Soul Song

by Marjorie M. Liu

  And he liked it.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Take a moment, her mother once said. Take a moment to breathe in your life, to remember who you are. Then take another, and another, until each breath is that moment and you … simply … are.

  Kit took a moment—and more—as she rode on the back of the orca, rising and falling through the night sea with the stars peering through the clouds and the scents of cedar and salt mixing cool in her lungs. She took her moments, tasting them with wonder, but it was difficult to remember who she was. Kit felt as though she was no longer in her body, was merely drifting alongside a soaked wild woman whose eyes were full of stars, her body cradled by a man who was not human, who would never be mistaken for human, not with that voice rumbling like sun-soaked honey and thunder. It was like listening to an excerpt of the first dawn, a song of earth and power; part of her, down to the marrow. Genetic memory, a recollection of the soul; dangerous, primeval.

  M’cal’s arm was strong around her waist, though his warmth did little to curb the profound chill seeping into her bones. Her hands and feet were numb, past pain; the rest of her body felt like a plastic mannequin fresh from some freezer. If she fell off the orca, she would drown; she had no strength in her body to swim. Not to walk or fight. All she could do was feel, and her emotions carried her into a slipstream of music; strings and voices, and darker, a thrill of something terrible that she could not name.

  Here there be monsters, she thought, unable to help herself. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

  It was difficult to see—there were few lights on this part of the coast—but she glanced sideways and saw a glitter of gold like fireflies in Koni’s eyes, and the stars shed enough light to cast a shadow on the dark bodies surrounding them. Kit thought of the witch and Ivan. Her breast hurt.

  Not over. Not yet.

  M’cal stopped singing. For a moment, she thought her heart stopped beating as well. The loss of his voice, the silence, made the world feel as empty as death. Like a drug; everything lost color in the shadow of that music.

  The orcas slowed before the narrow mouth of a small cove. Breath exploded from the blowhole in front of Kit, spraying her with a fine mist of seawater.

  “We are here,” M’cal said softly, and the orca took them in, followed by the other female carrying Koni. The rest of the pod lingered outside the cove, slapping the water with their fins and tails. The sound followed Kit, echoing against the tree line, the tumble of rocks framing the water like a half-moon.

  Thirty feet from shore, M’cal slid off the orca’s back, pulling Kit with him. The water no longer felt as cold, and her thoughts were just as numb as her body. Somewhere near, she heard another splash. Koni’s voice, murmuring something. She glimpsed a dark eye the size of her fist, peering into her face, and then M’cal started swimming, pulling her away from the orcas toward the shore. She watched the creatures slide away, dorsal fins sharp and proud, and wished she had her fiddle to hold. She needed to make her own music. The moment needed more than breath.

  They reached shore quickly. Kit tried to say something as M’cal swung her up in his arms, but her face was numb, and her jaw felt locked in place. They moved through shadows, chains clanking, branches sweeping past her face. She smelled cedar, sap, loam; M’cal’s skin, which was clean, fresh, full of the sea. Her heart thudded loud and slow in her chest. Koni kept muttering to himself.

  And then Kit heard their footsteps echo hollow, and suddenly the forest was replaced by walls and a ceiling. M’cal laid her down on a hard surface that smelled like dust.

  “This place is crap,” she heard Koni say. “It’s like a tent you can’t carry with you.”

  “You are a poet,” M’cal replied. “Really.”

  “Seriously. No furniture, no electricity. You’re not going to get her warm in this shack.”

  “I have blankets,” M’cal replied; but moments later loud squeaks filled the air, little bodies scrabbling across the floor. Kit tried to sit up.

  “Hantavirus,” Koni said. “Bubonic plague.”

  M’cal sighed. “I have other blankets—clean blankets—and a fireplace. As well as some canned food.”

  “Hallelujah. We’re saved.”

  Another sigh. “There is wood stacked outside. Go get it.”

  No quips. Footsteps passed close by, and then M’cal was there, pulling off her clothes.

