He is not human and you do not care. He is a stranger and it does not matter.
Like thunder. Like the crack of dawn. A new day blooming. She felt that in his kiss, his voice, the way he looked at her. Infatuation, maybe; a crush, possible; but Kit had never felt so strongly about anyone. Not that the path promised to be easy.
Kit peered into his eyes. “There’s something else you should know. Those cops don’t want me dead anymore. I’m supposed to be brought in alive. And as for you . .. the person who seemed to be giving the orders wanted your head. Literally.”
“My head?” M’cal frowned. “I suppose decapitation might kill me. Perhaps the witch, as well, given our link.”
“Or the axe could bounce. But I’m not inclined to test that theory.”
“Nor am I. But that implies someone knows about my ability. And if that is the case ...”
“Bad news.” Kit drummed her fingers against her thigh. “Could be coincidence. Maybe they found out you stopped those men last night, so they want your head as a trophy?”
“I did not leave anyone alive to talk. And there were no cameras, no witnesses.” M’cal shook his head. “There are only two people who know about me. But they would not work this way. It would not be like them.”
Rain pattered on the windshield. In the distance, Kit heard police sirens. She stiffened for a moment, but the sound faded. M’cal let out his breath, and once again he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close. Kit closed her eyes. Her head still hurt, as did her stomach where Yu had punched her.
“How did you avoid that female cop?” Kit peered up into his face. “She was on her way with an axe.”
“I heard her coming. I hid in one of the side rooms. I almost confronted her, but because she was alone, I thought it possible you might be nearby.
If
you were still alive. I had to know.” He swallowed hard, the intensity of his gaze faltering for one brief moment, becoming so weary and full of quiet horror, Kit placed her hand over his mouth when he tried to continue. They stared at each other, and after a moment he kissed her fingertips, closing his eyes with a shudder. Kit closed her eyes as well, her entire focus, every part of her, concentrating on those few small spots in contact with his lips. Her breathing quickened.
M’cal’s hand brushed the swell of her breast. She strained against him, silently begging for more, running her own hands under his shirt, seeking skin. His body was smooth, hard, hot. He made a sound, low in his throat—almost like pain—and kissed her so deeply it was all she could do to keep breathing.
Kit’s hand trailed lower, her fingers moving lightly over the hard bulge in his slacks. He broke off their kiss and threw back his head as she touched him more firmly. Kit bit down a fierce smile, and glanced around. No one was watching. They were alone.
Isolated, but no chaste nun, Kit had managed a few relationships, all with varying success given that she had never expected any of them to last. She had no faith in her ability to endure, not with her fear of seeing some murder of the man in her bed, or having her secrets revealed. Still, she had picked up some things. Learned about her own appetites, as well. But even now, she was surprised.
She quickly unbuttoned M’cal’s pants and slid her hand inside. His hips thrust against her and she kissed him hard, welcoming his tongue as it slid inside her mouth. Lust; Kit had never been so overcome, so instantly wet with desire. Covered in blood, on the run, terrified as hell—and none of that mattered; all was insignificant to the overwhelming sense of
tightness
in her heart when she kissed M’cal. Being with him was like being filled with music—true, pure. She had never felt that with another person. Had never imagined it was possible.
She wanted M’cal inside her. Barring that, she wanted to taste him. She had to. She had to feel more of him. She thought he might want the same thing. His large hands would not stop moving; he tugged her blouse down so far her breast lay exposed. He ducked his head, taking her nipple into his mouth, sucking lightly. Kit gasped, grabbing his shoulder with one hand, squeezing him gently with the other. He made a rough sound, and she freed him from his pants, her breasts aching, her thighs shifting restlessly.
M’cal was built the same as a human man—only bigger—and she bent down, taking him in her mouth. He cried out, burying his hands in Kit’s hair as her tongue swirled around the tip of him.
