Soul Song (19 page)

“Quite. If you would, please guess Ivan’s age.”

Guess his age?
Kit finally looked at the witch, trying to see if she was joking. The woman appeared serious, though there was something faintly sardonic about the line of her mouth. Kit narrowed her eyes, thought about it for a moment. “I would say he’s thirty-five, forty.”

The question itself had been a tipoff, but Kit knew for certain that something was wrong with her answer when the witch smiled, eyes glittering—so bright, it seemed chips of diamond were embedded in her gaze. An unnatural light.

Kit forced herself to look at Ivan, studying his face. His skin was smooth and unwrinkled; taut, relatively young.

“Two hundred and a day,” said the witch quietly. “Remarkably well preserved for his age, is he not?”

Kit said nothing, staring. Ivan’s eyes were as cold and sharp as the edge of a cleaver; his teeth, poking over his bottom lip, were just as bad. A shudder ripped through her; she barely heard the witch add, “You see, my dear, souls are
not
what keep me young.”

Ivan’s hand shifted, sliding up Kit’s neck. She tried to move, but he applied more pressure—more and more—until she felt that struggling too hard just might snap something vital. He arched her neck, exposed it; and as the witch watched, smiling, Kit felt a cold cloud of breath touch her skin. Horror clawed up her throat—a scream—but before she could make a sound, he bit her, his teeth sinking into her neck like a flash of daggers, stabbing and sinking. It hurt like hell, but the only sound Kit could make was a breathless rattle as his cold lips pressed down, drinking her blood.

Her body stopped obeying her; she was paralyzed from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Only her vision worked, and Kit watched the witch crouch on the other side of M’cal, leaning close to stare . . . studying Kit like she was a book, a steak, a piece of embroidery ready to be picked apart. Ivan kept drinking. Kit remembered the bite marks on M’cal’s body. Dark spots swam in her eyes. Strings murmured; the theme from
Jaws.

“Ivan is my perfect companion,” said the witch softly. “We met some years ago, both with certain needs. He is also a rare breed—not quite like M’cal, but similarly inhuman. Sickened by sunlight, hungry only for blood, remarkably strong and fast. Immortal.” She smiled, holding up her hand. There were two rings on her fingers, both silver, both engraved. “My secret—although Ivan has always stayed willing, has always enjoyed his services to me. I saved him, and he remembers.”

Ivan stopped drinking. He released Kit, and she hunched over, shivering, touching her neck. Blood dripped down her fingers, but there was no pain. Puncture marks on her neck, though. A row of them, like she was a piece of meat gnawed on by some dog.

Ivan rose and stepped over M’cal. The witch stood to meet him. His lips gleamed red with blood. He bent down, and the woman licked him clean—and then kissed him, slow and careful, her tongue moving inside his mouth. Ivan’s hands slid beneath her bikini to cup her buttocks, his fingers moving, pressing, until the witch let out a gasp.

Kit wanted to vomit, but she could not look away; it was too horrible, too strange—the wettest, most disgusting train wreck of her life. And then, as if there had not been enough blood shed, Ivan raised one of his hands to his mouth, bit into his wide wrist, and held it out to the witch.

The woman drank. She did it perfectly, without one wasted drop, closing her eyes and abandoning herself to the act with such need and passion that Kit finally managed to look away unobserved. She saw a gun resting on a chair. Ten feet away. If she could reach it, move fast enough while they were distracted .. .

Kit still held M’cal’s hand. His fingers twitched, and, like that, she lost her chance to reach the gun. She squeezed his hand instead, watching his face, but his features remained slack and his fingers did not move again. Just a reflex, perhaps; he was slowly returning to consciousness.
Quick,
she begged silently.
Make it quick.

The witch made a choking sound; she broke away from Ivan and staggered, touching her mouth. Her eyes were wide. She tried to take another step, but Ivan caught her around the waist and lowered her to the ground. Her weakness was shocking.

“You,” she breathed to Kit, dismay rocking through her flawless face. “You . . .
met
her.”

Kit shook her head, squeezing M’cal’s hand. “I don’t understand.”

The witch snarled. “Alice. You met
Alice.”

Kit stared, and the witch’s entire face contorted; she grabbed Ivan’s hand, standing up like her body hurt— all that careful grace and control was spinning away. She kicked M’cal in the ribs. Kit cried out, protesting, but Ivan took one step across M’cal’s body and grabbed her shoulders, holding her still. He watched the witch with sharp eyes.

She did not strike a second time, but instead sank into another crouch, grabbing M’cal’s bracelet and holding the metal tight in her hands. She closed her eyes, murmuring to herself, and Kit remembered the music she had heard when M’cal tried to take her soul. It was a hard memory—burning—but as she held M’cal’s hand tight within her own, she poured that wild melody—that starlight song—into his body, and imagined it as a shield, a wall around his heart and soul. Protecting him.

