Soul Song

by Marjorie M. Liu

  He followed the song of the orcas, pushing through the sea as quickly as he could. He avoided sailboats, jet skis, felt the wake of their passage above his head as he raced out of sight beneath the waves. He threw aside his grief, focusing on Kitala, feeling her inside him, pulsing. His only home. The only one who mattered.

  The orcas met him halfway, a tourist boat in hot pursuit. M’cal had to slow—they begged him—and he took a moment to check the wound of the female who had been shot, the orca sinking underwater out of view of the humans topside. The bullet had stopped within the top layer of fat. The wound continued to leak blood, but not enough to kill. M’cal was more concerned about removing the bullet. The risk of lead poisoning and infection was great, even to a creature so large.

  His fingernails were hooked like claws. He asked for permission—received it—and placed a hand on the orca’s side, humming a soothing melody. The pod leader led a small group away from them—a diversion, for the tourist boat—while the others gathered close, bracing the injured orca. M’cal steeled himself and dug his finger into the wound.

  The orca whistled, jerking, but the others held her still and M’cal worked fast, grappling for the bullet. His fingernail hooked around it and he tugged, scraping out the flattened slug. More blood clouded the water, but again, nothing lethal. The wounded orca filled his mind with her thoughts and memories; images, fleeting: Kitala, dragged by her hair down the length of that boat; the wildness in her face as she watched the gun fired, every detail caught by sharp eyes.

  M’cal pushed backward through the water. The orcas did not follow. He did not want them to. But they let him go with a song, and the warmth of their inclusion—as though he were one of them—was in such stark opposition to what he had just endured, he felt the warm sting of it in his throat.

  He reached for Kitala again. The link was too new to him, and he was too inexperienced, to know exactly all that he could do with it, but he carried himself along the bond between them, letting it guide him in the same way he was guided by the witch—instinct, compulsion.

  An island rose before him. Underwater, it was a rocky monolith riding down into the sea; above, more stone and trees, with smooth walls like a fortress. Too high to climb. Only one way in, and one way out—unless a person was prepared to jump.

  There were no fish around the island. No life at all. The waters were empty. After a moment, M’cal understood why. He could feel, in the sea, a subtle push like shooing hands sinking deep into his mind, reinforcing the instinct to turn away. He recognized the feeling; the witch had used something similar to keep the curious from her yacht. It was a reverse compulsion, spread indiscriminately over a particular area, so subtle that most might never realize the manipulation. M’cal certainly would not have, not before the witch.

  He could feel Kitala on the surface, though, pulsing like a second heartbeat in his chest. He circled the island and, halfway around, saw the hull of a boat above his head, moored to an outcropping of stone jutting up from the sea. M’cal surfaced carefully, his cheek pressed against the black hull. He listened for a moment, tasting the air for a soul. Diving again, he circled the speedboat and poked his head above the water beside the stone dock. From his vantage point, the boat appeared empty.

  M’cal shifted his legs and climbed onto the dock. Nothing happened. No shots were fired, no cries of alarm. His skin prickled, though. He felt … watched.

  A path led away from the dock. M’cal hesitated, still listening hard, but his options were limited and he started running up the rock steps, trying to be quiet, fast. The trees pressed around him. They made him feel vulnerable—he had always found forests unnerving. He appreciated the beauty, but their mystery was something foreign, indecipherable—unlike the sea, which could be counted on for its chaos, its simplicity of instinct, a lack of any barrier. There were no walls in the sea. Like soaring through the clouds above mountains, chasms, wrecks, and worries, the sea was utter, total freedom of body and in spirit.

  Unless, of course, one incurred the loathing of fellow Krackenis. Which M’cal seemed to have done, just by breathing.

  Sibling. A child promised. Bargain and settlement. Those words raced through his mind before he could set them aside. He did not want to think about his father right now. Or what his father had promised. The possibility was too disturbing—almost as disturbing as M’cal’s memories of the witch’s rape. It felt the same. He did not know why.

