Soul Song Page 10

  She did not want to tell M’cal, because saying the words would make it real. She did not want to tell M’cal, because for the first time in her life, after all her careful isolation, her efforts to keep her heart free of entanglements that she knew would end in violence, she had finally found someone she was afraid of losing and whom she knew, without a doubt, would be lost. Sooner, rather than later. Against his will.

  I need to tell you something, she said in her mind, but the words remained frozen on her tongue. No strength.

  Later, she thought. You still have time. He’s not going anywhere. Not yet.

  But soon. She had to tell him soon. She only hoped he believed her, that he did not call her a freak, a liar, crazy—like others had, so long ago.

  As if, whispered a small voice. M’cal will believe you.

  Kit watched his eyes: so blue, so haunting. Inhuman. “The woman who … holds you. She makes you kill. Why?”

  “Power. My kind have a gift for song. Music is at the core of our culture. But some of us can do more with that gift than others.”

  “Like steal souls.”

  “Yes,” he said gravely. “And more. It is a warrior trait, passed down from a time when there were great battles within the world. So much strife that it touched even my kind, within the sea. My ancestors could turn back armies with nothing but their voices. Kill with nothing but a song.”

  M’cal traced his fingers over her cheek; light as a feather, easy and gentle. “What I take is the essence of a human, everything that makes that individual want to live. It is a terrible thing to do, Kitala. Better to die outright, I think. But that desire, that vitality, is immensely powerful. It is the essence of life. The quickening of it. And the witch has learned to harness it. She takes what I steal, and it makes her strong and young. Gives her, temporarily, the skills and knowledge of those who have been stolen.”

  Bitterness touched his gaze as he added, “There is a great irony in this, Kitala. What I do to others is exactly what the witch has done to me. Forcing those women at the Youth Center to speak to us. Forcing the men who hurt you to kill themselves.”

  She caught his hand, held it. “You fought for me. You implied that was impossible.”

  “It depends on the compulsion, on the witch’s mood. Though I would be lying if I did not admit that she has … relaxed … when it comes to controlling me.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that in the beginning, when she first captured me, I always fought. Always. I suppose I had convinced myself that I was still fighting.” M’cal shook his head, a look of disbelief flickering over his face. His voice softened with incredulity. “I now see that was not the case. The witch wore me down, and I never realized it, until you.”

  “M’cal—” Kit began, but he rolled away, looking at the window.

  “I can still hear them,” he told her, his voice deadly quiet. “Strangers, random individuals whom I killed for the witch. Making me pretend I was a prostitute was part of that. The men and women who paid for my time were always my victims—and one more way for the witch to demonstrate her absolute control. Showing me how futile it was to fight her. So I told myself I had no choice, or better, that I was choosing my battles. Like I did with you when she gave me your name.”

  Choosing battles. Remembering faces, voices. Something Kit understood too well. She forced him to look at her—poured into her gaze all her anger, her determination—and in a low, hard voice said, “We will stop this.” I will stop this. I will save your life.

  He said nothing, and Kit sank into herself, listening to her heart, the echo of strings singing; around her, more distant: cars honking, a baby crying; somewhere above, the springs of a mattress heaving; laughter, screams. Life, teeming. All of it, like music.

  “We should go,” M’cal said quietly.

  “Yeah,” she said, wetting her lips, noting how he watched her mouth. “Whatever I did to you … how long do you think it will last?”

  “I do not know.” He pushed a little closer, still staring. Kit remembered his mouth on hers, in the water—the heat of it, the power of his body as he kept her alive. She closed the distance between them, but did not kiss him. Hesitating, breathless, she waited for M’cal.

  He kissed her. Gently at first, taking his time with electrifying tenderness; a brush of his lips, barely a taste. Savoring. Kit’s breath caught—and then caught some more as he deepened the kiss, crushing her mouth. His intensity was desperate, starved. Kit felt her eyes burn with unshed tears as she grappled with him, fighting to match his passion as her heart bubbled into her throat, singing.

