The Saint (11 page)

“An elf? No. Humans got that wrong.” Adora had no time to sigh with relief, for he added, “But I am a bit what you would call psychic, and of the magical persuasion. It's just that I come from the other side of magic. It's understandable that they got it mixed up—death feys and elves look a lot alike. Both races are always very attractive. For death feys, perhaps it's a sort of consolation prize.” Kris looked at her pale face, then did some subject changing of his own. He asked lightly, “Have you been a good girl this year? I'm obliged to ask, you know. I'm making my Christmas list.”

“Can't you look into your magic ball and tell?” Adora asked grumpily. She began hunting in her bag for aspirin. Sometimes, if she took them early enough, she didn't have to resort to the other prescription her doctor had given her. She probably had a few tablets left, if she really needed them.

“No. Don't do that.” Kris shook his head. He reached out suddenly and pressed his finger against her forehead. Adora froze as a gentle warmth traveled through her skull and down her neck, unknotting muscles and sluicing away the pain in small, undulating strokes. Her head seemed to expand and suddenly there was room for all her thoughts and feelings.

She sighed with pleasure, letting her arms go limp. The pen dropped from her fingers and her purse slid to the floor. “How did you do that? What did you do?” she asked slowly.

He ran a finger along her brow, down her temple and across her cheekbones. His finger paused on the bridge of her nose. And, “I'm a healer,” he said simply. Then: “Do you believe that, Adora? That in spite of being a death fey, I can heal with touch?”

“I . . . yes. I guess I have to.” And, at that moment at least, she did. It was a compulsion she couldn't resist. And her senses did not lie; the pain in her head was gone, wiped out with a stroke of his fingers.

“It's odd the fairy tales you choose to accept as true,” he said matter-of-factly, dropping his hand. He got up and went to the wall to flip a switch. The room assumed a normal brightness. “To answer your comment about the crystal ball, I don't ‘see you when you're sleeping'—not unless I'm there with you. But I can listen in on dreams and prayers. If you want me to. Though a millennium and a half has passed, I still remember how to hear prayers. They're usually in Turkish these days. A person has to ask, though. It got a bit unnerving, having all those voices in my skull, let me tell you, so I don't keep the ears open unless asked. . . .” He looked into her eyes. “Do you want to ask me to do this for
you? I can. And it might put a lot of your doubts to rest if you knew I could see into your mind.”

Don't let him!
Joy's voice was fearful.

Adora shook her head: partly refusal, and partly to clear the confusing thoughts he wanted her to jettison. She closed her notebook, which appeared to list her growing acceptance of his wild assertions, as if that action would somehow contain the craziness of her thoughts. And it was crazy to be writing this story at all, assuming she ever found a place to begin. No one else who was sane was going to believe a word. She would be thought a prankster or— worse yet—a fraud. They'd say she was a kook.

“No thanks, Kris. I've never been into the Big Brother thing. I'd prefer to do it the old-fashioned way—you know, drink too much one night and then spill my guts before I pass out. Anyway, there's no need for you to see all my flaws at once,” she said. Then she realized that she meant what she was saying, that at some point she'd been ferried across the river of utter disbelief and deposited on the foreign shore of partial acceptance. She wasn't convinced of everything yet—that would require a lot of mental island hopping—but she had suspended her complete disbelief. For a while anyway. After all, at the very least, Kris was some kind of a healer, and he seemed to believe what he was saying. He wasn't a complete charlatan. And there were more things in heaven and earth and all that. Maybe he
was
psychic. Maybe he
had
been Saint Nicholas in another life.

“So, have you been good?” Kris asked again. “Should I leave something nice in your stocking?”

“This year?” Adora's brow wrinkled. She impulsively decided to be truthful. Maybe her honesty
and linear storytelling would set an example. “Well, mostly, I think. I had a bad moment last February,” she admitted, though the memory was still humiliating. “I was dating this guy and he turned out to be a cheater. I'm afraid I didn't take the news well.”

“A cheater? Do you mean that he did not play fair in games of sport?” Kris asked.