“Do you like this?” she asked, blowing lightly on his damp skin. He shivered, looking down at her with such lust and longing that for a moment Kit forgot herself, could see only the old hurt lurking at the back of his gaze, and she knew with utter clarity that this was the first time he had ever been touched intimately by someone who did not want to use or hurt him.
Kit rose up and kissed his mouth. He attacked her with equal ferocity. She tasted tears—hers, his, she did know—but her heart swelled so big she thought she might burst with it.
M’cal broke away, breathing hard, shuddering. “I hear a car coming.”
Kit nodded, chest heaving, but she kissed him again, drawing out his lower lip between her teeth. M’cal exhaled, sharp—and then smiled like a shark as he ran his hand over her aching breast, tucking it back inside her blouse. She returned the favor, watching him watch her as she slipped his hard erection inside his slacks. There was still a bulge, but she hoped no one would care or notice.
She
certainly did not mind.
A long black Suburban, windows tinted, peeled around the entrance to the rooftop parking lot. Even from a distance, Kit recognized Hari in the passenger seat. She did not know the person driving—a young man, was all she could tell from far away. M’cal and Kit climbed out of the car just as the Suburban pulled up. The back door opened. A darkly handsome man with scraggly black hair and golden eyes poked his head out. He smiled briefly at Kit, but his expression froze when he saw M’cal. M’cal, too, stiffened.
“Get your asses in here,” said the man after a brief hesitation. He voice was low, gruff. A tattoo peeked out from beneath the collar of his scrappy leather jacket.
Kit climbed in first, M’cal close behind her. The moment the doors closed, the Suburban sped off. The interior was dark, soft; it felt like a tomb. All the faces that looked back at her, except Hari’s, were unfamiliar. Much to her relief, not one of them appeared to have been fated to a violent death. Not yet.
On her left was the man who had let them in the car, who looked vaguely familiar; behind him was another individual with skin as dark as coal and short black hair streaked gold—a color that matched his eyes, which studied her and M’cal with eerie solemnity.
Kit reached forward to shake Hari’s hand in greeting, then met the brief gaze of the Surburban’s driver: a young man with golden skin and dark hair laced with unusually natural-looking streaks of blue and green. He had golden eyes, too. All the men did— something she had thought was unique to Hari. The oddity tickled her mind—with uneasiness, perhaps.
Take nothing for granted,
whispered a tiny voice.
Not a thing.
“It is good to see you again,” Hari rumbled. His hair—wild in color, like the others;
just
like the others—was pulled back from his face, revealing a physical perfection she might have once said had no equal—until M’cal.
“Same to you,” she said, trying to ignore how Hari studied, so gravely, the blood on her face and body She touched M’cal’s hand, and was shocked at the tension running through him; he was almost quivering with it. She looked at him, and his jaw was tight, his eyes sharp.
Hari met M’cal’s gaze, nodding once with a somber, knowing expression that said more than Kit was comfortable with. “You are safe here, friend.”
“Not a friend yet,” M’cal replied in a cool voice.
“M’cal,” Kit said, but the man beside her laughed, low and hard. She looked at him. “What’s so funny?”
“It must be in the fucking air,” he said roughly. He raised an eyebrow, and his golden eyes seemed to glow for one brief moment. “I go my entire life, quiet and normal, but in the past three years I’ve seen more shit coming out of hiding than I know what to do with. Hell, we might as well put up a sign.” He looked across Kit at M’cal, and shook his head. “My
God.”
“Koni,” growled Hari, and the other man shut his mouth and looked out the window.
“I don’t understand,” Kit said, but even as she spoke those words, she felt some piece of her, deep down in that primitive part of her heart, lift up like some red bleeding flag, and all that sudden uneasiness—the hair, those golden eyes—screamed at her in ways she would never have noticed or acknowledged before M’cal. Before the events of the past night and day Her eyes had been opened, and could never be closed. Her grandmother, she thought, would be very pleased.
“Tell me,” Kit said, steeling herself.
