Soul Song by Marjorie M. Liu

was doing to her; except she was still not moving, not obeying, and he realized, quite suddenly, that he was no longer in pain.
    Touching her. Still wet with seawater. Not in pain.
    He broke off the kiss and stumbled back. Kitala opened her eyes and stopped singing. The pain returned, but only just; the discomfort was a dull echo of what it had been.
    “What did you do to me?” M’cal whispered, staring. The bracelet thrummed against his skin.
    Kitala touched her mouth, eyes wide. “Nothing.”
    M’cal took a step, then stopped, holding back. “You sang.”
    “So did you.” Her voice shook. She jerked her head toward the shipping yard. “You’ve done a lot of that tonight. A lot of strange things.”
    No stranger than you, he thought, fingering the bracelet. It made his skin tingle, the sensation traveling right down to the bone. In his throat, the monster stirred.
    The witch. He had taken too long to come home.
    “Go,” M’cal muttered, shutting his eyes, fighting the compulsion. He succeeded—shockingly—but only for a moment. Whatever immunity Kitala had given him was slipping fast. Too fast.
    And she was still too close. She said his name. He could feel her reaching out to touch him.
    No. No, no, no —
    “Go!” he screamed. Kitala flinched, and he rushed her, stopping less than a foot away with his fists raised. This time she did not argue. She slipped backward into the car, slammed the door and locked it. Stared at him through the glass for one long moment, confusion and anger in her eyes. M’cal pointed to the road, hand shaking, and she started the engine. Gave him one last look that made his heart ache.
    She pulled out and drove away. Fast. M’cal watched the brake lights disappear. The only shred of hope he had found in years, and he had just let her go.
    Better than stealing her soul.
    The urge to follow was overwhelming. Even after years of being subjected to it, M’cal still did not understand the witch’s curse; only that she had set him like a hound to the scent, and while distance would lessen the compulsion to hunt Kitala, as long as the witch wanted her, the desire would remain. Unfortunately, there was a part of M’cal that wanted to find her. Hoped he would as long as he did not hurt her. Poor chance of that.
    He started walking down the road. It was late, and the air was quiet. He wanted to stop, but his legs were compelled to keep moving. He still carried his bag of clothes. He yanked his shirt over his head without stopping and tossed it on the ground. Dressed in the new button-up. The material was dry and soft. His skin felt better, though the lower half of his body would have to wait for dry clothes until the compulsion faded. If it ever would. He would not put it past the witch to keep him walking until morning.
    M’cal could think of worse ways to spend his time.
    Through the trees he could see the shipping containers; the distant bulk of the cruise ships. No streetlights around him. The air was cool and smelled of oil and metal; the pavement was wet from the earlier evening rain.
    He pretended not to notice the light tread of footsteps behind him. Nor did he turn when something cold and hard suddenly pressed against the back of his head. A long, strong arm grabbed his shoulder, holding him steady. M’cal managed to stand still, but his legs twitched, feet scuffing the ground.
    “Fidgety,” said a low voice in his ear. “Guilty conscience?”
    “No,” M’cal said.
    “You killed some friends of mine,” said the unseen man. “Don’t know how you did it, but it was good work. Good enough that I’m gonna have to fuck you up the ass with some bullets.”
    “Okay,” M’cal said.
    “Okay,” echoed the man, laughing quietly. “Right. But first, you tell me about that bitch. You tell me where she lives. And maybe I’ll put the gun in your mouth instead.”
    “Who wants her dead?” M’cal asked.
    “I do,” said the man. “All part of the job.”
    “Surely you