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Authors: Marjorie M. Liu
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pulled her heart back together, listening to “Raglan Road” curl through her mind as she sewed and mended the cuts caused by seeing her grandmother again. By seeing M’cal.
She touched her neck, searching. Found no blood. No wound either. Her skin was smooth. The pain was gone.
Kit closed her eyes, suffering a deep chill, heartache. She did not bother rising to look into a mirror. It was not the first healing Old Jazz Marie had performed on her granddaughter. Of course, the last time she had done it, she had been alive.
Granny, Granny, Kit called out silently, touching the gris-gris tangled tight with her cross. What is going on?
No one answered. Of course.
Kit wiped her face and rolled over to look at the clock. It was eight. She had slept the whole night. Wasted all that time. Alice might be dead.
She’s already dead — today, tomorrow, or next week. You can’t change fate. Just walk away.
Walk away, as she should have done in the first place. As she had with so many others, including M’cal, who had saved her life. She’d taken the path of the cold heart, because there were just too many people needing help, and not one of them would have believed Kit if she had told the truth—which was unpleasant, unhelpful. Don’t get murdered were not words to inspire hope.
But this time was different. Kit had taken that step and Alice had believed her. For what good it had done. Kit sat up slowly. Her muscles ached, and her mouth tasted rotten. She perched for a moment on the edge of the bed, staring out the window. The city was gray in the daylight. Gray skies, gray buildings. She could see Coal Harbor between the high-rises, wondered how many people could say they had ever almost drowned in that cold water. Probably more than she wanted to know.
Kit found her fiddle case and popped the latch. The airtight seal caused a sucking sound, but that only made her smile. She bought nothing but the best for her fiddle, which had a smooth sweet tone courtesy of a backwoods genius in Tennessee, retired from the craft except for the occasional custom job. Old Earl, who happened to be a friend of her father’s, could make violins that rivaled any Stradivarius. Not that the man was prone to bragging. Kit’s fiddle had been a gift on her tenth birthday, and it was made of Smokey Mountain blood and bones, with a sound just as powerful.
The interior velvet of the case, purple as a summer iris, was still dry. Thank goodness she had insisted on a waterproof construction, and a custom tight fit. The fiddle lay in its soft foam bed like an amber jewel, fit for the hand of a queen. And when Kit played her music, she felt like one. She removed the instrument, made herself comfortable, and laid it on her stomach. Plucked a tune while she stared at the ceiling.
So. Men had tried to kill her. Men who worked for corrupt police officers. Corrupt police officers hired to murder and kidnap. She wondered if Officer Yu and her partner knew who she was. If they would come looking for her once they found out she was still alive.
Of course they’ll come. You saw everything.
And there was M’cal to think of, as well. What he had told her. Someone else wanted her dead.
Trust yourself. Trust him.
Him. M’cal. Kit recalled her dream, her vision: a hole in his throat gushing blood; his eyes, burning with heartbreak; his body, transformed.
He breathed underwater, said a little voice. He breathed for you both.
Kit still wore his coat. She buried her nose in the thick wool collar, caught a scent, strong and masculine; but it was nothing she could identify. Only, it was warm and dark, and made her think of the sea.
Kit set aside her fiddle and curled deeper inside M’cal’s coat, surrounding herself with the shadow of his presence, once again pretending it was his arms, his long, lean body. It made her feel safe. And stupid. The man was a killer. No matter his reasons.
Trust him, echoed her grandmother’s voice. Easier said than done. If
She touched her neck, searching. Found no blood. No wound either. Her skin was smooth. The pain was gone.
Kit closed her eyes, suffering a deep chill, heartache. She did not bother rising to look into a mirror. It was not the first healing Old Jazz Marie had performed on her granddaughter. Of course, the last time she had done it, she had been alive.
Granny, Granny, Kit called out silently, touching the gris-gris tangled tight with her cross. What is going on?
No one answered. Of course.
Kit wiped her face and rolled over to look at the clock. It was eight. She had slept the whole night. Wasted all that time. Alice might be dead.
She’s already dead — today, tomorrow, or next week. You can’t change fate. Just walk away.
Walk away, as she should have done in the first place. As she had with so many others, including M’cal, who had saved her life. She’d taken the path of the cold heart, because there were just too many people needing help, and not one of them would have believed Kit if she had told the truth—which was unpleasant, unhelpful. Don’t get murdered were not words to inspire hope.
But this time was different. Kit had taken that step and Alice had believed her. For what good it had done. Kit sat up slowly. Her muscles ached, and her mouth tasted rotten. She perched for a moment on the edge of the bed, staring out the window. The city was gray in the daylight. Gray skies, gray buildings. She could see Coal Harbor between the high-rises, wondered how many people could say they had ever almost drowned in that cold water. Probably more than she wanted to know.
Kit found her fiddle case and popped the latch. The airtight seal caused a sucking sound, but that only made her smile. She bought nothing but the best for her fiddle, which had a smooth sweet tone courtesy of a backwoods genius in Tennessee, retired from the craft except for the occasional custom job. Old Earl, who happened to be a friend of her father’s, could make violins that rivaled any Stradivarius. Not that the man was prone to bragging. Kit’s fiddle had been a gift on her tenth birthday, and it was made of Smokey Mountain blood and bones, with a sound just as powerful.
The interior velvet of the case, purple as a summer iris, was still dry. Thank goodness she had insisted on a waterproof construction, and a custom tight fit. The fiddle lay in its soft foam bed like an amber jewel, fit for the hand of a queen. And when Kit played her music, she felt like one. She removed the instrument, made herself comfortable, and laid it on her stomach. Plucked a tune while she stared at the ceiling.
So. Men had tried to kill her. Men who worked for corrupt police officers. Corrupt police officers hired to murder and kidnap. She wondered if Officer Yu and her partner knew who she was. If they would come looking for her once they found out she was still alive.
Of course they’ll come. You saw everything.
And there was M’cal to think of, as well. What he had told her. Someone else wanted her dead.
Trust yourself. Trust him.
Him. M’cal. Kit recalled her dream, her vision: a hole in his throat gushing blood; his eyes, burning with heartbreak; his body, transformed.
He breathed underwater, said a little voice. He breathed for you both.
Kit still wore his coat. She buried her nose in the thick wool collar, caught a scent, strong and masculine; but it was nothing she could identify. Only, it was warm and dark, and made her think of the sea.
Kit set aside her fiddle and curled deeper inside M’cal’s coat, surrounding herself with the shadow of his presence, once again pretending it was his arms, his long, lean body. It made her feel safe. And stupid. The man was a killer. No matter his reasons.
Trust him, echoed her grandmother’s voice. Easier said than done. If
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