  “I am sorry,” he murmured, pressing a quick kiss on her forehead. “You will be exposed, but we must get you warm.”

  If it meant being warm again, Kit would have exposed herself to an entire football team and done a jig. She tried to help him, but he gently pushed her hands aside. Her blouse was already torn; he paused over the rip, his fingers hovering over her exposed breast, which was probably bruising by now.

  M’cal stared, his expression unreadable. But then he kissed her again, the heat of his mouth like a balm, and his hands kept moving against her body, tugging and pulling. Kit heard Koni enter the cabin, listened to the hard tumble of wood hitting the floor. Ashes hissed, accompanied by more plunking sounds, the loud tang of metal striking metal. Paper crumpled. Koni said, “Where are the matches?”

  “Above the fireplace.” M’cal finished pulling off Kit’s jeans and underwear. Something dry and warm instantly covered her; slightly scratchy, very thick. A match struck and light flashed, burning brighter as the flame caught hold in the fireplace. Kit could finally see again. She found Koni crouching naked in front of the blaze. Tattoos adorned his body, all the way down his hard thighs. He shoved more wood over the fire.

  M’cal scooped Kit into his arms and pulled her close. She started shivering again, violently. Koni said, “Fire isn’t going to be enough. She needs body heat.” He hesitated, for once looking serious. “She may need the both of us.”

  Kit coughed. It was laughter, but the men looked at her like she had just landed at death’s door with a bout of pneumonia. She could not stop shivering. M’cal stared from her to Koni and picked up her hand. Her fingertips looked odd. Almost blue. He breathed on them, and then tucked her hand back under the covers. He wrapped another blanket around her head and slid in beside her. The heat of his body was delicious, but it did not put a dent in the chill sinking through her bones. Kit felt M’cal hesitate, and watched as he looked up at Koni and said, “All right.”

  Koni did not say a word. He crawled under the covers carefully, slowly, pushing close until his hips and legs rubbed Kit’s. His skin was hot—as much a furnace as M’cal’s—and though it was definitely the oddest arrangement Kit had ever found herself in, she could not bring herself to care … or to feel uncomfortable. She needed to get warm. Now.

  Besides, M’cal was guard dog enough. He placed his arm over Kit’s breasts, tugged her shivering body close, and said to Koni, “Keep your hands above the covers.”

  “Give me a break,” Koni replied, staring at the ceiling. “I am not a total pervert. Although, to be honest, consider the night we’ve been having. First handcuffs, and now this? Way more kinky than I expected.”

  “Please,” M’cal said. “Do not talk.”

  “You like the strong and silent type, huh?”

  “If you do not shut up, I will kill you with my voice.”

  “I love it when you talk dirty.”

  “Fine. Which would you prefer to lose first? Your soul or your testicles?”

  “You know, you’re just a bit obsessed with chopping off balls. Do you have issues with your masculinity?”

  Kit coughed again, but this time it sounded more like laughter. Both men looked at her. Koni’s mouth quirked. “Do you have something to add to this conversation?”

  “No,” she whispered, teeth chattering.

  M’cal cradled her against his body. “Koni, take her hands. Warm them.”

  The shape-shifter smiled and cupped Kit’s hands inside his. “I am such a trouper.”

  The three of them talked for a time. It made the situation easier. Nonsense, n
othing serious. Trivia about each other, such as favorite colors—ranging from blue to black (sparking a debate about the spiritual themes associated with both); favorite movies—of which M’cal was woefully ignorant, given the somewhat surprising revelation that his parents had disdained television in lieu of books (“barbarians,” Koni called them); favorite foods, which led to the discovery that mermen were quite content eating anything and everything except creatures who talked back. And, as with any survivalist slumber party, the requisite worst-date competition cropped up, which M’cal won hands down, given that the first woman he seriously pursued ultimately turned him into her personal slave and assassin.

  “Certainly beats being laughed at after sex,” Koni said.

  “Are you sure she wasn’t laughing with you?” Kit asked.

  “No one has ever laughed at me,” M’cal added thoughtfully.

