Soul Song (12 page)

“How?” she murmured, still unbelieving, heart in her throat.

M’cal tried to speak. This time he made a gurgling sound, a ghost of a word, but that was it. Frustration filled his face; he tapped the bracelet cuffed to his wrist.

“Part of your .. . imprisonment?” Kit asked incredulously. “You can’t be killed?”

He shrugged, as if to say that was not entirely correct; but either way, it was good enough for her. She could suspend belief if it meant M’cal was alive.

Kit pressed her forehead on his arm, savoring his warmth, his strength. She tried not to cry—but could not help herself. She managed to be quiet about it, but M’cal touched her hair and that only made her shake harder. Too much. All of this was too much.

“I wish I had known,” she mumbled brokenly. “I thought you were dead. You don’t know what that felt like.”
How it felt to know I could have warned you.

He tapped her shoulder, making her look at him. His eyes were solemn, so very grave, and he touched his heart. Pointed at her. Made a gun with his fingers and shot at her. Touched his head, pointed at her again. Laid his hand over his heart a second time.

Kit did not know what the hell he was trying to say, but she took a wild guess. “You thought maybe I was dead, too? That they shot me?”

M’cal nodded, his jaw tightening. Raw emotion flickered through his eyes, which were suddenly red-rimmed, bright. Kit wiped away a fresh stream of tears and placed her hand over his heart. M’cal covered it with his own, squeezing so tight she could imagine his soul riding against her skin.

“Don’t do that to me again,” she whispered. “Please.”

“Same to you,” he whispered hoarsely.

They did not drive far. M’cal was behind the wheel of a stolen car, presumably owned by a police officer, and that was a very bad combination.

And they were also covered in blood, with no change of clothes in sight. Walking into a department store to do some quick shopping was out of the question, and entering her hotel looking like a victim in a slasher film would be far too shocking a sight. Someone might call the police.

Kit’s cell phone was still waterlogged from the night before, and M’cal did not carry one. They drove for five minutes into Chinatown, where they found a pay phone. Kit, being a bit more presentable, jumped out and made a collect call to Dela. She watched the street as she dialed, but except for some curious looks from several beggars—who began to walk toward her, saw the blood, and turned away—no one seemed at all threatening or inclined to point their fingers. Not yet anyway.

“Hari’s at the hotel,” said Dela. “And you’re not there.”

“Um, yeah,” Kit said. “I happen to be in Chinatown at the moment, covered in blood, and in possession of a stolen car that belongs to the corrupt police officer who tried to murder me. I could use some help. Like
now.”

“Oh, Kit,” Dela muttered. “What part of ‘stay put’ didn’t you understand?”

“Lecture me later.” There was a parking garage nearby—Kit could see it from where she stood—and she told Dela to ask Hari and the others to meet them there, on the top level. She also asked for a fresh change of clothes—for both her and M’cal.

“You’re not alone?” Dela asked, sounding surprised.

“Long story,” Kit replied. “Thanks, Dela. Later.”

Kit hung up the phone and dove back into the car. M’cal made a straight line to the parking garage, where they drove to the very top of the structure. Kit peered out the window, looking for a security camera. She did not find one, but that was poor comfort. M’cal backed the car into a corner slot—better to hide the broken rear window—and then turned off the engine. Time to wait.

Kit hid Dick’s gun in her purse. M’cal watched her.

“You did well,” he rasped, and cringed, swallowing hard. Kit winced in sympathy and touched his face, fingers gently tugging aside his collar so she could better see his throat. It was almost healed, but there was an imprint the size of a quarter—the last remains of the hole that had blasted through his neck.

“You were dead,” she said.

“But the witch is not,” he replied. “I told you it was complicated.”

“Any other surprises?” she asked sharply.

He hesitated. “I cannot touch the sea without being consumed by pain. I cannot touch any human other than the witch without the same.”

Kit’s hand flew off his throat. He caught it and brought her palm to his lips.

“I do not feel pain now,” he said quietly. “That was your gift to me, what you did when you stopped me from taking your soul.”

“But you don’t think it will last.”

“The bracelet remains.”

“We need to get it off you.”

“Perhaps you can use your magic.”

Kit shook her head. “I don’t know what I do, but it’s not magic.”

“Kitala—”

“I knew you were going to die,” she interrupted. “I knew, and I didn’t tell you.”

M’cal’s eyes darkened, and her stomach lurched like she was falling, but when he spoke there was no condemnation, no anger. He brushed his thumb against her cheek and said, “Earlier you mentioned death.”

Years of death. Too much.
She almost said that out loud, but stopped herself, fighting for different words. She did not know why it mattered—surely there was nothing she could say that would surprise M’cal—but she cared how it sounded. Too much pride, too much fear. Too much guilt.

“Sometimes,” Kit said slowly, “I see when people are going to die. When they’re going to be . .. murdered.”

M’cal’s face showed nothing. “Only murder?”

She nodded. “But it’s useless. I don’t know when or who will murder. Only
how.
Only that it will be violent and awful, and that no matter how good a life someone leads, no matter how kind they are, that’s what they’ll have to look forward to in their last moments. Not love. Not family. Just pain. Fear. A broken heart.” She swallowed hard, trying not to think of the countless people she had encountered who had stood talking to her with bullets in their brains, ropes around their necks, skulls smashed in, stomachs gutted.

M’cal touched her shoulder, the back of her neck, and she flinched. “Every time I meet someone, every time I give a concert or walk down the street... I have to be prepared to see violent death. The possible murder of my friends, the ones I love. It’s why it’s easier to be alone. I give my concerts, I travel. But always by myself. No one else. Because I don’t always know right away. Sometimes it takes weeks, years—and then ...” Kit stopped, sickened. “So many people get hurt in this world, M’cal. So many people hurt each other.”

