The Saint (2 page)

Unfortunately, just when America had embraced the idea of a season of generosity and joyousness of spirit, the unthinkable happened. On his trip west to find the Nephalim, the giants whom many said were fallen angels, Kris Kringle disappeared without a trace. And without him, commercial interests— some human and some not—rushed to fill the void.

The kiddies couldn't be disappointed, could they? the retailers asked. Best dash out and buy something for them. And what about your spouse? Your parents? Your siblings and cousins, friends and neighbors? Genuine generosity quickly became an obligation, and then it became a burden—spiritual and financial. People stopped giving with a glad heart. Many stopped giving altogether. And worst of all, the message of
Peace on earth and goodwill toward all peoples
became
Peace on earth unless there's profit to be had by war
, and
Goodwill toward only certain human men.

Humans had never recovered. For many, it was as if part of their souls froze, their hearts walled up tight against generosity and kindness, and nothing was able to unfreeze them. While they had not fallen from grace, men had fallen from joy.

Thus had passed Kris's legacy.

He had one other distinction that everyone in the room was aware of. The Great Elf, though “elf” was an incorrect classification for a death fey, was also the first and only pureblood fey discovered to have survived the Great Drought. Which meant that he, who was most beloved of the Goddess and the Greater Power to whom She answered, was in fact far stronger than even the great fey kings and queens of old.

And he was a death fey—a very confused and possibly insane death fey, whose powers could either save or destroy civilizations . . . theirs included.

“What will I do? I'll go and get him, of course,” Jack said at last. “I can't very well leave my uncle living with polar bears. Besides, what if the goblins find him?”

“The lutins would love to pick his brains,” Abrial admitted.

“The goblins would like to pick his brains, all right—and not stop until they reached his teeth,” Jack answered. “I don't know why they didn't kill him when they had the chance.”

“Too afraid. Anyone
that
beloved of the Goddess . . .” Abrial suggested. “Who would risk it? Anyway, he always reincarnated. Why would this time be any different?”

“Well, damn,” Thomas said, exhaling slowly. “Have you thought about what this means—what he'll do when he remembers who he is? Think, Jack. He's a death fey. And he's probably really, really pissed off.”

“I know,” Jack answered slowly. “It's a bit daunting, I must admit. But recall that he has never chosen Death. Never. Always Kris took the side of peace and love. And our way of holding back the tide of lutin hate can't work forever. My friends, we juggle well, but someday we will drop the ball and there will be war between the races—unless we can convince them they no longer need to fight.” He smiled a little. “Anyway, don't you think it's time we took Christmas from the merchants and unbelievers and gave it back to the children of the world?”

Thomas shook his head slowly, then leaned down and looked under the table.

“What are you doing?” Jack asked.

“Just having a look at the biggest balls in the world,” Thomas said, straightening.

Jack threw back his head and began to laugh. Thomas and Abrial just stared. They couldn't see anything even remotely amusing about what they were about to do.

A salty taste—familiar. Blood? Yes, blood. His own . . . ? Yes. He had fallen while rushing for the cave and hit his face, scraping his cheek on the rough ice. Stupid of him to step between the two male bears when they were fighting over food, but Sitka was a friend and getting too old to take on the younger bears.

Still, it had been stupid. Blame it on the voices. His head was full of them: endless prayers in the barely remembered human tongues of English, Latin and Turkish—pathetic petitions he didn't know how to answer. The babble made it so hard to think. His skull was so full that he wanted to drill a hole in it to let the sound out. The pressure on his bruised brain made him want to scream like the bears . . . but he had to be quiet. So, so quiet, else the beast with red eyes and foul breath would find him and eat him as well. It had been sent by . . . someone. Someone dangerous. An old, old enemy.

He could kill the beast—somewhere inside, he knew how. But that action would put him in more danger than he was in now.

Thou must not kill.

He touched his side. Blood was there, too, long streaks of hot red on the blue ice, marking his trail, which ended in a puddle. Sticky, warm. That was nice. He'd been so cold for so long. Cold since . . . But there was another blank wall in his mind. Perhaps he had always been cold. It seemed like he had. Cold, alone—except for the anguished voices in his skull.

