“No,” said the witch, moving forward, Ivan following close on her heels. She grabbed Alice’s arm. “Enough, Edith.”
“Enough?” Edith smiled, and it was ghastly, lips peeled back, teeth bared; like a mouth ready for a scream. “The circle is ready, Luanna. The time is right. All I have to do is open the door.”
The witch took another step. “This is not you, Edith.”
“Blood of my blood,” whispered the old woman, and she held up her wrinkled hand to look at it, turning her palm against the candlelight. “Blood of power.” She stopped, and looked at the witch. “I was going to spare you, Luanna.”
“Not in place of Alice,” said the witch. “Not her.”
“She came to me so innocent. She had no idea who I was.” Edith settled her gaze on Kit. “And you. You came as well. You and the merman.”
“Me,” Kit said in hard voice. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but it is done.
You
are done.”
Edith clicked her fingers. Kit felt heat spread across her throat, and then pressure. She tried to swallow and could not. Tried to breathe, and started choking. Panic swelled. She clawed at her throat, even as part of her spirit settled into a small, quiet ball, fiddle strings humming inside her mind. Kit clung to the music, feeling it swell inside her heart like thunder. The pressure on her throat eased; she took a shallow breath. Edith reared back, staring.
And then the witch was there, pushing Kit aside with a snarl. She raised her hands and light flashed, so bright it seared right down to Kit’s brain. A rough hand grabbed her arm, pulling her away. It was Ivan. He yanked hard, reaching out for Alice. Sand kicked up beneath their feet, digging trenches. Kit looked down and saw a red stain in those fine grains. A stain that spread, welling up like an oil strike, a vein of water.
Blood. They were standing over blood.
Kit’s vision flickered, strings snapping in her head. Ivan still pulled her. She did not resist. No strength was available, not when all her focus was on shadows and spirits and the wail of music screaming. There was a pattern there—she could feel it like the rhythm of a hard stroking jig, rising and falling on a pound and a beat; as though the spirit of this place was a taste and a heartbeat. Living, breathing, darkness. Something stirring. Growing. The belly of the beast.
And Kit felt herself answering back. She felt, on the tip of her tongue, a thrill of music so strong she wanted to cut herself with it. To spill her own blood, as if that would chase away the spirit she felt hovering over this place. All the murders she had ever seen—all the pain that fate could deliver—this, here, what she felt right now was the cause of it all. She could almost touch it.
Alice shouted. Kit’s focus snapped back, tearing away from the spiritual to the physical—the sand and heat and blood and screams. The witch was on her knees in front of Edith, who had her hand pressed against the woman’s shoulder. Smoke rose from the contact, the hint of sparks. The witch screamed and screamed—more defiance than pain—and Kit could see her dead, a vision, sprawled on the ground with her eyes open and staring—
Yu appeared in front of them with a gun in one hand and a knife in the other. The blade was sticky with blood. Kit knew who it belonged to. She lunged, but Ivan yanked her back, standing between them, blocking her view of the police officer. She could not see around him, but she glimpsed the two men flanking her, standing on either side of the door. Guns out. Eyes hard. Totally unnerved by the scene going on around them.
Alice screamed at Edith, still struggling to free herself, until suddenly, like a whip, she coiled around and fastened her teeth on Ivan’s wrist, biting down hard. He must have been distracted, surprised; he let go, and Alice moved fast. Kit lunged after her, but Ivan still had hold of her wrist. She watched, helpless, as Alice threw herself at Edith.
Alice had guts, but she was about as good in a fight as Kit—and Edith, despite her apparent old age, moved like a viper. The young woman went down hard, and the witch cried out, reaching for her. Edith batted her away.
Ivan finally released Kit. She did not look back, only sprang across the sand and slammed into the old woman, who was just beginning to crouch over Alice’s prone body. Edith snarled, mouth opening far too wide for anyone pretending to be human, and grabbed Kit around the throat.
