The Saint (23 page)

“No time for that,” he answered.

“But . . .”
Exhale, one-two-three-four. Uh-oh,
she was out of air! She had to slow it down, take bigger breaths.
Inahale, one-two-three—

“Hang on a second,” Kris said. The plane began to growl and go much faster than Adora liked, and she forgot to keep breathing.

“Shouldn't you talk to the control tower—see if we're cleared for takeoff?” she asked with the last of her air.

“No radio,” Kris answered. “But don't worry. No one's around here. It's a private airstrip.”

“What?” she shrieked as the plane jumped into the air. “No radio! Kris? Is this thing even legal?”

“I'm not really sure,” he answered, banking to the left and gaining altitude. There came a few popping noises that Adora sincerely hoped were not bullets hitting their plane. “I suppose the answer would depend on which countries' laws one was looking at.”

“Kris, do you have a pilot's license?” she demanded, slapping hands over her eyes and gasping as she was forced back into the seat. The
knock-knock-knock
ing now sounded like Doom banging on the door. The plane was definitely a screamer.

“Not yet. I'll get one eventually,” he shouted cheerfully. The plane leveled out. She thought she heard him add, “I'm really sorry about this, Adora. I hadn't planned on taking the plane, but the goblins have forced my hand. I need to get back to Cadalach quickly, and there's no faerie road from L.A. or I'd take it. I'll get you on the ground as soon as I can.” Kris raised his voice. “Buck up, girl. Open your eyes and look out there. The city absolutely sparkles at night.”

Adora moaned. The bubble she had kept around herself had finally shattered. Panic was gnawing at her intestines.

“What's wrong? Kris asked. “You've gone whiter than my hair. Do you feel sick?”

“N-nothing's wrong. It isn't the plane. I . . . I just suddenly realized that it's all true. It's really happening. There really are goblins having a revolution . . . and you're probably really Santa Claus. That is insane. I didn't really believe it until now, you know, because really you seem very normal most of the time.”

Kris didn't smile.

“You thought I was—what?—kidding about everything?”

“No. I thought—I don't know—that you were crazy. Or maybe that you had some ancestral memory because your great-great whoever had been Saint Nicholas. Or maybe that you were a reincarnation. I could buy into those things.”

“So,you can believe in reincarnation, but not Santa?”

“Sorry, my madness couldn't accommodate that.”

“Poor child. But yes, Adora, there
is
a Santa Claus.” His tone was wry. He asked curiously, “Why did you stay if you thought I was insane? Was it the money?”

“No.” Adora forced herself to meet Kris's eyes.

“Then why?”

“Because . . . because after a while it didn't matter anymore what you were. I didn't care if you were stark, raving mad. I just needed to . . . to stick it out.”

“Because . . . ?” He prompted.

“I don't know! Because I felt alive again. Intrigued. And because I care about you for some reason,” she snapped. “But let's just leave it at that, okay? I believe in the don't-ask, don't-tell policy where you're concerned. I don't want to know what's going on in my subconscious.”

She thought she heard Kris say, “We can leave it at that for now, but I imagine Fate has other plans.”

“Great. We have goblins and Fate. And you said this wasn't dangerous—that I'd be safe!”

“You are safe,” he replied.

Kris glanced at her as she resumed her five-count breathing. She had to admit that the sound was a little ragged. All she was doing was hyperventilating.

“So, how about getting on with your interview? Surely you have more questions for me, especially since you've finally decided that I'm real.”

Interview? Right—the biography. The reason she was here. Of course, writing it all down was the first step to commitment. It was admitting to the world—and to herself—that there was still some story here that she wanted to tell. And once she gave it to Kris, or Ben, or a publisher, there would be no turning back. Did she really want to travel that path?

We've been over this. You're going to do it, so stop stalling.

“Now?” she asked, clutching her nose. “You want to be interviewed now?”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” she echoed mostly to herself. “Fine, then. So how
do
you manage to travel the world in one night? Not in a single-engine plane, one trusts,” she said, trying to get her mind on other things.

