The Saint (6 page)

The Storch returned to earth with more decorum than it had used at takeoff. The engine died, and the only sounds were the last lazy
whup-whups
of the slowing propeller and Robin's sigh of repletion.

In spite of his claim of urgency, the pilot moved languorously, maybe looking for a cigarette in the briefcase on his lap. But the limo driver had the airplane door open in short order, and Adora exited just as enthusiastically. Morrison had her body and bag tucked inside the Town Car in under a minute and they were on their way before Adora could even say thank you and good-bye to Robin.

“Ma'am, there's some champagne if you're in the mood,” he suggested.

Adora took a deep breath of expensive leather and groaned appreciatively. “Not just now, thanks. I want to take this in without distraction.”

“I know,” Morrison said. There was a smile in his voice as he started the car. “I wish it was legal to marry an automobile. I'd be on my knee with ring in hand in a heartbeat. It's a good thing Kris doesn't mind me lusting after his girl.”

“He's a good employer?” Adora asked, reluctantly starting the process of interviewing. “An open-minded one?”

“The best. He even lets me drive the Jag.” His tone was reverent.

Adora laughed, then decided that perhaps this visit to Mr. Bishop S. Nicholas might not entirely be a hardship. He seemed kind to his employees. It was possible that she would even like him.

At the last moment, Adora remembered to wave farewell to Robin. She had to lower the window and dangle the upper half of her body outside to get his attention. It wasn't the most graceful posture in her skirt, but she was glad that she did it. Robin's wan expression stretched into a wide smile, and he waved back.

 

 

But some of Mankind were not content with their gift of light, and they asked why they could not be the masters of all the Earth and all her seasons. The shaman pointed at the burning tree and spoke thusly: “Recall, O Sons of Man, that you are like this sacred tree. Your Light is not so great as the Sun and cannot cover the earth. And Man's Light burns but for a short time. Yet it is in this Light that refuge from the darkness may be had by others of your kind. Rejoice in it, and be not envious of the Sun that loves you.”

—
Niklas 3:2

Kris closed his eyes against the pale March sun and, eavesdropping on Cadalach, he listened to the children— though, sadly, not his own children—playing.

I'm tired
, he thought.
And with cause, damn it. My brain is still half-scrambled, but I already remember too much. How can I bear this alone?

And he did remember now. There were so many lifetimes tangled in his head. His friends Jack and Nyssa had done what they could, but his brain was still a mess of terrible visions he could not explain. He had seen
“eternal” monuments and religions rise and fall. He'd even been around long enough to see them exhumed by archaeologists and lost again. Of all the places of his youth, only the stone tower of Jericho remained, and it was more than half buried.

He was old. So old. And nothing had changed. He told the humans how to love, but still they despaired and coveted. They hated and they envied and they killed. He didn't feel like going on anymore. Not alone. He was almost sorry that Jack had found him. If only the goblin hunter had gotten him, he would be dead, and all this horror would be behind him.

“I know your weariness, child,” a warm voice said suddenly. “But now I send glad tidings from the one who made you. For this last quest, you shall not be alone.”

Shocked, Kris opened his eyes.

“What?” he asked aloud of the nearly forgotten voice. He hadn't heard it in centuries.

“I promise,” the voice repeated. “You will not be alone. Look to the west, for it is from there that she will come.”

Though she had never been to L.A., Adora knew by sight the Regent Beverly Wilshire, which was said to be the crowning jewel in the golden diadem that was Rodeo Drive. Adora had an old postcard of the hotel from her paternal grandmother, who had been an actress in silent films. She had never met the old woman, but her father had left Adora with the impression of her being a woman with an awareness of what was due her, and who was every inch the grande dame.

Adora shied away from that line of thought. family wasn't something upon which she liked to ruminate.

Dashiell Hammet had written
The Thin Man
at the Beverly Wilshire. Many writers had stayed there over the years. Inspiration probably saturated the walls.

Not sure what to expect architecturally in a city run by goblins, Adora found herself relieved that the building had not been altered. The classic European facade was fronted by a row of sculptured trees that spread lacy limbs over the distinctive round awnings covering the first floor windows. There were few enough buildings like this in the New World—in California especially, where the twenty-year-teardown was almost mandatory and where earthquakes got the rest. A structure this grand was a true rarity, being constructed in an era when artists weren't afraid of being decorative.

They drove past an ornate verdigris gate whose plaque announced in formal script that she had entered the hallowed precincts of the Regent Beverly Wilshire, and stopped under the broad portico. A uniformed valet had her door open in a trice— probably because he wanted to touch the splendid car—and helped her alight. A bellman rushed over to take her bag. Both men looked normal, but something about them made her think that they were goblins.

“This is Miss Navarra,” Morrison said.

“Of course. This way, ma'am. I'll show you up to the presidential suite. You are expected.”

Adora nodded, keeping her smile to herself. The presidential suite? It had to be nice to be rich.

“Thank you, Morrison,” she said, smiling at him and taking a last look at the Packard. Parting was such sweet sorrow.

“My pleasure, ma'am. I'll see you later, I'm sure.”

Adora sincerely hoped so.

The presidential suite overlooked Rodeo Drive. She had little time to appreciate the view, though, because she was shown immediately into a library, which had heavy drapes drawn over the massive windows. She took a quick look at the shelves, half-expecting to see a complete oeuvre of modern mystics and crackpots represented, but neither Edgar Caycen or Nostradamus were anywhere in sight. Oddly, many of the books appeared written in foreign languages she couldn't identify.

