The Saint (29 page)

Stop. I . . . I don't like this. We're . . . something is going on
, Joy said.

What? What's wrong?
Adora asked.

I . . . I don't know. There's something in here with us.

They weren't alone? That was important, but Adora couldn't seem to care.

She watched as Kris backed to the door. A part of her wanted to throw herself at him. She suddenly wanted to know what he would be like in bed. Even more, she wanted to know who she would be with him.

“Kris?” She swallowed, unsure what to say. She touched her cheeks. She was feeling very warm.

“We'll talk soon,” he promised. If she hadn't known better, she would have said he was nervous at being alone with her. “Just . . . try to get some rest.”

Rest. She certainly needed it. But . . .

Kris disappeared behind a heavy door, carved on the inside with serpentine bodies and blackened with age and perhaps actual fire.

She was alone. In Kris's room—and she knew it was his room. She could be blind and still know he
lived there. Her senses recalled Kris clearly, even when he wasn't beside her. Her hands knew the feel of him. She knew his scent, his taste, though they had never kissed. They permeated this room, but she wanted more.

What the hell?
she whispered, alarmed.

I don't know,
Joy said.
I feel very strange.

She hadn't known that Joy could feel strange.

“I can't quite take this in. To believe in this—all of this—you'd have to have a screw loose. Maybe more than one,” Adora said aloud.

I think your screws are tight enough. You just have them in some odd places.

Adora started looking for a bathroom. That need, at least, hadn't changed.

Kris had to talk to Jack and Thomas about what had happened in L.A., but his first stop was to see his niece by marriage. It took him a while to explain everything that had happened with Adora, including her reaction to the baby. Afterward, instead of feeling relieved at unburdening himself, he found his body bracing for bad news.

“Of course she's resisting you. She's part siren, Kris. She isn't Welsh. I think maybe she's a grandchild of Bar and Ogir. She has the Norse look about her. I think she may be part fire-starter, too. And perhaps there's some demon blood,” Io said. “Thomas would be the one to ask about this.”

Kris grimaced. “I don't think I'll mention it just now. If Adora has anything to go on, she's likely to do some research, and I don't want her finding out who Granny was just yet.”

“Fair enough. The thing is, with sirens, whatever our origin, we—
she
—has to be careful with men. We
can get so easily ensnared. And with a death fey . . .” Io exhaled.

She went on; “It's not your fault, but it's like your breed implant in us a death wish, a need to be subsumed, obliterated even. You bring out something dark and fatalistic. And she does have darkness inside; Cyra and I both saw it. We don't know the details, but I'm betting that she was attacked as a child. I also strongly suspect a lot of parental neglect. She probably senses all of this even if she has no clear memories, and is terrified that she'll end up like her suicidal mother. I know that fear haunted me all of my adult life until I met Jack. My mother was a goblin-fruit addict and a sex addict as well.” Io cleared her throat. “Someone has to talk to her about this. We can't let her walk about ignorant of the dangers around her.”

“And?” Kris asked, his face tight. “There's more, isn't there?”

“Yes. You won't like it, but you need to know that you're vulnerable too. And not just to her anger. Little affects death feys except a siren's call. Death and sex—it's all so close. It makes relationships very tricky.” Io's smile was wry. “They can be great beyond measure, but they can also lead to what has been called assured mutual self-destruction. You must be careful—for all our sakes.”

Kris nodded again. He had sensed this. He also understood what Io wasn't saying. The danger wasn't just to Adora and Kris. If he ever lost control, gave himself over to the killing impulse, he could end up slaughtering both of them and anyone else who was nearby. Maybe everyone in Cadalach.

It was going to be tough resisting, though. He hadn't reckoned with the strength of the Goddess's
call inside the shian. He had never in his life had a violent impulse toward a woman, but from the moment they'd arrived at the stronghold, his strongest desire had been to have sex with Adora whether she was willing or not. And it was a sexual impulse, not love, which moved him. He didn't care for the alien feeling, and he swore he would not touch her if he had no affection in his heart. As Io pointed out, it was just too damned dangerous. He would touch her with love or not at all.