“I manage by obeying the laws of eternity but not the laws of time.”

Adora sighed. “As always, I don't understand. Can't you ever just say ‘reindeer'?”

“I know. Sorry, you picked a hard question. Let's put it this way: Some things are eternal and therefore timeless.”

“These are just words—”

“Look, time is a human-made thing. Man has a passion for dividing the days, first by hours, then by minutes, then in degrees too small to matter to anyone except a scientist. Time is the boundary that predicts and restricts most human activity. Man's reality is nanoseconds and cells and molecules— transient things all. And sadly, most men have only the truth of the moment—their minds can't grasp bigger things. But we, the fey, can. You'll see. I promise that in time you will understand.”

Adora chewed on this for a while, but she still didn't comprehend his meaning. She decided to come at the question from another angle.

“The fey worship the Goddess, right? And she supplies their magic?”

“The fey come from the part of Divinity they call the Goddess,” Kris agreed. “The fey are more aware than most humans of the Divinity—the
magic,
as some call it—within them. They are closer to the source, and can commune with it. But all living things are touched by this Divinity. It is within all of us—human, goblin or fey.”

“Yes, but being fey, you have greater access to this
magic than your average Joe Blow human on the street.”

Kris started to answer, then paused. Finally he shrugged somewhat helplessly. “Yes.”

“So what you do, traveling the world, is a—”

“Magic trick?” he asked politely. Too politely. Adora knew that he was disappointed and perhaps even offended by her persistence.

“No. I was going to say
‘miracle'
—something divine. It's just that . . . the word has certain religious connotations I don't like.” She tried to explain. “I mean, I think of miracles as burning bushes that talk, or raising the dead, or angels announcing virgin births.”

Kris's brow relaxed as he pondered the notion. “I understand what you mean,” he said finally. “Culturally, it's difficult for you to approach this because it sounds so mystical. This isn't your mental orientation. But perhaps ‘miracle' is a good word for the situation. Personally, I have always seen miracles as what happens between people in moments of compassion and love and understanding.”

“But not burning bushes?” she clarified.

“Fire often comes with Divine revelation. Miracles are more . . . mundane. They can happen person to person, no Divine intervention needed.”

“Have you read much about quantum physics?” she asked suddenly.

“Yes. And they almost have it right. It gives me hope.” Kris looked back at her, then out of his window. He said to himself, “No sign of pursuit yet, but they'll have us on radar. The sooner we set down the better.”

Pursuit? They'd follow us out of the city? Why? What are we to them? And who?

Don't think about it,
Joy said.
You'll just hyperventilate again
. She didn't sound happy, though.

Right. Adora definitely didn't want to think about this because it would make her stomach worse. “So, back to my questions. Describe your average day to me. What were you doing every day for the last ten thousand years?” she asked.

“That is another difficult question,” Kris answered seriously as he banked the plane to the left. “Century to century, my activities varied. And I wasn't on earth every day for the last ten thousand years. Much of the time, I was at home.”

“I don't understand. Again. What home? Where? With whom?” she asked in frustration. “Are you talking about Heaven?”

He glanced at her. “It will all become clear eventually. Maybe you should breathe some more—just more slowly.”

“It would be nice if could become clear
now.
I need to get a handle on this before I start writing— and everything you say just confuses me more. You're heaping enigmas upon conundrums.”

I'd like an explanation before we get shot down by goblin rebels,
Joy piped up. Adora tried to stay calm.

Now is not a good time to panic, Joy. No one is getting shot down.

Once again, Kris answered her real concern and not the one she had spoken aloud. “Stop worrying. You'll get an ulcer. No one is going to catch us; I guarantee it.” Apparently he was permanently tuned into her brain waves.