The witch opened her eyes. “Stop. Give him to me.”

“Make me,” Kit rasped. The woman slapped her face. M’cal twitched, but his eyes remained closed, and Kit refused to let go of his hand as the witch struck her again, her glamour and youth twisting into something that was, for a moment, ancient, ugly. A mask—everything was a mask with the witch, except for this; her rage.

Then, just as the witch was about to slap her again, M’cal moved, sitting up so fast he was a blur. He slammed his palm into the witch’s chest, and the woman flew backward, skidding across the deck.

Ivan tossed Kit aside. She banged her chin and rolled, looking up in time to see M’cal ram the big man in the gut. They went down together, tangled, grunting.

Kit scrambled for the gun. She kept expecting someone to stop her, but she made it to the gun and took it in her hand. She did not know what to do with it except point—which she did, aiming at the witch. The woman looked at her; hard, hollow. Kit steeled herself. Fiddle strings screamed. Her finger tightened on the trigger.

M’cal slammed into the deck, so hard she heard something crack. Ivan raised a foot above his face. Kit changed her aim and shot the big man. Pulled the trigger twice. She was too close to miss; blood sprayed from Ivan’s shoulder and gut. He kept standing, but Kit expected that. All she needed was a distraction. M’cal took advantage of it.

He rolled, reaching her in a flash, pulling her to the edge of the boat. He took the gun from her as they moved, looked back over his shoulder, and fired at the witch. The bullet slammed into her leg. She fell, screaming. Ivan kept moving.

A small, dark shape dove from the sky. Black wings fluttered. Ivan slowed, but only for a moment. His fists slashed through the air, and Kit heard a thud. The bird slammed to the deck. A crow.

M’cal hesitated. So did Kit. A mistake. The witch’s scream changed, shifting into a double-edged howl.. . splitting into syllables, words. Her eyes glittered diamond-bright, her cutting gaze furious.

Kit tried to move. She could not. Neither could M’cal.

Inside her head she suddenly heard her grandmother’s voice—a low shout—and music roared through her like a crash of thunder. The compulsion holding her melted away—

But Ivan’s fist slammed into her skull. Kit went down, limp, barely conscious. She heard M’cal screaming, shouting, and then someone kicked her again, in the ribs. Fingers dug into her hair. Rancid breath touched her cheek. She cracked open an eye and found the witch, whose face was pale and blurry.

The woman said something, but all Kit could hear was M’cal. A thread of music hummed through her heart. She surrounded herself in it, threw a line to M’cal, feeling it hook—a strange sensation, like listening to an echo in her soul—and then the witch said another word and Kit closed her eyes and stopped hearing anything at all.

It now seemed to M’cal that nothing substantial had changed—only the bars and the keys and the captors. One prison had been made of love, the other of hate. Never able to be his own man except for a brief decade of itinerant travel and work, from one end of the world to another, until he had come home to his family and found his mother dying, too stubborn to tell him until the last moment, too full of love for her son to ruin the freedom he had so ruthlessly stolen without a word of good bye and only brief letters and phone calls to fill the interim.

Her death had been a hard lesson. A punishment that fit the crime. M’cal had not spoken to his father since the funeral. He suspected he might never again. And, in all honesty, he understood. M’cal did not blame his father. He blamed himself.

Just like he blamed himself for losing Kitala to the witch.

They were taken to different rooms. The yacht was not big enough for a huge separation—they were across the hall from one another—but that was sufficient to make M’cal panic. Anything could happen to her. And here he was, naked and chained to a bed, his arms stretched over his head, his legs shackled. Rope would be too weak to hold him—the witch had learned that the hard way.

Duct tape covered his mouth. It was unnecessary, simply for show. He could not use his voice against the witch. Their link made her—and, by extension, Ivan—immune. Like trying to spell a
geas
upon himself. At least the compulsion was still gone, though the witch had other means of slowing him down.

Stop. Think harder. Find a way.

The boat had finally stopped moving after several hours of travel. The witch never cruised for pleasure. They might be in the Georgia Strait by now, within easy sight of Vancouver Island and only a day’s run to Alaska or a midnight stroll to Seattle.

Outside the room, M’cal heard a man scream. Pain rolled through that cry—surprise, outrage—but no heartbreak. Lucky that way.

Koni.
The shape-shifter must have followed him, his lack of trust biting back, though M’cal supposed Koni had lost track of him for a time while he’d traveled underwater.

M’cal closed his eyes as the man screamed again. The sound brought back memories: drinking tea at twilight on a garden bench with the scent of lilacs in the air, a cool, pale hand resting against his face; a question, quietly spoken, the exact words of which he could not remember but were simple, direct:
Do you give yourself to me? Do you give me your soul, your heart, your life?