The urge to sleep was strong. He climbed deeper into the cave, wriggling into a crevice where he hoped to be safe. Outside, he could hear the triumphant stranger tearing apart his prize. He didn't want the new bear-thing to see him. Monster—a terrible monster—but he was so tired. He could go no farther. He was leaving his entrails behind.

He dozed briefly.

Kris.

A voice. Clearer than the rest. The words at first meant nothing, but finally he listened and began to understand. Someone named Jack was coming.

Jack . . . The name was familiar, but he couldn't quite grab the memory any more than he could recall the name of the language this Jack used. But it didn't matter. The voice was comforting, and it drowned out all the other noise, bringing him peace.

He would sleep and wait for this Jack. Kris closed his eyes.

“Hello, Kris,” a somewhat familiar voice said a short time later. Gentle hands pressed over the deep cut in his side. Kris searched his fractured brain and finally came up with a name to match the voice. He opened his eyes.

“Jack? I was waiting for you.” His voice was weak, not like his voice at all.

“Yes. I came as fast as I could,” the young man who looked so much like him answered with a smile. His face was very close in the narrow tunnel where Kris had hidden himself. “We thought you were forever lost. I had almost given up hope of finding you again.”

“Lost . . . ? Yes.” That sounded right. “I've been lost. I was . . . I've been here a long time. What happened to me, Jack?” he asked, weak and baffled.

“You . . . you were given a drug that affected your memory. Bad people drugged you and left you here. But that doesn't matter. I've found you now and I have some medicine that will make you better. The voices won't trouble you anymore, unless you want to hear them.”

“Good, that's good. I'm so weak . . . Jack, how do I know you?” Kris asked finally. “Are you family? We look alike, I think—and I know your voice from a long time ago.”

“I'm your nephew. My father, Phaneos, was your younger brother. Everyone says that he and I sound alike. Probably it is his voice that you remember.”

“Phaneos.” An image of a white-haired child rose up like a ghost from his memory. It made Kris happy, though he had no memory beyond the small face. “My little brother. Is he here, too?”

“No, Kris. I'm sorry. Phaneos is dead. A lot has happened while you were away. Many of the fey have gone.” Gentle hands helped him sit up. They also helped him accept the sad tidings. “I was thinking that maybe you would like to come and live with me for a while. I'm married now and have a son. My family would like to meet you. You have other friends there too.”

Feeling stronger than he had felt since . . . well, since he could remember, Kris forced himself to his feet. Dizziness tried to claim him, but he pushed it back.

“Jack, your father was a death fey, wasn't he? Are you one, too?”

Thou shall not kill.

“A death fey? Yes.” The man named Jack went still, seemingly waiting for Kris's next words.

“And I am like you?” Kris asked. The idea disturbed him a little and he shivered. “Am I a bringer of death?”

“No, Kris. You were never like me.” Jack's sudden smile was dazzling. Kris sensed the shadows inside the younger man but also felt the genuine love that this fey nephew, this son of Phaneos, had for him. “You were never like anyone else. It's why we loved you—why we need you.”

He was loved. That made Kris feel even better. That was his purpose, wasn't it? To bring love? The babbling voices in his brain receded further as the fire of self-awareness grew.

“I would like to meet your wife and son. I'd like to have family again,” Kris said. He added wistfully, “I would like to remember everything. My brain has been so broken that I only have pieces. How could I forget little Phaneos? Or you?”

“You will remember in time. Most of it.” Jack wrapped a cloak around him and then offered his hand. It was warm. “Come on. Some old friends are waiting for you outside. We'll help you remember everything you need to know.”

“There's a monster,” Kris said, hesitating. “Perhaps I should go first.”

“The monster is gone,” Jack assured him.

“That's good. I don't think it was a real bear.” Kris shuddered.

“No, it wasn't,” Jack agreed. “But don't worry about that. My good friend Abrial is . . . talking with the monster now. We'll find out who made him, and things will be taken care of.”

“I must not kill,” Kris murmured.

