M’cal still had the knife. He rammed it into the wall, digging against the wood paneling, stabbing and hacking until the ring holding the chain pulled free. He bound it into a coil and swam back to Kitala and Koni.
“Here,” he said, handing the links to Koni. “Try shifting again. Outside of the witch’s presence, you might—”
Koni did not wait for him to finish. His eyes flashed, golden light spreading down his face into the water. For a moment, M’cal thought it would work— feathers peered out from the man’s hairline—but then Koni grunted and the light died.
“Better this time,” he said, “but still not there.”
“Fine.” M’cal tossed aside the knife and reached out with his bound hands. He grabbed Kitala’s arm. “I will take her out first, and then return for you. Unless you think you can make it with us?”
“Can you pull me?” Koni asked. “I won’t be much of a swimmer with my feet bound like this.”
“There is a chain attached to my tail. If you can hold it, and your breath—”
“Consider it done. I want out of here now.”
So did M’cal. He let Koni sink and grab the chain, and then pulled him and Kitala out of the room. He had difficulty swimming—all his limbs were encumbered— but he made it down the hall and through the stairwell now pointing downward toward the bottom of the sea, and in less than a minute they were free of the boat and heading toward the surface.
They broke free of the water, Kitala and Koni gasping for air while M’cal drifted around them, listening to the orcas. He could feel their cries in his body, and the old female moved close, her fin splitting the waves. Kitala made a small sound as the pod gathered, rising out of the water to investigate.
“The boat,” she said, her teeth beginning to chatter. “They’re the ones who capsized it. But where are the witch and Ivan?”
The vessel was almost entirely underwater. M’cal asked the orcas if they had witnessed the escape of a woman and man, but they had seen nothing. He did not dare, however, to imagine that the witch and Ivan were dead.
Kitala shuddered. The waters were clearly too cold for her; any longer and she would have hypothermia to contend with. Koni, however, did not seem especially affected by the ocean’s temperature. M’cal saw him looking at Kitala. The two men exchanged glances.
“Are we close to land?” the shape-shifter asked. M’cal glanced around. He saw no lights. But if they were in the Georgia Strait, still near Vancouver, he had a place to go. Maybe. If it was still there.
M’cal sank beneath the waves, reaching out with his mind and voice to the old female orca. For a moment he expected the witch’s compulsion to kick in and stop him. But it did not, and a flush spread through his body. Freedom still felt new. He wondered if he would ever learn to take it for granted again.
The pod leader responded immediately. Scars covered her body, battle wounds. She called out to her pod, and the orcas gathered close, bumping against M’cal’s body, pinging him with calls. One of the orcas touched its nose to his bound hands. M’cal hesitated, but the temptation was too great. He asked, and the orca immediately opened her mouth. He placed the link between the cuffs over a tooth the size of his thumb, gingerly shifting his hands as the orca slowly bit down.
A grinding noise echoed through the water. The link snapped. M’cal’s cuffs still encircled his wrists, but without them joined he had better mobility. He shifted his tail, re-forming his feet so that the link between those shackles reappeared. It was more difficult to separate them than the handcuffs, but after some brief maneuvering, that link too fell apart in the orca’s massive mouth.
He surfaced for a moment and said to Koni, “Hold your legs still.”
“What?” said the shape-shifter, but M’cal swam back down and grabbed Koni’s ankles, holding him above water as the orca drifted near, her thoughts quite pleased. Snapping links, in her mind, was the same as breaking nets; a satisfying task. Koni flinched when his feet touched the orca’s mouth, but the link broke with a crunch, and he kicked out hard, still trailing a chain behind him.
“You’re talking to them,” Kitala said when M’cal resurfaced. She was having trouble treading water; her teeth chattered. He gathered her close, hooking her legs around his waist to share his warmth. His tail undulated through the water, keeping them afloat while he used his hands to rub her back. She was shaking. He hoped it was nothing worse than cold.
Koni gave him another concerned look, and M’cal whistled to the orcas, who still jostled for space all around. Curiosity filled them; protectiveness as well. It had been a long time since any of them had met a Krackeni.
M’cal caught Koni’s attention and pointed to a dark crest sliding through the water, close on his left. “Grab the dorsal fin of that female and climb onto her back. In front or behind, it does not matter. As long as you are steady.”
