Soul Song

by Marjorie M. Liu

  The path curled into the forest, which was thick, quiet. No birds. No breeze, though only moments before, the wind had swept off the ocean, somewhere between a fluttering wing and a cannon blast against her body. Here, everything was still. Hushed. Kit’s gaze roamed, searching. She felt like someone was watching her. Not the men, either. They were not as dangerous as those eyes she imagined peeling back her skin.

  Kit glimpsed structures—several of them—and moments later they entered a wide clearing. A log cabin squatted in the center. No windows. It was very large. Several outbuildings perched nearby, but they were nothing, barely noticeable. Kit’s focus was only on the cabin. Looking at it felt like seeing a future victim of murder—as though a house could die—except all she saw was a shadow, an aura hovering over the entire structure like the hand of a giant ghost. Kit balked as Harlett tried to guide her close to it. He yanked on her upper arm, but she dug in her heels, fighting. Another man grabbed her shoulder and wrist, wrenching her arm behind her back. Kit bit back a cry of pain, took one stiff-legged step … and then dropped to her knees. The bastards were going to have to carry her in. She was not going to help them. Not into that place.

  Harlett never said a word, and the men with him followed his example. He grabbed her shoulders, while two others each took an ankle in their hands. They picked her up. Hauled her in.

  The interior of the log cabin was dark, with only a candle burning in a sconce nailed into the wall. The golden light flickered, casting eerie shadows in the air—dancing shapes that oozed with far too much life. Again Kit felt like she was entering Death; as though murder slept and she stood in its beating heart, waiting for it to wake. Or begin to dream.

  There was no furniture. Hartlett and his men set her down. Her feet touched something soft, yielding. The sensation was a shock, and Kit looked down at the floor. It was covered in sand. White sand, finer than anything found on a beach—soft as silk, delicate as powdered sugar. For a moment, she considered the possibility of cocaine—a mountain of it—but that made even less sense, and she remembered with hard clarity her dream about M’cal and how he had lain in a circle of sand, restrained and tortured.

  A deep chill struck Kit. She felt like she stood on a mass grave, except the people underneath were still not dead.

  She had long stopped fighting the men. Three of them backed away, out of the log cabin. Hartlett gave Kit a hard look, but when she did not make any move to run, he pointed to her left, down a long corridor she had not noticed, and gestured for her to precede him. She did, fighting the beginning of a shudder. No use holding it in, though; her reaction to the cabin and the sand beneath her feet was too visceral.

  The sand stopped at the edge of the room. They walked down a hall lined with closed doors; a horror movie mystery, Kit thought, with a monster hidden behind every door. And in front of her, looming like a shining tooth at the end of the corridor, was a metal door. Rubber seals lined its edges.

  Hartlett had a set of keys in his pocket. He unlocked the door and yanked it open.

  It was like unwrapping the interior of a blast furnace; hot air rolled out, searing Kit in the face. Worse was the smell—like being chin-deep in a hole full of rotting flesh and raw sewage, sun-baked and oozing.

  Hartlett grabbed her around the waist and shoved. Kit fought, tried grabbing his gun. He caught her wrist, twisting until her knees buckled and she staggered.

  “In,” he said, voice strained. He heaved her forward, and Kit fell hard on her knees, scrambling past the pain to stand and turn. Too late. The door had closed. It clicked, the seals making a sucking sound. Trapping her in darkness. She felt like Aida in the tomb, only there was no M’cal to be her Radames.

  The air was suffocating, foul. Kit struggled not to gag—fought, too, the paralyzing terror that swept through her body like a wash of cold sea. Her throat locked up, as did her heart, stuttering itself into sickness. Kit grappled with herself, struggling for an anchor, control.

  She found M’cal. Suddenly a flash—that sliver of his soul, a needle bright. Her mind latched tight to his presence, cradling in on itself to rock and rock, like a child lost in the dark. Feeling him with her, no matter how distant their separation, made the terror ease. Her breathing steadied. Her heartbeat slowed.

