Soul Song (16 page)

His hands drifted lower. Her thighs shifted restlessly, a fierce, low ache spreading through her as he pressed his leg between hers, spreading her wide as his fingers sank into her body. Kit closed her eyes, savoring the sensation, each pulse of pleasure, combined with the hard, solid muscle of his thigh between her legs; the heat of his body, the hot water beating down upon her; even the steam. She rocked against him, harder and faster, until quite suddenly his hand disappeared. He grabbed her hips, and it was instinct for her as well; she bent forward, stood with her legs apart, and let him take her hard.

As with their first encounter, she found herself astonished at how big he felt inside her, how deep he could move within her body. He filled every part of her, and the pleasure of that as he hauled her close, thrusting faster and faster, made her head swim and her heart rocket into her throat. It did not take him long to push her over the edge, and she staggered, so weak in the knees he had to catch her around the waist and hold her up as he came hard, shuddering against her back. He coiled around her, his arms strong as steel—like being cocooned in the most perfect shield against the world.

Even if that touch triggers him to sing away your soul?

Uneasiness curled, stealing some of her pleasure. She tried not to dwell; she wanted to be with M’cal, no matter the risk. It seemed impossible to feel this strongly about someone, but she could not help it. Her grandmother was right: she had run all the way.

But you saved yourself once, and you can do it again. You can save M’cal, too. Some way, somehow.

Music filled her head: a dawn-light song, a roll of thunder—her soul song, her power.

You can move the stars,
echoed her grandmother’s voice. Move the stars or save her own life. Save the life of a merman. Save the life of a strange woman.

Right. Easy as pie.

They got out of the shower, stumbling against each other. Too much exertion in too much heat. It affected Kit more than M’cal, but she made herself keep moving, and got dressed, using the clothes the men had brought in her suitcase. There was nothing for M’cal, though. He put his slacks back on, left his shirt off, and joined her as they went downstairs. Kit brought her fiddle case. Silly, but she felt naked without it.

The only men there were Koni and Rik, sitting at the dining table, four boxes of pizza in front of them. The television was on. They were watching
The A-Team.
Mr. T had some skinny white boy in a headlock.

Kit’s stomach growled. Koni said, “Hello to you, too, sunshine.”

“Hey,” she said, flipping open a pizza-box lid. These guys were definitely meat-lovers. She grabbed a slice laden with pepperoni, sausage, ham, and pineapple, folded it up, and stuffed it in her mouth. It was so good she wanted to cry.

“If I time you,” Koni drawled, “do you think you could eat that whole pizza in under a minute?”

Kit gave him the finger, listened to him laugh quietly, and took another slice. M’cal joined her, reaching into the box.

“Krackeni eat junk food?” she asked him as he took a bite.

M’cal swallowed, and smiled. “If my people knew what they were missing, you land types would be in a great deal of trouble.”

“Good times, I’m sure.” Koni glanced at Rik. “Here’s a question, though. Care to explain why you never mentioned the existence of mermen? We’ve certainly gotten you drunk enough.”

Rik looked uncomfortable. “It never came up.”

“Well, hey, here’s a question for
you,”
Kit said to Koni. “How come all of you look so human?”

“Why wouldn’t we?”

“Because you aren’t.”

“Don’t focus on the small things, sister. It’s not important.”

Kit narrowed her eyes. “It is to me,
brother.
How many of you are out there?”

“Not enough,” Koni replied. “Not nearly enough. Which is why to have four of us together at one time ...”

“It should be impossible,” M’cal said. “And yet, you say you all work for the same organization. Forgive me if I find it difficult to trust that.”

“The agency or us?” Koni sat back in his chair and shrugged. “I can understand that. I didn’t want any part of it at first, either. But Hari was the first shifter outside of my family who I had seen in years, and there were . .. extenuating circumstances. I hopped on board for a trial period, and never left. It’s good work.”

“I still don’t understand,” Kit said. “I thought Dirk & Steele was a detective agency.”

“It is,” Rik said, his hands fidgeting over a rather gnawed piece of crust. “But we get to use our . . . abilities. And it gives us a chance to look for others of our kind.”

“Just shape-shifters?” M’cal asked. Kit thought of Dela.

Koni hesitated. “Not just shape-shifters. Humans, too. Though ... I wouldn’t exactly describe them as normal, either.”

“Oh, boy,” Kit muttered. “What, they can read minds? Light fires with their ass—” She stopped, a sudden terrible thought coming to her. “What about Blue?”

“Blue?” M’cal echoed.

“Um, someone I dated briefly.” Kit frowned. “Well?”

Koni held up his hands. “You should probably let him tell you himself. But, hey, don’t get too pissed off. It’s not like you mentioned your own mumbo jumbo.”

“My what?”

M’cal stirred. “I told them that you had some .. . magical abilities.”

“Fantastic,” she muttered, and opened another box of pizza. This one was chicken and onion. “How is he?”

“Married to a circus performer, with a baby on the way.”

Kit choked, coughing. “I just spoke to him six months ago.”

Koni shrugged. “Man moves fast.”

Apparently so. Of course, Kit was moving pretty damn fast herself. She looked at M’cal and found him watching her with a tiny furrow between his eyes. He looked both concerned and irritated.

Jealous,
she thought, with a brief sense of wonderment.
Maybe he even thinks you still feel something for Blue.

What she felt was stupid. Stupid, to have been around all these people and never noticed that something was odd, or different. She might as well have been blind, walking through life, paying attention to nothing but what was right in front of her. Never mind her visions, although those were partly to blame. Kit never liked looking too close. She simply had not realized how much she was missing.

Kit reached out and took M’cal’s hand. There was nothing she could say to reassure him—not in front of witnesses, anyway—but she hoped he would understand. That he would trust her—a trust that was already fragile. She had held back from him once already; perhaps he would think her capable of it again.