And M’cal had said yes. Because he’d loved that woman. He’d trusted her.

The witch did not require trust to make a man her slave. All she needed was submission. And if she worked on Koni long enough, she might just get it. Enough, anyway, to allow her into his mind and soul; to place a hook, a chain, a silver collar.

The witch might try to do the same to Kitala, if she could not swallow her soul directly. Assuming, of course, that the woman still wanted her for the same reasons. Or for any reason at all besides greed.

M’cal tested the handcuffs. He closed his eyes, listening to the boat, the sound of water encasing the hull. He drifted with the slow rock and tumble of the sea, his thoughts spreading deeper into the dark, listening to fish, the dull ticking life of sea anemones and flashing eels; deeper yet, the scuttling of crabs. Lullabies; these were the kinds of things his father had helped him fall asleep to on their camping trips below the ocean waves. Snacking on seaweed, cradled in nets so that the currents would not carry them away as they slept, side by side; staring up into the living darkness, pretending they could see the stars.

M’cal had taken it all for granted. If he ever had children . ..

He stopped himself from finishing that thought, though it bled directly into Kitala, into choking desperation. He calmed himself again, taking deep breaths, still pushing with his mind into the sea, searching.

He found what he was looking for: a pod of orcas, cutting through cold waters. He caught the edge of their thoughts—a complex stream of consciousness; flashes of images, streaks of memory; play and hunger. Orcas never felt fear. Not unless humans were involved. Too many orcas had been stolen from the sea by the violence of heavy nets and cages and rough machinery. Dragged to aquariums and resorts. Caged.

The pod leader was female. She was receptive to his thoughts, though M’cal had trouble telling her what he needed; his voice was better for that. Still, he thought she understood.

There came footsteps outside his room. M’cal broke off contact and opened his eyes. The door pushed open, revealing Ivan. His hands were bloody, as was the corner of his mouth. He smiled, then stepped aside. There was another door behind him, which he opened.

M’cal saw Kitala. She lay on a bed. All he could see was her slack face, the line of her throat... the edge of her wrists, tied to the bed frame with rope.

Ivan licked his mouth, still smiling. He cracked his knuckles and pointed at Kitala.

The witch appeared beside him, a sheer silver robe draped over her body. She did not limp, but there was a spot of blood at the corner of her mouth. She stared at M’cal for one long minute, the silence between them hard and thick. Her eyes glittered.

Kitala stirred. M’cal forced himself not to look at her, kept his gaze firmly on the witch.

Come,
he thought.
Come here and hurt me. Just leave her alone.

The witch ran her bloodstained fingertip over her tongue. She made a humming sound, briefly closing her eyes as a terrible strain flashed across her face. It was only a moment before the mask slid back into place.

She entered the room, Ivan at her side, and ripped off the duct tape covering M’cal’s mouth.

“You have been busy. So very busy in my absence. Rescuing women, making new friends. And with such abandon, too. Almost as if you forgot your profession.” She tapped her ring—a smaller copy of his bracelet. “How will I ever punish you?”

M’cal said nothing. Down the hall, he heard a shout, something wordless, angry. The witch sighed. “A shape-shifter. Magic raining down from the sky. What luck to have a menagerie such as mine.”

“He is not yours yet,” M’cal replied, counting the rings on her finger.

“The bird is strong,” she agreed, holding Ivan’s bloody hand to her mouth and licking it. “His friends are remarkable as well. Such secrets they keep. I had no idea.”

M’cal gritted his teeth. In the other room, Kitala stirred again, her eyelids fluttering. The witch glanced over her shoulder and smiled. It was a poor smile, one of the least convincing he had ever seen. It surprised him. The witch usually had more poise, but again he sensed a terrible strain. Fear, even.

“How things change. Even in a day.” The witch turned back to M’cal, her mask fracturing even more. “I should kill you now. I should have killed you the first time I had you in my bed. It would have been easy. You loved me so.”

“I did,” M’cal said.

“But you love
her
now.” The witch gestured to Kitala. “What makes you think she will not steal your freedom? She is as much witch as I am.”

“I trust her,” he said.

“You are a fool.”

“You are jealous. You did not break me.”

“Perhaps not.” The witch looked once more at Kitala, whose eyes were finally open, staring. “But
she
could.”

“Leave him alone,” Kitala muttered hoarsely.

The witch smiled and leaned over M’cal, her robe falling open to reveal her breasts. She traced a finger along his forehead, and then tapped it once. He tried to move, and found himself frozen. Not with the compulsion, though. Something different.

The witch turned again to Kitala. “No matter what you have done, he is still mine. He will always be mine, even if you free him. Memories bind. Memories are forever.”

Kitala did not reply; she narrowed her eyes, looking from the witch to M’cal with such intensity he could feel her gaze almost as a touch, right down to his aching heart.