Adora tried to think of an explanation of Derek that wouldn't be too vulgar. Mentally she discarded the words
rat bastard
and
slut
. It had taken her an embarrassingly long while to realize the truth about him: Derek's soul didn't match the angelic packaging. His conscience—assuming he ever had one— had atrophied, and he had turned into one of those men who believed in the survival of the fittest, and who were not encumbered by any antiquated notions of chivalry or fidelity. It had taken her too long to realize that he was always on the lookout for number one, and that she had never been anything more than a distant third.

It had been stupid to fall for him so quickly. The relationship had started—when? It was when she had gotten desperate and refinanced her home— and it had been over before the loan was approved. She was an idiot sometimes. She got in a relationship and her IQ dropped to the level of the speed limit in a hospital parking lot. That's what love did to some people.

Adora felt something move through her head, a gentle breeze that cooled her sudden anger. Grateful, she sighed.

“You might say that Derek didn't play fair. I certainly think he sees relationships as sport. But he didn't cheat at chess or volleyball, he—ah—betrayed me with another woman and an S-and-M porn site. I wouldn't have minded the latter so much, but he used my computer and let it catch a nasty virus. I have spam filters and a firewall, but really—there is just no such thing as safe sex these days.” Her tone was joking, but her mood was not. The affair had left her . . . diminished. And she'd had to replace her hard drive, which had been expensive.

“I see.” Kris nodded once. “It's sad, but some men are simply Janus-faced. It's a common human failing. They can kiss two women at once, loving neither.”

“Well, Derek was two-faced
and
fork-tongued. What a liar. He denied the affair even after I confronted him with witnesses. . . . Not that I needed them. It got so that I could smell her on him.”

“You have a keen sense of smell?” Kris asked.

“I guess, but her perfume was like a force field. I think she was deliberately marking territory with it.”

“Ah—perhaps. Indirection can be popular in these matters,” he said obscurely.

Adora retrieved her pen, giving herself a moment to put her poker face back on.

“I think what offends me most is that he thought I'd be stupid enough to believe him because he was so handsome and wealthy. Of course, I should have seen trouble coming long before that. He'd begun using the same tone of voice with me that he used on his dog.” Adora knew she sounded outraged, but she couldn't help it.

Kris coughed into his fist, and she knew he was laughing.

“He spoke to you like a dog?” he asked.

“Yes. You wouldn't think it, in this day and age, but some foolish people actually believe that old saw about blondes being dumb and of easy virtue. There are some people who even think that women should be grateful for male guidance to keep them from straining their brains. But I am not anyone's pet. And since I don't actually have four legs, or bark at cars—
or men
—I really felt it would be best if I went on thinking for myself.” She exhaled, releasing her anger. “He didn't react well to the it's-her-or-me ultimatum.”

“Your views came as a surprise to this man?” Kris guessed.

“Oddly enough, yes.”

“How did you ultimately prove his betrayal?” her employer asked curiously. “You did, didn't you? I can't see you walking away without some vindication.”

“You're right. I set out to catch him,” Adora admitted. “It wasn't hard. I started with an intuition that he'd lied about what he was doing for Valentine's Day. Once I caught the bad vibes, I went looking. Proof wasn't hard to find. He was as faithful to his schedule—if I can use the word
faithful
in conjunction with this man—as an atomic clock. And he had no sense of discretion. The bimbo got lunches at the same restaurants where we ate dinner on Monday and Thursday nights.” Adora cocked her head as she added, “You know, I understand why he was attracted to her. She
is
better arm candy than I am. I think Derek only kept me around because of his work. He needed a female companion with an IQ greater than her bust size to show off to the boss.”

“Bimbo? This word is not familiar,” Kris said.

“It means to have a low IQ and lower necklines. I have a theory about them. I think maybe it happens when women diet too much. They kill their brains with protein deprivation. Or maybe they get the wrong things lipo'ed. Think about it: You go to have
fat sucked out of your neck, and oops—there goes the brain! And if it was itty-bitty to start with . . .”