No one said a word. No one looked at her. Except M’cal. He took her hand and squeezed it gently.
“What it means,” he said slowly, “is that none of the men in this car are human.”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh,
damn.”
He did not trust it. He was not sure what Kitala felt. She was very quiet. Too quiet.
“Rik,” Hari said to the young man driving. “Find a place to stop.”
Two bottles of water appeared between M’cal and Kit. “You must drink,” said the man behind them. His voice was soft, clear, touched by an African accent. “You have been through an ordeal. There is food here, too. if you like.”
“Thank you,” Kitala said hesitantly, taking the water. M’cal, after a moment, grudgingly did the same.
The man smiled at him, his teeth blindingly white. “I am Amiri. The gentleman beside Kit is called Koni. And there, Hari. The young man driving is Rik. As I am sure you surmised.”
What M’cal had surmised was that the young man behind the wheel was definitely one of the water folk— confirmed when the man glanced backward for a better look at M’cal and almost swerved off the road.
“Sorry,” muttered Rik as they all grappled with their seat belts and armrests, listening to cars honk and brakes squeal. He veered into a small, grisly parking lot, where M’cal watched two gaunt men lean on the hood of a Cadillac and shoot heroin straight into their legs.
“Christ,” Koni muttered. “I should have flown.”
Kitala leaned away from him. “I need some answers. I want to know exactly what is meant by
not human.”
“They are shape-shifters,” M’cal said. “You did not know this?”
“Of course not,” she snapped, “I don’t even understand what that means.”
The men all looked at each other. Koni shrugged and pulled back his sleeve. Tattoos covered his sinewy arm, which he held up in front of Kitala. As M’cal watched, golden light curled against his skin—a swimming light, like the sun through water—and within that glow his arm began to change.
Black feathers sprouted—dark buds unfurling sleek and dry, rippling through his skin—his entire arm shifting, cutting in length, his hand shriveling beneath long, silky quills. It was a disturbing sight; beautiful, maybe, but M’cal was only used to seeing his own kind shift, and this was different. More elemental. He tried not to feel anything else as he watched the shapeshifter work his magic, but this was difficult; it reminded him too much of what he could do, what he wanted to do even now: enter the sea, while he still could, without the pain, and be himself. To be free.
Free without Kitala,
he wondered.
I
s
such a thing possible? Could you leave her even if you were allowed?
Beside him, Kitala swallowed hard, leaning against his shoulder. She was utterly silent, eyes wide. Staring. The shape-shifter raised an eyebrow and smiled. He smelled like cigarettes. “Unless you’d like to see me naked, sweetheart, this as far as I’m going to go.”
M’cal frowned, putting his arm around Kitala’s shoulders. Koni watched him, the edge of his smile fading just slightly. But not the appreciation in his eyes when he looked at the woman beside him.
Kitala did not appear to notice. She reached out, slow and careful, to touch one of Koni’s feathers. Her hand had to pass through the golden light—which made her flinch—but she did not stop until she laid her ringers upon Koni’s transformed arm. She sucked in her breath.
Koni glanced at M’cal. “You want to feel me up, too?”
“Not particularly,” he replied. Kitala withdrew her hand and reached up to grip the leather pouch and cross hanging from her neck. Her expression was raw—raw with wonder, raw with unease, raw with confusion.
“This is crazy,” she said quietly. “How much more am I supposed to take?”
“I am sorry,” Hari said, and gave Koni a dark look. “You should never have found out. Not like this.”
Koni’s feathers receded. He rolled down his sleeve. “So much for always being the careful one. But she would have learned the truth.” He glanced at M’cal. “She already knows about
him.
I could tell.”
“But imagine if you had been wrong,” M’cal said. “You took a grave risk.”
Kitala gave him a sharp look. “Do you know these men?”
“No. But there is magic in us. We can see it, recognize it. Smell it,” M’cal said.
She closed her eyes. “So, there are a lot of you.”
