Soul Song (17 page)

Until, quite suddenly, the room around her disappeared and she was lost in darkness—absolute, bone-chilling, and damp, like the heart of an oubliette cast down into the bowels of the world.

She could hear breathing not her own. Rustling, coming from all around. More than one body. A lot more.

And then, as though someone had lit a match, she could see. Not much, but just outlines, shapes. People sitting. Crouched, curled. Kit moved forward. She saw long hair, long legs; nearby, a heavily muscled arm. Men and women both. No one moved, not really. Restless shifting, that was all.

Something made her turn around. She looked hard into the shadows, and the light in her eyes pushed and pushed until she glimpsed, with breathtaking clarity, a shock of blond hair and pale skin, a body clad in a dirty white dress.

Kit stumbled forward, falling to her knees. It was Alice. Alice, with wrists cuffed in chains attached to the wall she leaned upon. Her skin was raw, and there was a bruise forming on her face. But she was alive. Very much so. She lifted her gaze and looked Kit in the eyes with a strength that felt like a punch.

“Be careful,” Alice rasped, blue eyes blazing. “You’re next.”

“Where are you?” Kit cried out, but it was too late. The woman faded—the darkness, the other people, the sounds and smell—swirling away from her like the end of a bad dream. Kit blinked once, and found herself back in the house with Rik, her fiddle still in hand, wailing and wailing like her voice.

She stopped playing—would have fallen if Rik had not caught her. He pulled out a chair and set her down in it, crouching beside her with a steadying hand on her arm. His golden eyes were disturbed, even frightened.

“You were playing,” he said. “Something changed. What happened?”

“I saw Alice,” Kit croaked, and then, “I need some water, please.”

He ran to get it. She heard the refrigerator door open. Beyond the living room, she heard another door creak. Someone had come back.

But the man who appeared in front of her was an utter stranger, a giant dressed in a gray suit, his body round and shaped like a penguin. His head reminded her of a bird as well. Small and puffy, his cheeks so red she thought he must use rouge. His eyes were black, hardly slits. His hands curled like meat hooks.

Danger, fucking danger!
screamed a tiny voice inside Kit’s mind. She struggled to stand, gaze locked with the man in gray, whose eyes were as cold and hard as gravel chips caught in ice. She heard movement on her left: Rik, emerging from the kitchen. She had no time to warn him. He saw the man—froze— and then threw himself at the stranger with a speed and strength that was astonishing.

“Run!” Rik screamed, and she did—into the kitchen, looking for a weapon. She found a butcher knife and staggered back just in time to see Rik slam into the hardwood floor. She heard a crack, and the shape-shifter went still.

Which left just her and the man in gray. Kit’s mind went totally blank. She did not know where to run, how to fight, what to do. She could only stare, breathless, into those sharp, sharp eyes, hearing inside her heart the first violent strokes of a terrible song, a song more like a scream, raging and raging. Her heart thundered like a hurricane.

The man smiled. It was a terrible smile, lips pressed together, the corners of his mouth turning up; worse, because his eyes never changed. If anything, they became colder. Hungry.

Kit moved, but it was not enough. The man rushed her and he was incredibly fast—one step, and he crossed the room to stand above her, towering like a monolith. He was even more terrifying up close.

She tried to run, but he caught her with his hand, fingers crushing her arm. He yanked her right up against his body—hard as concrete—and lifted her feet off the floor. He smelled like raw meat, with a hint of perfume.

Kit did not think. Her arm swept forward. The butcher knife punctured the suit and sank into the man’s side. She screamed as that shuddering impact ran up her arm—in rage, disgust, fear—then pushed as hard as she could, using all her strength, grunting with the effort.

The man in gray did not let go. Kit twisted the blade and he did not let go. She felt hot blood on her hand and still he did not let go. His smile only widened, revealing teeth, and she could not help but gasp as she looked into that mouth. His teeth were sharp—little daggers— filed down to points. Each and every last one of them. It was like gazing into the black, jagged maw of a shark.

