Free Soul Song by Marjorie M. Liu Page B

painted by some teenagers whose dreadlocks probably weighed more than their bodies. In one corner, a miniature library had been set up; in another, pinball machines. There were several long tables filled with board games, and off to the left a row of doors that Kit thought just might lead to offices.
    But at the front of the Youth Center, directly to Kit’s left, there was a desk with a pale, slender brunette seated behind it, whose smile was so big she was either a magnificently unhappy person or just slightly deranged. She wore a nametag that looked like a clown. It said MOLLY! in big letters.
    “Hello,” Molly said. “Are you here for the pregnancy screening?”
    Kit stared. “Um, no. I need to speak to someone about Alice Hardon.”
    “Alice isn’t in today.” Molly’s smile slipped just a fraction. “She’ll be back on Monday.”
    If only. “I don’t need to speak to Alice. Just—”
    “About her. Yes, I heard you the first time.” Molly leaned forward, hands clasped. “But see, we don’t just let anyone in here to talk. Especially about our colleagues. It’s against policy. So if you have a problem with Alice—”
    “That’s not it at all—”
    “—you are more than welcome to send a letter to our head counselor, Edith, who will determine whether or not to speak further with you. About Alice.”
    Kit fought her temper. “You’re not listening to me. I really need to speak to someone.”
    “You’re speaking to me,” Molly said, smile gone. “And you’re the one who’s not listening.”
    “This is an emergency.”
    “It always is with you people,” replied the woman coldly, and reached for her book.
    Well, fuck that. Kit pulled out Alice’s business card and leaned over Molly’s desk, shoving it under her nose. “Now you listen,” she said in a hard voice. “Alice gave me this card last night. She asked me to come here. So you tell me who the heck I should talk to, right now, or else the next time I see Alice, I am going to tell her exactly how her secretary shot her shit up. You got that, bitch?”
    “It would be hard not to,” said a low familiar voice, rumbling like the distant edge of some terrible thunder.
    Kit felt all the blood drain from her face. She turned around.
    M’cal stood behind her, one hand holding open the front door. The corner of his mouth tilted up, but it was a small, sad smile.
    “You should have taken my advice,” he said.

Chapter Five
    The witch made him walk. Fortunately, the compulsion seemed specific only to finding Kitala, and because M’cal had every intention of doing just that—in the slowest, most roundabout way possible—he’d been able to choose the direction his roving feet took him. He’d done so, determinedly following the limited information given to him by a dead man who now lay shut inside a shipping container with seven other bloody bodies.
    One thing was clear: Kitala Bell, musician extraordinaire, had landed herself in a great deal of trouble. M’cal wanted to know why. His reasons were not rational. It was merely a need to know. A suspicion that one answer might lead to another. Why those men? Why the witch? Why her? Why now? Because the other women M’cal had brought home, like Elsie, were just food. Random catches. Kitala was different. The urgency was different. And if the witch needed her—
    He’d stopped himself, startled once again at the strength of his thoughts. He had forgotten what that felt like. He could not imagine forgetting, but there— there —he could feel the difference, burning in his spirit. Hunger. Raw and burning.
    You used to fight harder, he told himself, still hearing Elsie’s screams inside his head. You used to do everything you could to save lives, to defy the witch. And now you make excuses when she gives you a command. Now you say it does not matter, because it will happen anyway, because she will force you. You are giving up responsibility for yourself. That is no way to live.
    But it was