The Saint (18 page)

But there came no release, no absolution from such suspected guilt. The dark, hurt place from childhood remained inside, and Adora wrapped herself around it; yes, she did. And though sometimes she wanted to scream with frustration and pain, she couldn't because fear gagged her, made her mute. She wanted to lash out but was bound tighter to this pain than any mummy in a tomb.

Adora,
Joy whispered sadly.
Don't.

Weird to think, but when she had buried her dead she had somehow buried part of herself with them—maybe because it felt safer than leaving herself open to the world that had hurt her.

But that was no way to live life, encysted by her loss, by fear, by anger. She understood that now. But how to escape?

After her mom's death, Adora's life had slowly stalled. First her career and then her health, and she'd been left treading water while the tide of change rose around her, taking her further from her goals. She was haunted by the almost chronic fear that she was physically vulnerable like her father, or emotionally weak like her mother, or—heaven forbid—she was both, down deep inside where the pain lived, eating away at her self-confidence.

She was also revolted to discover that she had an endless wellspring of tears inside that flowed at any provocation. The tears were endless because loss seemed endless, renewed daily as she saw other families who were open and generous and loving and felt the sharp pangs of envy in her heart. Her tears fell at movies, in parks, when she saw stray dogs or hurt birds.

But finally, since the weeping fixed nothing and made people around her—even total strangers—act crazy, she had given it up. Who needed a casual lover's hysterical sympathy? The pain was internal and would have to remain that way until she figured out how to deal with it. There were better ways to express sorrow, she'd decided—when you couldn't avoid it altogether.

And then your cocoon of pain washed up on Kris's shore and every day is filled with sunshine and roses
. Joy was sarcastic, bracing as a whiff of ammonia.

And what of it?
Adora demanded. Wasn't it a good thing that recently things had been better? She hadn't felt either the familiar pain or fear since meeting Kris. Something about him had coaxed her to uncurl her clenched heart, and to consider letting the old hurt go. She had caught her first breaths of fresh air. She felt ready—or nearly ready—to cut her ties and open herself to new experiences.

Are you sure? 'Cause I think you have issues, girl— stuff you aren't even aware of.

Suddenly Adora was again aware of her body. Her restless blood was pounding. And though she wasn't the least bit cold, she felt herself shiver. Lust—she had all but forgotten what that was.

Oh, yeah. I'm sure. Issues or not.

She was aware that Kris's eyes rested on her while she ruminated, his gaze intent. He reached out now for her cheek, his fingers finding a tear that she hadn't been conscious of spilling. He stared at it, mesmerized. Then he looked into her eyes and she wondered, not for the first time, if he could somehow see into her mind. He'd said he was psychic— and he'd fixed her headache last night. . . .

He sees you when you're sleeping. He knows when you're awake.

Is that supposed to be scary, Joy? 'Cause it's not.

If you're not scared, you're an idiot. How can you be so trusting?

I don't know.

Though she complained about the intrusion, a part of Adora was glad to have Joy back because the snotty comments helped balance her—not that she would say so.

Like I don't already know what you're thinking. When will you wise up? You have no secrets from me.

I'll never wise up—or give up. Not 'til I'm old—too old to feel or care about anything. I am not my mother.
Adora felt defiant.

“I'm so glad that this tear does not belong to me,” Kris said, his voice slightly dazed and his eyes unfocused. “I wonder, though, for whom you shed it.”

“Not who—just what,” she whispered. “It's history.”

“Ah.”

For a moment, Adora thought that perhaps Kris would touch the tear to his lips, but instead he rubbed the moisture between his fingers and dazedly shook his head. She thought to herself: I am so glad I didn't run into you when I was a teen and my hormones were raging.

Kris's eyes snapped back to hers.

“I've found that getting older is not a problem. Getting wiser is another matter,” he said suddenly. Could he be eavesdropping on her thoughts at this very minute? she wondered. No. Didn't psychics have to go into a trance or something? But then he added, “I wouldn't worry too much about having mental crutches. You break something, you need some support for a while until you heal.”

