Soul Song

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “Krackeni eat junk food?” she asked him as he took a bite.

  M’cal swallowed, and smiled. “If my people knew what they were missing, you land types would be in a great deal of trouble.”

  “Good times, I’m sure.” Koni glanced at Rik. “Here’s a question, though. Care to explain why you never mentioned the existence of mermen? We’ve certainly gotten you drunk enough.”

  Rik looked uncomfortable. “It never came up.”

  “Well, hey, here’s a question for you,” Kit said to Koni. “How come all of you look so human?”

  “Why wouldn’t we?”

  “Because you aren’t.”

  “Don’t focus on the small things, sister. It’s not important.”

  Kit narrowed her eyes. “It is to me, brother. How many of you are out there?”

  “Not enough,” Koni replied. “Not nearly enough. Which is why to have four of us together at one time …”

  “It should be impossible,” M’cal said. “And yet, you say you all work for the same organization. Forgive me if I find it difficult to trust that.”

  “The agency or us?” Koni sat back in his chair and shrugged. “I can understand that. I didn’t want any part of it at first, either. But Hari was the first shifter outside of my family who I had seen in years, and there were … extenuating circumstances. I hopped on board for a trial period, and never left. It’s good work.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Kit said. “I thought Dirk & Steele was a detective agency.”

  “It is,” Rik said, his hands fidgeting over a rather gnawed piece of crust. “But we get to use our … abilities. And it gives us a chance to look for others of our kind.”

  “Just shape-shifters?” M’cal asked. Kit thought of Dela.

  Koni hesitated. “Not just shape-shifters. Humans, too. Though … I wouldn’t exactly describe them as normal, either.”

  “Oh, boy,” Kit muttered. “What, they can read minds? Light fires with their ass—” She stopped, a sudden terrible thought coming to her. “What about Blue?”

  “Blue?” M’cal echoed.

  “Um, someone I dated briefly.” Kit frowned. “Well?”

  Koni held up his hands. “You should probably let him tell you himself. But, hey, don’t get too pissed off. It’s not like you mentioned your own mumbo jumbo.”

  “My what?”

  M’cal stirred. “I told them that you had some … magical abilities.”

  “Fantastic,” she muttered, and opened another box of pizza. This one was chicken and onion. “How is he?”

  “Married to a circus performer, with a baby on the way.”

  Kit choked, coughing. “I just spoke to him six months ago.”

  Koni shrugged. “Man moves fast.”

  Apparently so. Of course, Kit was moving pretty damn fast herself. She looked at M’cal and found him watching her with a tiny furrow between his eyes. He looked both concerned and irritated.

  Jealous, she thought, with a brief sense of wonderment. Maybe he even thinks you still feel something for Blue.

  What she felt was stupid. Stupid, to have been around all these people and never noticed that something was odd, or different. She might as well have been blind, walking through life, paying attention to nothing but what was right in front of her. Never mind her visions, although those were partly to blame. Kit never liked looking too close. She simply had not realized how much she was missing.

  Kit reached out and took M’cal’s hand. There was nothing she could say to reassure him—not in front of witnesses, anyway—but she hoped he would understand. That he would trust her—a trust that was already fragile. She had held back from him once already; perhaps he would think her capable of it again.

  Her fingers squeezed lightly. He squeezed back. His eyes did not soften, though. Still thinking, wheels turning. Some possessive streak she had not imagined. With anyone else, it would be a deal breaker. But with M’cal … she liked it.

  Koni coughed, pushing back his chair. “Hari and Amiri headed out to sniff around for your Alice Hardon. I was supposed to wait here until you … woke up; so now that you have …” He saluted them both and began walking to the door. Stopping, halfway there, he turned around. “By the way, just how is it that you both met, if your … witch—whatever you call her—wants Kit dead?”

  Not dead, exactly, Kit thought, recalling the sensation of her soul being sung away. She glanced at M’cal, who suddenly, once again, looked very uncomfortable.

