“Some trap,” Koni muttered. “I’ve never been tricked like that.”
Neither had M’cal. He laced his fingers through the grate and pressed his forehead against the cold steel, breathing slow and deep. The gaps were too small for Koni to fit through in his other form. “Whoever captured us has considerable power, but not without limits.”
“Hence the henchman?” Koni got down on his knees and poked at the ground. “This is just dirt. If we dig a hole, I could shift and crawl under.”
M’cal did not say a word. He got down on his knees, transformed his nails into long hooks, and started clawing at the hard-packed soil. Several minutes of hard work yielded a space big enough for a crow to squeeze through. Koni did just that, with M’cal pushing. A surreal moment, though brief.
Koni shook out his feathers, and with only a quick glance at M’cal, fluttered his wings and flew from the cave. No time to waste.
M’cal kept digging. His fingers began to bleed, but he did not slow. Simply clawed the earth, hard and fast, fighting to make room for his body beneath the grate. He did not pay attention to the passage of time, only to Kitala, pulsing in his heart.
Until, quite suddenly, he felt a change in their connection. Something made him stop and sit back, concentrating. Somewhere near, brush rattled. M’cal’s breath caught, and he stood up so fast he made himself dizzy. He clutched at the bars, staring into the darkness, pushing his vision to adjust. His bracelet tingled.
A giant hulk appeared at the jagged, slanting mouth of the cave. Ivan was unmistakable. M’cal did not know how the man had reached the island—or escaped the sinking boat—but his presence was an unwelcome surprise. Ivan did not enter the cave, though. He stepped aside, and the witch pushed through, her face partially covered. A burn in the shape of a hand covered her right shoulder. Not that M’cal looked long—not when he saw who was following her.
Kitala. Alive. Covered in blood—but after a closer look, seemingly unharmed.
M’cal exhaled sharply, briefly closing his eyes. Warm hands grazed his fingers, and he made a sound. It was Kitala, blindly touching the grate. She came back to his hands and he latched on to her, tugging her tight through the bars. She stared past his face, her gaze stricken.
“You’re alive,” she whispered. “I knew you would be, but I saw your heart—”
“Shhh,” he interrupted gently, glancing over her shoulder at the witch, who had no trouble seeing in the dark to look him in the eyes. “What happened?”
“I found Alice,” Kitala said, and glanced over her shoulder at the witch. “Her granddaughter.”
M’cal stared. The witch said, “No time. Edith will work fast.”
“Edith,” he echoed, not certain he was hearing correctly. Ivan pushed Kitala aside, and the witch stepped close to the lock and knelt.
She briefly glanced at M’cal. “For all I have done to you, right now let there be no grudges between us.”
“No,” M’cal said. “I will not promise that.”
The witch tore away the veil covering her face. Her features had partially healed, but her nose was well and truly gone. He searched himself for regret and found none, though the lack of anger in her gaze made him feel odd. Her eyes were clear and steady.
“You will die beautiful,” she said with such quiet thoughtfulness, it seemed to him that each word was a meditation, a promise. A reflection, too, on what she no longer could have. Her face was as ugly as her heart—which was a fine thing, as far as M’cal was concerned.
But the way she looked at him continued to be unnerving. Her hand touched the lock—he heard one word, whispered—and a loud click filled the cave. The grate swung open. M’cal reached immediately for Kitala, and pulled her gently to him, mindful of her blindness in darkness. Her body felt warm, good. His heart began to untwist.
The witch watched him, moving to Ivan’s side. “You must do something for me, M’cal. One last thing, and you will be forever free.”
“No,” he said. “I will not give you Kitala.”
“No,” she replied softly. “But will you take me, M’cal? Will you kill me?”
M’cal stared. Kitala went very still. Even Ivan looked at the witch with something close to dismay. The woman gazed at them all, though her eyes lingered on Kitala the longest. She reached out and touched her face. Kitala flinched.
“I submit to you,” said the witch, and held up her other hand. Took one step back and removed her rings. Held them in her palm. She turned to Ivan.
