Soul Song by Marjorie M. Liu Page B

and who was a mystery. Kit had no stalkers, never received obscene letters, rarely had people asking for her autograph; she was boring offstage, plain and simple.
    Not so boring. Not if people knew what your eyes tell you.
    Which made Kit stop for a moment, trying to recall if there was anyone— anyone —who might possibly know her secret. Only her parents and grandmother came to mind; she had always been careful with anyone else. And she trusted her family above all others to keep secret what she could do. Not that it was enough to kill over.
    M’cal would not have killed you, whispered a persistent little voice. He saved you. He was still trying to save you when he scared you away.
    Kit just wished she understood why. She could still feel the warmth and pressure of his mouth, the strength of his arms. All of it, burned into her memory. Just like his face. And his future murder.
    Blood filled her mind; she grasped for something else, anything.
    Blue eyes, she thought. The man—Michael, M’cal — had blue eyes the color of a cold winter sky, clear and sharp. Unforgiving eyes, hard eyes, but with flickers of such raw emotion, Kit could still feel her heart aching for him. She did not understand her feelings. She could blame her lack of fear on the fact that he had saved her life, but as for rest.. .
    Feeling anything at all for him was dangerous. M’cal was not safe.
    Safe enough to keep you alive. On land and underwater. Another riddle Kit did not feel like contemplating.
    She left the Porsche’s keys inside the glove compartment and locked the car, then went up to her hotel room, looking over her shoulder the entire time. Changed clothes. Packed. Checked out over the phone and asked the front desk to call her a cab. Realized, at the last moment, that she still had M’cal’s coat. It was a nice big coat. Her own was still wet. She hesitated, then slipped her arms into the loose, long sleeves. Found herself imagining, for a moment, that it was his body keeping her warm. M’cal had radiated a great deal of heat. She remembered that, too. Along with darker things.
    Kit did not go to the airport. It crossed her mind, for all of ten seconds. Instead, she traveled a grand distance of five blocks and paid cash for a room at the Hyatt. The clerk gave her a strange look but said nothing. Kit got her key and fled up the elevator. By the time she reached her room, she had begun to shiver. Inside, with the door locked behind her, the shivering turned into a teeth-jarring shudder that racked her bones with violent chills.
    Kit dumped all her belongings on the floor and collapsed on the bed. Her heart hammered against her ribs; her head was dizzy, it was hard to breathe, and each rough inhalation managed to feel like the prelude to vomit. Murder, kidnapping, mayhem—all were finally catching up with her. Kit felt like she was having a heart attack. Drowning. Her body no longer belonged to her. The terrible throbbing in her neck did not help either. She probably had an infection.
    It’s just panic, she told herself, trying to catch a breath. Nothing more. Calm. Think calm.
    But thinking good thoughts was not enough, nor was the tune she hummed, and after a brief internal struggle she crawled off the bed for her purse. She found her Xanax in a small bottle at the bottom. She kept the medicine for air travel, but this was as good an exception as any. Kit popped half of a pill in her mouth and let it dissolve, grimacing at the bitter taste.
    It helped, though. Her heart began to slow. She stopped shivering. Breathed easier, without that frightening tightness in her chest, or the nausea. The medication made her drowsy, too. She closed her eyes and fell asleep.
    She dreamed. Sharp dreams, strong; more vision than fantasy, which made her afraid. She dreamed like she was awake, and she knew the feeling for what it was: a blood legacy, like her glimpses of murder.
    She dreamed of M’cal. It was not a good dream. He lay on his back in a