Adora inhaled sharply. Kris's conversation could be a lot like Chinese mustard—an assault on the senses if you got too big a bite or weren't expecting it. However, it left one's nasal passages clear and ready to breathe fresh air. And she liked the image he suggested. She
had
broken something, and needed a crutch until she mended.

Therapy wouldn't hurt, either. Why not see another shrink if you want someone rummaging around in your head?
Joy suggested.

Was he rummaging? Adora didn't like that idea.

“What do you mean, I need a crutch? Look, I'm a few beans short of a burrito today, but that's no reason to be impolite,” Adora said aloud with a deliberate scowl. Kris only laughed. The sound shifted the last of her sadness aside.

“I am never impolite,” he assured her. “And I am certain that all your beans are there and fully cooked.”

Adora's stomach rumbled loudly, and her mouth flooded with saliva. She changed the subject. “Speaking of food—that roll was good, but keep an eye out for something with protein in it.” She swallowed. “Besides pigeon. All these wonderful smells are making me feel piggish. I suddenly have
such
an appetite.”

Kris went along. “Good. You could use a couple of trips to the trough,” he said. “Let's find something tasty, and I'll stand you an early lunch.”

Glancing up at him, again struck by his impossible beauty and kindness, Adora said, “You're on. I have to warn you, though, today I feel very greedy. This may cost you some big bucks.”

“Excellent. Greed isn't always bad, you know. Not if you're greedy for the right things: love, faith, family, education—
Polish dogs.
” Kris sniffed the air. “Has anything ever smelled so wonderful? I only just learned about hot dogs. They're great.”

Adora caught the clear scent of sausages, and it made her mouth water. She hadn't been this hungry in months. It suddenly seemed that she was a starving person awakening from a coma, and she couldn't wait to taste everything.

She glanced over at Mugshottz. He looked dubious at Kris's choice of comestibles, but perhaps a gargoyle would consider barbecuing to be an abuse of perfectly good meat. Or maybe he was one of those people who had actually read about what was in hot dogs, and was therefore unable to think about them with enthusiasm.

“Of course, there is the added stipulation that you shouldn't hurt anyone to achieve your goals— yourself included. In fact, yourself especially,” Kris went on, returning to his earlier point. He tucked a strand of hair behind Adora's ear. The touch could have been impersonal, but it wasn't, and for a moment Adora had the insane impulse to lean into him and kiss that perfect mouth.

What was he lecturing about? Oh, yeah—greed. Perhaps it would be more accurate to discuss gluttony. She had never been so hungry, ever! It was like she had suddenly acquired the appetite of a beast— maybe two beasts. She wanted to rip and shred and chew and swallow. . . .

“So, I can't knock off nasty Aunt Gertrude to get extra hot dog money? Not even if I'm really, really hungry?” Adora asked, trying to divert her rising lust for Kris with humor. She took a physical step back as well. It was about the most difficult thing she had ever done. She felt like she was in orbit around him. Even backing off, inevitably she would come back around—and each time she got a little bit closer, found it a bit harder to pull away. One of these days, they were going to actually collide and then—

“No. No offing Aunt Gertrude,” he agreed. His eyes were bright, and she lost herself in them.

“That was a quick no. After all, you don't know my aunt. I mean, her name's
Gertrude.
Think about how that's warped her. Getting rid of her could be a public service.” Adora was speaking, but she wasn't really thinking about what she was saying. She was simply basking in Kris's presence.

He laughed. “I've known many Gertrudes, and I couldn't advocate killing any of them. That isn't what you really want to do anyway.” Kris's eyes were dancing, and his knowing smile took her breath. He had to guess what she was feeling! It wouldn't be hard. She could feel the stain of desire in her cheeks, and when she looked down, she could almost see the pounding of her heart in her chest.

She stumbled, and Kris caught her arm. His touch was warm and made her skin tingle. The contact called to something in Adora that was pushing its way to the surface. Something hot. Sexy. Hungry. Perhaps a bit dangerous. It was as though all her appetites were awakened, which were muscling all her usual caution aside. If only she were slightly less inhibited, she would make a pass at him right in the middle of the market. She wanted to tear off his shirt and rub herself all over him.

