother was human,” he said quietly.

  Kit stared. “Is that common?”

  “No. But my father was one of those sent to live on land, and he met a woman he could not live without. It caused … a stir, you might say. Mostly because there were those who felt that mixing with a human would contaminate the bloodline.”

  “The bloodline?” Kit tried not to smile. “Are we talking Krackeni Supremacists here? Do they wear little hoods made of white seaweed and have clandestine meetings around lava vents?”

  M’cal choked back a laugh. “Some of them probably would if they had any concept of such a thing. But no … the bloodline does indeed refer to something … rather unique.”

  “Unique, huh? You’re not a prince, are you? Because that would totally cap off the fairytale moment I’m having.”

  His mouth twitched. “Sorry to disappoint. Although, if there were such a thing as royalty amongst the Krackeni, I suppose you could say I am it.”

  “Rock on.” Kit slapped his hand. “So, what’s so special that mixing with a human gets all those tails in a twist?”

  “You have already had a taste of it.”

  “I’ve had a taste of quite a few things, M’cal. And I’ve been impressed by every one of them.”

  He smiled. “My voice. What I can do.”

  “Ah.” Kit thought for a moment. “I remember you said it was a warrior trait.”

  “There used to be more of us, but now there are only a dozen families left that still carry the gift. They are encouraged to … intermingle.”

  “You mean have babies. Lots and lots of babies.” She wondered what Krackeni babies looked like. She wondered, quite suddenly, if her birth-control method was enough. She wondered, too, why she was not so afraid of the possibilities.

  M’cal’s eyes turned distant. “I think the trait is just as likely to be passed on no matter who one’s mate is, but I am somewhat biased.”

  “And what a rebel your father was. Where is he now?”

  “Home, somewhere in the South Pacific. He … retired. My mother died several years ago from cancer, and after that, he had no desire to remain. I took his place.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kit said. M’cal slid his hand over hers, entwining their fingers.

  “She had no regrets,” he told her softly, his eyes distant. “Except, perhaps, that she could not join my father in the sea. That bothered her. She wanted to be able to share his life in every way, but that essential part of his nature was denied to her. My father did not care, and she knew it … but it still hurt.”

  “Do you have siblings?”

  “None by blood. You?”

  “Only child. I think one was all my parents could afford, or handle.” Kit looked at their joined hands, dark and pale, and thought of her mother and father. She wondered if the police had contacted them. They would be worried sick.

  She did not reach for the bedside phone, though. She kept looking at M’cal, thinking about what he had told her. “You mentioned that you were prepared to fight if things go wrong. You believe that any threat to your people will originate from land.”

  “There is no doubt of it.”

  “So, how many generations have you been doing this? Coming to land, acting as … some kind of secret defense?”

  “My father was one of the first. There have always been Krackeni who left the sea to wander the world. We are as much explorers as humans. But this was different. After your Second World War, we decided it would be in our interest to become more organized. Just in case.”

  In case mermen ever hit CNN and end up in some lab. “Will you go back to wherever home is?”

  “If I can. But it will never be for long. This … commitment I made is lifelong.”

  “Must be lonely.”

  “I should have appreciated the solitude more than I did,” M’cal replied darkly. “My loneliness made me vulnerable.”

  “The witch.”

  He smiled bitterly. “Just before I was captured, I began attending a human university. I had spent the previous years wandering, learning on the sly, but I wanted something … more concrete. Stability, I suppose. The witch was one of my professors. Theology, to be specific.”

  “I would crack a joke about the sins of sleeping with one’s teacher, but given the circumstances—”

  “Not very funny,” M’cal agreed. “She was beautiful, very charming. But she had cold eyes. I noticed that from the beginning, but I was so taken …” He stopped, heartbreak flickering across his face. Kit pushed close to wrap herself around him. He held her tight, burying his face in the crook of her neck. She felt the metal of the bracelet press against her skin.