But Kit got a good look at something else as he smiled, as he opened his mouth wide. The man in gray had no tongue.

Kit let go of her knife. She went for his eyes instead, but he turned her around, almost juggling her from hand to hand, and slammed his forearm across her throat, cutting off her air. She kept fighting, but the man was too strong. Dizziness hit; vision dimmed. Music, screaming. Alice, whispering.

You are next.

Kit blacked out.

It was seven in the evening. The sun had set. The darkness made M’cal uneasy. The witch would be up and about; Ivan would be mobile. And the compulsion still had not returned. That was not right.

And what is your basis for comparison? Nothing like this ever happened to you before.

No, but he still had his instincts. Whatever this was, it could not be called good luck. Something was wrong.

He wished he had not left Kitala.

Koni smoked as he drove. “How long have you been in trouble?”

For a moment, the question reminded M’cal of Elsie. Elsie, whom he had almost forgotten. The woman was probably still alive, but not for much longer. Her body would give out in a day or two. If she was lucky, she’d die in her sleep. An autopsy would reveal no obvious cause of death, but doctors were always ready to apply some diagnosis, even if incorrect. No doubt the same would be done to her. And to Kitala.

“Long enough,” M’cal said. It was as good an answer as any.

Koni frowned. “She’s made you kill?”

“Among other things.”

“How do you feel about that?”

M’cal looked at him. Koni shrugged. “Some people take death more seriously than others. You don’t seem to be rolling in guilt.”

“Are you a mind reader?”

“God, no.”

“Then do not presume to know what I feel.”

“Fair enough.” Koni tossed his cigarette out the window.

M’cal stared through the windshield at the car ahead of them. He listened to the wipers, the rumble of the engine. So normal. So regular. All an illusion, one more thing to take for granted. Kitala had used the word
alien,
and she was right. Even he could feel it, more strongly than ever: the oddity, the strangeness of the situation. Everyone around him—on this road—going about their lives, never guessing that the car behind, beside, in front carried magic, myth; a shape-shifter and a merman.

Ridiculous. Fantastic. Funny even, though M’cal had no urge to laugh. He had never felt so alien as in this moment, so much outside every boundary of human normality.

You are a killer, a slave,
he told himself.
Think of human history. That is perfectly normal.

But not very comforting.

Koni parked the car in front of the Youth Center. The lights were off. All kinds of activity on the street—business as usual, with the women strutting tall and the brake lights shining. M’cal did not particularly want to interact with anyone. Too many people knew him, and it had been difficult enough explaining his past circumstances to Kitala. She had not judged him—not that he could tell—but revealing to her that he had been forced to work as a whore—even if just for show, as a lure to prey—would be a considerably different experience than explaining it to a group of strange men.

But he and Koni did not walk to the street corner. They strolled in the opposite direction, where the shadows gathered more thickly and the tattered doorways of abandoned businesses were filled with skinny kids on cardboard mats, syringes in hand. It was so easy to get needles in this city; just as easy as heroin.

“Any reason why we’re going in this direction?” M’cal asked.

“We’re grasping at straws right now, but if Alice had trouble in this neighborhood, then that’s where we start. I need a place to change, though.” Koni smiled grimly. “It’s amazing what people will say in front of a bird.”

M’cal would have responded, but he saw something across the street that made him stop. It was a dented brown Cadillac, parked by the curb, and inside the passenger seat was a boy with a Mohawk. Billy.

“What’s wrong?” Koni asked. M’cal said nothing, still staring, watching the man behind the wheel. His face was twisted and angry. Billy said something, shaking his head, holding up his hands.

Fear. M’cal knew what Billy’s fear looked like. He knew what all those children on that old street corner looked like when someone was hurting them. M’cal had put a stop to it as best he could. Protected them. Killed a man to make his point. The one killing he did not regret.