The shape-shifter hesitated, eyeing the orca with a great deal of wariness. “We hardly know each other. She might get the wrong idea.”
“Just do it.”
“If I find out later that this is the orca equivalent of grabbing a woman’s ass—”
“I will make certain she regurgitates your body parts.”
“Fantastic,” Koni muttered, and grabbed the dorsal fin, pulling himself up so he straddled her wide body. The orca did not object, though a series of puzzled images flashed through M’cal’s brain, accompanied by careful clicks and whistles.
“I felt that,” Koni said.
“She has never carried anyone,” M’cal explained. “She wants to make certain she does not hurt you. You are quite small to her. Much like a calf.”
With one hand, M’cal reached out to grab the dorsal fin of the pod leader, shifting his tail into legs as he hauled himself up to straddle her. He leaned back so that her fin pressed against his spine, and placed Kitala in front of him. She slid her hands along the orca’s thick, slick skin and made a small sound.
“Tell me,” M’cal whispered in her ear.
“Can’t,” she replied, shivering so badly that the word was almost inaudible. He wrapped his arm around her waist, used the other to steady himself against the orca’s back, and told the old female where to take them.
She pushed through the water, moving slowly, staying as high above the surface as she could. Koni’s orca did the same, with the shape-shifter sitting in similar fashion in front of the dorsal fin. The orca’s body was wider there; easier to brace oneself as the creatures picked up speed, sliding through the water with breathtaking grace. Heartache bubbled up M’cal’s throat, mixed with terrible joy. He had forgotten so much. The cage he had been living in was smaller than his soul.
Music strummed, and he sang—just because he could, for the first time in years, without pretense to harm. It was a different kind of melody than any he remembered; deeper, wilder, with an edge of the power that had filled him on the boat. Each note made him feel like he was prying back the dark cover of something long hidden; primal, untouchable, a ghost from some other, more ancient, past. He could feel it stirring in his chest—another kind of monster.
And he liked it.
M’cal’s arm was strong around her waist, though his warmth did little to curb the profound chill seeping into her bones. Her hands and feet were numb, past pain; the rest of her body felt like a plastic mannequin fresh from some freezer. If she fell off the orca, she would drown; she had no strength in her body to swim. Not to walk or fight. All she could do was feel, and her emotions carried her into a slipstream of music; strings and voices, and darker, a thrill of something terrible that she could not name.
Here there be monsters,
she thought, unable to help herself.
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
It was difficult to see—there were few lights on this part of the coast—but she glanced sideways and saw a glitter of gold like fireflies in Koni’s eyes, and the stars shed enough light to cast a shadow on the dark bodies surrounding them. Kit thought of the witch and Ivan. Her breast hurt.
Not over. Not yet.
M’cal stopped singing. For a moment, she thought her heart stopped beating as well. The loss of his voice, the silence, made the world feel as empty as death. Like a drug; everything lost color in the shadow of that music.
The orcas slowed before the narrow mouth of a small
cove.
Breath exploded from the blowhole in front of Kit, spraying her with a fine mist of seawater.
“We are here,” M’cal said softly, and the orca took them in, followed by the other female carrying Koni. The rest of the pod lingered outside the cove, slapping the water with their fins and tails. The sound followed Kit, echoing against the tree line, the tumble of rocks framing the water like a half-moon.
Thirty feet from shore, M’cal slid off the orca’s back, pulling Kit with him. The water no longer felt as cold, and her thoughts were just as numb as her body. Somewhere near, she heard another splash. Koni’s voice, murmuring something. She glimpsed a dark eye (the size of her fist, peering into her face, and then M’cal started swimming, pulling her away from the orcas toward the shore. She watched the creatures slide away, dorsal fins sharp and proud, and wished she had her fiddle to hold. She needed to make her own music. The moment needed more than breath.
They reached shore quickly. Kit tried to say something as M’cal swung her up in his arms, but her face was numb, and her jaw felt locked in place. They moved through shadows, chains clanking, branches sweeping past her face. She smelled cedar, sap, loam; M’cal’s skin, which was clean, fresh, full of the sea. Her heart thudded loud and slow in her chest. Koni kept muttering to himself.
And then Kit heard their footsteps echo hollow, and suddenly the forest was replaced by walls and a ceiling. M’cal laid her down on a hard surface that smelled like dust.
“This place is crap,” she heard Koni say. “It’s like a
tent
you can’t carry with you.”
