The Saint

by Melanie Jackson

  “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 sa
ndals 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.

  You went home afterward. Joy paused. Your mother asked what happened to your good dress, but you never told her the truth. You never told anyone.

  “Why?” Adora whispered. But she knew. She knew. Fresh rage began to blossom inside her. She tried to throttle it down.

  You were afraid—afraid that if you were too much trouble, or if they were ashamed of you, that they would give you away, Joy answered. Maybe to someone like Old Man Fletcher.

  And I was more afraid of being abandoned than I was of that monster down the street. Damn them! Her voice was miserable and angry. How the hell could they not notice what happened? It got worse after that, you know. I was always weird, different, but after that day . . .

  I know.

  Why? Why didn’t they protect me? Were they ashamed of me—is that it? Because I was a firebug?

  No. If it helps any, I don’t think they ever suspected what happened. And you did burn his house down. You damn near got him too. He carried the scars forever. They were like a scarlet A that warned other children away from him.

  I burned his house down? Adora asked.

  Joy was silent, but the memory came back like the others, muted but complete. He had screamed when his clothes caught fire—screamed just like she had when he had hurt her. Adora digested this, wondering if the fact that she had fought back against the monster and won would help melt some of her anger and shame away. She decided it was too soon to tell.

  And that’s when you came, she thought. That was the day.

  Yes, I awakened that day, Joy said. You needed help— strength. And after . . . well, the fire frightened you badly, and you couldn’t afford to go on remembering, having nightmares. But you couldn’t really forget, either. So you made me, gave me a name, and I kept the memory of the scary thing for you. Joy paused. I know you don’t like me—or the cause of my creation—but really it was the healthiest thing for you to do.

  Was it? To run away from what I’d done?

  Of course. Do you really think it would have been better to taxidermy the moment, embalm it so your five-year-old brain could live with the torment forever? Even as an adult, you’ll have trouble excising this hurt. It’s branded into your memory, burned into your soul. I don’t really think you’ll ever forget or forgive what happened—and you shouldn’t have to. But you do need to make peace with yourself and admit what you are. I can’t keep you safe anymore, and your magic affects Kris.

  Are you the . . . power? Agre you the fire, Joy?

  Partly. I am that part of you.

  Am I schizophrenic?

  No. I’m not sure what you are, really. But you aren’t mentally ill.

  Adora laughed bitterly. You’d say that anyway, wouldn’t you? To protect yourself.

  Probably, Joy admitted. But that isn’t such a big deal around here. Look at Kris—he’s a death fey and Santa Claus. He has a pet dragon.

  Joy had a point. Adora decided that she would have to think about this for a while, to re-create a new hierarchy of weirdness with which she could measure things. She was too stunned to do it now, though.

  The main thing, Joy said, is that you understand that though your parents were flawed—fatally so—it doesn’t mean you are. There is no law that says you have to repeat their mistakes.

  It doesn’t mean I’m not flawed, though, Adora pointed out, feeling exhausted. I could be just as twisted as they are. I might be just as bad a parent.

  True, but I’d say this is all up to you. How crippled do you want to be? How much power will you give your parents or Old Man Fletcher? After all, they’re dead and you’re not. Doesn’t that give you the edge?

  That was a good question, but Adora collapsed on the bed and fell asleep before she answered.

  And Gaia spoke to Niklas saying: “Thou art a wonder unto many, and thou mayest well be so, for I have wrought great marvels in thee and for thee that thou should go forth and in turn give comfort to the Sons of Man who wander lost in the lands of the North.”

  —Niklas 11:2

  It was the feast of Mabon, the time of passing for the Great Son, Lord of Shadows, Keeper of Mysteries. It was the time when the Wise One returned to sleep. But first there came the Wild Hunt, where the Keeper would ride the great storm. Many feared this night, but the Keeper calmed them and said they should not go in fear, for the Goddess would spread her hand of protection over them while her Son returned home.

  Then the Keeper of Mysteries went to the top of the hill and laid his golden robe aside. Naked, he opened his arms wide and laughed at the silvered moon. The sky threw down lightning and boiling clouds, but still he laughed, bathing in the divine fire as he prepared to return home. From out of the night there came a great stallion made all of shadows and fire, with hooves forged of steel. The Keeper of Mysteries snatched at the steed’s fiery mane as he thundered by, and the Lord of Shadows was still laughing joyously when the sky split in twain and the stallion plunged into the void.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “I just don’t see how there can be so many goblins in L.A. Hell’s bells! We’ve killed off thousands since they first started interfering in Las Vegas,” Roman complained.

  “Not all the illegals coming over the border are humans. L.A. is the first hive the southern lutins come to, and most stay,” Kris answered. “I know it’s bloody inconvenient and hard to imagine, but try to understand that the goblins are mostly victims too. Their leaders are as tyrannical as any third-world potentate and you can’t blame them for looking for a better life in ‘the land of the free.’ And the L.A. hive turns this hunger for freedom to their advantage. They’re smart and they use word of mouth to get fresh recruits for the war. The people there— lutin and human—have had their brains waxed by fairy t
ales to a high gloss at an early age, their thoughts sealed off from the influence of outside logic and even basic information. All this varnish and propaganda will have to be stripped before we can make any headway there.”

  “You have a plan for brain-stripping?” Thomas asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Are Cyra and I a part of it?” he asked evenly.

  “I sincerely hope so.”

  Thomas sighed.

  There came a tap on the door. It wasn’t Kris; Adora knew that immediately. “Come in,” she called. Her voice was thick with departing sleep and disappointment.

  The door opened slowly, and Io stuck her head in. She smiled, but there was a complete absence of humor in the curve of her mouth. Her eyes were worried.

  “Did I wake you?” she asked.

  “No, I was coming up from the depths,” Adora assured her.

  “Good.” Io came in and, after having a quick look around for something to sit on and finding nothing but stacks of books, she approached and perched on the side of the bed, being careful not to touch Adora.

  First Kris and now Io. What? Have I got cooties?

  “I thought maybe we should have a talk. There has to be a lot that’s strange for you here.” She paused and then got straight to the point. “And you are probably feeling some very . . . unusual things about Kris.”

  Adora blinked, coming fully awake. “About Kris?” she repeated, and felt herself blush.

  “Well, aren’t you?” Io asked. There was no judgment there, only a bit of curiosity. “You’d be the first if you did not.”

  “Yes, I guess I am,” Adora admitted. “I don’t seem to be myself today.”

  “No, you’re you,” Io assured her. “You are just seeing—sensing—things for the first time without the hindrance of human . . . expectations and limits.”

  Adora waited, but when Io said no more she responded: “Okay.”

  “First of all, Kris and I have talked a bit. About your situation. He senses many of the same things in you that I do, and is concerned about not doing anything to . . . burden you beyond that which cannot be avoided. Unfortunately, there’s a lot we won’t be able to avoid. You haven’t a lot of time to . . . adjust.” Io stared at Adora with her weird blue eyes. “May I be frank with you?”