  They broke apart, panting, trembling, lips still brushing. M’cal’s hand had found its way beneath her T-shirt, his fingers hot against her back. Her hand was buried in his hair. She did not loosen her grip. Part of her was afraid he might slip away, fade like a dream. There was no room in the world for a man like him, no such thing as magic.

  M’cal brushed his lips against the corner of her mouth, trailing kisses across her cheek, her neck, ending at her ear.

  “I had to taste you again,” he whispered. “Just in case.”

  “You touched me last night. No urge to hurt me then.”

  “But you remember it did not last.” M’cal ran his finger down her throat. “It is complicated, Kitala. More than you realize.”

  She caught his hand and kissed it. She did not mean to, but it felt natural, right. Like holding her fiddle and sliding the bow across the strings. Music was in her heart, in her ears. She watched M’cal’s eyes, and he leaned in close and kissed her again. He tasted clean, almost salty.

  They untangled themselves and moved off the bed. M’cal helped Kit stand. She was stronger—her knees wobbled only a little—and he presented her fiddle case.

  “I want you to play for me,” he said.

  “Tonight,” she replied, and the promise sent a small thrill through her.

  They left. It was indeed a squalid room—and an awful shade of pink—but Kit felt a pang when they closed the door behind them. She could have stayed longer; there were things she would have liked to do—one look at M’cal told her he felt the same.

  As they descended the creaking wooden stairs, Kit told him about her friend Dela’s offer of help. She told him what she knew of Dirk & Steele.

  “You trust them?” he asked. They walked slowly, open air on one side, and on the other, a wall pitted with bullet holes, wide, hairy cracks, exposed rusty wiring stripped down to nubs. Cockroaches darted along the steps between cigarette butts, whiskey bottles, and used condoms. A scrawny tomcat took a break from chasing insects to spray the wall directly in front of them. The odor was foul.

  “Yes,” Kit replied. “And I don’t say that often.”

  M’cal hesitated. “And me?”

  She stopped, turning so she could look him in the eyes. She had to climb two steps to do it; he was quite tall. “Tell me why you care how I answer.”

  “I think you know,” he said. “It should be obvious.”

  It was not obvious—not entirely—but Kit could not bring herself to push the issue. “Would you believe my answer?”

  “I would hear it in your voice.”

  “I trust you,” Kit said quietly.

  M’cal briefly closed his eyes. “But you are afraid.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Terrified,” he whispered.

  At the bottom of the stairs, two flights down, Kit heard a door slam, followed by rough protests, shouts. One of the voices sounded like Billy. She and M’cal glanced at each other and peered over the railing.

  Kit saw the edge of a white T-shirt—a black bob, a lithe figure, racing up the stairs. She was out of uniform but very familiar—and holding a gun.

  “Run,” M’cal said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Over the years, Kit had lost track of the exact number of murders she had witnessed. As a child she had kept a special diary, one with dates and descriptions, but her mother had
found it when she was ten and the little book disappeared. After that, Kit stopped writing things down.

  Kit had never witnessed her own death, her own future possible murder, and while that was a good thing, she had to wonder as she raced up the stairs, M’cal at her side, if that was merely an oversight of her gift, as sometimes happened, and whether it was her true fate to meet a grisly end, her life taken by another.

  “Can’t you just sing at her or something?” she gasped.

  “Too many people inside the building would hear me,” M’cal replied in a hard voice. “I don’t play games with souls.”

  And what about us? Kit wanted to ask, but she understood and did not blame him. She pushed harder, trying to force her weakened body to save itself from the woman chasing them.

  “Here.” M’cal opened a door and shoved Kit into an empty room. Locking them in, he ran to the window. He moved like an animal, loose-limbed and graceful. The window had been painted shut, but M’cal grunted and yanked it open with hardly any hesitation. Cold, wet air blew in, and right beneath them, not more than three feet down, was a long, flat roof.