“Yes,” he agreed softly. “Sometimes it seems like pain is the price for the time we have. We live, we burn bright, but in the end ...”

“All we do is burn,” she finished.

M’cal sighed. “You knew Alice was fated for murder.”

“She was at my concert. Front row. With a knife sticking out of her eye.”

“And you warned her.” He hesitated. “But not me.”

Kit looked away. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“You might be surprised.” He touched her cheek, his palm large and warm, soft like his voice. “Tell me, Kitala.”

Tell him. Say the words.

Tension ran hard through her shoulders, making her cheeks hot. “I was afraid. Afraid to tell you, afraid to admit it.”

“Did you think I would hurt you? That I wouldn’t believe you?”

“No, not that.” Kit finally looked into his eyes. “You told me that you started to give up on helping others. Because you knew it was futile, that no matter what you did, the outcome would be the same. It’s no different for me. But I’ve never. . . I’ve never been with anyone I was so frightened of losing.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ve never been with anyone,
knowing
they would be lost.”

M’cal said nothing and she closed her eyes, frustrated, ashamed. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to explain.”

His thumb stroked her cheek; a moment later she was shocked to feel his lips press against her forehead. But still, silence. Nothing but his slow steady breathing as he pulled her near, tucking her gently against his chest. His heart beat beneath her ear like the slow drum of some mountain storm, thunder thudding against cloud and tree and stone.

“You and I are too much the same,” M’cal murmured. “Ruled by powers we have no control over, forced to endure the pain of others. I murder because I am compelled to. You
see
murder, without any ability to stop it. And both of us bear the guilt and shame.” He pulled back just far enough to look into her eyes. “Why was Alice different?”

“I don’t know,” Kit told him, still unsure what was happening between them. “It was . . . impulse, spur of the moment. I didn’t have time to think about it. Unlike you. But I
was
going to tell you. I just thought we had more time.”

“I used to take time for granted.” M’cal smoothed back her hair, his gaze thoughtful, troubled. “Why do you do it? Why put yourself in the public eye, if seeing the public puts you at risk of pain?”

“I have to. My music.”

“You love your music more than you hate your fear.” M’cal’s jaw tightened. “Last night I was there for the latter half of your concert. You were ... unearthly. You do more with your violin than make notes and melodies. You .. . make reality. You change reality. Inside here.” He touched his chest. “That, I think, is a more precious gift that knowing when someone will die. That is worth fighting for, Kitala.”

If words could be hands, then Kit felt like M’cal had just placed his around her heart. Warmth spread. She tried to say something, but could not. She hardly thought she deserved it.

“I kept the truth from you,” she finally said.

“You did,” he agreed. “Am I supposed to punish you for that?”

“You should be angry.”

M’cal smiled faintly. “There is a story I read once, about an iron house, airtight, no windows, no escape. People, trapped inside. All of them asleep but one— and the one person had the knowledge they were going to suffocate. But he let them sleep, Kitala. He did not wake them, because there was nothing for him to do. Mercy won out, and they died in peace.”

Kit frowned. “Are you saying I did the right thing?”

“I am saying that there is no easy answer in these situations, and that I understand your reluctance to tell me.” He leaned close, tilting up her face. “Do not be sorry, Kitala. I am not.”

It was difficult to look at him. She felt wrecked with too much emotion she could not hide, and M’cal’s own eyes were a study in contrasts; the raw physicality of his body translating into the piercing intensity of his gaze, which was tempered with an inexplicable tenderness that made her heart soften, her shoulders relax.

“I’m glad,” she breathed. “I’m so glad you’re still breathing.”

M’cal smiled and touched her face. His hand shook, just slightly, and Kit wrapped her fingers around his wrist to steady him. He gave her the very faintest of nods, and then, with infinite care, kissed her softly on the lips.

This time it was Kit who shook, and his arms curled around her body, holding her close as he deepened his kiss. She loved the strength of his arms, the power of his body—how he held her so carefully in his lean hungry embrace.

His mouth trailed from her mouth to her cheek. “All this time . . . you have not been alone, have you? There must have been someone you trusted with your secret.”

“My parents.” Kit closed her eyes, savoring his warmth, his closeness. “My grandmother. She had a gift, too. Real power. She tried to help teach me, but I was a poor student. I wanted the visions gone, and I was more interested in music than her voodoo. She died a year ago.”

His long fingers flicked the beaded pouch hanging around her neck. “Is this from her?”

“Yes.” Kit touched the leather, feeling the movement of the tiny objects hidden within. “She said it would protect me.”

He kissed her forehead. “Then never take it off. Let her love take care of you.”

Like last night,
thought Kit, remembering her grandmother’s touch, her words, her urgency—set against the backdrop of her swamp home, safe and distant from the world. Kit missed that creaky house, which Old Jazz Marie had left to her. If she got out of this alive, she was going back there to sit a spell. Play her fiddle to the spirits and the alligators. Maybe try to learn about some things she had refused to accept while her grandmother still lived.

And how will M’cal play into that life? Would he be satisfied with it, if he could choose?

A merman living in the bayou, sitting pretty on the veranda of a rambling yellow house, centuries old and the home of former slaves and witches, music and voodoo; blessed with the love of a priestess queen. Or better yet, she could take him to the Smoky Mountains, to the old haunts where fiddling men still beat the ground with their feet in the shadows of dusk, plucking strings while the wind cried. She would lead him to the forest graves of her father’s parents, lay a red rose down, or maybe a lilac, and tell him stories. So many stories, and more that she wanted to hear from him. If they ever got the chance. If she could find the courage to take such a chance. If he would accept such an offer, given with all the fear and hope one heart could muster.