The Saint (7 page)

“That doesn't sound like a very Santalike thing to say,” Adora pointed out. “I thought you were always jolly and looking on the bright side of things.”

He shook his head and asked reasonably, “Now, how can you know what I would or would not say? Everything you've heard about me is at best garbled legend and, at worst, downright lies. You're here so we can set the record straight.”

“They'll make us publish this as fiction,” she warned in a final attempt to break free of the deal. But it was less than wholehearted. In spite of herself, she was drawn to this man and wanted to hear his story.

And maybe feel him up,
Joy inserted.

“No, they won't,” Kris said confidently, squashing her last feeble hope of rescue from Wonderland. “I've already spoken with the publisher, and he's a believer. The fact that he is also something of a distant relative is a help too. Sadly, the old saw is right in publishing: It isn't what you know, but who you know. Now, won't you have a seat? May I get you something to drink before we start?”

Adora was suddenly aware that her feet hurt. Against all common sense, she had chosen to wear her highest heels to this interview. Her usual pumps would have been okay, but these strappy sandals were problematic. They were fine for about three hours—if one stayed seated—but standing in them was unpleasant and walking well-nigh impossible once her feet began to swell and the straps got tight as Tupperware. Why she had worn them, Adora didn't know; she'd just had some vague sense that this multimillionaire deserved her most frivolous footwear. And somehow being tall had seemed advisable.

Adora looked up from her feet. Kris was closer, and she had to tip her head backward a bit to make eye contact. If her object in wearing high heels had been to appear taller than her client, she would have been disappointed. Kris, with a
K,
was built along impressive, nonelfin lines.

She took a breath and agreed to his terms. “Fine. It's your commitment proceedings. If the contracts don't have a clause indemnifying me from future lawsuits, we'll add one.” Adora sat down on a plush chair and pushed up the sleeves of her dress. It was a soft gray cashmere, very pretty but also reasonably businesslike. She opened her small briefcase on the glass-topped table and pushed a vase of flowers aside. “Let's get started. Do you mind if I take notes while we talk?”

“Not at all.”

Kris seated himself across from her. As soon as her feet were out of sight, she slipped off her sandals. The relief was immediate.

“I'm afraid that we'll only have about half an hour to talk this morning,” he said apologetically. “Perhaps we should discuss your schedule first.”

“My schedule?”

“Yes. I'll be moving around quite a bit and will need you to travel with me. In fact, we'll be leaving for New York the day after tomorrow.”

Adora blinked.

“We're going to be traveling? To New York?” She frowned. Ben hadn't said anything about traveling. She didn't mind—was thrilled, in fact—but it did complicate things. She had packed for the more casual environs of L.A. It would mean a fast trip home—
please, God, not in the Storch
. She said aloud, “Where else would we go? Assuming I take the job, will I need my passport?”

“Oh, no. We won't be going anywhere that requires a passport. Yet. To begin with, I plan New York and San Francisco. And perhaps Palm Springs. These days I'm also doing a bit of a Robin Hood gig and need to stick close to home while arrangements are made to rob Prince John. He goes by the name of General Anaximander these days. His Sheriff of Nottingham is a creature called Raxin.”

She'd heard the name Raxin but couldn't recall in what context. Adora wanted to ask what he meant, but she was interrupted by the entrance of a small, nervous man in a dark green suit.

Kris said, “Miss Navarra, let me introduce my publicist, Maxwell Brand. He handles many of L.A.'s up-and-coming stars and will see to it that your book is made known to the world. Max, this is Adora Navarra, the biographer.”

The biographer.
She liked the sound of that.

“A pleasure,” Max said, and somehow managed to sound like he meant it. Perhaps she was looking like a sane ally in the land of sugarplums and legends. Even for L.A. publicists, Santa Claus had to be an
out-there
kind of client. “I'm sorry to disturb you, Kris, but Mugshottz has been looking for you. He's had a cable from . . . from your nephew. Things sound . . . on course. But Jack would like a consult as soon as you're able to get away.”