  He helped Kit out, following quickly. Behind them, Kit heard the door smash open and a familiar voice yell, “Stop!”

  M’cal stopped, but only to sing. As the first notes began curling from his mouth, Kit saw movement from the corner of her eye. She looked to find a fire escape, ascending from below the rooftop, and saw a man appear—Officer Yu’s partner, also out of uniform. He had a gun. He looked surprised to see them, but that was all the hesitation they were given. He shot M’cal through the throat. The exit wound exploded. Blood sprayed Kit’s face.

  Time stopped—visions of the future becoming reality—and she screamed as M’cal collapsed, falling to her knees beside him. She could not believe—could not believe—but he was still and pale, staring sightless at the sky, and all that vitality—all that power and grace—was leaking into a red puddle around his body, against her knees. She touched him. His chest was still warm.

  Too late. You waited too late.

  Guilt raged through her, swallowed quickly by fury and a loss so profound she felt like part of her soul was draining away in M’cal’s flowing blood. A hand snaked into her hair; Kit was yanked backward, hard on her ass, dragged for several feet until a gun muzzle drilled into her cheek. Officer Yu stared at her, eyes cold. Kit felt colder. That woman was dead. Dead, if it was the last thing she ever did.

  “Up,” said Yu.

  “Fuck you,” whispered Kit.

  “Dick,” said the woman, and her partner appeared, holstering his gun. His composure was not as finely tuned as Yu’s, but he managed to look sufficiently bored as he stuck his hands under Kit’s armpits and hauled her up. She fought him, but not enough; all she could do was stare at M’cal, at the blood. She could taste the blood. She could taste her shame. Kit bent over, gagging, but Yu still gripped her hair, and yanked her into a stumbling walk away from M’cal’s still body.

  The buildings on Hastings Street were old and connected, with the joined rooftops all at the same height, covered with gravel and exposed tarpaper. Steam rose from vents. Kit splashed through puddles. No one talked. Yu and Dick were all business. There was an access door, locked with a padlock. Dick shot it open, and he and Yu marched Kit down the narrow stairs, pushing so fast Kit thought she might lurch and tumble down with every step. Fiddle strings flinched inside her head; music bit and gasped: the edge of Danse Macabre, a hint of the Valkyries … something totally new.

  The building they were in was one of the abandoned monoliths lining the street. Kit caught saw some signs of life—empty cans, syringes, bleach bottles, clothing, battery-operated lamps; heard the structure creak and groan, the echo of distant human voices—but none of it meant anything. She was still alone with two corrupt police officers. Heart breaking.

  “How did you find us?” Kit finally asked. She did not recognize her own voice.

  “In this neighborhood?” Yu pushed her gun harder against Kit’s back. “How many people do you think we own?”

  Too many, she realized. “When did you find out I was still alive?”

  “This morning,” Dick said gruffly, glancing over his shoulder. “Sorry about your friend.”

  Kit swallowed hard. “You didn’t have to.”

  “Yes,” Yu said. “We did.”

  Tears rolled down Kit’s cheeks. She could not hide them, could not fight them. She hurt like hell, right in her heart, like there was a fork covered with the venom of a black mamba, stirring and poking and cutting. She had not hurt this badly since her grandmother’s death. She could not believe how much she hurt.

  You killed him. You did not warn him. You were selfish and now he’s dead.

  M’cal, whispered her heart. M’cal, please.

  She thought of her grandmother—how Old Jazz Marie had reached from beyond the grave to heal her neck. If Jazz Marie could do it—as she had so many times while alive—then Kit suddenly wondered if she herself could do the same. Heal. Bring back to life. Perform a concert of miracles.

  But only if she could get back to him in time. Right now.