Time stopped. Kit felt like she was floating. Edith’s hand was around her neck, but it did not matter. She was back on the veranda with her grandmother, watching Old Jazz Marie’s strong fingers sew the pouch of a gris-gris as her old dark eyes burned bright and hot.
Edith’s hand exploded from Kit’s throat. Literally.
It happened too fast to see, but Kit felt the heat, the blast, and suddenly her face was covered in hot blood and Edith was on the ground, cradling her arm, which stopped at the wrist. Blood spurted around a jagged lump of protruding bone. The old woman did not make a sound, but her eyes swallowed the candlelight when she looked at Kit.
Kit wasted no time being stunned. She yanked the witch to her feet, and they both grabbed Alice and began dragging her unconscious body to the door. Ivan joined them. He was bleeding, but one of the soldiers was sprawled on the ground with his head twisted all the way around. Fate. Yu and the other were gone.
Edith reached out with her remaining hand and hissed one long word. Alice stopped moving. Kit pulled with all her strength, crying out with the effort, but it was like hauling a two-ton slab of concrete. Dead weight. Kit had to drop her. The witch had her hands wrapped around Alice’s wrist. She dug in her heels, the veins standing out in her neck. Edith bared her teeth and smiled.
The witch let go. She stared at Edith, and Kit could feel the power rolling off her in waves. It was not enough, though. Whatever—whoever—Edith was, she was too strong. The witch gazed down at Alice, snarled, and grabbed Kit’s arm.
“Good,” Edith said as the witch dragged Kit away. “Good, Luanna! She was already mine.”
The witch did not say a word. Ivan opened the door, and within seconds they were stumbling out into a wash of cold air. It was night. Kit was surprised by the darkness, by the amount of time that had passed, but Ivan made a grunting sound and the witch tugged Kit into the forest. The ground hurt her feet, but it was better than walking in blood and shit and that terrible sand.
“Alice,” Kit gasped, looking over her shoulder. She saw nothing. Without any light escaping the structure, it was impossible to see in the darkness.
“We will save her,” said the witch grimly, and Kit felt the woman’s gaze track over her face. “All this time, you have been trying to help her. And you still do not know why.”
“I had to,” Kit said breathlessly, and then: “Who is she to you?”
Silence for one long moment. Kit stubbed her toes on a log and cursed, stumbling. The witch kept her from falling. “My granddaughter. Alice is my granddaughter.”
Too much had already happened for Kit to feel surprise; she was numb. “And Edith is your sister?”
“We had the same father,” said the witch, her breathing ragged. “There are many of us who could claim that privilege. He was long-lived. Immortal.”
“Was?”
“Dead now. Murdered. But he left his mark, in more ways than one. I doubt he ever knew the true extent of it. He was.. . focused on other things.” The witch squeezed Kit’s hand. “The world is bigger than you know. If you want to survive—”
“Cut the bullshit,” Kit snapped. “You’re the last person I want lecturing me about survival. You’d throw a baby in a volcano if it meant keeping your eyelids from falling.”
“But not
my
baby. And not my granddaughter.”
Ivan had disappeared, but the witch did not falter; she moved without hesitation through the night, and Kit kept getting hit in the face with branches, tearing her skin on thorns and rocks. Her feet felt like they were bleeding. The pain made her think of M’cal—his heart, the blood on Yu’s hands. She gritted her teeth. “M’cal.”
“We are going to him.” The witch’s eyes glowed for one brief instant. “He has what we need.”
“You still want my soul,” Kit said. “Jesus Christ. How could it possibly help you?”
The witch did not answer. Instead, she said, “Your grandmother loved you. She loved you enough to protect you tonight. Do you know the cost of that gift, Kitala? Do you understand the price of that love?”
Kit said nothing, touching the gris-gris where it bounced beneath her T-shirt. The witch looked at her again, and in a deathly quiet voice, said, “I am going to teach you, Kitala Bell. Tonight. You are going to learn the price of a grandmother’s love.”