“Excellent. I think of Mugshottz as my Little John,” Kris added as an aside to Adora. “He's certainly tall enough.” He turned back to his publicist. “Max, tell him I'm—never mind. Here he is. Mugshottz, come and meet Miss Navarra. She's going to be writing about me.”

Adora looked at the creature lumbering down the hall toward them and swallowed hard. She had understood that she was in a goblin city and that it was possible she would see some lutins, but her online research had led her to believe that goblins were diminutive creatures that had surgery to appear human. This person was the size of a smallish grizzly bear, and if he'd had any surgery to help him look human it had been done by a mad scientist who spent too much time watching B horror movies.

“Call the Fab Five. We have a fashion emergency,” she muttered, again speaking aloud without meaning to. And when she got a better look, she whispered, “He's got a head-piercing—right through the temple!” Adora found herself staring at the bolts projecting in a Frankensteinish manner from Mugshottz's head. She didn't like to make snap judgments about people, but she thought it unlikely that she and this creature would be best friends. Certainly she would have to be nuts to take style advice from him.

“Yes, Mugshottz is a troll-goblin mix,” Kris answered, assuming she was speaking to him. He added loudly, “He claims to have some gargoyle blood too. I'm not exactly sure where he keeps his brain, but I have long suspected that it isn't in his head.” His voice returned to normal. “He's a good bodyguard, though, and would die to protect me, which is all I can ask.” Then he again lowered his tone to add one more thing: “By the way, he's from the Bronx. Pretend not to notice the accent. He's self-conscious about it.”

Adora pulled her eyes away from the monster long enough to see if her new employer was kidding. He didn't seem to be. He looked genuinely concerned about hurting this creature's feelings— and why shouldn't he? Kris was apparently kind to all his people. She could feel herself being drawn in to his vision of the world, despite her reservations.

Trolls and gargoyles as bodyguards? Why not? At the moment, it seemed believable.

You are such a sucker
, Joy complained.

And maybe she was. This Kris had an irresistible sense of purpose that swept everything before it. Adora had expected a certain operatic greatness to surround him—most wealthy men had a touch, and this one thought he was a living legend—but whatever else her employer was, he wasn't a lamebrain pretender. He might be delusional or psychotic, but he was sincere and energetic, and seemed to have a mind as sharp as a headsman's ax.

A thought occurred to her. Maybe Kris thought he was the
reincarnated
Saint Nicholas. That was a little less weird. Lots of people believed stuff like that, especially in Hollywood. Heck, she hadn't entirely ruled it out of her own philosophy. Reincarnation was something she could get behind, since she believed in second chances.

“Your bodyguard—is he likely to be called upon to die anytime soon?” she asked, pretending concern. She joked: “Should I ask for combat pay?”

Kris shook his head. “Of course not. Having a bodyguard is just a precaution I've taken to please my nephew and other backers. Jack worries a lot.”

Adora nodded. “I guess you have to keep the insurance company happy.”

Kris blinked, and she had a feeling that something she had just said surprised him, though she couldn't imagine what.

“Insurance company. Just so. Tell me, Miss Navarra—”

“Adora, please. We're in California. Last names sound ridiculous—unless you like them, of course,” she added politely. “I want you to be comfortable with me.”

“Adora, then.” The words were an unintentional caress. Or maybe not. Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing. The thought made her frown.

“Given your obvious reservations about the project—and the added, though limited, danger—are you willing to take on this job?” Kris asked. “I hate to rush you, but time is short. I think you've met most of my staff now—at least the ones you'll see daily. Can you stand to live with us while you do this work?”

Adora forced herself to take a last long think. The man's pilot, limo driver, publicist and secretary were all reassuringly normal. She had half feared that they would resemble the cast from
Santa Claus is Coming to Town
. But they all—except the bodyguard—eschewed any semblance to elves or pixies or fairy-tale monsters of any stripe, and Mugshottz . . . Well, he wasn't that scary now that she saw him up close. Just large and silent and looming. And she wasn't a species bigot, was she?

“We won't be taking the Storch to New York, will we?” she asked suspiciously. “Because I have to tell you that I don't do well in small planes.”

