The Saint (19 page)

The creatures spat, green slime arcing through the air. It spattered near her feet and began to sizzle.

Mugshottz snarled, and his shirt tore open. Clawed wings spread out, their taloned tops fiexing as they ripped through his coat. In the distance someone screamed, and Adora saw people begin to run.

“Mugshottz! Don't do it! Stop—please!” Kris's voice was strange, almost a bestial growl. From the corner of her eye, Adora saw that he had dropped to his knees, his fingers digging into the hard-packed soil beneath the trees, leaving deep ruts. Thick roots tore lose with a nasty popping sound. Part of Adora wanted to turn and look at him because clearly something was wrong—no human had that kind of strength—but more of her wanted to attack the small gang of rock-throwers, to scorch them, wound them. To kill them. She wanted to reach inside and barbecue their hearts. She could do that. She could snuff them—kill every last one!

Adora!
Kris was suddenly in her head, clamping down hard, trying to shut off her rage, to drain her anger. The experience hurt enough to make her moan.

Then Mugshottz threw off his paralysis. The bodyguard's arms wrapped around Adora, pulling her back and enveloping her in smothering curtains of stony flesh. Another rock flew at them, but it didn't connect: Adora pushed back with her remaining anger, a pressure wave that expanded out of her skull, rearranging the molecules in the air. It met up with the flying stone, which exploded into stinging dust. Then, as the three goblins began to flee, she sent a last blast of anger after them, setting their shoes and pants on fire.

The goblins howled, dropping to the ground to roll and beat out the flames, and Adora liked the sound. That was exactly how bad people should sound.

You've lost it, girl. How many times did your parents tell you not to play with fire?
Joy asked sadly.
Don't you ever learn?

Fire? Her parents? What . . . ?

Suddenly, Adora was back in control, and the realization of what she'd done stunned her. She went limp in Mugshottz's arms.

“Adora!” Kris's harsh voice cut through the haze of her anger. Or perhaps it was lack of oxygen. It was hard to be active when you couldn't breathe, and Mugshottz was squeezing awfully tight as he hurried her away from the scene.

“Put me down,” she gasped. “I'm . . . I'm going to be sick.”

“No, you're not.” Kris's voice was firm.

“I am!”

“Go ahead,” Mugshottz said. “I'm washable.”

But then Kris was there with her, pale but up-right. His smudged hands touched her face, closing her eyes against the searing light. Before her lids closed, she was shocked to see that the pupils of Kris's eyes had contracted into nonexistence, and that the silver-blue of his irises had spilled over into the whites and was filled with what looked like lightning.

I'm hallucinating
, she thought.

No. Sorry, but this is all real. And you can't say I didn't warn you,
Joy added.
You were never, never to use this power again. And now he knows about you. How can I keep you safe?

What? What power . . . ?

Just go to sleep. And forget.

“Boss, are you all right?” Adora heard Mugshottz ask. “Jack'll skin me if I let you get hurt.”

“I'm fine, but I need to get away from the crowds.” Kris exhaled. “Her anger—
your
anger— caught me by surprise. It was that tear, I think. I could feel it running through my body, making me crazy. . . . I thought I'd controlled it, but then I felt her rage thrown out at those lutins and nearly lost it myself.” Kris's voice was calmer, but he still sounded shaken. “Give her to me. I'm all right now.”

“You're sure? Your eyes are still kind of funky.” Their pace slowed but stayed rough. Mugshottz's body was hard as Adora bounced against it.

Kris said, “No, I'm fine. She isn't angry anymore. And I need to hold her. I was rough with her—too abrupt. I hurt her.” His voice was filled with remorse.

Adora was handed over, and suddenly the world was softer, warmer. She sighed, relaxing. Everything would be all right now. Kris would keep her safe.

“Whoa! That was the strangest thing I ever felt,” Mugshottz said. “Suddenly she was in my head and I could feel her anger like a blast of hot air. Look, it burned my shirt!” he pointed out.

Adora realized they were talking about something important, but she didn't understand. She was confused, and the voices were fading. Sleep rushed down on her, too heavy to fight, though she wanted to comprehend what was being said.

“This isn't good, I know, 'cause word about this will spread fast and piss off the goblin rebels trying to bring down Molybdenum. But . . . she's a plucky one, isn't she?” Mugshottz's rough tone was mitigated by clear admiration. “Imagine, her trying to protect me! Nobody except you has ever cared before.”

“She's plucky all right—and more. Much, much more. I have to talk to Io and Jack. I thought I knew what she was, but I think we may have a fire-starter on our hands.”

“That wasn't you?” Mugshottz sounded surprised.

“I've never used fire to hurt anyone. That was something in Adora—something not siren.”

Something in me? A fire-starter? Not siren? Joy, what is he saying . . . ?
Adora asked.

Go to sleep. It's just a bad dream. Forget, now—just forget.

“Will she remember anything when she wakes up?” Mugshottz asked.

“Not if we're lucky. I'll wipe her mind as best I can—and I think I'll have some help from the Other in her. This isn't something she's ready to face. I don't think she has any inkling of what she really is.”

“How can that be? I mean, if she's a fire-starter, wouldn't she have had trouble as a kid?” Mugshottz asked.

“I don't know how she can be what she is. The longer I'm with her, the more questions I have.” Kris sounded worried.

“Weird. Well, I sure hope Morrison has an extra shirt in the car. I kind of wrecked this one. And it was the last non-Hawaiian shirt they had at the big and tall store,” the troll bodyguard added.

