The Saint (8 page)

—
Niklas 4:6

Petyr stared at the dice and then, in anger, beat all four fists on the table.

“The Goddessss alwaysss did love you bessst,” he hissed.

“True. I don't know why you insist upon gambling with me,” Niklas agreed, grinning.

The goblin, though angered at losing, found himself smiling back. One couldn't stay angry at this fey. “What do you demand of me thisss time?” he asked.

Niklas's smile grew wider, and Petyr knew a moment of alarm. “You know that I sometimes go out on Saint Nicholas's Day to bring gifts to human children?” the fey asked.

“Yesss,” the goblin answered warily.

“Well, there are more children than ever, and this year I need an assistant. You'll enjoy it—truly.”

Petyr's mouth fell open. “You want me to go among the humansss?”

“Yes. There is one town in particular I need to visit. They have been struck with plague, and many of the children have been orphaned. They need food and clothing as well as toys, and the other humans are too afraid to go there.”

“But I can't—I daren't.” Petyr tugged nervously on his ears and nose. They stretched comically.

“Don't worry. Neither of us can catch this disease. It only affects humans.”

“It'sss not that. You know it isss forbidden for lutinsss to go among humansss. Gofimbel hasss outlawed it.”

“We shan't let on that you're a goblin,” Niklas said. “We'll dress you in a black cloak that will hide your arms, and we'll rub ash on your face and say it is from the chimneys you and I have been down. We'll call you Black Peter, the gnome.”

Petyr snorted, but he was resigned.

“They'll think me a demon,” he warned. “Or their Satan-devil.”

“Just so long as they don't think you are a goblin,” Niklas answered.

Petyr sighed and picked up his dice. He hesitated before dropping them back into his pouch. Normally he was very lucky, but he could never win against Niklas.

“I'm getting new dice before we play again,” he warned.

“Certainly,” Niklas answered. “It won't make any difference, though. The Goddess always wins.”

“Did Hell freeze over while I was sleeping?” Adora asked the Satanic instrument in her hand, knowing it would relay her question to Ben. Glancing over at Kris, she lowered her voice. “I haven't a clue. And even if I did, that is confidential material beyond the scope of the book and I won't discuss it. Ever. So don't ask again. . . . Did the contracts arrive?”

The phone squawked, and she held it away from her ear. She grimaced when Kris looked up from his ledger. Ben's favorite tool of information procurement was a shaming tongue that he used to cut people to the quick. But saws and knives, useful as they were, didn't work when a lockpick was needed. Adora figured that he would eventually figure that out and leave her alone.

Ha! You've heard about old dogs and new tricks? He'll never change. What an asshole,
Joy commented.

Now, now. Don't insult the rectum. At least
it
does something for me,
Adora thought back. She focused on getting off the phone with her agent. Kris was sitting here patiently in the hotel suite, waiting for her to begin her interview.

“Soooo that's everything. I have to go now. I'll call if anything comes up. Good-bye.” She put the phone down, cutting off shrieks and stutters. Adora reached for the ringer, planning to shut it off,then realized that it was Kris's phone and that he might want to use it.

“Your agent?” Kris asked politely, sipping his after-dinner coffee. Outside, on the deck, bees droned lazily, happy in their early evening bacchanalia, drunk on foxglove and columbine nectar.

“How did you guess?” Adora asked, forcing her scowl to disappear. She'd have to get plastic surgery for the frown lines if she didn't stop letting Ben get to her.

“Pennywyse mentioned that he is . . . forceful. And very concerned about you. He has been calling hourly since seven a.m.”

It figured that Ben had somehow found the right number. Where there was a will and all that.

“Concerned? Not exactly. Ben has barbed wire where his heart should be, and a two-inch thick skull. He also has a conversational style a bit like death by a thousand paper cuts.” Adora sighed and then admitted: “That isn't true. Well, not all the time. Just when he's been drinking. But he's very nosy even when he's sober. Once in a while you have to post giant No Trespassing signs. And sometimes—when he's being selectively illiterate about the signs—you have to pepper him with buckshot to get him to pay attention. Still, I want you to know that nothing private will be passed along. I can be discreet.”

Hearing what she had just said, Adora frowned. What was she doing, mentioning something so personal about her agent to a client? How unlike her! But there was something about Kris that made her spill her guts even when she knew better.

Pennywyse stuck his head in the door. He didn't say anything but somehow still managed to convey a message to Kris. He walked with catlike stealth to the French doors, closed them and twitched the drapes into place. He didn't seem to like light or fresh air.

“Your luggage has arrived. It's in the second bedroom,” Kris said suddenly. He had sent someone to retrieve her clothes, sparing her the necessity of another trip in the plane. Ah—to be so wealthy! The idea that someone else might go to her home and pack for her had been a little shocking, but Adora had looked deep into Kris's eyes and then surrendered her house keys without protest—or even any real worry.

There isn't anything there worth stealing anyway
, she'd explained to a sputtering Joy, who was less happy with her acquiescence.

“Thank you. I appreciate everyone's kindness,” Adora said to Kris. She wasn't sure if she felt guilty for being the recipient of so much effort from his staff, but she was definitely delighted that she hadn't had to fly home again. Instead, she had stayed at the hotel, skimming the rather amazing and impossible file Kris supplied, and had enjoyed a fabulous late lunch of roasted eggplant soup and
steak au poivre
with her new employer, who'd managed to squeeze in a meal with her between meetings.