“That's right.” Jack nodded. “You must not ever kill. But
I
can—and I promise that whoever did this to you will pay, if they have not yet slipped beyond earthly vengeance.”

“I don't want you to kill for me,” Kris said sternly. He wasn't certain why, just that it was a fact. He could not kill, and others should not either. “That would be wrong—to kill for me.”

“I kill for all of us. I must sometimes if we are to survive.” Jack's eyes were suddenly bleak. “Let's pray that a day will come soon when I no longer have to.”

 

 

During their childhood, when Men left the age of their innocence and first turned from Gaia, there came into the world a great shaman called Niklas, who was not of Mankind, but of the Sidhe. Men feared the Sidhe, but such was this shaman's kindnessx and love, he was able to live amongst them and to show the erring Sons of Man how to return by other paths to the Divinity that created all Life. Thus did order reign for a millennium. In return for this gift, every seven years a special sacrifice was made by the Sons of Man. The one most loved by Divinity was given back to Gaia in the Solstice fire. Many feared at these times of sacrifice, when the shaman returned to the Sidhe, but Niklas always returned at the dark of the Sun to again walk the Earth. And for a time there was peace and prosperity for both races.

—
Bioball Na Sidhe
, the Book of Niklas,

Chapter Two, Verse Four

Kris closed the book of illuminated fey scriptures and tried to focus on what he had learned. Little by little, his memory was getting better. It was difficult to get a complete picture, because all his past experiences had been laminated together, rendering them a monolithic, impenetrable block, and he was forced to rely on the perceptions of others to explain many things. Still, little by little, the edges of frozen memory were melting away so that he could examine them.

Jack had helped fill in the missing bits with family legends. And others were making astounding efforts, too. Access to the human Internet was a tremendous aid in learning modern culture, especially now that Kris had learned from Thomas how to control his body so that the varying magnetic waves didn't burn out the computer.

Of course, other than Abrial, there was no one old enough to recall Kris's past firsthand, no one who'd known him in his past incarnations. To everyone, he'd been this ridiculous fat creature, Santa Claus. Even Abrial could only recall back to when he still walked the Earth as Saint Nicholas. No one remembered him from the time of the fey scriptures, back when he was Niklas and one with Gaia. When he had understood his mission.

Kris could feel the death magic waiting to fill him up. It was always there, sometimes pressing close, sometimes hiding slyly, but always waiting for a chance to rush back into his mind. He recalled displacing it with a desire to promote peace. That had been why he'd decided sex was too dangerous to indulge in. No fey were left, and no human woman was the great love who would complete him—and to risk taking a life for anything less was cruel and immoral.

Now it was even worse, when his mind was not his own.

Kris sighed. More time was needed for him to recover, but that was not a luxury he had. The lutins drove his schedule. In light of the ever-increasing danger, plans had been made, and they had to move forward. He could only pray that he spiritually reconnected before things progressed too far. It was not enough to know Gaia in the abstract. He needed to again be one with Divinity if he was to carry on his work. How could he possibly convince the world of something as crucial as the need for World Peace and Brotherly Love if he no longer experienced such love himself?

“How is he today, Alphons? Manic or depressive?” Adora Navarra quietly asked the guardian of order whose job it was to repel chaos—unless chaos was a member of the Matthews Club, of course. She had met the diminutive attendant on only three occasions, but she had a facility for recalling names that produced wonderful results, especially among service people, whom it seemed liked nothing better than to be assured that they were not mere furniture. That would make it easier for her to get in and see her agent, Ben Hunter.

Alphons beamed and shifted onto his tiptoes, even as he delivered the bad news in a hushed voice. He always spoke softly to her, as if he knew that her sense of hearing was acute.

“Welcome back, Miss Navarra. To use a sporting metaphor, I'm afraid that it's the bottom of the ninth, miss. Two men are out and three are on—and it's starting to rain. He's yelled at everyone—even The Lord Almighty. Thank heavens his cell-phone battery died. Luther finally brought him an appetizer and some wine so he would quit taking God's—and the president's—name in vain.” The stool Alphons bestrode behind the podium rocked, and he was forced to balance himself. Adora pretended not to notice.