Soul Song by Marjorie M. Liu Page A

she tried to ask, her voice slurred into nonsense and her tongue felt thick as a brick. M’cal glanced at her, his mouth set in a hard line. He said nothing. He looked beautiful and terrible.
    She heard catcalls, shouts; caught the flash of thighs and high, shining boots; fishnet, cleavage, red lipstick.
    A blond man with a familiar narrow face and sharp eyes. M’cal said something to him—let go of her long enough to pull a wad of cash from his pocket—and then suddenly they were moving again, into a building that smelled like cigarettes and dirty sheets. It was blindingly dark—no lights, all shadow—and she closed her eyes, dizzy. She felt M’cal run upstairs, fast and graceful, and she clung to him, inhaled him, fingers clutching the soft fabric of his black shirt. He smelled like his coat—warm—and his body was hard and strong.
    Safe, she thought dimly, and then, Trust him.
    M’cal stopped. Kit opened her eyes. They were in front of a door, which he nudged open with his foot. No lights were inside, but there were windows. The walls were painted pink. There was a couch and a bed, both narrow, both old. M’cal lay Kit down on a quilted comforter that was supposed to be white but had been stained after long use into a camouflage of grays and browns.
    Kit tried to sit up, but she was too weak. M’cal began to help, but stopped. He suddenly seemed afraid to touch her; his fingers darted nervously above her shoulders, not quite making contact, and after a moment he retreated, backing away until he hit the wall opposite the bed. He slid down into a loose crouch. His eyes were haunted. He was breathing hard.
    Kit tried to speak, but her voice refused to rise above a whisper. Her throat hurt. “What happened?”
    “I almost took your soul,” he rasped, and the raw emotion on his face was awful to see.
    But his words echoed through her, again and again, and she knew they were true. Impossible, but true. Kit wondered if her dismay showed; M’cal rocked hard to his feet, turning away from her, pressing his head and hands against the pink wall. His entire body trembled; his fingers curled into fists.
    “M’cal,” she murmured brokenly. “M’cal, please.”
    “I hurt you,” he whispered.
    “I’m still here,” she said. “Please.”
    M’cal turned back around, standing in the half-light and shadows, his body long and lean, coiled. His wet hair curled around his hard face; his eyes glinted like a gasp of sky on the other side of a thundercloud.
    He walked to her, and for the first time she was able to appreciate how he moved—like a dancer, utterly in control of his body; elegant and agile. Dangerous.
    She tried to sit up again. He was there in an instant, his hand hovering over her shoulder. He did not touch her, but he was close—so close.
    Kit did not let him pull away. She grabbed his hand. He flinched, but that was it. Nothing happened. Slowly, slowly, his fingers curled around her palm. She let out a shaky breath. M’cal swallowed hard and sat down beside her, perching so far off the edge of the bed she thought he might fall.
    “Talk to me,” she said.
    “And tell you what?” he replied softly, staring at their clasped hands. “That I am a murderer? That I almost took your life?”
    “You said soul.”
    “It is the same. You cannot live without a soul. The body . . . gives up.” He looked into her eyes with a gaze that was cold and hard and wild. “I had no choice, Kitala. If you had not stopped me . ..”
    He could not finish. He tried to let go of her hand, but Kit hung on. She knew it was dangerous—could feel it in her weakened body, in his strength—but there was a part of her that recognized this moment as something vital, infinitely important. Something to fight for.
    Even if it’s for nothing. Even if it breaks your heart. Kit glanced down at the strong lean lines of M’cal’s throat and found his skin pale, free of blood and holes. Memory lingered, though. Death. She had caught