“No. There isn't enough room for all of us. And I prefer speed as a rule. I only sent the Storch as a treat for you. I figured that as an historian you would appreciate it more than an efficient but characterless means of travel. I myself am quite fond of antiques.”

“Hm. Well, thank you. I certainly loved the car. What a gorgeous automobile.” The words were absentminded but sincere. She was still thinking, still weighing. Kris nodded and waited while she finished. Unlike her agent, he seemed to feel no need to rush her into conversation or decision.

“Okay, I'm in,” she said. “And God have mercy on us all.”

“Wonderful. Max, would you ask Pennywyse to fetch the contracts? Adora, I have put together some biographical material for you to read in your spare time. It will fill you in on some of the more colorful details.”

Colorful?
Joy laughed.
I bet they're blinding
.

“Fine. But please hurry, before I change my mind,” Adora muttered. At Kris's concerned look, she added: “I just know that this is a mistake for both of us.”

He chuckled at her complaint and she smiled, but it wasn't really a joke. Adora had the clearest feeling that she was making a decision with huge future consequences, all of which were presently unknown. Still, what did she have to lose—except her house and professional credibility and credit rating?

Kris leaned toward her. “Now, how about something to drink? Iced tea perhaps? Or coffee?”

“I'm fine, really. I . . .” Adora stopped speaking and stared into Kris's eyes, lost for a time and rescued only when another man appeared and laid a set of contracts and a thick file folder in front of her. The spell broken, she looked down and tried to make sense of the documents before her.

It was difficult, because what she really wanted to do was open the file beneath and find out some details about Mr. Bishop S. Nicholas, aka Kris Kringle of the stunning eyes.

“I'll leave you to read over the contracts,” her employer said, rising. “Please feel free to request anything you need or want from Pennywyse. There's a fax machine on the desk, and a computer.”

Adora forced herself to look up and focus on the dark, slender man who stood in the shadows of the room and looked quite content there. He smiled slightly.

“I'll be back this afternoon,” Kris said, drawing her attention. “We can have dinner and talk about the material in the folder then. I'm certain you'll have questions.”

“Without a doubt,” Adora agreed. Briskly, she began searching under the desk for her sandals, her sore toes questing after the runaway shoes. She looked slightly to the left of Kris, not wanting to get lost in his gaze again.

“That's all right—don't get up,” he said, as though guessing what she was doing. “Please be comfortable. I want you to be happy here. That's very important to me.”

And Adora was certain that he meant it.

Santa Claus,
she thought as he left the room, taking the warmth with him. . . . Well, she'd researched more obscure beings. And since he claimed to be Saint Nicholas himself, she wouldn't have to worry about him calling in psychics to raise ghosts. That was a relief. She didn't like psychics and didn't need them to tell her about the dead. She had books should Kris's memory—or imagination—fail them when it came to period details.

Books
. She was glad he had a library here. Looking at titles was her favorite way to know the minds of others.

Then Adora had a minor revelation. Those odd books she had seen—they must be written in lutin. Of course! But they probably belonged to the hotel instead of Kris. It would have occurred to her sooner, but she'd never been inside a hotel with an actual library before. Still, the books could likely tell her about goblins. Which would be a less scary way to find things out. She loved books. They were how she would talk to future generations, since having children now seemed unlikely.

 

 

Some Men traveled to foreign lands and, seeing many treasures there, opened their hearts to envy. They knew discontent and wandered even farther from their homes, and soon they became truly separated from Gaia. Thus the Sons of Man became two tribes and were divided on Earth, some as Celebrants who were with Gaia; and some as Worshippers, who gathered in groups and made images of other gods who looked like Man and bore weapons. The Worshippers feared and were jealous of the Celebrants, who could see Gaia's love everywhere and carried it with them in their hearts. And though the shaman was with them still, bearing Light in the dark of every year, the Worshippers turned from him and his teachings. The shaman did not the same, for he loved them still and would not forsake the Worshippers. Instead, he walked among them doing good deeds, and in time the Worshippers forgot that he was a Celebrant shaman and fey, and they called him Saint Niklas and sometimes Christkind. And the daughters of Man came especially to ask for his aid in finding husbands—and to fill their barren wombs.