“You are a poet,” M’cal replied. “Really.”
“Seriously. No furniture, no
electricity.
You’re not going to get her warm in this shack.”
“I have blankets,” M’cal replied; but moments later loud squeaks filled the air, little bodies scrabbling across the floor. Kit tried to sit up.
“Hantavirus,” Koni said. “Bubonic plague.”
M’cal sighed. “I have other blankets—
clean
blankets—and a fireplace. As well as some canned food.”
“Hallelujah. We’re saved.”
Another sigh. “There is wood stacked outside. Go get it.”
No quips. Footsteps passed close by, and then M’cal was there, pulling off her clothes.
“I am sorry,” he murmured, pressing a quick kiss on her forehead. “You will be exposed, but we must get you warm.”
If it meant being warm again, Kit would have exposed herself to an entire football team and done a jig. She tried to help him, but he gently pushed her hands aside. Her blouse was already torn; he paused over the rip, his fingers hovering over her exposed breast, which was probably bruising by now.
M’cal stared, his expression unreadable. But then he kissed her again, the heat of his mouth like a balm, and his hands kept moving against her body, tugging and pulling. Kit heard Koni enter the cabin, listened to the hard tumble of wood hitting the floor. Ashes hissed, accompanied by more plunking sounds, the loud tang of metal striking metal. Paper crumpled. Koni said, “Where are the matches?”
“Above the fireplace.” M’cal finished pulling off Kit’s jeans and underwear. Something dry and warm instantly covered her; slightly scratchy, very thick. A match struck and light flashed, burning brighter as the flame caught hold in the fireplace. Kit could finally see again. She found Koni crouching naked in front of the blaze. Tattoos adorned his body, all the way down his hard thighs. He shoved more wood over the fire.
M’cal scooped Kit into his arms and pulled her close. She started shivering again, violently. Koni said, “Fire isn’t going to be enough. She needs body heat.” He hesitated, for once looking serious. “She may need the both of us.”
Kit coughed. It was laughter, but the men looked at her like she had just landed at death’s door with a bout of pneumonia. She could not stop shivering. M’cal stared from her to Koni and picked up her hand. Her fingertips looked odd. Almost blue. He breathed on them, and then tucked her hand back under the covers. He wrapped another blanket around her head and slid in beside her. The heat of his body was delicious, but it did not put a dent in the chill sinking through her bones. Kit felt M’cal hesitate, and watched as he looked up at Koni and said, “All right.”
Koni did not say a word. He crawled under the covers carefully, slowly, pushing close until his hips and legs rubbed Kit’s. His skin was hot—as much a furnace as M’cal’s—and though it was definitely the oddest arrangement Kit had ever found herself in, she could not bring herself to care ... or to feel uncomfortable. She needed to get warm. Now.
Besides, M’cal was guard dog enough. He placed his arm over Kit’s breasts, tugged her shivering body close, and said to Koni, “Keep your hands above the covers.”
“Give me a break,” Koni replied, staring at the ceiling. “I am not a total pervert. Although, to be honest, consider the night we’ve been having. First handcuffs, and now this? Way more kinky than I expected.”
“Please,” M’cal said. “Do not talk.”
“You like the strong and silent type, huh?”
“If you do not shut up, I will kill you with my voice.”
“I love it when you talk dirty.”
“Fine. Which would you prefer to lose first? Your soul or your testicles?”
“You know, you’re just a bit obsessed with chopping off balls. Do you have issues with your masculinity?”
Kit coughed again, but this time it sounded more like laughter. Both men looked at her. Koni’s mouth quirked. “Do you have something to add to this conversation?”
“No,” she whispered, teeth chattering.
M’cal cradled her against his body. “Koni, take her hands. Warm them.”
The shape-shifter smiled and cupped Kit’s hands inside his. “I am such a trouper.”
The three of them talked for a time. It made the situation easier. Nonsense, nothing serious. Trivia about each other, such as favorite colors—ranging from blue to black (sparking a debate about the spiritual themes associated with both); favorite movies—of which M’cal was woefully ignorant, given the somewhat surprising revelation that his parents had disdained television in lieu of books (“barbarians,” Koni called them); favorite foods, which led to the discovery that mermen were quite content eating anything and everything except creatures who talked back. And, as with any survivalist slumber party, the requisite worst-date competition cropped up, which M’cal won hands down, given that the first woman he seriously pursued ultimately turned him into her personal slave and assassin.