He started running across the street, heard Koni say something but ignored it. He reached the Cadillac in seconds, ran around to the passenger seat, and tried to open the door. It was locked. He rapped on the glass, and Billy looked at him with a mixture of shock and intense relief. Billy tried to unlock the door, but the man behind the wheel held him back. M’cal put his elbow through the window. It hurt, but the glass broke. He stuck his hand in and unlocked the door.

Billy clambered out so fast he almost fell. The driver followed, rushing out of the car. He was a short man, thick with muscle turning to fat. Bald, snub nose, eyes like a shrew, and enough rolls in his chin to almost qualify for a baker’s dozen. His belt was undone. M’cal felt sick.

He touched Billy’s arm. “Did he hurt you?”

The boy shook his head, but he was scared, pale and shaking. By daylight he could act so tough, like nothing bothered him, but he was probably softer than some of the fourteen-year-old girls M’cal had seen hustling a mile west some nights.

The driver stalked around the hood of the car. “You fucking bastard. You broke my fucking window!”

“You were scaring the boy,” M’cal said.

The man’s chest heaved. He started fastening his belt. “Little fuck was cheating me. And what are you, his pimp? Fuck you. You’re gonna pay for that window, you fag.”

“Now, that is some fucking foul language,” Koni said, jogging up. “You might want to watch your mouth, mister.”

The man sneered at him and looked at Billy. “Think you and I are done? I’ll be seeing you again, kid.”

M’cal’s hand shot out and caught the man around the neck. He slammed him on the hood of his car and held him there.

“You touch that boy again and I will rip off your testicles,” M’cal said. “I will not be squeamish. I will not hesitate. You are just a body to me. Do you understand?” He reached into the man’s back pocket and pulled out his wallet, flipping it open to see the driver’s license. He memorized the name and address. “Mr. Daniel Bodine. I know where you live now. Remember that, should you decide to be stupid again.”

M’cal let go of the man, who scrambled sideways, almost falling over his feet in his haste to escape. He crawled back into his car, started the engine, and peeled away.

“I guess you made your point,” Koni said dryly. Billy snickered, but it was a weak sound, and M’cal turned to him. The boy’s demeanor completely changed; he shrank a little, his face crumpling with embarrassment, shame.

“Don’t say it,” Billy told him, fidgeting. “I owe you again.”

M’cal suddenly felt very tired; his heart ached for Kitala. “You do not owe me. You never did. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

The boy shrugged, but it was tense, brittle. “I thought the police got you.”

M’cal remembered hearing the boy yell. “Do you know how they found us?”

He shook his head. “That bitch cop rolled around, started talking directly to Nico. You know, that new blond guy. Says some suspect was seen in the neighborhood. Describes your friend. Bastard gave her everything, even your room number.
Fucker.
I heard shots after that, but no one ever came down.” He straightened up and said, “I called your friend’s hotel and left a message. Did she get it?”

“No,” M’cal said. “What did you find?”

Billy glanced up the street; he. still seemed nervous. “Nothing much. Just that I talked to some people who actually dealt with that lady you’re looking for. No one knew she was gone. No one knew why. If she was into anything, she kept it real quiet. I even talked to some friends of friends of local gangs, and they don’t know shit either. The only shit going down is with some drugs, but from what I heard, that lady never bitched about no drugs. She focused on kids like me.”

“So either someone is wrong, lying, or Alice was much more secretive than anyone realized.” Koni sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Great.”

“There’s something else,” Billy said, and his voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes darting nervously. “Might not be anything official going on, but some people have been going missing. Regulars, folks who used to come around here a lot. You’d recognize some of them, Mikey.”

Probably because he was the reason they had gone missing. On the nights the witch made him hunt—and there had been more and more of them over the past several months—every encounter had resulted in the taking of a soul. Not one had slipped past him. Not until Kitala.

But all he did was nod and say, “Thank you, Billy. I appreciate this.”