“Not at all,” put in Amiri, his voice floating softly from the backseat. “If only.”
M’cal glanced at him. “But there are four of you here. So many. Your numbers must be increasing. This is not normal.”
“Tell me about it,” Koni muttered.
Hari inclined his head. “It is true that in recent years we have been . . . discovering more of our kind. The oddity—and risk—of that has not escaped our attention.”
Kitala held up her hands. “Dela knows about this, doesn’t she? All of you work for Dirk & Steele. Are there . . . more . .. like you? At the agency?”
The men stayed silent, which was all the answer M’cal needed—though listening to their voices had given him plenty. Kitala closed her eyes, shaking her head. “I cannot believe this.”
“Please,” Hari said. “Do not be angry with Delilah. She meant no harm. There are simply too many individuals who must be protected. Those are not her secrets to tell.”
Kitala said nothing. Koni rolled down his window and removed a cigarette from his leather jacket. He lit up, taking a long drag that he blew out into the cold, wet air. M’cal’s bracelet tingled. He touched the metal and found it still cold, but it was only a matter of time. His throat hurt. The witch most certainly would have felt that wound.
“You are here to help us?” M’cal asked Hari.
“Yes,” said the man solemnly. “Perhaps you can tell us what has transpired since Kit last spoke with my wife.”
“Or who was shot,” Amiri said.
“I was,” M’cal replied. “Here, in the throat.”
The men stared. Kitala sighed.
“Right,” Koni muttered, tossing away his cigarette. “Like I said. Fucking air.”
They drove away from the grit and grease of Chinatown, through the glistening skyrocket buildings of the city center, and entered a quiet neighborhood filled with pale pink stucco and yards too small for the grandiose homes bulging inside their finely manicured plots. It was an environment for the rich, but nevertheless depressing in its bland uniformity. If East Hastings Street looked like the physical embodiment of a sexual disease, M’cal thought that North John Avenue might be in the running for Best Perpetual Case of Constipation.
Rik pulled down a narrow alley that ran behind the houses on the street. Two homes down, he stopped and slid the Suburban into a garage, the door of which was already open. He clicked a remote on the dashboard, and the door slowly shut behind them.
“Who owns this place?” Kitala asked.
“The agency,” Rik said. His gaze darted to M’cal and then flicked away. Kitala glanced at M’cal, but all he could do was shrug. He had an idea of what was making Rik uncomfortable, but now was not the time to discuss it. He was not entirely certain there would ever be a good time.
The garage was empty. The interior of the house was nearly so. Just the basics: a round dining table, a long couch, and a television. The men carried in several suitcases, one of which was handed over to Kitala, along with M’cal’s coat. He was surprised she still had it.
“How did you guys get into my room?” Kitala asked.
“I told them I was your husband,” Koni replied blandly. “I said we’d had a fight and I wanted to surprise you. Thank God you didn’t unpack,” he said, grinning at M’cal. “I’m not sure what would have happened if I’d had to touch your frilly underthings.”
“I probably wouldn’t be able to wear them anymore,” she said dryly.
“And you would no longer have a pair of hands,” M’cal added.
“That so?” Koni smiled, folding his arms over his chest. “You know, other than the fact that I can tell you’re not human, I still don’t know quite
what
you are. Nothing I’ve encountered before, that’s for sure. Care to share?”
Rik began to leave the room. Koni held out his hand and stopped him. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed your googly eyes, kid. What do you know that I don’t?”
“Manners?” Amiri murmured. Hari emerged from the kitchen, a phone in his hand. The man was even bigger than M’cal had realized—a good six inches taller, around seven feet—and broad through the chest. There was a sharpness to his gaze as well. Watching everything, analyzing.
Warrior,
he thought. Born and bred to it—and to a degree that no one, not even M’cal with his legacy, could match. Hari was a relic.
Rik glanced at M’cal with a great deal of fear and respect. “He’s one of the Krackeni.”
Kitala looked at him.