Her fingers squeezed lightly. He squeezed back. His eyes did not soften, though. Still thinking, wheels turning. Some possessive streak she had not imagined. With anyone else, it would be a deal breaker. But with M’cal... she liked it.

Koni coughed, pushing back his chair. “Hari and Amiri headed out to sniff around for your Alice Hardon. I was supposed to wait here until you .. . woke up; so now that you have ...” He saluted them both and began walking to the door. Stopping, halfway there, he turned around. “By the way, just how is it that you both met, if your .. . witch—whatever you call her—wants Kit dead?”

Not dead, exactly,
Kit thought, recalling the sensation of her soul being sung away. She glanced at M’cal, who suddenly, once again, looked very uncomfortable.

“I was sent to kill her,” M’cal said.

Rik sat up. Koni stared. “You’re shitting me.”

“I wish.”

Koni briefly shut his eyes. “Did you know this, Kit?”

“Of course,” she replied.

“
Of course?
He told you that he was sent to
kill your ass,
and you’re still with him?”

“For the record,” M’cal said, “I
did
try to convince her to leave me.”

“You must not have tried very hard.”

“Hey.” Kit held up her hand. “I have my reasons for trusting M’cal. Not the least of which is that he
saved
my life.”

Koni grumbled something mostly inaudible and gave M’cal a scathing look. “You don’t trust us, fine. I don’t trust you. But we’re here to take care of Kit, and if you get in the way—”

“Stop me,” M’cal said simply. “Do anything you have to. Do not let me hurt her.”

Koni narrowed his eyes. “If you cared that much, you would leave with me right now. No questions, no second thoughts.”

“Absolutely not,” Kit said, but M’cal’s face settled into a hard mask and he nodded slowly. She stepped in front of him, palms out. “No, please. Think about this. If the compulsion returns, you’ll be forced to go back to the witch. Or hunt me. But if I’m with you, if you give me warning, maybe we can duplicate what happened earlier. Better to try, anyway.”

“Better not put you at risk,” he said sadly. “Which I have done far too much of today.”

“Come on,” Koni said gruffly. “Hari left you some clothes. You can change and we’ll go.”

Kit turned. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“The help you asked for,” he said in a far more gentle voice than she expected. Or, perhaps, deserved.

M’cal placed his hand on her shoulder and steered her away from the other two men, just around the bend in the living room, out of sight. He held her at arm’s length, staring into her eyes. For a moment, there was such a terrible strain on his face, she was convinced that he was angry with her. And then something shifted in his eyes—raw, cut—and she realized that he was, in a horrifically restrained way, afraid.

“Stay safe,” he whispered. “Whatever you do, Kitala, stay safe. Do not try to follow me.”

“You’re coming back to me.”

“Yes. But whether it will be as I am now, or under the witch’s compulsion, is another matter entirely.”

“It will still be you.” Kit pushed his hands aside and leaned into him, resting her palm over his heart. “She can’t take that away, M’cal. Remember that. Remember yourself.”

“Remember myself, remember you.” He smiled faintly. “The two are the same at this point.”

Her throat felt thick. She nodded hard, trying to ignore the burning in her eyes, and leaned close. It was worse, kissing him. His mouth was firm, hot, with that clean taste she was beginning to love—like a wind swept from the sea, bracing and strong and effortlessly powerful. He pulled her close, curling around her body.

And then, without much fanfare, he went to dress in the clothes Koni showed him. He kissed her good-bye one last time, gave her a long, searching look that she felt right down to her toes, and then left. Gone. Door closed.

There was, apparently, a spare car parked on the street in front of the house. Kit did not stand at the window to watch him drive away. Seeing him get in was enough. Anything more would be pathetic—the act of a moon cow—although she was already close enough to being one that it hardly mattered.

She sat down at the table, fiddle case in front of her. Rik stayed on her right. He looked very uncomfortable.

“Is making you babysit me some kind of punishment?” Kit asked him.

“I’m still in training,” he replied, which was not exactly an answer.

She studied his hands. “And you’re a shape-shifter? A . . . dolphin? Can you change into anything else?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Rik looked bewildered. “I don’t know. Why are you asking?”

Kit raised her eyebrow. “Think about it for a minute. I bet you’ll come up with an answer.”

His expression soured, but not in any way that seemed angry. “Sorry. I’m just not used to talking about it.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Kit said. “This is all very new to me. And my temper is not at its best.”

“S’okay.” Rik gave her a faint smile. “I’ve been through something similar. I was an asshole about it, too.”

“Thanks,” she muttered, and flipped open her fiddle case. The instrument lay gleaming, polished and untouched by the violence that had plagued her. Good old reliable. Kit went to the kitchen to wash any remnants of pizza grease from her hands. Returned, stared for a moment at the gleaming wood, and then picked up her fiddle and bow. She wished M’cal were there.

“You’re going to play?” Rik asked.

“I need to,” she said, and it was true. She needed to play her fiddle like she needed to breathe, and if she waited a moment longer, something inside her just might break.

Kit had no song in mind. Nothing written. She merely set the bow to the strings and let her heart guide the music, flinging herself wildly into a twisting riddle of notes, ripping into melodies, distorting them just at the points where they would become beautiful. It was angry music—music of war—and it told Kit something about her state of mind as everything that poured out of her remained violent, thick with battle.

She thought of Alice. Alice so calm, Alice with a knife in her eye, Alice apologizing, trying to protect her. Alice, slipping her that damn card which had led to nothing. Alice, who even now might be dead.

Where the hell are you?
Kit wondered, her music growing in fury. She was dimly aware of Rik watching, slack-jawed, but she paid him no mind. Inside her head, something was brewing, building; she felt it like a scream.