Soul Song by Marjorie M. Liu

told her gruffly. “But your voice . .. your voice did something different.”
    Kitala stopped walking. “What are you, M’cal?”
    He turned around to face her. “Does it matter?”
    “Yes,” she said quietly. “I. . . had a dream last night. In it, you weren’t human.”
    He fought to keep his expression neutral. “Do you always believe your dreams?”
    “Sometimes,” she admitted. “I might have a good reason to believe the one I had last night.”
    M’cal looked at her neck. “What was I, in your dream?”
    It was hard to tell if she blushed, but her cheeks seemed to suddenly warm with soft pink undertones. Her gaze faltered. “You were a ... merman.”
    Merman. A flush trembled down his body. He could not think. He could not speak. All he could do was stare, that one word echoing through his head. It was impossible she should know. Impossible.
    He was silent too long. Kitala’s expression changed, growing shocked then alarmed. And then something else crept into her eyes, something almost like compassion, which was as unexpected as anything else she could have said to him. As astonishing as merman.
    “M’cal,” she breathed, gaze flickering down to his throat, and there was so much pain in her voice, so little fear, he forgot himself. He forgot everything but Kitala, and his heart hurt—his heart hurt so bad— because for the first time in a long while he could imagine that someone cared. Someone cared.
    The moment died fast. He was not careful, not paying attention. Kitala touched him, her fingers lacing around his hand. Pain rained down on his muscles.
    The monster woke up.

Chapter Six
    Kit remembered, but too late. It was instinct, desire, too much that she could not name that made her take M’cal’s hand—including the look on his face, the shock, the fear. The dreamt memory of his screams, which she was certain now were real. Real as his body, which was forever burned into her mind.
    M’cal flinched, staggering away from her, curling in on himself with his arms tight against his belly. Holding himself, holding back. His face turned ashen; anguish tore through his eyes.
    “Run,” he hissed, but in that one word she heard enough to make her skin crawl, the hairs on her nape rise, and all she could do was stand as he screamed at her, his howl rising into a high, wailing note that was part song, part cry, and all power.
    It was like being hit with the sharp edge of a merry-go-round railing—hard, fast, spinning—and when she closed her eyes, holding her head, there were so many lights inside her mind she might have been looking at the night sky on a roller coaster, taking a nosedive out of her world.
    Her world. Her life. Her memories. Watching her life pass before her eyes, all of it flickering and fading and burning like falling stars, a shower of them streaking through her and leaving nothing behind. She could not catch them, she could not fight. All she could do was listen to M’cal’s voice, the terrible beauty of it sliding like a dark rainbow into her soul. And though Kit knew she should be afraid, each unearthly note seared her with such lovely sympathy, such twisted delight, she could feel her own music rising and rising, the strings of her fiddle arcing light inside her mind. Until, quite suddenly, the stars disappeared and she could no longer hear M’cal’s voice. She could not hear anything at all, except for her blood roaring in her ears and the pounding of her heart against her ribs. Her body was moving; bouncing. Her neck hurt.
    Kit opened her eyes. It was difficult to see. The world tilted at a dizzying angle. Distant, in her mind, she heard the strings of a fiddle singing. A mournful cry.
    She tilted her head again and found M’cal. He was not looking at her, but she could see his face and it was twisted, covered in rain, his black hair plastered against his pale skin. His eyes were haunted, framed in shadows. He was carrying her.
    What happened? wondered Kit, but when