“I release you,” she said, holding out one of the rings. Ivan shook his head. His mouth opened—air hissed, his throat gurgled—but there were no words he could say. None he was capable of uttering. The witch touched his chest and stood on her toes. She kissed his mouth. Pressed the ring into his hand. Ivan shut his eyes and the silver cuff around his wrist fell off.
The witch turned to M’cal and held out the second ring. He took it without hesitation and his own bracelet snapped, hitting the ground with a thud. He stared at it, unable to move or speak. He could not believe what was happening. Too much, too fast, and far too impossible. Not even in his wildest dreams had he imagined it would be like this.
“Why?” he breathed.
“Because I love my granddaughter,” whispered the witch. “And I cannot help her in this body. I realize that now. Kitala, however, is protected in ways I am not, and never will be. She is the proper vessel.”
M’cal felt cold. “No.”
“What?” Kitala asked.
“No,” he said again, and then: “She wants me to take her soul and then give it you.”
Kitala reared back as though struck. “What does that mean?”
“It means you will have my knowledge.” The witch closed her eyes. “It means that before I dissipate, I will pass on to you all my secrets, my entire life.”
“You will infect her,” M’cal snapped. “You will try to control her.”
Kitala touched his arm. “What will happen if Alice is killed? What is Edith planning?”
“I think you know,” whispered the witch. “You felt the promise.”
“Death and darkness.” Kitala’s eyes were haunted. Her fingers crept up M’cal’s arm. “But why me? Why do you think I have a chance?”
“I think you know that, too.” The witch’s face hardened. “Do it, M’cal. Take my soul. Give it to Kitala.”
He hesitated. Kitala squeezed his arm. “I’m willing.”
“You do not understand what you are asking.”
“I will still be me,” she said to him, her voice dropping low and soft. “I will not be her, M’cal. I know that much. I know me. I know us.”
He began to argue, and stopped. The witch was willing to die. Kitala was willing to fight. And there was nothing he could say to negate either of those two things. He could see it in their eyes.
He moved in quick, and the witch flinched. Ivan placed a hand on her shoulder. She clung to it, and the vulnerability in her face reminded M’cal of a time, long ago and far away, when he had believed in her. It had been a lie then. He did not think it was a lie now. But he hardened his heart and leaned close.
“Thank you for my freedom,” he said at the last moment. He was compelled, though he did not know why. Perhaps it was the fear in her eyes. He searched his heart for pleasure and found none.
The witch held his gaze. “It was inevitable, M’cal. Fate takes its own, always.”
He hesitated, but she was right. Fate was calling.
So he answered with a song.
Kit was blind, but her ears worked fine, and she listened to M’cal take the witch’s soul. She could hear the difference in his voice—the curl and venom, the lure—and she remembered again what it was to be on the receiving end, to feel her soul peeled from its anchor. Only, there was no fear with the memory—it was like putting her ear to the soul of the world and hearing its lullaby; unearthly, intoxicating.
It ended fast. Kit heard the witch sigh, and Ivan made another choking
sound. Then M’cal was there, his hands on her shoulders, and in a strained voice he said, “You can still change your mind.”
But she could not, and she told him as much, feeling his unhappiness like a cut across her heart—inside the shard of his soul, still bright and warm. Her sense of him was growing stronger, as though their link was a muscle flexing.
M’cal did not ask again. He pressed his mouth over hers. Kit had no time to react. She felt the rush—like before, in the sea, receiving a piece of his soul—only this time on a much larger scale, pouring and pouring, like her body was a pitcher being filled to the top.
For a moment, Kit felt afraid. There was so much fear she shook with it, and finally she understood M’cal’s concern. Her own soul felt crowded, pinched, but she fought back with vicious abandon, rearranging the witch, who tried to spread through Kit’s body and exert control.
You must listen to me, said the witch. This will be for nothing if you do not listen.
Then learn your place, Kit replied. This is my body. Not your second chance.