  “I thought you said no touching,” he whispered.

  “I won’t tell if you don’t,” she murmured.

  They took a shower together. It went unspoken, but Kit thought they were both afraid that a moment apart would mean forever—that, despite the danger posed by the compulsion, it was still better to take what time they had, as long as they still had it.

  Kit helped M’cal scrub his face and wash his hair. It took hard work and a considerable amount of soap and hot water to sluice off the dried blood. Under the bright bathroom lights, Kit noticed a sheen to M’cal’s pale skin that she had not seen previously. Like mother-of-pearl; very faint, almost translucent.

  “It is the water,” M’cal said when she pointed it out. “My body reacts. Instinct.” He touched her breasts, which had been aching for his hands for quite some time. Kit sighed, arching her back.

  “I like your instincts,” she murmured, and then sighed some more as he moved around behind her. He slid her arms over her head, placing her hands upon the wall of the shower stall, kissed the back of her neck, his fingers trailing a slow path to her shoulders, where he lingered, slowly massaging her, pressing the tension out of her muscles. Kit soaked it up, moaning as his hands moved down and around to her breasts, kneading them gently. She began to take her hands from the wall, but M’cal stopped her, made her remain still.

  His hands drifted lower. Her thighs shifted restlessly, a fierce, low ache spreading through her as he pressed his leg between hers, spreading her wide as his fingers sank into her body. Kit closed her eyes, savoring the sensation, each pulse of pleasure, combined with the hard, solid muscle of his thigh between her legs; the heat of his body, the hot water beating down upon her; even the steam. She rocked against him, harder and faster, until quite suddenly his hand disappeared. He grabbed her hips, and it was instinct for her as well; she bent forward, stood with her legs apart, and let him take her hard.

  As with their first encounter, she found herself astonished at how big he felt inside her, how deep he could move within her body. He filled every part of her, and the pleasure of that as he hauled her close, thrusting faster and faster, made her head swim and her heart rocket into her throat. It did not take him long to pus
h her over the edge, and she staggered, so weak in the knees he had to catch her around the waist and hold her up as he came hard, shuddering against her back. He coiled around her, his arms strong as steel—like being cocooned in the most perfect shield against the world.

  Even if that touch triggers him to sing away your soul?

  Uneasiness curled, stealing some of her pleasure. She tried not to dwell; she wanted to be with M’cal, no matter the risk. It seemed impossible to feel this strongly about someone, but she could not help it. Her grandmother was right: she had run all the way.

  But you saved yourself once, and you can do it again. You can save M’cal, too. Some way, somehow.

  Music filled her head: a dawn-light song, a roll of thunder—her soul song, her power.

  You can move the stars, echoed her grandmother’s voice. Move the stars or save her own life. Save the life of a merman. Save the life of a strange woman.

  Right. Easy as pie.

  They got out of the shower, stumbling against each other. Too much exertion in too much heat. It affected Kit more than M’cal, but she made herself keep moving, and got dressed, using the clothes the men had brought in her suitcase. There was nothing for M’cal, though. He put his slacks back on, left his shirt off, and joined her as they went downstairs. Kit brought her fiddle case. Silly, but she felt naked without it.

  The only men there were Koni and Rik, sitting at the dining table, four boxes of pizza in front of them. The television was on. They were watching The A-Team. Mr. T had some skinny white boy in a headlock.

  Kit’s stomach growled. Koni said, “Hello to you, too, sunshine.”

  “Hey,” she said, flipping open a pizza-box lid. These guys were definitely meat-lovers. She grabbed a slice laden with pepperoni, sausage, ham, and pineapple, folded it up, and stuffed it in her mouth. It was so good she wanted to cry.

  “If I time you,” Koni drawled, “do you think you could eat that whole pizza in under a minute?”

  Kit gave him the finger, listened to him laugh quietly, and took another slice. M’cal joined her, reaching into the box.