“Certainly beats being laughed at after sex,” Koni said.
“Are you sure she wasn’t laughing
with
you?” Kit asked.
“No one has ever laughed at
me,”
M’cal added thoughtfully.
“Thanks,” Koni said. “Ever so much.”
Their voices warmed Kit as much as their bodies, though there was nothing better or sweeter than M’cal curled tight against her back, each sound he made ruffling her hair, heating her neck. The boat, the witch—
Ivan
—faded away. Not entirely, but enough. And after a while, Kit closed her eyes and fell asleep.
When she woke, the room was dark. The fire had burned down to embers. Koni was gone. A pair of shackles lay where he had been, and nearby, another two sets of cuffs.
M’cal’s arms tightened. “Kitala.”
She smiled. “How do you do that? Don’t you ever sleep?”
He kissed the back of her neck. “I am afraid you will disappear if I do.”
Kit turned in his arms and pressed close, brushing his jaw with her lips. “Koni?”
“His ability to transform returned. He left to contact the others.”
“Picked some locks, apparently.”
“Mine anyway. He merely. . . slipped out of the others.”
“Ah. Right.” Kit tried to imagine it and could not. So much she was taking on faith. “Where are we?”
“A cabin that belonged to my father. When I was young, this is where we would come when he wanted to teach me about living in the water. My mother stayed here while he and I.. . went out.”
“I hope it was more comfortable for her back then.”
M’cal’s smiled; faint, slightly pained. “After she died, my father cleared out the cabin. He burned the furniture.”
Kit hesitated, peering into his eyes. “And how did
you
grieve?”
He swallowed hard and pressed his mouth against her cheek, so gently it took her breath away. “I grieved badly. When I was young, I ran away from home. No good-byes, no letters, not for a long time. It broke my mother. It hurt my father. When she died, he never forgave me.”
“You said she died of cancer.”
“She did. But if I had been there, if I had not
run ...
perhaps she would have been stronger. Perhaps she would never have become ill.” M’cal rolled onto his back, taking Kit with him. “I miss my mother, Kitala. It is hard being here. I should have appreciated the swiftness of time.”
“How long were you gone from your family?”
“Almost ten years. I intended to come back sooner. But I kept dreading the idea of facing them. I was sixteen when I left.”
“And the witch? How long?”
“Five, perhaps six years. Long enough.” M’cal soothed back Kit’s curls, gazing into her eyes. “Being with you makes me feel like the man I used to be. Before the witch. I forgot, Kitala. I forgot everything.”
“No,” she whispered. “You didn’t forget. If you had, you would never have saved me. You would never have stuck by me the way you have.”
“Never again,” he murmured. “I told myself never again.”
Kit managed to free one of her hands and touched her neck. Felt puncture marks. She touched her breast, too, and winced.
M’cal’s eyes darkened. He covered her hand, and she tried not to remember the sensation of Ivan’s mouth, those fat, hard fingers. She buried her face in the crook of M’cal’s neck, drawing in his scent, the heat of his skin. Shivered. He drew the covers up around her back. “You are cold.”
Kit shook her head. “Just remembering.”
His hands stilled. “I remember, too.”
She fought for words. “I’m glad you were there. Even if you hadn’t stopped him, I would have been glad.”
“Glad that I could not keep you safe?”
“Glad that I was not alone,” she whispered. “I’ve seen a lot of things, M’cal. Murders, rapes, hangings . .. even a decapitation or two. I can’t forget a single one. But I’ve never been the victim. I’ve never been the target, until now. And violence is lonely, M’cal. No matter what side you’re on.”
He breathed out, slow, his hands sliding up her shoulders. “Before you, Kitala, the only woman who could touch me without causing pain was the witch. Do you understand what that means? For all those years when she ... took ... me ... it was the only pleasure I had. And that was a terrible thing to feel.”
Kit swallowed hard, remembering the witch kissing him, how he had lain there unmoving, his face an empty mask. As though he was dead on the inside, and all the witch was doing was touching a shell.
“I was so close to being lost,” M’cal whispered. “I had no idea how close. If I had not met you, I would have forgotten myself. I would never have known what it could be to hold someone and not hate myself. Not hate the person in my arms. I would have forgotten how to love.”
“Not possible.”