Damn it, Kris!
she thought at him directly.
Help me.

He stopped abruptly, turning toward her with a lifted brow. “Just tell me what you need,” he began.

Loud voices interrupted him. They were ugly and foreign, speaking a language of sibilants but with low guttural sounds that made Adora think of vicious hogs fighting over scraps. The noise raised the hair on her nape. She saw Kris stiffen as she herself had.

In an instant, Mugshottz spun about and placed his body between Kris and the speakers. She couldn't see around the troll's huge form, which had somehow swollen up. She wondered if maybe he had wings beneath his clothing.

“What are those men saying?” she asked, trying to see their assailants. The thing inside of her that moments before had been sensual and curious had turned dark and angry. It still wanted to rip and tear, though—that hadn't changed.

“They are casting racial slurs at us.” Kris frowned and moved closer to her. “They really should know better. Come on. It's time to leave. These are Raxin's creatures. Things are going to get messy.”

The angry thing inside Adora didn't want to leave, though. It wanted to see bones broken, skulls split open.

“Shouldn't we wait for Mugshottz?” she asked.

Before Kris could answer, a rock flew through the air and struck the bodyguard's chest. He didn't flinch, though the sound was terrible. The beast inside Adora was outraged at this insult.

“Now they've gone and done it,” Kris said, taking her arm and urging her back. Her skin tingled violently, the warmth of their contact now a burning.

Kris's voice was strained. “Goddess take them! Why throw rocks? They've made Mugshottz really angry. You need to step back—
now
.”

“How can you tell?” Adora asked, not moving. Mugshottz's stony posture hadn't altered at all.

“His feet.” Kris's voice was rough. “They've turned black. You know a troll is angry when his feet get dark.”

For the first time, Adora noticed that Mugshottz wasn't wearing any shoes. The sight of his naked, horny feet appalled her and filled her with intense pity, which she knew was probably misplaced but which was there all the same. She understood him: not troll, not goblin, not gargoyle—he didn't fit in anywhere. And once again, the misfit was being picked on, brutalized. Abandoned. Shame flooded her.

“Don't worry about Mugshottz. The rocks are just a childish insult,” Kris said sharply, again guessing her thoughts. “It would take a double-barreled shotgun fired at point-blank range to do him any lasting harm. You aren't so impervious. Come away.”

Adora couldn't explain that it wasn't the actual rocks she was concerned with, it was the
words.
There was such ugly emotion behind them, such sick anger, and they caused a burning pain in her soul. The vicious pigs squealed again, their words a tusk in Adora's gut that she could feel even without understanding their exact meaning.

She wanted to hurt them. Mugshottz hated these creatures and wanted to hurt them too, but he didn't react—couldn't react—because for some reason it would hurt Kris if he did.

Kris. Even as she thought of him, she could feel something shift in her employer's brain—in her own—and she realized that she'd been right: They were somehow psychically connected. He could read her thoughts and she his. At least, some of them.

A part of her began to panic.

Another rock was hurled with another insult, and anger roared through her without any warning. She was only partly aware of Kris's sudden indrawn breath, and didn't see the weird fire that leapt into his eyes as her rage arched into him, mingling with his own and dancing over his skin in a small ripple of lightning. A giant corona of red light encompassed them both, scorching the trees around them.

A part of Adora resisted the rage, wrestling for control of her mind and body—“hoc est corpus neum;”
this is my body,
something whispered in her head—but the fury was stronger and wanted to punish the people who had hurt Mugshottz. Or Kris. She wasn't sure now who was being hurt—and it didn't matter.

“Leave him alone, you stupid bigots!” she shouted, pulling away from Kris and trying to jump in front of Mugshottz. She saw their assailants. She was suddenly filled with a strange power, and was certain that if she wanted to, she could blast the offending goblins with a kind of psychic ray-gun that would crisp them before her eyes. “Back off or I'll show you what pain is, you cowards!”