Soul Song (28 page)

Edith exploded. Her chest, her cheeks, her throat— the skin tore with such force, bits and pieces flew through the air. She screamed just once, then slumped, her heart jutting through a cracked well of bone. M’cal saw it beat one time, then go still.

Kitala collapsed to her knees. M’cal also went down hard. His legs were made of jellyfish, his throat raw. He tried to say something to her, but all he could do was rasp her name. So he crawled, wrapped his arm around her waist, and hauled her close.

Alice sat up, scooting away. Her eyes were haunted as she stared at Edith’s mutilated body, and then her gaze fastened on Kitala. “Grandmother,” she said, and the look in her eyes said she knew the truth, that she could see what had happened.

“Love has a price,” Kitala whispered, hoarse. “And she loved you more than anything.”

A disturbing revelation, M’cal thought. But he was free to live with it. . . and he thought he could.

“The witch is still alive,” M’cal murmured to Kit when Alice was far out of hearing range. “Her body, that is. But that will not last long.”

“And you can’t put her back?”

“No,” he replied. “It is a one-way trip.”

I
knew that,
said the witch, a cool presence at the back of Kit’s mind.
It was an acceptable sacrifice.

Kit did not entirely believe her seemingly imperturbable serenity, but if the witch still wanted her secrets kept, that was fine. Truly, Kit did not want to know much about the woman anyway.

The survivors of Edith’s torture were too weak to be left alone. Hari made arrangements with his employer, announced that he and Amiri would stay behind, and sent the rest of them on their way. Kit had the very distinct feeling that the cops were not going to be involved in this matter. Or if they were, that Dirk & Steele had ways of keeping all the mysteries safe, without too many questions asked. As with the witch, Kit did not want to know too much.

Down at the dock, the speedboat was gone. Yu, still on the loose. Kit tried not to feel sick about that, focusing instead on the other boat docked in its place— a yacht. Standing on its deck, waiting for them, was Rik. His shirt was off, his ribs bandaged. Kit was very glad to see him. But there was another man at his side, and he was as tall as M’cal, with a face that was the same—if older, and more blond. His body was lean, strong; his narrow hips clad in tight swimming trunks. Kit hesitated, seeing him. So did M’cal.

Koni, who had somehow found a pair of sweatpants, led Alice below deck, presumably to clean up. Rik took the helm, accelerating the boat away from the dock. M’cal and Kit stayed topside, and after a few moments of silence, she was introduced to S’har Abreeni.

She noticed M’cal’s father still wore his wedding ring—a human habit in honor of his late wife, Kit assumed. She said nothing, though. The tension between M’cal and his father was so thick she felt sick.

“Thank you,” M’cal finally said. “I know it must have been difficult for you to set foot on land.”

“I made a choice,” said his father. “As did you.”

Kit glanced at M’cal and found his expression strained. “And the other matter? Your promise?”

S’har’s mask cracked. “All these years I would not leave their waters. I had to stay close in my efforts to . . . watch over you. My promise was the only thing I could give them in return while I waited. Your mother, I think, would not hold it against me, given the goal and prize.”

M’cal said nothing. Kit had no idea what they were talking about, but now was not the time to ask. She steeled herself as S’har turned his pale gaze on her face, examining her with an unblinking intensity that was difficult not to look away from. Kit remembered, with some embarrassment, that she was covered in blood, but she kept her gaze steady and after a time he nodded. “She would like you,” he said, and the honest simplicity of that statement, given what little M’cal had said of his father’s love for his mother, made her eyes burn and her heart ache high in her throat.

S’har did not wait for a response. He walked to the edge of the yacht, wind blowing back his pale hair, and glanced over his shoulder at M’cal. “After I fulfill my duty here, I will return south. Perhaps . . . you and Kitala might visit one day.”

“Yes,” M’cal whispered. “Thank you.”

S’har nodded curtly and gave Kit a long, steady look. “Take care of him.”

“Yes,” Kit breathed. “I will.”

He hesitated, a silence that begged for more words. None came. M’cal’s father leapt off the back of the yacht and disappeared beneath the waves. Kit stared at the choppy sea, lost in the darkness of night. Another world, down below. A whole civilization that was nothing but a fairy tale.

M’cal held Kit tight against him. They did not speak for quite some time.

She knocked softly on the cabin door, prepared to retreat, but Alice said, “Welcome,” and Kit entered carefully.

Alice lay on the bed, one arm thrown against her forehead. She wore sweats and a T-shirt, and her hair was wet. Scrubbed clean of everything but her pain. Kit understood, though she felt nothing but weary when she looked at the young woman, who was still an enigma and more—the grandchild of a wicked woman, doubtless a person of no small power herself. Kit did not know whether to be wary, or to try—just this once—to be a friend.