Hearing soft footsteps, she turned to find the man she assumed was her new employer.

“Mr. Bishop Nicholas?” she asked as the door to the hallway shut softly behind her. The bellman, who had grown increasingly nervous as they approached the suite, hadn't waited for a tip; he had dropped her off and then fled.

A man with silver hair and wearing a dark Armani suit paused for a moment in a shaft of sunlight that had sneaked through the velvet drapes, and then walked toward her. His long legs ate up the distance. With every step, his stunning features grew clearer, and Adora's first thought was that he was the most radiantly beautiful creature she had ever seen.

“Only in my public life,” he replied. “Please, call me Kris. Kris Kringle. It's a bit of a joke.” He offered his hand and a long, unblinking gaze with a halfsmile. Up close, his eyes were a shade of silver-blue that Adora had never seen. They invited her to step into them and drown.

“That would be Kris with a
K?
” she asked, accepting his hand and allowing his fingers to briefly touch hers. She felt a bit stunned, as though the earth had spun off its axis. She didn't gasp or swoon, but Adora felt the sudden flush of color that flowed into her cheeks. If her employer was paying attention, even in the dim light he would also notice that her pulse was gratifyingly unsteady—presuming he was hoping she'd be disconcerted by her sudden attraction to him.

“Naturally with a
K.
It makes for excellent visual alliteration.”

Adora reluctantly dropped his hand and took a half-step back. She forced herself to form a complete—and hopefully more realistic—impression.

On second glance, her would-be employer's face was rugged and experienced rather than beautiful. And it wasn't so much youthful as ageless and mobile. His voice was as flexible as his face—though at the moment better controlled and directed at her with some as yet unrevealed purpose.

His hair was silvered and long enough to touch his shoulders, but rather than the texture of gray hair it had the gossamer quality of a baby's tresses. Adora was willing to bet that this was the same shade of hair with which he had been born. It was impossible to guess his age.

The brows above his startling silver-blue eyes were dark, a sharp contrast to the locks that framed his face, and they swooped backward, giving him a permanent quizzical expression. The body beneath the face was lean, and it moved quickly and efficiently, reminding Adora of a cat—one of the dangerous, hunting types.

His voice wasn't feline, though, she thought as he spoke again. It was pure magic—sugarplums and dark chocolate and every type of delicious sin. Combined with his unblinking stare, it made her feel like she was slipping into a hot spring on a snowy February night. She didn't know how it could be, when she was usually immune to male charms, but Adora admitted—at least to herself— that this man was exerting some sort of psychic gravitational pull on her.
Charisma.
She had met people who had it before, but never to this degree.

Her second thought was that he was the most unlikely-looking Santa she could imagine. There had to be some mistake.

If she was guilty of staring a bit too hard, then so was he. She would like to think that it was because he was equally stunned and attracted by her person but doubted that was the case. She had been ill for several months—perhaps a final present from Derek, the lying rat bastard—and though she had put a lot of the lost weight back on, Adora knew that the only thing really striking about her was her golden pallor. Unfortunately, illness hadn't made her fragile and cuddly; the hollows under her cheeks could almost qualify as caves, and her limbs were bony and angular. Instead of a waif, she looked more like an anorexic Valkyrie.

“I don't mean to be rude or abrupt,” Adora forced herself to say in a businesslike voice, “but I wish to be plain right from the start. You do understand that your assertion that you are Kris Kringle—Santa Claus—is more than a bit farfetched, and that I will require some proof—actually a great deal of proof— of this claim as the project progresses? I am not willing to lie to the public about such a thing.”

You aren't, huh?
Joy had stirred.
Anyway, are you sure you really want proof?

“But of course you aren't. And I'm not fond of lying myself.” Kris smiled fully, making himself twice as charming. He added gently, “I don't mean to be rude either, but you're staring awfully hard. Have I got something caught in my teeth?”

“I'm looking for wings or a halo,” she said defensively, embarrassed by her lapse in manners. She hoped he wouldn't notice her tripping pulse. “Is it a great effort to hide them from the world? Or do you just have a good tailor?”

He laughed. “Wrong legend. I never claimed to be an angel, only a saint. If you recall your childhood
literature, you will note that my appearance supposedly ran more to red suits and reindeer.” Briefly, a dark look crossed his face.

“So you're sticking to that story? You are Santa Claus?”

“Oh yes, absolutely. Santa Claus. That's the one I want you to tell. Didn't your agent explain? I asked Pennywyse to be explicit about the project.” His smile was hard to resist. It made even the unreasonable seem possible—even probable. Perhaps this project would work as a book on tape. If he narrated, he could hypnotize the audience into believing him.

“Pennywyse?” Adora asked, unable to focus on anything except his voice.

“My assistant. He called your agent and arranged for you to come here.”

“Ah.” Pennywyse was the one who had given Ben the wrong phone number, so she supposed she owed him. She sighed and heard herself saying out loud: “They'll throw me in the nuthouse, you know. If I do this.”

Kris shook his head and smiled again. “No, they'll want to throw
me
in the nuthouse. You'll just be branded as an exploitative, publicity-hungry kook who took advantage of a mentally ill person.”

“Which is much better,” Adora retorted dryly, though she was both gladdened and surprised that he understood and admitted to the likely consequences of their actions. He might be crazy, but he wasn't stupid. So, score one point for Kris with a
K.

He seemed to take her words as a question. “Oh, yes. At least I think so. Far better to be thought an opportunist than an idiot, or so it seems to me,” he said, echoing her thoughts.