  But Kit still shivered, despite the heat. Riding the edge of shock. Blind as a bat. She wondered if that was a good thing. As she calmed, she heard all around her the low rustle of bodies. Low rasps of breath.

  Again, horror clawed up her throat. The bogeyman was rearing its ugly head, and she stepped backward until her shoulders pressed against the sweating metal of the door. She thought of M’cal. Wished for him. Heard nothing but silence inside her mind.

  “Hello?” she called softly to those bodies shifting quietly unseen all around her. Like dying butterflies trapped in a cocoon.

  No one answered. Kit stopped trying. She was afraid of the reply.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Down into places where the sun never reached, where cracks open in the earth—descending into oubliettes and graves for lost souls; another world, alien to the one above the sea, which took for granted the stationary and concrete, opposites of light and dark, whereas here there was only dark, the endless night, no sky or stars to set a dream upon—M’cal’s captors took him into the abyss, more than twelve hundred feet down. His body adjusted to the pressure, as did his eyesight—a second lid fell over his pupils as the waters pushed and pushed. He began to grow physically uncomfortable, though; deeper waters meant less oxygen, and for the first time in a long while, he began to feel a hint of cold.

  There were three Krackenis: two males, one female. All were fast, lean, hard; faces sharper than knives, more alien than even M’cal. His human blood had put curves into his bones, made his shoulders broader, larger. But he was not nearly as fast. A lifetime on shore, and he was weak in comparison. Soft, even. He had not realized—had been around so few of his kind, except his father.

  Kitala, stay alive. Kitala, fight. Kitala, I will find you. He fought to reach her along the link between their souls, but it was difficult to focus; he was too enraged. Years of wishing for contact from his people—some acknowledgment that he was not alone—and now, this. Beaten and gagged, caught in a net, dragged away from the mate they must surely sense inside his heart—and there was no reason M’cal could think of why such a thing should happen. It made no sense.

  At the ocean bottom, the Krackeni men tied strips of the net around craggy rocks, binding M’cal’s arms above his head. Having secured him, they floated backward, staring. Their hair was long and pale, decorated with shells and precious stones. Black pearls the size of eyeballs looped around the waist of the woman, alongside a dagger cut from obsidian.

  The men were pierced with bone. Long, curving shards laced through the skin of their forearms—horizontal spikes, an artful mutilation. Spears hung against their backs. All three of them shone with a faint pale glow: bioluminescence, good for the deep sea. Their eyes were large, too, and their nostrils small, their noses hardly visible. These weren’t members of any colony that had ever mixed with humans; the evidence of their Krackeni blood was too alien. M’cal wondered if their bones were soft, too; if they were one of the deep-sea people. It was beginning to seem that way. It might not even be possible for them to ever mix with humans on land; their skeletons would be too soft, the cavities in their bodies not easy shifted.

  The Krackenis hovered apart from him, whispering to each other with whistles and clicks—an intricate dance of sound. M’cal understood them, though the accent was peculiar. He also doubted his ability to speak fluently. It had been a long time.

  Look at his hair, said one of the men, darting a glance at him. Black as your knife.

  So human. His blood is thick with them. The woman bared her teeth with a sharp hiss and touched her dagger. As is his heart. He has taken a human as his wife. Perhaps we should cut her out of him?

  The second male drifted close, peering at M�
�cal like he was some strange beast, hardly capable of emotion or intelligence. It was a disturbing sensation, far too familiar. Nor was the irony lost on M’cal. He was an object, even amongst his own kind. Always the outsider. And the sense of betrayal and loss associated with that was unexpected. He had not realized until this moment how strongly he had anticipated seeing other Krackenis again.

  He tested his bonds, but the net was secure. The sponge was thick in his mouth. He thought of Kitala, tried singing inside his head, but whatever worked for her was clearly not the same for him, and all he did was become even more agitated. He stared at the Krackenis. Watched them stare back. Saw, with some uneasiness, how their eyes suddenly shifted to look at some spot over his shoulder.