Adora didn't sleep, but a look at her watch told her there had been a lapse of hours as she had sat unaware. She sighed. She had to make a decision— make it soon. Before Kris came back. And she had to make it right, since it would dictate the direction of the remainder of her life.

It was difficult, though, because she felt unsettled, torn in two directions. Kris left a certain exuberant turbulence in his wake. He was a tornado, picking up her safe assumptions and throwing them around until she was dizzy. This should have left her irritated, but somehow it didn't. Because . . . this was just Kris.

And maybe because she hadn't liked her previous assumptions all that much anyway.

She tried a last time to imagine Kris as Bishop Nicholas, or as a demi-god surrounded by worshippers, but for once, her imagination failed. This was Kris—Kris of the laughing eyes and ready grin and generous thoughts. Not a god, not a saint, not Santa. Whatever he was in the past, he was simply Kris now.

Heaven help her, that was problem enough. He was a sort of homme fatale for her, both terrifying and magnificent. She wasn't sure how it had happened—though he had first seduced her into giddy pleasure by asking her opinions and encouraging her to talk about herself without making any harsh judgments about how she lived. That sounded pretty silly when she thought about it, but for her that was a better gift than flowers and jewelry. She could live without gems and gold, but she was hungry for understanding and caring.

And he was living, breathing expiation— forgiveness for any sin or burden she carried.

That sounds like a demi-god to me
, Joy sneered.

But the way he moves. . . .

Hyperdynamism—that's the scientific word for a rare but explainable human condition.

Why do you keep arguing?
Adora asked.

Because you want me to. You don't want him to be . . .

Fey,
Adora finished for her. That was the word. But he
was
fey. How could she have not seen it before? The strength, the range of motion, even his skeletal structure! He moved like a cheetah or a . . . fey. That was the only answer. She had to accept it: Kris wasn't human. He was fey. She probably was too. Not human—at least, not completely.

Adora clutched Kris's pillow like it was a teddy bear that would comfort her, and in an odd way it did. Kris's scent clung to it. If she closed her eyes, she could almost believe he was there with her.

Old memories rose up suddenly, but they were just ghosts now, and though strong they had no physical form to harm her. Their only ploy was resurrected emotions, but given her new reality, they had no power unless she gave it to them. And she wouldn't. She'd acknowledge them; after all, she had been miserable—more miserable than . . . well, beyond a certain point it was meaningless to assign degrees. She had been wretched, frightened and alone most of her life, and that hurt. But that was a long time ago. And after Joy came, she'd never been that alone again. And now there was Kris and . . . this place.

She was seeing many things more clearly now. Her early lustful feelings for Kris were partly an act of defiance. In spite of Joy's warnings, Adora had secretly been encouraging her attraction to Kris the way a mother would urge a toddler into taking first steps. It was a roundabout way of demonstrating to the distrustful part of her that Kris could be one of the good guys and there was no need to fear him. Or, more to the point, no need to fear caring about him.

But will he care back?

Hell's bells, Joy. What am I, the psychic hotline? I just know that he's—

Overwhelmed you.

Maybe that was true. She was still limited by the filter of her five human senses—though she sometimes suspected that there might be more that she sometimes reached when she dreamed. But all her waking senses said that there was something about Kris that was unique—though it couldn't be that he actually looked better, smelled better, felt better than anyone else in the world. He
couldn't
. Yet that was her experience of him.

It's called pheromones.

No
. Adora knew she sounded smitten. And gloomy.
That's too simple.

Then it's love, you blighted idiot.

Noooo.

No?

Well, okay, maybe. But Joy, it's more than that. He's . . .

Yes, he is
. Joy sounded resigned.
And if you're determined to do this, then I think there are a few things we need to deal with first.

You mean about . . . how I'm different.