  Music swelled in his head. He stopped on the path, testing the air, listening hard. He heard nothing, but instinct tugged him into the underbrush where he crouched behind thick ferns, his toes digging into soft black earth and moss.

  Less than a minute later, two men walked past his hiding place. No warning; they made not a sound, moving easily, with dangerous grace. As they passed out of sight, M’cal opened his mouth, prepared to call them back. He could use some information.

  A hand touched his shoulder. He flinched, spinning. Sucked in a deep breath, prepared to implode a brain. Prepared to do so regardless when he saw who it was.

  “Hey,” Koni whispered, glancing over M’cal’s shoulder at the path. “About time you got here.”

  M’cal gritted his teeth. “Kitala?”

  Koni slapped his shoulder. He was naked, too. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

  The two men moved quickly through the underbrush; nettles slapped, thorns tore, rocks cut into feet. M’cal felt burdened by his body; it was clumsy, far too large for stealth. The forest was different from the sea, and worse, he’d been growing used to his old body after years of painful separation. Legs could not compare to the grace of cutting through water with fin and tail.

  Koni did not seem so burdened. He moved silently, on light feet, like a ghost.

  “Was she hurt?” M’cal asked him. “How many men?”

  “Not hurt, but not happy,” Koni replied curtly, “and I’ve counted only five individuals on this island. Might be more, but right now, that’s the best I’ve got.”

  “How did you find her?”

  “The guys and I made it back to the cove about an hour ago. Found out fast that something bad had happened. I asked around, and some seagulls pointed me in the right direction. I haven’t been back to tell the others yet. Hari’s probably shitting kittens.”

  “Two of our attackers were prepared for me,” M’cal said. “Ear guards, to protect against my voice. I do not understand why the rest of the men with them were not similarly guarded.”

  “Pawns. Fodder.” Koni glanced at him, golden eyes glittering. “A way of testing your strength, perhaps. Take your best guess.”

  M’cal did not want to. The implications were too disturbing. He pushed onward, struggling. Several minutes later, though, with their destination still not in sight, he said, “The island cannot be so big. Are you certain we are not lost?”

  Koni hesitated, glancing back at him. “We should have been there by now. I’ll check.”

  Golden light swarmed up through Koni’s skin. M’cal reached out and touched him. “Wait.”

  M’cal felt odd. His skin tingled, as did the bracelet. Not with the old compulsion, but something different. He had the urge to sing—an overwhelming desire. He gave in only so far as to hum—faint, melodic, allowing the music to run its course through his voice as he released the notes softly into the air. He felt, for a moment, that his song had a life of its own—intelligence, purpose—and that it was searching for something.

  The world around him wavered; the trees wiggled for one brief moment in an improbable zigzag motion that seemed less like dizziness or exhaustion and more like something from a B-movie adaptation of Island of the Damned. M’cal had seen enough television to know what that looked like.

  Fake. Rough.

  “An illusion,” M’cal whispered with dreadful clarity. “This is not real.”

  “What?” Koni asked, but he stopped, staring at a tree. M’cal followed his gaze. The rough bark was glittering, leaking some black substance that loo
ked like liquid hematite, or some thick oil filled with metal shards.

  “Go,” M’cal breathed, and then again: “Go!”

  Golden light erupted from Koni’s skin, black feathers sweeping across his exposed flesh, rippling and pushing like an earthquake. M’cal felt the physical heat of the shift as he turned to sweep his gaze through the forest—the now bleeding illusion. Koni threw back his head, face contorting, narrowing; his soul being reborn into another body.

  The change done, Koni threw himself into the air … and hit the sky above their heads with a thud. It was a hard impact, totally unexpected. Koni almost fell to the ground, but he rallied himself and tried again. Several feet above M’cal’s head, the shape-shifter ran into something hard enough to make him lose feathers. He plummeted, and M’cal caught him. Koni squawked. Blood seeped from the edge of his beak, and his eyes glowed with furious light.

  The trees wavered. The sky flickered—then disappeared entirely.