She could use a friend,
murmured the witch.
She has had so few.

“I’m sorry,” Alice said softly. “I want you to know that.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Kit peered down into Alice’s eyes, searching for signs of death. She was not afraid of seeing the truth; facing down that demon had been worse than any murder, and she remembered—would always remember—the touch of the creature as it had tried, for one brief moment, to reach into her body in the instant before its death. Its touch had felt like a mouth swallowing the sun.

You were strong. Stronger then me,
said the witch.

Perhaps Edith and her demon knew that. It was why she took M’cal’s heart. She would have used it against you
—
exploited your bond to him
—
but she lost her chance.

“Edith tricked us all,” Alice said, and for a moment Kit wondered if the young woman could read her mind and hear the witch. “So maybe you’re right about fault. But I was still naïve, stupid. She lured me here on the pretense of saving my grandmother, telling me that she was in danger. I believed her. I would not have given you that card otherwise. It wasn’t until later that I discovered the truth.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Kit said. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Alice said. “I come from a long line of very bad people. My Uncle John was the kindest of them. The most. .. normal. I’ve tried to be the same. Ignored what I am, what I can do. Fought to be the opposite in every way from the people I was born to. But it seems as though every year I find out something more terrible, more heinous.” She shut her eyes. “I did not like Edith, but I trusted her. I loved my grandmother, but I did
not
trust
her.
”

Alice sat up, gazing at Kit. “Edith wanted you, in the end. The creature
possessing
her wanted you. You were going to replace Edith as its new vessel. She would have sacrificed me earlier, otherwise. But once she met you, her plans changed. She decided to wait until you were in her possession.”

“Ah,” Kit said, creeped out. “Well, it’s already a bit crowded in here. I think that demon would have had a hard time fitting in.”

A faint smile touched Alice’s mouth. “Is she mad at me?”

No,
whispered the witch.

“No,” said Kit. “Not at all.”

Alice nodded, taking a deep breath. “Good. That’s. . .good.”

Good that you want the love of a sadist and murderer? That you love a sadist and murderer without reservation? Or do you know? Do you know everything, Alice, that your grandmother did?

The witch settled heavy against Kit’s heart.
She does not. I was careful to keep it that way.

Liar.

Survivor,
was the witch’s reply.

Alice said, “So, you saw my death. And you believe we avoided it?”

“You were going to be stabbed through the eye. I think so.”

Kit got ready to leave. As she touched the door, Alice said, “There’s a problem, you know.”

“Yes?”

“Edith wasn’t aiming for my eye.”

“Oh,” Kit breathed. “Well, then.”

“Yeah.” Alice smiled, rueful. “Exactly.”

Kit went to her room after that. Too much to think about. She was not alone for very long. M’cal joined her, and in his hands was her fiddle case. There was no sweeter sight she could imagine, though for the first time in her life, Kit was happier to see a man than her instrument.

The fiddle was still safe, without a scratch. Kit ran her fingernails down the strings and plucked a quick tune. It sounded like laughter, and felt as good.

“Courtesy of Rik. He forgot to give it to you earlier,” M’cal said, but stopped and touched her face. “What is it?”

“Alice,” Kit said, and told him. It did not take long, but by the time she was done they were both on the bed, curled tight around each other. They drifted inside each other’s heads, following the bond between their souls, and Kit caught glimpses of the long night—Yu, cutting him open—Koni, wriggling under an iron grate—the sight of her bloodstained face as she entered the cave and his joy, his utter relief, that she was still alive.

“You love me,” she said, with wonderment, with awe.

“And you love me,” he replied.

Kit touched his face, pouring all her feelings for him into her fingers, into her eyes as she looked at him, into her lips as she kissed his mouth, into his soul and the bond connecting them. Her whole body was filled to burst, and the witch whispered,
You are both fools to pin so much of yourselves on one heart. It is impossible to find love without pain.

I wouldn’t want to,
Kit replied, and M’cal said,
Anything, as long as it is with her.

And it was with those sentiments that they closed their eyes—still rumbling inside each other’s heads— and fell asleep.

Kit opened her eyes in Louisiana, on the edge of the swamp with frogs croaking and the air as warm as steam from a cup of tea. The veranda was full of evening sun; and her grandmother perched on her stool. The pouch she had been sewing was done, full and round, and only the very foolish would open it up to see what lay within.

Kit felt movement on her left: M’cal, opening his eyes. His black hair was tousled, the corner of his mouth curved, and he gazed around the veranda with curiosity and stark appreciation. When he saw Kit’s grandmother, his smile widened, though with a surprising amount of ruefulness.