  “I was sent to kill her,” M’cal said.

  Rik sat up. Koni stared. “You’re shitting me.”

  “I wish.”

  Koni briefly shut his eyes. “Did you know this, Kit?”

  “Of course,” she replied.

  “Of course? He told you that he was sent to kill your ass, and you’re still with him?”

  “For the record,” M’cal said, “I did try to convince her to leave me.”

  “You must not have tried very hard.”

  “Hey.” Kit held up her hand. “I have my reasons for trusting M’cal. Not the least of which is that he saved my life.”

  Koni grumbled something mostly inaudible and gave M’cal a scathing look. “You don’t trust us, fine. I don’t trust you. But we’re here to take care of Kit, and if you get in the way—”

  “Stop me,” M’cal said simply. “Do anything you have to. Do not let me hurt her.”

  Koni narrowed his eyes. “If you cared that much, you would leave with me right now. No questions, no second thoughts.”

  “Absolutely not,” Kit said, but M’cal’s face settled into a hard mask and he nodded slowly. She stepped in front of him, palms out. “No, please. Think about this. If the compulsion returns, you’ll be forced to go back to the witch. Or hunt me. But if I’m with you, if you give me warning, maybe we can duplicate what happened earlier. Better to try, anyway.”

  “Better not put you at risk,” he said sadly. “Which I have done far too much of today.”

  “Come on,” Koni said gruffly. “Hari left you some clothes. You can change and we’ll go.”

  Kit turned. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “The help you asked for,” he said in a far more gentle voice than she expected. Or, perhaps, deserved.

  M’cal placed his hand on her shoulder and steered her away from the other two men, just around the bend in the living room, out of sight. He held her at arm’s length, staring into her eyes. For a moment, there was such a terrible strain on his face, she was convinced that he was angry with her. And then something shifted in his eyes—raw, cut—and she realized that he was, in a horrifically restrained way, afraid.

  “Stay safe,” he whispered. “Whatever you do, Kitala, stay safe. Do not try to follow me.”

  “You’re coming back to me.”

  “Yes. But whether it will be as I am now, or under the witch’s compulsion, is another matter entirely.”

  “It will still be you.” Kit pushed his hands aside and leaned into him, resting her palm over his heart. “She can’t take that away, M’cal. Remember that. Remember yourself.”

  “Remember myself, remember you.” He smiled faintly. “The two are the same at this point.”

  Her throat felt thick. She nodded hard, trying to ignore the burning in her eyes, and leaned close. It was worse, kissing him. His mouth was firm, hot, with that clean taste she was beginning to love—like a wind swept from the sea, bracing and strong and effortlessly powerful. He pulled her close, curling around her body.

  And then, without much fanfare, he went to dress in the clothes Koni showed him. He kissed her good-bye one last time, gave her a long, searching look that she felt right down to her toes, and then left. Gone. Door closed.

  There was, apparently, a spare car parked on the street in front of the house. Kit did not stand at the window to watch him drive away. Seeing him get in was enough. Anything more would be pathetic—the act of a moon cow—although she was already close enough to being one
that it hardly mattered.

  She sat down at the table, fiddle case in front of her. Rik stayed on her right. He looked very uncomfortable.

  “Is making you babysit me some kind of punishment?” Kit asked him.

  “I’m still in training,” he replied, which was not exactly an answer.

  She studied his hands. “And you’re a shape-shifter? A … dolphin? Can you change into anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  Rik looked bewildered. “I don’t know. Why are you asking?”

  Kit raised her eyebrow. “Think about it for a minute. I bet you’ll come up with an answer.”

  His expression soured, but not in any way that seemed angry. “Sorry. I’m just not used to talking about it.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Kit said. “This is all very new to me. And my temper is not at its best.”

  “S’okay.” Rik gave her a faint smile. “I’ve been through something similar. I was an asshole about it, too.”