“True. But you were damn impressive,” Kris said kindly. “One of those goblins wet himself, and I saw a lady faint.”

“Really? She
fainted?
” Mugshottz sounded proud. “I haven't done that in centuries.”

Adora let herself faint.

 

 

There came a time when the shaman saw that he could do no more, and he left the world of Man. He no longer walked among them every day, but came instead only one day a year. The day he chose was in the dark of winter, when the Sons of Man most needed comfort and reassurance that Light would again return.

—
Niklas 4:9

It was Beltane Eve, Walpurgis Night, and in the northern lands the shamans were gathering their people in pastures, in forests, on mountains for the holy celebration. He, too, was gathering his fiock, calling them to the Goddess that they would worship with their bodies in the holy fire's light.

The one who had been many lifted his fiute to his lips and began to play, a haunting paean that called his people to this feast of the heart, to the fires of spring, to physical love.

A man of silver, he stood naked, save for the mantle of moon and the leaping pyre's light. His hair rode back from his face, a silvery banner carried by the mountain wind. His eyes shone bright in the semidarkness, bits of shattered stars that gleamed with the Goddess's fire.

Around him, the people swayed, some moaned, and others danced ecstatically, tearing at their clothes until they were also naked. The one who had been many smiled, because he saw that this was good.

Miffith listened in consternation as an informant relayed the information that Kris Kringle—the ancient fey known as Niklas—had been involved in some battle at the human farmers' market, and that he'd had some woman with him who was able to light goblins on fire. He didn't know what to make of this. Niklas had been missing for a long time, and had never believed in violence. He had actually been very kind to many poor goblins, Miffith's family included.

Miffith finished writing up the informant's tale, then sat with fingers poised over the delete button. His first impulse was to lose the memo and never tell General Anaximander what had happened.

But that wouldn't work. This was too amazing a story. And if the general discovered that he had withheld it . . . Miffith shuddered.

No, he'd have to tell the General. Besides, maybe it was a good thing, he thought, cheering up. Maybe Niklas would help the rebel cause.

Voices. Words.

“It's ancestral consciousness coming awake.”

Adora understood the individual words, but the sentence didn't mean anything to her. Still, she knew she was with Kris in body and mind, and was therefore not alarmed. There was no logical reason for her feeling; she simply knew it was true because . . . well, because something inside told her so.

A hand not her own brushed back her hair, pulling the curtain of darkness aside. Slowly Adora took stock of her body, pushing herself back into the space she seemed to have temporarily abandoned. Yes, this was her body, but . . . something was different. She couldn't say precisely how it differed, because she couldn't quite recall how she had been before. She tried to look back, but her memory stalled. Her brain was like a turnstile, allowing thoughts to travel one way but never back again. It seemed to her that Kris had stripped the cogs and was forcing her to use some other part of her mind to think another way. Maybe to forget something.

Was that bad—forgetting?

Can you hear me?
a voice asked.

What?

Adora's eyes cracked open again. She was looking out a narrow gap in a curtained window. The blue sky of morning had been reupholstered in gray smog and stitched with white contrails. Closer to the ground, the scenery rushed by in a gray blur.

She was in a car. A big car. On a highway.

Good. Getting far away was good. But where were they, exactly? She tried to sit up straight, but it was no use. Kris's arm was around her and it was heavy.

A thought popped into her head. Kris and his band of merry men were about to retreat into Sherwood Forest—all the better to lie in wait for the nasty Sheriff of Nottingham. But that made no sense at all. She must still be dreaming. Or something.

You . . . fainted.
The voice was very faraway, muffled. She knew the voice but for the moment couldn't put a name to it. She pushed harder, trying to remember. Joy?

“Adora?” Kris asked, and then his arm was helping her sit up. “Feeling better now? If you're awake, we'll get you some lunch. You're probably still hungry and I think you need to eat.”

“Okay,” she said, but the word was mushy like her brain. Her hand rested a moment on Kris's leg, and she was grateful for his heat and solidity. It had been quite a while since the world had gotten away from her like that. If Kris hadn't been there, making her feel safe, she might have reached for her purse and started pawing around in hopes of finding one or two of those little happy pills that were probably still hiding at the bottom her bag.

The thought jabbed at her. She hadn't thought seriously about those pills for a while. At one time, she had been dependent on them and they had known it. They would whisper to her every time things got rough:
Take me! Take me, and I'll ease your pain.
Later, when she had been completely lost and despairing, they had spoken to her more seductively:
Take me! Take
all
of me, and I'll ease your pain forever.

It had been a tempting offer, too, on those very long dark nights when it was impossible to escape the knowledge that she was alone. She had already felt as if she'd died and passed on to some other horrible afterlife where she'd been left in an abandoned limbo. They had almost gotten her.

But there had been a book to finish, a story that needed to be told, and so she had reluctantly said
No, not now
to the pills. And that had eventually become a
No, not ever.
Finally she had found the strength to throw the bottle in the bathroom away. She had decided on life.

It wasn't that she really believed there would be a day of judgment where she'd be called up from the dead to answer for throwing her life away, but a part of her had faith that there was
something
, and to take her life would be to profane the soul that had been gifted her by Another.

The impulse to end it all hadn't gone away at once, of course. It would still creep over her sometimes when she was driving her car along a cliff road, or standing somewhere very high without a railing. In fact, she feared that a part of her might still have this destructive impulse buried deep down inside, with a lot of other emotions she preferred not to examine. She also sometimes wondered if this was what had made her sick—a subconscious rationalization from this powerful, suicidal fragment of personality that had said it wouldn't really be suicide if illness took her.