Adora sighed again and gave up trying to hide her thoughts. She would like to insert herself in the lovely rosy bubble where Kris lived but feared that even if she managed to find a way inside, the weight
of the real world was bound to shatter it. The thought depressed her. She didn't really want Kris ousted into her reality; it was lonely and despairing.

You'd rather share his world—and be what to him? Mrs. Claus?

No, not really.

Good. Red just isn't your color, and I don't think you'll ever be fat enough for the part.

Don't be frivolous.

That's funny coming from you.

You know, you're a real bitch when you're worried.

But I'm still right,
Joy crowed.

Adora looked over at Kris. Maybe part of the reason she couldn't see him as Santa, or herself as Mrs. Claus, was because he just didn't look like she'd pictured Saint Nick. The only part that was right were his laughing eyes, and she sincerely doubted those were dancing with thoughts of sugarplums and gumdrops.

But that was Kris's point, wasn't it? He wasn't Santa, per se. Santa Claus was a fabrication, a public relations ploy. And he had never been an honest-to-goodness saint. He was a . . . a pagan demi-god. One who liked music and dancing.

And sex, I bet. All the old gods were into ravishing virgins and so on
, Joy suggested.

Yes, Adora admitted. From what she'd read, there had apparently been quite a bit of that going on at ye olde solstice festivals.

Yet not with you. Do you think that maybe he only has sex on holidays—equinoxes and solstices?
Joy asked.

Kris interrupted her thoughts. “My dear, what are you thinking? I haven't seen a look like that since Victoria was on the throne!”

Adora sighed. “If you must know, I'm thinking
about fertility rites and wondering how many you've participated in while being a Green Man. The stories are rather lurid.” She sounded crabby and knew it. She wanted to ask him why he hadn't made any moves on her, but she couldn't quite bring herself to be so blatant.

He grinned widely, unrepentant. “Freedom of religion is an inalienable right. Even the president says so,” he added. “I was only doing my part to uphold the standards of the day.”

“Uh-huh, I bet. And Laffite-Rothschild is just a red wine.”

“It
is
just a wine. Though a particularly fine one.” Kris added, “I knew Baron James Rothschild.”

“Of course you did.” Adora shook her head. “And I'd love to hear about it—but after we discuss your
freedom of religion.”

Kris sobered. “That was many lifetimes ago, Adora. I haven't indulged in . . . well, the pleasures of the flesh—not since coming to the New World. By then it was simply too dangerous.”

This answer startled Adora, enough to make her forget her fear of planes and goblins alike.

No sex for centuries?
Joy asked.

I'm more concerned about the “dangerous” part,
Adora thought. She asked, “Really? Why? Do you mean because of AIDS or other diseases?”

“No. That affliction wouldn't affect me.”

AIDS doesn't affect him. I told you he was delusional! If you have sex you will make him wear a condom, won't you?
Joy was having a conniption.

Joy, please, please, shut up.

“Why wouldn't it affect you? Are you like Superman?” Adora asked aloud.

“Superman? Oh, yes! The comic book character. Well, I guess I am a bit like him. I know that's a startling idea for you to grasp, but it's nonetheless true,” Kris said, frowning. “Zayn explains the differences between humans and feys—corporeal feys—this way: We both come with the standard equipment—lungs, stomach, heart, eyes, ears and so forth—and they all work the same about eighty percent of the time. But feys have slightly different brains. I guess some brain scans have been done, and the differences are obvious. In feys, it's as though we don't need actual light to stimulate the optic nerve. We can see without external illumination. We can hear beyond the standard range of hearing. We're faster and stronger, because we can sense in advance how to react to unseen danger, and we know intuitively how to heal ourselves. We have inherent balance, and subconsciously try to maintain it. That's why we avoid alcohol—it shuts down our inner perceptions. It blinds and deafens us, shuts down our ‘magic.' It makes us almost human.” Kris cleared his throat, giving her a chance to speak. But when Adora didn't know what to say, he added, “Because we have all these extra senses, faith is easier for us. We rarely need any external proof of Divinity. We can feel . . .”