Yes.

Adora took a slow, deep breath. She had spent most of her life trying to hide from the knowledge that inside her was Another, a not quite normal being who—above all else—she did not want to be. Because if she was this
other
, then she would never, ever be loved. Not by her parents. Not by anyone. The fact that her parents were now—and had been for a long time—beyond loving or disapproving or anything else, hadn't registered in her gut.

Not until now. Finally the internal truth was catching up with reality. Perhaps because of Kris. Perhaps because of being in this place. Whatever the cause, Adora didn't need to hide from herself anymore. She could look inward and see who and what she really was.

Are you certain you want to remember? That you're really ready to face this?

Adora started to answer, then paused to really think about Joy's question.
I think I need to know
, she decided at last.
I can't go to Kris as a cripple.

Okay, maybe you're right. Maybe you can finally look at these things head-on and give them their eviction notice. Hang on, though, we're in for a rough ride.

Adora felt something shift in her brain, like a rusted door being forced open. A light was switched on, illuminating the dark, neglected corners of the attic of her memory. Though nervous, she forced herself to take a long look, to pull the first dust cover off the sinister shapes that had been shoved to the edges of her mind. It took all her will not to flinch from what lurked there. Only the thought of Kris and his endless capacity for acceptance gave her the power to go on.

Her first shroud was pulled away to reveal an old eight-millimeter projector and a yellowed screen with a still image on it. She focused on the frozen picture, a blurry snapshot of a spring day when she was five. It might have been her birthday. She was never certain back then just when it was, because no one ever remembered to get her a cake or presents, so she would just pick a day in the summer and pretend that was her birthday.

Ready?
Joy asked.

Yes.

The film stuttered and then came to slow life, sprockets clicking loudly. Adora was standing outside a neighbor's house, eyes dazzled by the sun as she gazed through the bleached pickets of the leaning fence. Around her there rose the soft shushing of waves meeting up with land.

“It's Aptos,” she murmured, almost able to feel the grit of sand trapped in her sandals and the crinoline of her starched slip scratching her legs.

Yes.

A breeze brushed by her, ocean chilled and unpleasant, and it banged shut the screen door of the bungalow in front of her.

That was Old Man Fletcher's house,
she said.

Yes, Fletcher.

Adora shivered violently as she thought the name. There was nothing sinister about the house itself. It was a typical beach bungalow, white with blue shutters, a little salt-worn and rubbed around the edges. The succulents blooming in the yard were actually pretty. But she was suddenly afraid. Because she remembered a bit more now; a monster lived there.It had beer breath and watery blue eyes, and filthy fingernails that hurt when they pinched her.

That bastard
. Adora's small hands wrapped around the weathered pickets and squeezed tightly. Fletcher wasn't the kind who lured children in with toys and candy. There was no seduction involved. None. She recalled a rough voice calling her names that she didn't understand but instinctively feared. And she recalled those giant hands turning rough, slapping her when she cried and then tried to fight back.

Do you need to see more?
Joy asked, making the film still.

No. I remember now. That really happened, didn't it?

Yes.

Unable to help herself, Adora looked at her younger self and began to cry.

I was alone.

Joy's voice was matter-of-fact.
It's sad, but all quite true. You were often alone back then. No loving parent was there to hide the toxic cleaners when you were a toddler. No one was there to tell you not to stick bobby-pins in electrical outlets. And no one warned you not to talk to strangers. . . . You avoided drinking bleach and the bobby-pins. Two out of three isn't bad for a five-year old. You should be proud
.

Proud?
Adora stopped crying. Anger choked off her tears. She began to remember this too—all the dangerous things she had done as a preschooler, like riding her tricycle in the middle of the busy street, playing at the beach at high tide when the water was running fast. Or going into the neighbors' houses when they offered her cookies or a chance to play with their pets because she was allowed none of her own. She had even let a strange man take her for a ride on his motorcycle. They had spent the day playing games at the boardwalk.