“Let me guess,” Kit said. “She’s visited you before.”

The old woman chuckled. “Stop fussing with him and come here. Time’s wasting.”

Kit took M’cal’s hand and pulled him off the wicker seat. Her grandmother watched, a smile playing on her mouth. “Lovely, so sweet and lovely. All a woman can ask for when thinking good thoughts for the ones who come after.” She leaned close, her eyes as bright as stars. “Treasure it. Take nothing for granted.”

She gestured for M’cal to step around the table, and slipped the newly made gris-gris over his head. She patted it against his chest. “To keep you safe.”

“Like you kept me safe,” Kit said, and then, softer: “The witch—Luanna—said you protected me with your love. But that there was a price you had to pay. What did she mean by that?”

The old woman shook her head, knocking her fist on the table. “She meant the truth, though it didn’t need to be said. That I saw what you would face. I knew what was coming, glimpsed it in my waking hours and in my dreams—more details than I wanted to know. The darkness, the danger... I was already on my last ropes. Wouldn’t have gone more than another year, and I figured one year was a good sacrifice for an entire life. Give some nine lives to a little cat. My Kitty Bella. So I put it all there in that gris-gris you wear. My protection, my last breath. Just like M’cal gave you his. All of us part of each other, in the ways that mean forever. Something
someone
could have used a lesson or two in.” Old Jazz Marie glanced sideways. “You can come out now, Luanna.”

A tall, silvered woman moved through the open French doors. She was not the witch Kit remembered. This woman was old, and though her spine was straight and strong, her face held a canyon of wrinkles traveling from her forehead down her neck. The only recognizable part was her eyes: pale, sharp, intelligent. “Jazz Marie,” said the witch.

“Luanna,” said Kit’s grandmother. “About time you croaked.”

“My heart still beats. Somewhere.”

“Don’t mince words with me. You’re good as dead, and it’s time you started thinking that way.”

“I could live on.” She looked at Kit. “Your granddaughter and I are comfortable together.”

“Not that comfortable,” Kit replied dryly. “I would like it to remain that way.”

The witch sighed, and settled her gaze on M’cal. “No final words?”

He shrugged. “Burn? Rot?”

“Good enough, I suppose.” The witch glanced at Kit. “And you?”

“Thank you,” Kit said grimly. “For wanting to kill me. I would never have met M’cal otherwise.”

The witch shook her head. Kit’s grandmother smiled and slid off her stool. “Well, come on, then. I’m here to take you where you’re going.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll give me a clue?”

“Oh,” said Old Jazz Marie, “I think I’ll let you be surprised.”

She held open the veranda door and the witch walked down into the swamp. Kit’s grandmother hesitated, looking back at Kit and M’cal. “Times won’t be easy, you know. There will always be something.”

“Ritual sacrifices?” Kit asked.

“Demonic armies?” M’cal added.

“Yet more sexual slavery?” She tapped him on the arm. “Oh, you are so totally mine.”

Her grandmother shook her head. “Never mind. Both of you will be fine.”

“Yes,” M’cal said. “If I know anything, it is that.”

Old Jazz Marie smiled and left the veranda. She did not look back at them, but raised her hand to wave as she swayed her hips into the swamp. Luanna was waiting for her. The two women disappeared behind a banyan tree.

Kit felt no sense of loss; her grandmother would be back. Death was not always the end. She realized that now.

She glanced at M’cal, and found him fingering the gris-gris pouch, his eyes thoughtful. She asked, “What are you thinking?”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “I was thinking . .. that life is strange and awful and lovely, and that to have one, you must have the others.”

Kit leaned against him. “Regrets?”

“Some,” he admitted. “None that have to do with you.”

The sun was setting behind the swamp; clouds blushed rose and gold, like honey mixed with some warm dream. M’cal slowly exhaled, sliding his arm over her shoulders, and glanced down at the table beside them. Kit followed his gaze. Her fiddle lay on the hard battered surface, surrounded by dried chicken feet and bones and rocks.

He smiled. “Play me a song.”

“Only if you’ll sing.”

“Magic, if we do it together.”

Kit stood on her toes and brushed her lips against his cheek. “So, let’s make magic.”

M’cal laughed. “Only with you, Kitala. Only with each other.”

She picked up her fiddle to hide the sudden burn of tears in her eyes. “Always, M’cal. You and I are so blessed.”

We are indeed,
he said, inside her mind, reaching down between their souls, holding her with a love that was wild as a thunderstorm and deeper than the sea. There was mystery between them; magic. Enough to move the stars.

Kit smiled and struck a note.