  A rush of cold air swept over M’cal’s skin. He kept singing, reaching out with his voice, searching for some taste of souls. Anything, as the world was replaced with darkness, shadows cut with some distant flicker of natural light. He saw stone walls, rough-hewn. Dirt on the ground. A cave. A cave with a narrow iron grate barring the only way out. They had walked, blind and deceived, into a trap.

  On the other side stood a woman. Headphones on. Gun out.

  M’cal sang louder, pushing his voice, surrounding the woman like a cloud of mosquitoes buzzing, searching for a place to bite. He found nothing. She continued to stare, impassive, her mouth set in a hard, cold line. M’cal set Koni down in the shadows behind him—hoped he stayed a bird, a small, dark target—and walked up to the barrier.

  Yu never blinked. M’cal stopped singing. He expected her to shoot him, but all she did was hold the gun, her finger loose and easy on the trigger. Behind her, movement. Four men. All of them were wearing protective gear over their ears.

  M’cal turned back to Koni, who was still in his crow form. He did not worry about speaking softly when he said, “No matter what happens, stay small, quiet. Do nothing. Pretend you are dumb. Even if they know differently, it might save you. Please. Do not give them an excuse.”

  Someone has to survive this. Someone has to help Kitala.

  Koni’s eyes flashed, but he backed deeper into the shadows, tucking his small body inside a shallow alcove. He blended perfectly.

  The metal grate rasped. M’cal turned. Yu swung open the barrier. The four men preceded her, ranging out across the small space between them, weapons pointed at his head. M’cal did not sing. He watched their eyes. Wondered if he could move fast enough to rip off those earphones, from which trickled the low bass of some pounding music.

  Yu gestured to the men. One of them—the only blond of the group—nodded curtly. He shot out M’cal’s kneecap.

  The roar of gunfire in such a small space rebounded like an explosion, drowning out his scream. M’cal managed to bite back his cries, but the pain dulled his brain to nothing but a thick slab of meat, his thoughts reduced entirely to instinct—and Kitala. She burned inside him. He clung to that fire, taking shelter.

  Sanity returned in pieces; he thought of Koni, but heard nothing. No outburst. He did not dare look to see if the bird-man was still in the alcove, but focused on the feminine face swimming close to his own. Boots stood on his wrists. Hands held his ankles. His left leg felt loose, hardly connected to the rest of him.

  Yu’s face cleared in his vision. He watched her hand slide behind her back, under her shirt. M’cal heard a hissing sound, and her hand reappeared with an eight-inch curved blade. She looked M’cal in the eye, held his gaze … and jammed the knife into his chest, twisting hard. He fought so hard not to cry out that he felt like he broke something in his throat.

  “I’ve never known a man who can’t die,” Yu finally said, her voice thick, more raw than her eyes, which remained cold, hard. “But I guess I can learn to appreciate it.”

  And she twisted the knife again, aiming for his heart.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Kit lost track of time, as well as her fear, though it lingered, pressing in upon her like the edge of a scream. After nothing stole in from the dark to hurt her, though, she began to feel slightly ridiculous about her initial terror. A calm head—that was what she needed.

  Kit finally sat down. She did not want to, was afraid of how filthy the floor might be, but she was tired and her body ached. She gave in, and was relieved to find her section of the floor completely dry, free of whatever made the rest of the room reek. She could guess what that was—she needed to go to the bathroom so bad it hurt—but who else was in here with her, and why, was the big question.

  She leaned against the door and closed her eyes. Passed the time. Thought of her parents, wishing very much she had called them. They might even be on a plane by now to Vancouver.

  The darkness, too, was a reminder of her father. When she was twelve, he had temporarily given up his music to go back to Kentucky and work in the mines. Too desperate for anything else. A bad year for Kit and her mother. Worrying about him, worrying about themselves. She remembered lying in bed at night with her eyes closed, pretending she was her father, deep underground. Suffering for money. Those long, elegant hands, those deft fingers, cutting rock instead of music.

  But now it was Kit in the mine—a cave-in—fighting for her life instead of cold, hard cash. Not for the first time, she wished she could see her death, know for certain if murder was her fate. Not that it would help. She would still fight, even if it was. But she wanted to know.