“Krackeni?
Is that what you’re called?”
“It is one name,” M’cal said slowly.
“For the Kracken,” Rik added. “For what they control in the sea.”
“That is where you are from?” Amiri asked, coming around to stand beside Rik. M’cal could hear the genuine curiosity in his voice, a root of kindness, and it set him more at ease. He did not like talking about himself to these strangers—shape-shifters or not—but he did not see any way around it. He needed their help, and Kitala seemed to trust them. As long as this latest revelation concerning their backgrounds had not tarnished her opinion.
“I am a .. . merman.” M’cal found it difficult to speak the word. To hear Kitala say it was one thing, but from his lips, it simply sounded . . . odd. As though he should be lounging on some rocky beach with a conch shell in one hand and a trident in the other.
“Merman,” Hari echoed. “I am not familiar with that term.”
M’cal and Kitala shared a quick look of surprise, but the others did not seem at all taken aback. Amiri said, “It describes an individual who lives beneath the sea, who can take breath from water, and who has the tail of a fish rather than the legs of a man.” The shapeshifter met M’cal’s eyes. “That is correct, is it not?”
“It is.” M’cal turned his attention back on Rik. “Krakeni is an obscure term. How did you know it?”
“I swim as a dolphin,” said the young man. “I’m also from the sea.”
“That is no answer.”
Rik hesitated. Amiri moved close and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder, which seemed to relax him for a moment. Then he tensed up again, looked M’cal in the eyes, and said, “I’ve known your kind. A long time ago.”
The uneasy tone of his voice was not a ringing endorsement of M’cal’s people. He wondered which of the colonies Rik had encountered. Some, he knew, were more territorial than others. And some, as he was painfully aware, were just plain dangerous. Even to their own kind.
Kitala brushed against his hip. The brief contact made him warm, his heart jump. Even around so many others, he was affected—could not help himself. He wanted to touch her so very badly—to touch without pain, to touch a woman of his own choosing, to touch and be touched, and not be afraid. It gave him a sense of peace and wonder that he had forgotten— incredible, that he should forget—but being with the witch had made him lose more of himself than he had ever realized.
Kitala had saved his life. She made him remember what it was to be himself. Fully himself. And that was a gift that could never be repaid. Never. Because even if the witch recaptured him—and she would, without a doubt—this time M’cal would refuse to let himself forget. Never again.
Hari held up the phone. “There is news regarding Kit.”
Kitala frowned, pulling the strap of her fiddle case over her head. “What kind of news?”
He hesitated. “According to the agency’s contacts, you are wanted for questioning in the disappearance of Alice Hardon.”
She froze. “Are you serious?”
Hari nodded. “Police in the Vancouver and Seattle area have been alerted. They have your name and picture.”
Kitala closed her eyes. “I’m gonna kill someone.”
“They probably already think you did,” Koni muttered.
She gave him a dirty look and laid her fiddle case on the dining table. Flipped the catches. Pushed back the lid. Her instrument rested on its bed of purple velvet. The color of the wood was a deep, gleaming amber. Kitala plucked a string, and the note shivered through M’cal like a cold wind.
“Are you well?” Amiri asked him.
“Fine,” M’cal replied, unable to look away from the fiddle.
Kitala glanced at him, and there was a darkness in her eyes, an understanding; a promise. And then she tore her gaze away to look at Hari. “Was there anything else? Mention of a stolen car? Attacking two police officers?”
“You attacked cops?” Rik asked.
“Who do you think shot M’cal?” Kit said to him.
Hari stared at the healing wound on M’cal’s throat.
His eyes darkened into something threatening, wild. “There was no mention of an attack. Alice’s family reported her missing, a claim taken far more seriously given that her uncle John Hardon was gunned down in public last night.”
“I was there.” Kitala gazed down at her fiddle. “We need to find her.”
You need to stay alive,
M’cal thought. One glance at the other men told him they felt the same, but no one said a word.