  He sensed movement behind him. A hand touched the net just above his face. On the hand was a ring. Golden. A wedding band.

  M’cal closed his eyes.

  A voice filled the water; music, a low, keening melody that sounded like the first edge of some endless sob, cutting ragged like teeth. It was a painful sound, stripped bare of any joy, rolling down into M’cal’s heart and holding there, holding him just as surely as the witch. He felt that voice search his soul, held himself strong against that touch, and just when the music threatened to break him into something small and sad, the voice eased off, withdrew, and quieted into the silence of the sea.

  He opened his eyes and through the net saw a face, pale and blond and strong; an older mirror of his own, though M’cal had gotten his coloring from his mother. No Krackeni of pure blood had dark hair.

  The two men stared at each other. The others gathered close, also watching, no longer so distant or disdainful. M’cal did not care.

  S’har Abreeni had aged since M’cal had last seen him. There were more lines in his face, sharp wrinkles that only served to accent his already angular features. He was built differently than the other Krackenis; his ancestors were from warmer seas, accustomed to living near the surface—a lifestyle his father still led, or had the last M’cal had heard. There was a world of uninhabited islands dotting the South Pacific, and those sandy shores were perfect for colonies who preferred mixing land with sea. Such Krackenis could also mingle more easily with humans if they wished. There, their features were not so alien.

  His father gestured to the others. Set him loose. He is safe.

  Not quite, M’cal thought. The Krackenis hesitated but did as they were told, loosening the knots of the net until he could move his arms. He tore the sponge from his mouth, fighting down a sudden burst of rage.

  You did this, he said to his father, who watched him with shadowed eyes, his long, lean body holding off the currents with gentle movements of his hands and tail. His scales gleamed in the glow of the other Krackenis. They watched M’cal, too, but with a great deal more wariness.

  He paid them no mind, staring only at his father—who remained impassive, as though it had not been ten years between them without a word.

  I had to be sure, he said quietly. I had to know it was not a trap.

  A trap? M’cal echoed, dazed, still unable to accept the presence of the man in front of him. His father’s mouth settled into a hard line.

  A trap. From the woman who put that on you. Fury danced through his face as he glanced at the bracelet—the rage was there and gone, swallowed up by a cool mask. He glanced at the other Krackenis and told them, Leave us.

  No, replied the woman, fingering her dagger as the currents slid her pale hair in a tangle around her face. There is a matter to be discussed, now that we have fulfilled our bargain.

  Bargain. An ominous word in M’cal’s estimation. He had no time, though. No desire to be caught in yet more words. Not even for his father. He looked up and could not see the light of day, but he reached deep inside his heart and found Kitala. Good as sunlight, warm and sweet.

  I must go, he said to his father. Right now.

  You may not, said the woman, glancing at her fellow Krackenis. Not until we have settled.

  M’cal briefly shut his eyes, the monster stirring inside his throat. Settled what?

  Later, said his father, curtly.

  No, said one of the men, glancing at M’cal. He should be part of it, too.

  The female Krackeni gave him a disgusted look. He is impure. To mix our blood—

  I said later, snarled M’cal’s father. Let my son go. Now.

  The outburst was shocking, raw, unlike anything M’cal remembered about his father, who had always been the cool one—unlike his wife, the firebrand; impulsive, ready for a fight.

  The Krackenis stared at S’har, until only the woman made a sound, her mouth twisting into a sneer that was too much like the witch for M’cal’s comfort. You should never have taken a human as your mate, S’har. Bad, all around. And now he has done the same. A disgrace. Neither of you have fulfilled your duties as the others have.

  Duty? M’cal stared, clarity burning. I have fulfilled my duty. Paid dearly for it. The things that have been done to me—

  Are your fault. The woman bared her teeth, which were almost as sharp as Ivan’s. You were weak. Your human blood, contaminating your abilities. If you had been strong enough, you would never have submitted—

  Enough! hissed S’har, his power striking through the water with such ferocity M’cal felt it vibrate in the marrow of his bones. The other Krackenis froze, paralyzed, their bodies instantly tilting and drifting in the current like stiff dolls.

