The Saint (21 page)

“That might be wise,” Kris agreed.

Their hostess reappeared bearing two large bags covered in the restaurant logo. She hadn't been gone long, and Adora was willing to bet that their order had been filled with food that belonged to some other patrons.

“I've included utensils and extra barbecue sauce. If you're sure that's all—,” the hostess began.

“Yes, thank you.” Kris's voice was again deep and smoky. He smiled. “What do I owe you?”

The woman looked disappointed that there was nothing more she could get him: salt and pepper, extra napkins, a blow job . . .

Meow. We
are
in a bad mood today, aren't we? Why do you care what she does?

Stupid bimbo—she's all but drooling. It's disgusting.

He's not drooling back, so just cool it.

“The total is two hundred and eight dollars,” the hostess said.

Adora almost squawked in protest.

Yeah, even with a blow job that would be kind of high,
Joy agreed.

But Kris reached in his pocket and handed over the bills without protest, including a generous tip. “Thank you very much. You've been very helpful,” he assured her, and the hostess shivered with pleasure.

“Our number is on the receipt. If you want anything, just call.”

“Come on,” Adora muttered as she stalked for the door. It was hot and bright outside, but it still felt cleaner. She'd had more than enough of bimbos, bug-eyed rebels and burnt offerings.

Kris and Mugshottz apparently felt the same, since they followed immediately, though the troll took the time to open his bag and fish out his raw venison. Adora watched in fascination as his jaw unhinged and he swallowed the steak whole, just like a python would.

“This has been the weirdest day of my life,” Adora muttered.

“And it's still young,” Kris said cheerfully, reopening the parasol.

 

 

And then they killed the burnt offering and took it to the king, who was pleased. But though praised for their gift by the king's priests, still famine and darkness came to the land and many died that winter.

—
Niklas 8:9

“You cannot possibly hope to pass me off as a Bishop,” Niklas objected.

“My son, new religions are like infants taking their first steps. They must be assisted. You are already revered far and wide for your many kindnesses, and I strongly suspect . . .”

“Yes?” Niklas asked gently. “What do you suspect, Father?”

“I think that it is not so new, this veneration by the masses. You have known it before.”

The two men looked at one another, both old but only one of them wrinkled.

“If you believe this to be true . . . then, I am a blasphemy,” Niklas pointed out. “ ‘I am the Lord thy God and thou shall have no other god before me,' ” he quoted. “You could hardly want me associated with this church.”

“New religions also tend to be somewhat simplistic,” the old human said diplomatically. “But they evolve. And I believe—in time—that we can grow to accommodate other points of view. My task—and yours—is to see that this faith has the time to develop, to be cultivated.”

“You wish to make me a farmer of men?” This amused Niklas.

“Of men's souls. Yes.”

It was seven o'clock. The last few despairing rays of sun slid off the buildings, and the deep blue of night eased itself into the air. The sky turned a velvet indigo that showed no stars: It would get no darker above the city and those would remain hidden by lights no matter the hour.

Standing at a stoplight, Adora sighed with relief. With the sun gone she could enjoy herself a bit. Things had been frantic since they returned to the hotel, people rushing about and phones ringing endlessly.

Adora admired the cars piled up at the light, all thoroughbreds, engines snorting and their riders ready to go the moment the signal turned green. It made no sense to take the Packard out when they were wandering from store to store, but she wished they had anyway. That was an automobile with a pedigree, even among these finest of the fine. It made Mercedeses and Jaguars look like stable nags.

She hadn't planned on doing any sightseeing, but there was no avoiding it or the tourists. Rodeo Drive, like its well-heeled visitors, had kept itself in good shape and demanded attention, was beautifully dressed and accessorized. There had been a facelift or two on the older buildings, some dermabrasion for the younger facades and chemicals all around so things were smooth and glossy. Exhausted as she was, Adora wasn't sure if she loved or hated its artificial beauty.

There were strange women too, dressed exotically in embroidered togas and golden veils sitting behind large plate-glass windows. Mugshottz explained that they were lutin women whose virtue could be negotiated—though the sliding scale apparently stopped far short of bargain-basement prices. This was Rodeo Drive, after all. Adora wasn't certain how she felt about that, either.

Mugshottz was distracted, constantly scenting the area and scanning their surroundings with hard eyes that didn't give any clue about his feelings. Still, he followed without protest as she went from boutique to boutique, searching for the things Kris had instructed her to buy: hat, coat, gloves, an amber pendant. And they ended up in several unlikely stores because this wasn't coat season except for furs, which though perennially popular she wouldn't wear. She had never been able to tolerate fur on her body. It was the curse of a too vivid imagination, but it had always seemed to her that she could hear the pelts whimpering and feel their blood on her skin.

“I'm sorry,” she said softly to Mugshottz, “but I just can't wear any of these coats. They're . . . awful.”

“It's okay,” he assured her, finally showing some animation. “It's important that you find something that doesn't bother you. . . . What about that one?” he asked, pointing at a coat displayed in front of an old movie poster of
Casablanca
. Awe entered his voice. “Isn't that great?”

“Do you think it's me?” Adora asked dubiously.

“Oh, yeah! Don't you love Humphrey Bogart?” Mugshottz sounded wistful. “Anyway, it isn't fur.”

Adora had some misgivings, but she said, “Okay. I'll try it on.”

“Here—I'll help you.”

This is a mistake,
Joy warned.

I know.

But unwilling to quash Mugshottz's new enthusiasm, Adora trailed after him, trying to smile when he proffered the coat.