  “Thanks,” she muttered, and flipped open her fiddle case. The instrument lay gleaming, polished and untouched by the violence that had plagued her. Good old reliable. Kit went to the kitchen to wash any remnants of pizza grease from her hands. Returned, stared for a moment at the gleaming wood, and then picked up her fiddle and bow. She wished M’cal were there.

  “You’re going to play?” Rik asked.

  “I need to,” she said, and it was true. She needed to play her fiddle like she needed to breathe, and if she waited a moment longer, something inside her just might break.

  Kit had no song in mind. Nothing written. She merely set the bow to the strings and let her heart guide the music, flinging herself wildly into a twisting riddle of notes, ripping into melodies, distorting them just at the points where they would become beautiful. It was angry music—music of war—and it told Kit something about her state of mind as everything that poured out of her remained violent, thick with battle.

  She thought of Alice. Alice so calm, Alice with a knife in her eye, Alice apologizing, trying to protect her. Alice, slipping her that damn card which had led to nothing. Alice, who even now might be dead.

  Where the hell are you? Kit wondered, her music growing in fury. She was dimly aware of Rik watching, slack-jawed, but she paid him no mind. Inside her head, something was brewing, building; she felt it like a scream.

  Until, quite suddenly, the room around her disappeared and she was lost in darkness—absolute, bone-chilling, and damp, like the heart of an oubliette cast down into the bowels of the world.

  She could hear breathing not her own. Rustling, coming from all around. More than one body. A lot more.

  And then, as though someone had lit a match, she could see. Not much, but just outlines, shapes. People sitting. Crouched, curled. Kit moved forward. She saw long hair, long legs; nearby, a heavily muscled arm. Men and women both. No one moved, not really. Restless shifting, that was all.

  Something made her turn around. She looked hard into the shadows, and the light in her eyes pushed and pushed until she glimpsed, with breathtaking clarity, a shock of blond hair and pale skin, a body clad in a dirty white dress.

  Kit stumbled forward, falling to her knees. It was Alice. Alice, with wrists cuffed in chains attached to the wall she leaned upon. Her skin was raw, and there was a bruise forming on her face. But she was alive. Very much so. She lifted her gaze and looked Kit in the eyes with a strength that felt like a punch.

  “Be careful,” Alice rasped, blue eyes blazing. “You’re next.”

  “Where are you?” Kit cried out, but it was too late. The woman faded—the darkness, the other people, the sounds and smell—swirling away from her like the end of a bad dream. Kit blinked once, and found herself back in the house with Rik, her fiddle still in hand, wailing and wailing like her voice.

  She stopped playing—would have fallen if Rik had not caught her. He pulled out a chair and set her down in it, crouching beside her with a steadying hand on her arm. His golden eyes were disturbed, even frightened.

  “You were playing,” he said. “Something changed. What happened?”

  “I saw Alice,” Kit croaked, and then, “I need some water, please.”

  He ran to get it. She heard the refrigerator door open. Beyond the living room, she heard another door creak. Someone had come back.

  But the man who appeared in front of her was an utter stranger, a giant dressed in a gray suit, his body round and shaped like a penguin. His head reminded her of a bird as well. Small and puffy, his cheeks so red she thought he must use rouge. His eyes were black, hardly slits. His hands curled like meat hooks.

  Danger, fucking danger! screamed a tiny voice inside Kit’s mind. She struggled to stand, gaze locked with the man in gray, whose eyes were as cold and hard as gravel chips caught in ice. She heard movement on her left: Rik, emerging from the kitchen. She had no time to warn him. He saw the man—froze—and then threw himself at the stranger with a speed and strength that was astonishing.

  “Run!” Rik screamed, and she did—into the kitchen, looking for a weapon. She found a butcher knife and staggered back just in time to see Rik slam into the hardwood floor. She heard a crack, and the shape-shifter went still.

  Which left just her and the man in gray. Kit’s mind went totally blank. She did not know where to run, how to fight, what to do. She could only stare, breathless, into those sharp, sharp eyes, hearing inside her heart the first violent strokes of a terrible song, a song more like a scream, raging and raging. Her heart thundered like a hurricane.