“You saved my life,” said the boy solemnly.

Koni stepped closer, and much to M’cal’s surprise said, “You going to hit the street again after we leave you?”

“Have to,” Billy told him warily. “Gotta have a place to sleep.”

“Not just jump a high?”

Billy pushed up his sleeves and showed off his unmarked arms. “I don’t do that shit.”

“Other ways to do shit,” Koni said easily. “You were doing one of them not two minutes ago.”

He bristled. “If you’re gonna lecture me—”

“No,” both men said at the same time. They glanced at each other, and then Koni slowly reached inside his jacket and pulled out a surprisingly large wad of cash. “You’re not a dumb fuck, are you, kid?”

“No,” whispered Billy, staring at the money.

“M’cal?”

“Sometimes,” he said grimly. “He will not leave this lifestyle.”

“Then you’ll die,” Koni said to Billy with unflinching certainty. He peeled off five one-hundred-dollar bills and gave them to the boy. “Take a couple nights off ... if your work ethic will let you.”

Billy gave him a dirty look, but he pocketed the cash.

M’cal said, “You never accepted my money.”

“You’re a friend,” replied the boy, which made little sense to M’cal but seemed to satisfy some kind of morality within Billy’s mind. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but he glanced at Koni, shuffled his feet, and walked away without another word.

M’cal felt Koni looking at him. “Thank you for giving him the cash.”

“I would have given him more if I thought he would use it to start something new.”

“He is damaged,” M’cal said simply, watching Billy turn the corner. “If I had more time ...” He stopped, shaking his head. “Go ahead and ask.”

“None of my business,” Koni replied quietly. “Besides, I see Hari and Amiri.”

M’cal looked across the street. Sure enough, the two men were there, watching. Hard to miss them; Hari almost seven feet tall and built like a fighter. Amiri was also tall, but not nearly so broad. Slender almost.

“Trouble?” Hari asked when Koni and M’cal crossed the street to join them.

“Only that no one knows what happened to Alice,” Koni said. “What did you guys find?”

Amiri smiled. “According to our contact, Officer Yu and her partner have been the subject of an investigation for quite some time. They are suspected of physical abuse, colluding with known criminals, and making false arrests. No evidence, though.”

“Nor did they report for work today,” rumbled Hari. “They are not responding to any calls.”

“I smell the end of two careers,” Koni said.

“If they are not killed first for their failure,” M’cal added. “Not only did they lose Kitala, but they failed to bring back my head.”

“We found something else,” Hari said. “Far more disturbing.”

“A rash of disappearances,” Amiri added. “Men and women vanishing. Not all the victims are from this city—in fact, most of them were visitors—but there have been twelve taken, including Alice, and all the people missing are relatively well off, with no previous inclination to simply disappear.”

“None of them the kind to hire prostitutes?” Koni glanced sideways at M’cal.

Hari frowned. “Unlikely. Why?”

“Other folks going missing, that’s all.” The shapeshifter smiled grimly. “What’s the connection between the cops and the out-of-towners?”

Amiri sighed. “There doesn’t seem to be one. The possibility that it is all related is only conjecture. But our contact said that some in the department have begun linking them up, speculating that it might be the work of a serial killer.”

“Serial killers are more consistent,” Koni replied. “You said there’s no link between these people.”

“None on the surface.”

“Alice is a youth counselor,” M’cal said.

Amiri shrugged. “According to our contact, she is also extremely wealthy. Her family is American, based in New York City. She used to be an art dealer.”

“Huh,” Koni replied. “What is a New York art dealer doing in a neighborhood like this, working in a youth center?”

M’cal wondered the same thing. “Did the officer know how long she has been here?”

“Her family reported that she left home nearly six months ago, but that it was only in the past three that she seemed to settle in Vancouver. It was a hasty departure, without warning. She recently requested that her uncle John come visit. It, too, was spur of the moment.”