Kris eyed her over the rim of his cup, and Adora scowled as his eyes began to twinkle. Annoyed as she was, she couldn't help but notice that he still looked gorgeous—like the best man at a wedding, or perhaps the officiate, a well-heeled judge who favored Italian designers. He had on an exquisite coal-colored suit with a white silk shirt and tie, and his long hair was pulled back tight. From well-shod feet to silvery locks, she was attracted to every inch of him.

Can't you just see him in sexy red bishop's robes?
Joy asked—but softly, as though afraid of being overheard. She had been behaving oddly since Adora's fainting spell.

Actually—no. She couldn't. Or wouldn't. The thought of the clergy made her feel uncomfortable, and desiring a priest was just—well—icky.

“Um . . . admittedly I am not up to the very latest in women's fashion, but what are you wearing, a parachute?” Kris asked, leaning back in his chair, long legs stretched before him, elegant hands putting his porcelain cup aside. The act should have looked effeminate but didn't.

“You said to be discreet and get something full-length. This covers everything.” Adora peered at him over the top of her giant sunglasses.

“My dear!” He positively grinned. “This is your idea of discreet? Anyway, that looks like it would fit Mugshottz. Didn't they have anything in your size?”

Frowning, Adora turned and checked herself in the full-length mirror and gave a start. Not having seen the outfit in its accessorized entirety, she hadn't quite comprehended the extent of the fashion disaster she had perpetrated on her hurried shopping trip the night before.

“Damn.” That's what came of shopping when one was exhausted.

And from taking advice from a gargoyle.

Joy was right. The expensive coat truly looked ridiculous in the bright light of morning. The sleeves were a hand's breadth too long, and it was absolutely the wrong shade for a blonde. It made her skin look muddy green. She had on a fedora as well that was a shade too large and compounded the sins of the coat—also purchased yesterday for an outrageous price at a vintage clothing store under advisement from an enthusiastic Mugshottz, who said it completed her outfit. Which it did, in a horrible way.

Maybe it was the way she was wearing the hat, she thought, adjusting it. The brim was pulled down until it almost met the upper rim of her oversized sunglasses, which were so dark that she could barely see her hand in front of her face, and which forced her to wear them down on her nose so she could walk without falling. That made her nose look awfully long.

If that wasn't bad enough, she had the collar of her trench coat—which sported entirely too many pockets and shoulder flaps for her taste, but what could you do on short notice in the spring when the stores had no selection?—turned up so it reached past her cheekbones. She had thought herself dashing, but really she was a walking cliché. All that was missing was a walkie-talkie wristwatch and a handgun. So, fine. She had to admit—to herself, anyway—that perhaps she had overdone it with her accessories too.

Also bony as she was, the effect of all that fiapping fabric was a bit scarecrow-like. She should have known better. She
did
know better. This wasn't her style. She'd been a steady 29-29-29 until her sophomore year of high school. She'd filled out a little then in the traditional places, and gotten a lot taller, but though her statistics had improved, she was still far from curvaceous.

And it was annoying, because what she had really wanted was the white marabou coat with the coral satin lining paired with those silly beaded sandals. But those had been hideously expensive, and no one except perhaps Liberace's ghost would have thought it “discreet.” Still, she wished now that she had bought those instead. It was deflating to have Kris look better than she did.

Adora pulled off her sunglasses and tossed them aside.

“Well . . . I thought people would see me and think: There goes a spy,” she invented glibly, trying not to sound despondent. “Or maybe a private eye. They probably have lots of those here, what with the movie stars and all.”

“And the addition of a spy to my entourage helps
how?” Kris asked politely, though she sensed hidden laughter.

“Well . . . if they think I'm a spy, they won't think I'm your biographer. Hell, they probably won't even notice you. Anyway, don't you like the hat? It's classic.” She offered her profile, changing the subject. “Do you think a cigar would help? Or a flask of whiskey? A gun?”

“Hmm. You do know that I don't like to lie unless there is absolutely no other choice?” he said.

Adora dropped her chin and made a face, which only amused him more.

She said, “This might be a good moment to say nothing, then. This damned hat and coat were expensive. And Mugshottz really liked them.” Adora flipped down her collar and pulled off the fedora. “This is all a bit new to me, you know. Usually my jobs are much less exciting or dangerous. My biggest danger is paper cuts—and absolutely no one has ever cared that I'm a biographer.”

Which wasn't strictly true, but she was willing to stretch the point.

“Of course,” Kris said soothingly. “And I am very sorry about all this haste and skullduggery. Just to satisfy my own curiosity, how many pockets does that coat have?”

Adora grinned. “Seven visible, three hidden and a place for a small holster. I got it in the Spies-R-Us department at Kingman's, if you're interested.”

“Oh, I'm fascinated, believe me. You see, I think the coat was designed for an unmodified goblin. That's against city ordinances.”

“Oh.” The idea hadn't occurred to her. The coat did seem to have double pockets in the right places and plenty of space for an extra set of arms.

“But, please—let me atone for causing this distress. I shouldn't have sent you out when you were so tired. Or with Mugshottz. I'll arrange for someone to take it back for you. I am certain that we can do much . . .”

“Yes?” she prompted as he paused.

“We can find something that suits you better. The coat is simply not doing justice to your intelligence or beauty.”

“Good save,” Adora remarked with a half-smile.

Kris grinned fully. “Thank you. If you live long enough, you finally learn what to say to women. In certain circumstances.” He called out: “Penny-wyse!” Then, to Adora: “So, what would you really like? You know, all it need do is keep the sun off and offer a small degree of warmth at night.”