  The man smiled. It was a terrible smile, lips pressed together, the corners of his mouth turning up; worse, because his eyes never changed. If anything, they became colder. Hungry.

  Kit moved, but it was not enough. The man rushed her and he was incredibly fast—one step, and he crossed the room to stand above her, towering like a monolith. He was even more terrifying up close.

  She tried to run, but he caught her with his hand, fingers crushing her arm. He yanked her right up against his body—hard as concrete—and lifted her feet off the floor. He smelled like raw meat, with a hint of perfume.

  Kit did not think. Her arm swept forward. The butcher knife punctured the suit and sank into the man’s side. She screamed as that shuddering impact ran up her arm—in rage, disgust, fear—then pushed as hard as she could, using all her strength, grunting with the effort.

  The man in gray did not let go. Kit twisted the blade and he did not let go. She felt hot blood on her hand and still he did not let go. His smile only widened, revealing teeth, and she could not help but gasp as she looked into that mouth. His teeth were sharp—little daggers—filed down to points. Each and every last one of them. It was like gazing into the black, jagged maw of a shark.

  But Kit got a good look at something else as he smiled, as he opened his mouth wide. The man in gray had no tongue.

  Kit let go of her knife. She went for his eyes instead, but he turned her around, almost juggling her from hand to hand, and slammed his forearm across her throat, cutting off her air. She kept fighting, but the man was too strong. Dizziness hit; vision dimmed. Music, screaming. Alice, whispering.

  You are next.

  Kit blacked out.

  CHAPTER TEN

  According to Koni, Dirk & Steele had some very strong connections to Vancouver’s law enforcement, enough so that if corruption did exist—and there was no doubt at this point that it did—it would only be a matter of time before the men, armed with Officer Yu’s name, found the two bad cops and squeezed some additional information out of them. As well as ruining their careers and putting them behind bars.

  All of this M’cal learned on the drive back to Hastings. Hari and Amiri—after rendezvousing with their police friends—were going to meet them near the Youth Center. Home base, as Koni said, for Alice Hardon.

  It was seven in the evening. The sun had set. The darkness made M’cal uneasy. The witch would be up and about; Ivan would be mobile. An
d the compulsion still had not returned. That was not right.

  And what is your basis for comparison? Nothing like this ever happened to you before.

  No, but he still had his instincts. Whatever this was, it could not be called good luck. Something was wrong.

  He wished he had not left Kitala.

  Koni smoked as he drove. “How long have you been in trouble?”

  For a moment, the question reminded M’cal of Elsie. Elsie, whom he had almost forgotten. The woman was probably still alive, but not for much longer. Her body would give out in a day or two. If she was lucky, she’d die in her sleep. An autopsy would reveal no obvious cause of death, but doctors were always ready to apply some diagnosis, even if incorrect. No doubt the same would be done to her. And to Kitala.

  “Long enough,” M’cal said. It was as good an answer as any.

  Koni frowned. “She’s made you kill?”

  “Among other things.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  M’cal looked at him. Koni shrugged. “Some people take death more seriously than others. You don’t seem to be rolling in guilt.”

  “Are you a mind reader?”

  “God, no.”

  “Then do not presume to know what I feel.”

  “Fair enough.” Koni tossed his cigarette out the window.

  M’cal stared through the windshield at the car ahead of them. He listened to the wipers, the rumble of the engine. So normal. So regular. All an illusion, one more thing to take for granted. Kitala had used the word alien, and she was right. Even he could feel it, more strongly than ever: the oddity, the strangeness of the situation. Everyone around him—on this road—going about their lives, never guessing that the car behind, beside, in front carried magic, myth; a shape-shifter and a merman.

  Ridiculous. Fantastic. Funny even, though M’cal had no urge to laugh. He had never felt so alien as in this moment, so much outside every boundary of human normality.

  You are a killer, a slave, he told himself. Think of human history. That is perfectly normal.

  But not very comforting.