Over the repast, Adora finally decided she had an angle on what Kris was doing. He was constructing a new identity. For some reason, he wanted the world to believe that he was Santa Claus,
but not the commercial Santa they all thought they knew.
It was a crazy thing to do, beyond all normal eccentricity. And it would be expensive too. She cringed just thinking of the cost of free toys for the world. But philanthropists were notoriously eccentric.

Joy had argued with her assumptions, naturally.

Even now, Adora admitted that there were some problems with her theory—angles she hadn't entirely worked out—but she liked it better than believing this man really was . . .

A fruitcake with a double helping of nuts?
her inner voice asked.

No—but confused. Maybe on medication
.

Why don't you ask him, and find out what
he
thinks about your theory?
Joy suggested.
I bet he'll tell you the truth. As he knows it
.

Fine. I will. Right now,
Adora vowed.
It's time for the interviews to begin.

But first she had to decide where to sit. The sofa looked inviting, but she already knew it was too soft. She couldn't stay perched on the edge, and that was the only place she liked. It was silly, her requirement, but she always felt smothered and vulnerable on sofas because there was a chance that someone might join her. She liked chairs. Chairs were solitary. And while they weren't always comfortable, they were usually solid and you could get up from them quickly.

So sit in a chair already. Or walk around. Just get on with it.

“Okay, enough shilly-shallying. Let's get to it,” she said aloud. “What about the whole going-down-chimneys thing?” she asked. Kris blinked slowly as she demanded: “Can you really do that? Or was it just another exaggeration?”

Kris set his coffee aside and answered readily enough. “In Saint Nicholas's day, many homes didn't have chimneys per se. There were simply smoke holes in the roof. But where there's smoke—”

“There's fire?” she guessed.

He smiled. “Yes. But there is also a path. I learned the trick of traveling on smoke from my days with Freya. I can be very, very quiet.”

“Uh-huh. That would be the Norwegian goddess Freya?” Adora asked. She congratulated herself on getting very good at keeping her tone even. In her notebook she wrote
Freya
, and underlined it. She wasn't sure why. There was no way she was bringing this subject up in her book.

“Yes. Though ‘goddess' is not really the word for her. She was an aspect of divinity, a being who carried an usually large slice of Gaia's power.” Kris studied Adora. He was smiling slightly, as though aware of and amused by her skepticism.

“And Gaia is
The Goddess?
” Adora asked, unearthing her limited store of pagan mythology.

“Gaia is everything—God, Goddess, Allfather, Allmother. Everything that is life and light and love.”

New Age religion. Swell. For half the U.S. population that meant devil worship. There went all the royalties from sales in the Bible Belt. She probably wouldn't be talking about this part, either.

“Oooookay,” she said. “Maybe we can go over this part later. Though I am curious about whether you're a Christian or not. Being a saint would rather suggest leanings in that direction.”

She tried to smile, but Kris made a
tsk
ing noise and wagged a finger at her. “You're jumping to conclusions again. I followed Christ, but I am not a Christian in the modern sense of the word—and the whole saint thing was never my idea.”

“Hm.” Adora made a note and followed it up with three question marks. They'd have to do something about that. There was no way that anyone was going to want to hear that Saint Nicholas wasn't a Christian and hadn't wanted the job. That dog just wouldn't hunt, even among New-Agers. She could help Kris construct a fantasy, but it had to be consistent and logical and not offend potential readers.

“You know, the legend I can't believe people fell for was that I moved my operations north because I loved the snow. Sheesh! If I loved the cold so much, why were my first American headquarters outside of New Orleans?” Kris added: “The only reason I was ever at the North Pole was because the goblins drugged me and left me there to feed the polar bears. Santa's toy factory at the Pole—ha! That'll be the day.”

“You had headquarters near New Orleans?” Adora asked, somehow finding it more diverting than Kris's comment about being drugged by the goblins. The file had several references to goblin leaders that Adora had never heard of. She was probably going to need a crash course in goblin history if she was going to fit this stuff into the book. Of course, the question of whether she
would
fit it in was another matter. The equation might look too much like demons + Saint Nick = goblins. Santa Claus couldn't be associated with demons.

“You didn't know that? It isn't common knowledge among humans?” Kris asked. He suddenly looked more cheerful. “Well, well. I'll have to get Thomas to look into it for me. I mean, if the property outside the city is still undeveloped, there's a chance some of my belongings are still there. . . .”

She wondered if she should mention the devastating hurricane that had happened last year and decided against it. “You'd never be able to stand that velvet and fur suit down south,” she warned. “And what about the reindeer? They'd croak in the heat. Also, I'm betting that the elves would have to unionize. It would drive the cost of toy construction right through the roof—not good if you're planning on keeping up the philanthropic work. You
are
planning on carrying on, aren't you?” she asked as she ran out of breath. “I mean, that
is
the plan, isn't it?”

Kris smiled again and shook his head. His pale hair shimmered as it moved, reminding her of moonlight on water. It was distracting.

“I never wore that red suit but twice—one
would
be the one time I was seen and reported in the newspapers. And frankly, I don't want to use reindeer anymore. Most are mule stubborn and none-too-bright. Horses are much better. Besides, I need to update my image. Just so you know, I don't actually use animals to pull my sleigh—no point in being accused of equine cruelty, is there? It's all public relations these days, I see. And I have other ways to travel when I make my rounds. . . . Maybe manatees would be a good replacement, mascot-wise. Or condors. Or a dragon! Kids would love a dragon, don't you think?” He sounded enthused.