“Hm. What did you see in him?” Kris asked, plainly curious. “There must have been something besides an attractive face.”

Adora found herself answering with a degree of truthfulness she hadn't realized she possessed.

“I was attracted intellectually. And he was polite, knew how to wear a tux. He also associated with the kinds of people who could help me with my research. Old money cherishes its secrets, you know. The only way into their vaults is with an escort of their class.” Adora exhaled and admitted, “I was also needy enough that I wanted to believe he cared about me. I . . . I had just lost someone important to me the year before, and I was feeling very alone. That's not a good excuse for being stupid, though, and I knew it at the time. I just couldn't stop myself.”

Yet another reason why she had given up those damn pills. They affected her judgment. They made her stupid.

“You're not stupid. And your indignation and hurt is understandable,” Kris said gently. “No one likes to lose, and certain failures are more difficult than others. Lost loves—even the lost chance of love—can cast long shadows over our hearts.” His words, though kind, touched a sore spot. So Adora was grateful when his tone turned brisk. “You still look very angry even after all this time. Did this incident lead to bloodshed? Am I harboring a violent fugitive?”

His words were playful, and Adora found herself beginning to smile. Somehow, Kris made her feel absolved for her stupidity and weakness. Maybe Catholics had something there, about confession being good for the soul.

“No blood was spilt, but I'm betting he would have preferred that to what happened. Derek hated being made ridiculous. I mean, publicly.”

“What did you do?”

“Well . . . this guy was big on cleanliness, and he kept a cabinet full of those blue toilet bowl–cleaner tablets. I'm afraid that they somehow all ended up in his hot tub—which worked out rather better than expected,” she added cheerfully, refusing to feel repentant for her vengeance. “All I'd hoped for was making a mess of his favorite seduction spot, but it turned out he had his fioozy over and they decided to go for a midnight dip. They were both drunk—or so the neighbors tell me—and didn't bother turning on the outdoor lights. They boiled out there for a while before noticing things smelled funny. He finally turned on the lights, and all was revealed—to everyone on the block! She started screaming when she saw her hair—she was also a blonde—and that brought everyone running. The two of them ended up a lovely shade of blue that lasted for almost a week. It put an end to the jerk's denials that he never knew the blue floozy!”

Kris's lips twitched. “But you regret doing this now?”

“Not really,” Adora answered. “Though I suppose it was a waste of perfectly good toilet cleaner.”

Kris shook his head, but his eyes twinkled.

“You know, I think maybe we should go to Reno,” Adora said suddenly.

“Why?” Kris looked startled.

“Well, anyone with my love life would have to be lucky at cards.”

Kris laughed aloud, and Adora found herself tingling with pleasure.

“You could be my backer,” Adora elaborated. “We'd split the profits fifty-fifty and make a killing.”

“I am backing you,” Kris pointed out. “Just not at the card tables.”

“Hmph. Okay—enough about me and my stupidity and horrible love life,” she said firmly. “It's your turn again. Tell me something fun about being Santa Claus. Everything we've talked about so far has been grim. Wasn't anything enjoyable or nice? Tell me something good about being you.”

Kris considered.

“Hm . . . let's see. Ironically, considering the image, I have a wonderful metabolism and can eat as much as I want without getting fat. By the way, would you like some brandy?” he asked. “Or chocolate mousse?”

“If you're having some,” Adora agreed, surprisingly herself again. “Brandy, I mean. And just a small one. Like I said, I'm not much of a drinker.”

“Please, let me pour you a glass. I very rarely drink either, because I have very little tolerance for alcohol. It's a family trait too.” Not waiting for her to comment, he went to the sideboard and poured her a small glass. “Pennywyse tells me that this is exquisite. Being part goblin, he can drink. In fact, he can drink
a lot
. He metabolizes very well, too.”

Pennywyse was part goblin. That seemed strange to Adora. Why would Kris hire a goblin if goblins had tried to kill him? In fact, what was he doing in this goblin city? None of it made any sense to her.