  “Thanks,” Koni said. “Ever so much.”

  Their voices warmed Kit as much as their bodies, though there was nothing better or sweeter than M’cal curled tight against her back, each sound he made ruffling her hair, heating her neck. The boat, the witch—Ivan—faded away. Not entirely, but enough. And after a while, Kit closed her eyes and fell asleep.

  When she woke, the room was dark. The fire had burned down to embers. Koni was gone. A pair of shackles lay where he had been, and nearby, another two sets of cuffs.

  M’cal’s arms tightened. “Kitala.”

  She smiled. “How do you do that? Don’t you ever sleep?”

  He kissed the back of her neck. “I am afraid you will disappear if I do.”

  Kit turned in his arms and pressed close, brushing his jaw with her lips. “Koni?”

  “His ability to transform returned. He left to contact the others.”

  “Picked some locks, apparently.”

  “Mine anyway. He merely … slipped out of the others.”

  “Ah. Right.” Kit tried to imagine it and could not. So much she was taking on faith. “Where are we?”

  “A cabin that belonged to my father. When I was young, this is where we would come when he wanted to teach me about living in the water. My mother stayed here while he and I … went out.”

  “I hope it was more comfortable for her back then.”

  M’cal’s smiled; faint, slightly pained. “After she died, my father cleared out the cabin. He burned the furniture.”

  Kit hesitated, peering into his eyes. “And how did you grieve?”

  He swallowed hard and pressed his mouth against her cheek, so gently it took her breath away. “I grieved badly. When I was young, I ran away from home. No good-byes, no letters, not for a long time. It broke my mother. It hurt my father. When she died, he never forgave me.”

  “You said she died of cancer.”

  “She did. But if I had been there, if I had not run … perhaps she would have been stronger. Perhaps she would never have become ill.” M’cal rolled onto his back, taking Kit with him. “I miss my mother, Kitala. It is hard being here. I should have appreciated the swiftness of time.”

  “How long were you gone from your family?”

  “Almost ten years. I intended to come back sooner. But I kept dreading the idea of facing them. I was sixteen when I left.”

  “And the witch? How long?”

  “Five, perhaps six years. Long enough.” M’cal soothed back Kit’s curls, gazing into her eyes. “Being with you makes me feel like the man I used to be. Before the witch. I forgot, Kitala. I forgot everything.”

  “No,” she whispered. “You didn’t forget. If you had, you would never have saved me. You would never have stuck by me the way you have.”

  “Never again,” he murmured. “I told myself never again.”

  Kit managed to free one of her hands and touched her neck. Felt puncture marks. She touched her breast, too, and winced.

  M’cal’s eyes darkened. He covered her hand, and she tried not to remember the sensation of Ivan’s mouth, those fat, hard fingers. She buried her face in the crook of M’cal’s neck, drawing in his scent, the heat of his skin. Shivered. He drew the covers up around her back. “You are cold.”

  Kit shook her head. “Just remembering.”

  His hands stilled. “I remember, too.”

  She fought for words. “I’m glad you were there. Even if you hadn’t stopped him, I would have been glad.”

  “Glad that I could not keep you safe?”

  “Glad that I was not alone,” she whispered. “I’ve seen a lot of things, M’cal. Murders, rapes, hangings … even a decapitation or two. I can’t forget a single one. But I’ve never been the victim. I’ve never been the target, until now. And violence is lonely, M’cal. No matter what side you’re on.”

  He breathed out, slow, his hands sliding up her shoulders. “Before you, Kitala, the only woman who could touch me without causing pain was the witch. Do you understand what that means? For all those years when she … took … me … it was the only pleasure I had. And that was a terrible thing to feel.”

  Kit swallowed hard, remembering the witch kissing him, how he had lain there unmoving, his face an empty mask. As though he was dead on the inside, and all the witch was doing was touching a shell.

  “I was so close to being lost,” M’cal whispered. “I had no idea how close. If I had not met you, I would have forgotten myself. I would never have known what it could be to hold someone and not hate myself. Not hate the person in my arms. I would have forgotten how to love.”

