Soul Song by Marjorie M. Liu Page B

more glimpses of it outside the Youth Center, inside Edith’s office. Almost tasted the scent of his murder. But he’s not dead yet. Forget the how or why or when. You’ll never know the answer until it is too late. Focus on now.
    Now. What a concept. Forgetting the future had never been an easy thing to do.
    Kit’s back hurt; the fiddle case still hung against her. She tried to pull the strap over her head. Her arms were stronger, but it was still an effort. M’cal leaned in close to help her. Close enough to feel his warmth flow over her body; close enough to inhale his scent; close enough to kiss.
    “How did I save myself?” Her voice sounded low, husky.
    M’cal took his time pulling the strap over her head. She leaned in even more. His eyes flickered to her face. “Your music, Kitala. There is power in your music. You defended yourself with it.”
    “I didn’t feel like I was defending myself.” On the contrary; Kit had felt like she was making the best music of her life.
    The strap got caught in her wild mass of hair. She placed her hand on M’cal’s hard chest, tilting her head so that he could free the case. The arch of her neck lay exposed. M’cal faltered; one hand curled behind her back, supporting her. The other still held the fiddle case.
    Kit met his gaze, and for a moment time stretched like a moonbeam reaching through a cloud, and she heard inside her head soft notes that could have been a voice, his voice, lilting like a ghost unseen. Music to love, even if everything else was strange. Music as blood and bone, another heart. Music that called to her soul.
    M’cal’s gaze drifted down to her neck. She did not look at his, just kept her eyes locked on his face, suffering confusion, desire, fear and something more, deeper; the sense that once again this moment meant more than any other. That her life as she knew it was gone, dead, changed.
    He kissed her neck. Kit closed her eyes, savoring the heat of his mouth, feeling it move through her, pool in her heart like a slow rhapsody. He kissed her again, and then once more, his lips trailing up her throat, and just when she thought her mouth would be next, he pulled her against him, tucking her close, in what had to be the most gentle embrace of her life.
    “This cannot last,” he murmured. “Whatever you did will not last.”
    Kit’s hand crept to his shoulder. “I don’t understand.”
    M’cal began to pull away from her. Kit grabbed the front of his shirt. He covered her hands—one hand was large enough to warm both of hers—and crooked his mouth into a brief, faint smile.
    “Playing rough,” he said. “That might be dangerous.”
    “Only if you don’t explain some things to me,” she replied. She found it difficult to think, to speak, when he was so very near. “Make it simple, M’cal. I’m confused enough as it is.”
    M’cal brushed his lips against her forehead. “Nothing is simple, Kitala.”
    “Please tell me.”
    “ ‘Please,’” he rasped. “You have said that word to me more than any other person has in years. Please. No one says that to me, Kitala. No one.”
    “They should,” she murmured. And then: “I saw it in your eyes, but I want to hear it from your lips. You’re not human.”
    “Not human,” he echoed, his voice catching. “Not fully.”
    “Show me.”
    He exhaled sharply. “I think you have seen enough.”
    Kit looked into his eyes. “Please, M’cal.”
    His jaw tightened. He held up his hand. At first nothing happened, but then as she watched, unblinking, odd faint lines formed against his pale skin; ridges that took on a glimmering iridescence, a sheen that looked like crushed pearls. Scales like tiny jewels. They spread higher, growing and growing until loose webbing draped between his fingertips. His nails lengthened into small, sharp hooks, darkening in color to silver blue.
    Kit touched his hand, breathless. Here was proof, if she could believe her eyes and touch. Astonishing, shocking,