The shape-shifter blew out his breath. “Fuck. You’re alive.”
“What happened?” M’cal asked again, trying to sit up.
“Bitch carved you like a turkey. Never seen anything like it. Never seen anyone . .. enjoy it as much as she did. Like she was getting the taste in her mouth.” Koni leaned back, sprawling on his side. He ran a hand through his hair and covered his eyes. “I listened to you, man. I stayed quiet. But it was fucking hard.”
“Thank you,” M’cal said. “Thank you for staying alive.”
“Your love kept me going,” he replied.
M’cal grunted at the sarcasm. “Enough people have died because of me, that is all.”
Koni grunted and rolled to his feet. He tested the grate, shaking it. “You must be popular at parties.”
M’cal sighed. “I do not suppose you have some lock pick hidden on you?”
The shape-shifter stared, then pointedly glanced down at his naked body. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
M’cal stood. His chest hurt. He touched his skin and found an indentation above his heart. He took a deep breath, clearing his head, and focused on Kitala. She was still nearby, and still alive. But he could feel, almost like a taste drifting on his tongue, the fine lines of some terrible stress. Something bad was happening.
He joined Koni, and the two pulled hard on the steel bars, the ends of which had been embedded in the rock face on either side. What light had been at the mouth of the cave was gone. Night had fallen.
“Some trap,” Koni muttered. “I’ve never been tricked like that.”
Neither had M’cal. He laced his fingers through the grate and pressed his forehead against the cold steel, breathing slow and deep. The gaps were too small for Koni to fit through in his other form. “Whoever captured us has considerable power, but not without limits.”
“Hence the henchman?” Koni got down on his knees and poked at the ground. “This is just dirt. If we dig a hole, I could shift and crawl under.”
M’cal did not say a word. He got down on his knees, transformed his nails into long hooks, and started clawing at the hard-packed soil. Several minutes of hard work yielded a space big enough for a crow to squeeze through. Koni did just that, with M’cal pushing. A surreal moment, though brief.
Koni shook out his feathers, and with only a quick glance at M’cal, fluttered his wings and flew from the cave. No time to waste.
M’cal kept digging. His fingers began to bleed, but he did not slow. Simply clawed the earth, hard and fast, fighting to make room for his body beneath the grate. He did not pay attention to the passage of time, only to Kitala, pulsing in his heart.
Until, quite suddenly, he felt a change in their connection. Something made him stop and sit back, concentrating. Somewhere near, brush rattled. M’cal’s breath caught, and he stood up so fast he made himself dizzy. He clutched at the bars, staring into the darkness, pushing his vision to adjust. His bracelet tingled.
A giant hulk appeared at the jagged, slanting mouth of the cave. Ivan was unmistakable. M’cal did not know how the man had reached the island—or escaped the sinking boat—but his presence was an unwelcome surprise. Ivan did not enter the cave, though. He stepped aside, and the witch pushed through, her face partially covered. A burn in the shape of a hand covered her right shoulder. Not that M’cal looked long—not when he saw who was following her.
Kitala. Alive. Covered in blood—but after a closer look, seemingly unharmed.
M’cal exhaled sharply, briefly closing his eyes. Warm hands grazed his fingers, and he made a sound. It was Kitala, blindly touching the grate. She came back to his hands and he latched on to her, tugging her tight through the bars. She stared past his face, her gaze stricken.
“You’re alive,” she whispered. “I knew you would be, but I saw your heart—”
“Shhh,” he interrupted gently, glancing over her shoulder at the witch, who had no trouble seeing in the dark to look him in the eyes. “What happened?”
“I found Alice,” Kitala said, and glanced over her shoulder at the witch. “
Her
granddaughter.”
M’cal stared. The witch said, “No time. Edith will work fast.”
“Edith,” he echoed, not certain he was hearing correctly. Ivan pushed Kitala aside, and the witch stepped close to the lock and knelt.
She briefly glanced at M’cal. “For all I have done to you, right now let there be no grudges between us.”