  “Not possible.”

  “She raped me,” he said, and even though Kit had already suspected as much, to hear it said out loud was terrible, shocking. “Every day, in body and mind. It is a wonder I still want anyone at all.” He cupped her face between his hands and stared into her eyes with such intensity she forgot to breathe. “But I do. I want you. I wanted you the first time I saw you playing your violin on that stage.”

  “Last night,” Kit murmured.

  “Last night,” he echoed. “Terrifying.”

  Kit pushed herself up his chest until she could lean over his face and stare directly into his eyes. The heat from the embers of the fire bathed her exposed shoulders and arms. The rest of her was warm. She did not want to talk. There was too much music in her head, too many notes to keep inside, but her fiddle was not there and she could not sing.

  But there was a golden thread between her heart and M’cal’s; a hook and line she had thrown to him while on the boat. A tenuous connection, one she had no name for, and something she had never considered possible. But it was there, and she used it, adding other strings, playing a symphony on them inside her head.

  “I can hear you,” M’cal said with a touch of wonder in his voice. “I can hear that music.”

  “Good,” she whispered. “I don’t know what that means, but good.”

  He smiled sadly and kissed her, slow and deep, his hands roving down her body; light, like wings or a melody. He was gentle with her, and she responded in kind, and though they did not go as far as they could have, it was good to be held so tightly; good to look into a face that stared back with as much raw reverence as that with which her own heart ached.

  M’cal kissed her throat. He kissed her breast. He kissed her cheek and pressed his mouth close to her ear. “Never again, until I met you. Never again, after.”

  Kit smiled. “That is an ominous compliment, M’cal.”

  “But the truth.”

  “You have a bigger heart than that.” She traced a circle over his sinewy shoulder. “Besides, it’s a huge world. Lots of ocean. Plenty of hot chicks with tails out there who would probably tie themselves in knots for you. You might find someone you like better than little ol’ me.”

  He pushed her away to look into her eyes. “And you? Do you think there is someone better for you?”

  “No,” Kit said. “I really don’t.”

  M’cal picked up her hand, and enough light emanated from the hot coals for her to see his skin shift, scales rising from his flesh,
which became harder, silkier. Webbing appeared between his long, strong fingers.

  “When I left home,” he said, “I became a gypsy. I labored at odd jobs across Europe, though I stayed for several years in Greece, helping marine archaeologists search for artifacts in the sea. The work was … rewarding. But I moved on eventually. I am a nomad. It is in my blood. My father was the same, but for my mother he found roots. It was difficult for him, though. Krackeni drift, always.” M’cal squeezed her hand. “But they do not drift in their hearts. If anything remains constant, it is that.”

  Kit studied his face, trying to memorize every line; the curve of his brow, the soft sweep of his mouth. “I don’t own a home, M’cal. I have enough money to buy ten, but the only home I’ve ever counted on is my family, and that has always been enough. Because all I need is here.” She placed her hand over her heart. “I’ve been on the road almost as long as you have, since I was seventeen, and I don’t plan on slowing down. I don’t think I could, not for long. And no one … no one has ever been able to keep up with that. Or understand.”

  “And if I understood? If I could … keep up?”

  “Then I guess my home would get a little larger,” she whispered.

  Something fierce entered M’cal’s eyes, and he carefully untangled himself and stood. Kit tried to follow, but he laid a hand on her shoulder. She stayed still as he wrapped her tight in a cocoon of blankets; remained silent when he picked her up in his arms and carried her from the cabin.

  The forest was dark, but she could see better this time. The sea was close, only a stone’s throw away. M’cal carried her to the shore and set her down on the rocks. The air was cool against her face.

  “Are you strong enough to enter the water again? It would only be for a moment.” His voice was quiet, but held an urgency that made her nod, without question. She unwrapped herself from the blankets, and M’cal helped her lay them aside. He picked her up again, and carried her into the water. She gasped as the waves hit her. It was as cold as she remembered.