The witch bent, kissing him. He imagined himself biting her mouth, her tongue, but he could not close his jaw. So he lay there, enduring, trying to think of anything but the wet heat caressing his lips.

He felt a tickle in his mind—in his heart—like rage.

Not his own. It seemed foreign, separate. Familiar. He could not reconcile the sensation, but he nursed it.

The witch stopped kissing him. She moved, just enough, and M’cal was able to see Kitala again. She lay unmoving, but her gaze was pure fire, her mouth twisted in disgust. For one brief moment M’cal felt ashamed—a terrible shame that Kitala had seen him so used—but then he buckled down his emotions and it passed.

Again, another tickle—this time accompanied by the faint brush of strings; a hollow music, very soft, more breath than sound. Kitala still stared into his eyes. M’cal felt, again, a thread of some hard emotion that was not his—music, growing louder—and he followed it, down to his heart, suddenly certain of the source.

Kitala,
he thought.
What are you doing?

She did not answer him—perhaps did not hear him—but as the witch leaned in for another kiss, giving Kitala a spiteful look, the music thrumming through his head made a cracking sound.

The witch’s hold broke. M’cal flinched. He could move again.

He lunged, snapping his teeth around her nose. Impulse, instinct overriding good sense. She reared back, screaming, blood rushing hot into his mouth. He refused to let go, even when Ivan clubbed the side of his head, again and again—M’cal
wanted
to be hit, needed the force of it—until finally Ivan punched him so hard he knocked M’cal free . . . taking the witch’s nose along with him.

She howled, staggering backward, slamming against the wall. Blood gushed between her fingers, spilling down her clothes, her silver hair. Ivan stared, lurching toward her—then stopped, teetering on his toes, glancing back at M’cal with death in his eyes. He bared his sharp teeth, hissing.

M’cal spat out the knob of bloody flesh. It bounced against the shag carpet, landed at Ivan’s feet like an odd red button. Somewhere distant, he heard Kitala swearing.

The witch’s screams cut off into a strangled sob, and then nothing. Silence. Her hands fell to her sides. Her face was a ruin of flesh and blood, with only a hole where her nose should be, cartilage cut jagged, bubbles forming as she breathed. Not a fatal injury— not for her—but as with Ivan, there were some wounds even the witch could not heal. Not entirely.

“Ivan,” said the witch, her voice hoarse, muffled, shaking. “Go to Kitala and hurt her. Any way you see fit. Make her scream.”

The blood in M’cal’s mouth suddenly tasted like poison. “Stay away from her.”

“It was going to happen anyway,” whispered the witch, balling up the edge of her robe, her hands covered in blood. “Without the compulsion you have left me no choice.” She took a step toward him. “You can make it easy on Ms. Bell. You can make her . . . not care. All you have to do is take her soul, M’cal. Do it now, or she will suffer. For a very long time.” She turned to Kitala, still confined to the other bed. “Or
you
can release him. Give me back his reins.”

“Go to hell,” Kitala snapped.

“Perhaps Ivan will take
your
nose,” said the witch, each word growing wetter, more muffled with her blood. “Perhaps he will take other things as well.”

M’cal snarled, straining against the chains. “My soul could give you the same power. Take me.”

The witch’s eyes narrowed. “A very tempting offer, M’cal. After all this time,
very
tempting. But frankly, right at this moment I would rather see you suffer.” She turned to Ivan, her profile inhuman, ragged and bloody. “Go. Do as I asked.”

Ivan nodded, and shrugged off his suit jacket, laying it carefully over the witch’s shoulders. He pressed his lips against her forehead, gave M’cal a hard glance, and then shuffled across the hall toward Kitala, who was struggling to sit up. Her restraints were too tight. Ivan stood above her, staring.

M’cal jerked hard, the handcuffs cutting into his skin. He heard music rising inside his heart, strings shrieking, and he held on to those sounds, willing them to mean something—power, magic, anything that would save her.

“Ivan!” he shouted. “Ivan, punish
me! Ivan!”

“Give me her soul,” said the witch. “Take it, M’cal. You have no choice.”

“He has a choice!” screamed Kitala, scooting as far from Ivan as she could. “You leave him alone!”

Ivan grabbed her hair, yanking back her head, and moved so that M’cal’s view was blocked. M’cal heard cloth tear. Kitala cried out.

Something in him snapped—a piece of his heart, tearing right out of his chest—and his voice welled so high and fierce in his throat that all he could do was open his mouth and let it out. And what came loose was less a song than a scream, raging wild as a hurricane, howling.

The witch whirled on him, blood spraying from her face. Her eyes were wide, so bright as to be shot through with lightning, and the remains of her nose bubbled violently as if she were underwater, starving for air. She stared at M’cal, but he did not care. All he could do was look at Ivan and sing.