“No,” M’cal said. “I will not promise that.” The witch tore away the veil covering her face. Her features had partially healed, but her nose was well and truly gone. He searched himself for regret and found none, though the lack of anger in her gaze made him feel odd. Her eyes were clear and steady.
“You will die beautiful,” she said with such quiet thoughtfulness, it seemed to him that each word was a meditation, a promise. A reflection, too, on what she no longer could have. Her face was as ugly as her heart—which was a fine thing, as far as M’cal was concerned.
But the way she looked at him continued to be unnerving. Her hand touched the lock—he heard one word, whispered—and a loud click filled the cave. The grate swung open, M’cal reached immediately for Kitala, and pulled her gently to him, mindful of her blindness in darkness. Her body felt warm, good. His heart began to untwist.
The witch watched him, moving to Ivan’s side. “You must do something for me, M’cal. One last thing, and you will be forever free.”
“No,” he said. “I will not give you Kitala.”
“No,” she replied softly. “But will you take me, M’cal? Will you kill me?”
M’cal stared. Kitala went very still. Even Ivan looked at the witch with something close to dismay. The woman gazed at them all, though her eyes lingered on Kitala the longest. She reached out and touched her face. Kitala flinched.
“I submit to you,” said the witch, and held up her other hand. Took one step back and removed her rings. Held them in her palm. She turned to Ivan.
“I release you,” she said, holding out one of the rings. Ivan shook his head. His mouth opened—air hissed, his throat gurgled—but there were no words he could say. None he was capable of uttering. The witch touched his chest and stood on her toes. She kissed his mouth. Pressed the ring into his hand. Ivan shut his eyes and the silver cuff around his wrist fell off.
The witch turned to M’cal and held out the second ring. He took it without hesitation and his own bracelet snapped, hitting the ground with a thud. He stared at it, unable to move or speak. He could not believe what was happening. Too much, too fast, and far too impossible. Not even in his wildest dreams had he imagined it would be like this.
“Why?” he breathed.
“Because I love my granddaughter,” whispered the witch. “And I cannot help her in this body. I realize that now. Kitala, however, is protected in ways I am not, and never will be.
She
is the proper vessel.”
M’cal felt cold. “No.”
“What?” Kitala asked.
“No,” he said again, and then: “She wants me to take her soul and then give it you.”
Kitala reared back as though struck. “What does that mean?”
“It means you will have my knowledge.” The witch closed her eyes. “It means that before I dissipate, I will pass on to you all my secrets, my entire life.”
“You will infect her,” M’cal snapped. “You will try to control her.”
Kitala touched his arm. “What will happen if Alice is killed? What is Edith planning?”
“I think you know,” whispered the witch. “You felt the promise.”
“Death and darkness.” Kitala’s eyes were haunted. Her fingers crept up M’cal’s arm. “But why me? Why do you think I have a chance?”
“I think you know that, too.” The witch’s face hardened. “Do it, M’cal. Take my soul. Give it to Kitala.”
He hesitated. Kitala squeezed his arm. “I’m willing.”
“You do not understand what you are asking.”
“I will still be me,” she said to him, her voice dropping low and soft. “I will not be her, M’cal. I know that much. I know
me.
I know
us.”
He began to argue, and stopped. The witch was willing to die. Kitala was willing to fight. And there was nothing he could say to negate either of those two things. He could see it in their eyes.
He moved in quick, and the witch flinched. Ivan placed a hand on her shoulder. She clung to it, and the vulnerability in her face reminded M’cal of a time, long ago and far away, when he had believed in her. It had been a lie then. He did not think it was a lie now. But he hardened his heart and leaned close.
“Thank you for my freedom,” he said at the last moment. He was compelled, though he did not know why. Perhaps it was the fear in her eyes. He searched his heart for pleasure and found none.
The witch held his gaze. “It was inevitable, M’cal. Fate takes its own, always.”
He hesitated, but she was right. Fate was calling.
So he answered with a song.