  She heard a cough. In front of her, to the left. Her first human sound since entering this place. It was low, feminine; almost a gasp for air.

  “Hello?” Kit asked softly.

  Silence. And then, barely a whisper: “Ms. Bell.”

  Kit closed her eyes, heart lurching. After everything she had gone through, it seemed impossible. “Alice. You’re alive.”

  “Am I?” The woman sounded exhausted, ill. “That’s too bad.”

  Kit stood, awkward. “Where are you?”

  “Stay where you are. It’s a … mess … over here.”

  She ignored her, edging into the darkness inch by inch; as if she were hanging in the abyss, surrounded by ghosts. Alice, nothing more than a spirit speaking from the void. Kit tried breathing through her mouth. Her feet touched something wet and she stopped, cringing.

  Kit swallowed hard. “Talk to me. I need to know where you are.”

  “Please, don’t.”

  “Are you restrained?”

  “You’re close enough.”

  “If you’re tied, maybe there’s something I can do.”

  Kit heard metal jingle. Alice said, “I doubt it. Please. Let me pretend to have some dignity.”

  Dignity. There was power in that word. Kit tightened her jaw and sidled back the way she had come, trying to dry her wet foot on the hard floor. When her back hit the door again, she asked, “What is this place and who is doing this?”

  Alice said nothing. Kit closed her eyes again, shifting painfully. She was going to have an accident soon if she did not relieve herself.

  Dignity, she thought. More dignified not to wet your pants, right?

  Not when the only alternative was the floor. But Kit had a feeling there would be no potty breaks from this room, and she had no idea how long she would be here.

  She walked to her right until she touched the wall. Moved forward until she had the sense that any farther would have her bumping into something. Swayed back a little, pulled down her sweats, and squatted. Her bladder would not work. Not right away. But she managed, and the sound seemed as loud as a gunshot. Pure fire crawled up her face; she felt dizzy with shame.

  “I’m sorry,” Kit said when she was finished. Her feet were wet.

  “Don’t be,” Alice replied gently. “At least you can move away from it.”

  Kit did not reply. She could not. Her body felt m
isused, though she tried not to think of it that way. If this was the worst of the abuse she endured, it would be a blessing. Alice was certainly not doing as well. Kit had to assume the others locked in this room were suffering in a similar fashion, though their relative silence—and the smell of death—made her uneasy.

  “You never answered my question,” Kit said, voice quavering.

  “I am afraid to,” Alice replied, and then, softer: “I saw you. In my dreams. You came to me.”

  Kit hesitated. “You told me I was next. And then I was. Please, Alice, tell me what this is about. I deserve answers.”

  “You deserve not to be here. And that is my fault. I was stupid to involve you.”

  “No,” Kit said, but Alice said nothing else, and Kit did not have the energy to push. Drained from the tips of her ears to her toes, and all the stress, all the struggle, slammed her so hard she wanted to cry. She held it in, though. Contemplated all the ways she might escape. Prayed a little. Wished for her grandmother and M’cal. Held the gris-gris tight in her hands and pretended it was her fiddle.

  At some point, she fell asleep. A long time, a short time; there was no way to know. Only, she did not dream. And it was the sound of footsteps that woke her.

  Alice whispered, “Careful. Be careful.”

  Kit stood, teetering. She listened to keys jangle, watched the door open slowly. She glimpsed a lithe figure, the outline of a bob. Officer Yu.

  Two men stood behind her—not Hartlett, but some of his colleagues. Yu stood aside, wrinkling her nose, and gestured for Kit to precede her. The woman’s hands were covered in blood. Blood was everywhere, Kit noticed—even on Yu’s face. Specks of it darted across her cheek like large, sticky freckles.

  Kit stared for a moment. Yu smiled. There was something feral and cold in her eyes, which were different than Kit remembered, even from the boat. As though part of the woman had gone so far down some dark, slippery road, something fundamental had changed in her heart, so much so that she could no longer hide it on her face. A physical transformation. Dark thoughts and actions, cutting new features. It was frightening to look upon.