But Kit felt the urgency all the same, and grabbed M’cal’s hand, tugging. She could see him, as though there was an ambient light all around them, glowing. All because a switch had been turned on in her head; simple, something she hoped she would remember.
You will remember everything, the witch told her. Now run.
Kit did just that, dragging M’cal behind her. She did not look to see if Ivan followed, but focused on Edith and Alice, suffering a schizophrenic tumult of vying words, images, and personalities as she fought to keep herself whole inside the core of her heart. It was ugly, messy, but the music rose up like a thundercloud, and it was real this time, no holding back.
They raced through the forest. Kit’s body felt light as air; no pain in her feet, no stumbling falls. She imagined that she was flying, and knew in her heart that she was so close to doing just that, there was hardly any difference.
She led them back to the clearing, guided by the witch, and found company waiting. Kit recognized Hartlett, and inside her head his death unfolded with such clarity she knew he was already standing with one foot in the grave. The three men at his side were little better. And far on their right was Officer Yu, who met Kit’s gaze with a momentary expression of triumph—until she saw M’cal.
No headphones. None of them were protected.
Yu did not try to fight. She ran, and was gone into the forest even before M’cal had a chance to open his mouth. But he did, just as Hartlett and the others raised their guns, and his voice was sharp, biting. The men cried out, clutching their heads. M’cal twisted the melody, and all three of them collapsed. Dropped like puppets with their strings cut. Fast, clean, and easy. Breathing, but otherwise still.
The witch thought it was stupid to let them live. Kit ignored her. The dark aura that had covered the log cabin felt like a smear of hate—infectious, lethal—and as they approached, shadows peeled away from the night. Tall, slender, shaped like slips of paper dolls. They gathered like flimsy stems, some echo of creatures that could be human. And though it was dark, they stood out in stark relief as something deeper than night.
M’cal made Kit slow, his eyes hard, dangerous. He stared at the dark ghosts. Ivan, close behind, did the same. His pale gaze darted around the clearing, coming to rest briefly on Kit’s face with an intensity that she thought had less to do with her than the woman currently inhabiting her body.
The shadow men moved closer. Kit could not imagine them causing real harm. An absence of light was not the same as flesh and blood.
You are wrong, said the witch, her voice so loud she could have been standing outside of Kit’s body. Edith has begun the ritual. Each moment she continues will strengthen these creatures. Even now they could kill you with a blow.
How do we stop them?
Kill Edith. She had not finished the ritual. Until she does, her body is their only link to this world. Kill her, and you will send them back.
“Kitala,” M’cal said, his voice full of warning.
“I have to kill Edith,” she told him. “Otherwise, all you can do is slow these things down.”
“We have to get you in there,” he said, but before he could use his voice, Ivan picked Kit up his arms and barreled through the shadow men, tossing them aside in his wake. There were more of them than Kit had realized—and though Ivan moved fast, the sensation felt like a race on top of shallow quicksand, each step sucking, tugging. Shadows clung, arms shaped like swipes of ink—rained down, hard. She felt each blow like a slap of an open palm. Her face stung.
M’cal appeared, music pouring from his throat. The shadows fell aside. Not far—not like Hartlett and his men—but enough to clear a passage all the way to the door.
Ivan set her down, while M’cal kept singing. He tried to open the door but it was locked against them. Kit felt the barrier inside her mind—a projection from Edith—and cut it down like the first striking chorus of the Dies Irae from Verdi’s Requiem, slicing through another stacked illusion that Edith threw upon them—images of even more shadow men, tall as the trees. The witch exercised her limited control, guiding Kit’s use of her power with ruthless abandon, but Kit followed her own instincts, too, as the music became more frantic, rising higher and higher.
You dance that devil down, she remembered her grandmother saying. You dance that bastard right back to Hell.
Kit swung open the door. The earlier signs of fighting were still present, but the circle in the sand remained unbroken. At its center lay Alice. She was naked. Edith crouched over her body, a knife in her good hand. Her other was slung tight against her chest, wrapped in bloody bandages. The old woman did not appear at all slowed by the massive wound. One cut had already been made in Alice’s arm. Her blood dripped into the sand.