  You forget yourselves, M’cal’s father continued, each word hard and dripping with power. You forget who I am. He released his hold. The Krackenis folded in on themselves, and he drifted backward, gesturing for M’cal to follow.

  The woman said, with rather less ferocity, You promised.

  And I will keep my promise. Later. He caught M’cal’s eye, expression inscrutable, and the two of them began a swift ascent, leaving behind the other Krackenis.

  The entire length of M’cal’s body prickled; he felt like a moving target. But they did not follow.

  Above, the world lightened. Fish darted past them; M’cal inhaled the taste of boat fuel and listened for the orcas. Listened for Kitala, too. He glanced sideways at his father, taking in the long, sharp face, those lines and the turn of his mouth. He was afraid of looking too long—afraid his father would look back—and all the pain and joy and fear he felt at being in S’har’s presence again felt like an open wound rubbed with poison and salt.

  What are you doing here? M’cal finally asked. Why now?

  His father twisted, graceful as a dolphin. You assume too much. I have been here for years. Ever since I learned of your misfortune. As M’cal stopped swimming, his father slowed and gazed back at him with tired eyes. There are no secrets in the sea. You should know that. And I had a friend nearby, watching you.

  The seal, M’cal replied, thinking of that constant gentle presence every time he entered the ocean.

  Yes, said his father. It was too dangerous to go near you. I tried once, and suffered for it.

  She wanted to isolate me.

  You killed for her.

  I did.

  And now? S’har reached out and touched his son’s chest. Who is she?

  My life, M’cal told him. She is my life.

  His father looked away. Somewhere distant, M’cal heard the orcas crying. Their voices were distressed. One of the pod had been injured. A blast. M’cal reached out to their minds, pushing hard across the expanse between them, and caught an image of the black speedboat, Kitala ready to jump … and that woman, Yu, hauling her down. Firing a gun.

  His father made a low clicking sound at the back of his throat. You should go. Hurry.

  M’cal looked at him. Will you come?

  His father said nothing, but M’cal held his gaze, heart screaming—for the both of them; for his mother, for Kitala.

  Please forgive me, he whispered, holding out his hand. His father did not even look at it.

  Go, S’har said, and without a backward glance descended into the dar
kness like a ghost. Gone, again. Almost as if he had never existed.

  M’cal drifted in the water, staring. He did not try to follow. The orcas called to him. Kitala was out there, somewhere.

  He began to swim away, felt a swirl behind him and turned just in time to catch a rush of scales and blond hair. He twisted, grabbing the slender wrist arching toward his shoulder, wrenched back and squeezed. Bone gave way—soft cartilage—and M’cal felt it tear like paper. A scream pounded the water. An obsidian dagger drifted down into the shadows.

  M’cal did not let go. He swung the Krackeni female around and held her tight against his body. She did not struggle long—not when she looked into his eyes. He did not know what she saw, but he knew what he felt, and it was ugly, dangerous.

  M’cal snarled, his voice whistling through the water with enough force to make her flinch. I have done nothing to you. Nothing to deserve this.

  She threw back her chin. It was not to be a killing blow. Merely a reminder. You are not of us, and never will be.

  And you care so much? Words would be enough.

  No, she whispered, eyes narrowing. I have been promised a child, a child of your father’s blood. Your sibling. But when he is born, he will know nothing of you. You will not exist to him. I wanted you to know that. I wanted you to remember it, in your flesh.

  M’cal threw her away, disgusted. He caught movement from the corner of his eye, saw his father rising again from the shadows. For a moment M’cal wanted to use his voice, to hurt them both. To hurt them like he hurt. To make their hearts break. But he clamped his mouth shut, looked away from the growing triumph in the Krackeni female’s eyes, and left. Swam fast. Did not look back to see if his father watched him go. He felt like a child again, and he could not afford that. Not now. Being here was poison.