  Kit whirled, body-slamming Yu. Surprise was on her side—the woman gasped and fell hard on the stairs. Kit leapt past her, but the officer grabbed her ankle and held on. Kit tripped, landed on her hands, kicking and screaming. She caught Yu in the face—the woman loosened her grip—but then Dick was there and for the second time in two days, Kit was hit in the head. Pain exploded—his neck, the blood, hurry—but Kit kept trying to move, to fight. Dick grabbed her around the waist and hauled her back. Yu punched Kit’s stomach. Kit’s reading glasses, hanging from one ear, fell off completely.

  “Fucking cunt,” Yu muttered, brushing back her hair with a trembling hand. She hit Kit again, but Dick turned at the last moment so that her blow slammed Kit’s hip instead of her gut.

  “Easy,” he said to Yu. “Cool head, remember? You’re always telling me that.”

  Yu drew in a shuddering breath, giving him the coldest stare Kit had ever seen on a woman’s face. But after a moment, Yu nodded sharply and turned to walk down the stairs. She did not look back.

  Dick exhaled, and dragged Kit after his partner. She could not fight him; her body hurt too badly. She would have fallen down except for the man beside her. Having him touch her was almost as bad as being beaten.

  “Just shoot me now,” Kit mumbled, hardly able to speak past the pain in her head. “Get it over with.”

  “Sorry,” Dick said. “You made waves. You’re wanted alive this time.”

  Kit stumbled. “Who?”

  “Big boss,” Dick replied.

  “Stop talking to her,” Yu called. Dick clamped his mouth shut.

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and wound around a narrow hallway. Kit heard footsteps skittering away from them, saw signs of more life—squatters, drug addicts—and then Yu pushed open a door and Kit closed her eyes against the gray wet light.

  They stepped into an alley. The air smelled like rotting garbage and feces. Yu said, “I’ll get the car,” and then she jogged away, disappearing around the corner.

  Kit thought of M’cal holding her, kissing her. His face, his faint smiles. Her heart broke again, and she swallowed a sob.

  “My offer still stands,” she choked out. “Money if you let me go.”

  Dick shifted his feet. He was a big man, with hands as leathery as footballs. His blond buzz was too short for the size of his head, which was craggy and full of dull round edges.

  “How much money?” he asked.

  “Enough for you to retire and live comfortably for the rest of your life. In some places, more than comfortably.”

  “Mexico?”

  “You would be a king.”

  He hesitated. “She’ll kill me.”

  “Yu?” Kit pushed past her pain to look him in the eye. She imagined shooting him with his own gun—bang, bang, right through the neck. “You’re a big guy. You could take care of
her first.”

  “We’re partners,” he said.

  “You’re a survivor,” Kit replied. “And you have your priorities, same as her. Money. Power. You wouldn’t be doing this otherwise. But you’re just getting scraps, aren’t you? Not worth the effort you’re putting in.”

  Dick stared, something wild curling through his eyes. “Give me a number.”

  “Two million.” Kit was not lying. She had that much in the bank, straight-up cash from all her record deals, royalties, and advertising fees. Easy to accumulate; she was not a big spender. And she was willing to throw it all away if it meant saving her life.

  Dick liked that amount. Kit could see it plain as day on his face. But he waited too long to say anything. A dark red sedan pulled down the alley. It looked like a personal vehicle. She memorized the license plate.

  Dick pushed Kit into the backseat and climbed in beside her. Yu was in front. She did not immediately drive away; she was on a cell phone, listening to someone talk. She said very little, simply nodding. Her face was drawn, pale.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, we’re coming now.” And then, with a note of surprise in her voice: “No, we didn’t … cut off his head.”

  Kit’s breath caught. Beside her, Dick went very still. Yu said, “Yes, of course,” and ended the call. She glanced back, over her shoulder.

  Dick said, “No fucking way.”

  “One of us has to go back.”

  “You do it,” Dick said, his hand flexing around Kit’s arm. “I killed him. It’s your turn to do the shit work.”

  Yu said nothing. She gave him a hard look and popped open the trunk. Got out of the car. Came back around with an axe and a plastic grocery back. Kit snarled, fighting Dick, beating her fists against the glass. Yu ignored her and disappeared into the building.