A conduit, Kit heard, followed by a jumble of images that made no sense but were so disturbing she shut them away.
Edith glanced over her shoulder and snarled. Kit entered—took two steps across the sand—and the door slammed shut behind her. She started to go back, but stopped. No time. She had to do this on her own.
She turned to face Edith—and was overwhelmed with the sensation of terror and death, along with a feeling of awful hunger; a waiting hunger, like a starving man perched at the ready for a fat steak; to pounce and tear. Deeper, even; a soul hunger, starvation for life.
This life, the witch told her. This entire world.
Edith’s face contorted against the candlelit shadows. She raised her dagger high above Alice’s chest. The young woman’s eyes opened.
Fight, said the witch. Fight now.
Power swelled inside Kit. Music roaring. She ran toward Edith and broke the circle.
When the door slammed shut behind Kitala, M’cal stopped singing. It was only for a moment—the time it took to ram his shoulder against the hard wood, shouting her name—but that was long enough. The shadows, these men made of night and darkness, swarmed upon him, and while a small part of his heart still wondered if this was yet another illusion, the blows felt real enough, as did the hands around his throat, cutting off his voice.
Demons, he thought, falling to his knees. The shadows of them.
M’cal was dimly aware of Ivan at his back, fighting his own losing battle with the vastly greater numbers. The only thing the big man had going for him was that he was still immortal—and M’cal most definitely was not.
Golden light streaked overhead—a crow bathed in fire—and suddenly there was another set of fists pummeling the shadows holding him down. M’cal broke free, and his voice rolled into the air like the scream of high winds on ocean waves. He shifted his tone just a note, and the shadows lurched backward even more. He kept singing, still trying to open the door behind him. Ivan waded deeper into the shadows, his giant fists sweeping left and right. Koni took a stand beside M’cal; farther away, at the edge of the forest, a cheetah burst from the trees and leapt into the fray, followed by two men. Both were familiar. One of them was sho
cking.
M’cal’s father met his son’s gaze across the roiling shadows, opening his mouth to sing. His voice wound through the air and power rumbled, their twin melodies braiding with no hint of discord; just low, smooth tones that laid the demons down, flat and hard. As M’cal sang with his father, he had a sense, for the first time in his life, of how it must have been in the old wars of magic, the ancient battles, when armies of his ancestors—voices linked—had cut through the ranks of gathered enemies. It was a heady power, intoxicating.
His father ran toward him through the shadow men, clicks and whistles entering his song; words and meanings winding through the melody.
Go to her. I will take care of this.
M’cal did not hesitate. He turned against the door, his voice rising to an ear-shattering shriek that sent Koni stumbling away, covering his ears. The wood vibrated. M’cal, desperate, latched on to his soul bond and clawed his way across it with both voice and will, struggling to reach Kitala.
She was still alive, fighting for her life. M’cal sensed the witch inside the echo of their connection, and he said, Open the door. Hurry.
A moment later he heard a click, and he tried the knob again. This time it worked, and he slammed through into a room of shadows and white sand, golden candlelight burning the air like some hazy fire. There was blood everywhere. Kitala stood in the center of a large circle with a naked woman at her feet and another across from her, one arm ending in nothing but ragged chunks, while her face—her face—
Edith. He finally understood who Kitala and the witch had been talking about. The name had meant nothing before, though he remembered the elderly counselor. His mind simply could not put the two together—not like this.
He ran forward, entering the circle, his voice twisting. Edith snarled at him, eyes black as pitch, and his power slid off her soul like water. Kitala stood beside him, the strain on her face enough to break, sweat rolling down her forehead; but both women stood unmoving, staring, a battle of wills roasting the air between them. Edith held a long knife. The woman below was blond, with a lovely face; she looked like the witch. The resemblance was uncanny. She caught M’cal’s eyes, and hers were wild. Her body was paralyzed. He remembered the feeling. He had been in one of these circles before.
Soul Song Page 26
