The Saint

by Melanie Jackson

  It had been a tempting offer, too, on those very long dark nights when it was impossible to escape the knowledge that she was alone. She had already felt as if she’d died and passed on to some other horrible afterlife where she’d been left in an abandoned limbo. They had almost gotten her.

  But there had been a book to finish, a story that needed to be told, and so she had reluctantly said No, not now to the pills. And that had eventually become a No, not ever. Finally she had found the strength to throw the bottle in the bathroom away. She had decided on life.

  It wasn’t that she really believed there would be a day of judgment where she’d be called up from the dead to answer for throwing her life away, but a part of her had faith that there was something, and to take her life would be to profane the soul that had been gifted her by Another.

  The impulse to end it all hadn’t gone away at once, of course. It would still creep over her sometimes when she was driving her car along a cliff road, or standing somewhere very high without a railing. In fact, she feared that a part of her might still have this destructive impulse buried deep down inside, with a lot of other emotions she preferred not to examine. She also sometimes wondered if this was what had made her sick—a subconscious rationalization from this powerful, suicidal fragment of personality that had said it wouldn’t really be suicide if illness took her.

  Adora made a soft noise of denial and thought again—for one tiny moment—about the pills that might be in her purse. They could take all this fear and pain away. . . .

  Kris’s hand smoothed her hair. “Don’t worry,” he said gently. “You’re safe now.”

  And suddenly she was.

  Thinking of her purse, Adora looked about blearily until she spotted it on the floor. The sight was reassuring. Things couldn’t be all that wrong if she still had her bag.

  “There’s Caveman Joe’s.” Those were the first words from someone other than Kris that made complete sense, and Mugshottz actually sounded excited.

  Mugshottz. Adora turned her head. The bodyguard looked perfectly normal—or as normal as he ever looked. Hadn’t his shirt changed, though? She’d thought he was wearing white and not blue.

  “I’ve heard of it,” Adora said thickly, then swallowed. Her mouth was dry and she still felt a little dizzy. She must have fallen asleep for a while. Napping always made her sluggish and stupid. And it was embarrassing that she’d done it in front of Kris—she hoped she hadn’t snored. She made an effort to open her eyes wide and tried to speak more clearly. “They specialize in what is being called nouvelle carnivore cuisine, which means they do lots of exotic meat carved into artistic shapes. And small portions.”

  Mugshottz sniffed at this last bit of news.

  “They also do a chocolate mousse torte that makes people see God,” Morrison piped up from the driver’s seat. He popped something into his mouth and began crunching noisily. “That isn’t in small portions, though. And I hear that if you’re human and can actually finish your dessert, you get a second one free.”

  Kris grinned. Adora felt him smile against her hair, and she turned her head to watch his face. His features could stretch like rubber bands. He was fascinating to stare at. Even dizzy, she thought so.

  “Then by all means, let’s do Caveman Joe’s. I haven’t seen God in centuries,” Kris said. He glanced at Mugshottz and added, “We’ll just keep our visit short and sweet.”

  Everyone except Adora laughed. She still didn’t have the hang of Kris’s humor. In fact, she often didn’t know when he was kidding. If he ever was.

  “Here, have a sip of this, Adora,” Morrison said, handing back a small silver flask. A gust of coffeescented breath wafted her way.

  “What is it? Not brandy?” she asked.

  “No, just . . . just water. It’s from a . . . a health food store. It’s great for restoring electrolytes.”

  Feeling suddenly very thirsty, Adora unscrewed the cap and took a small sip. She was aware that Kris and Mugshottz were both watching her carefully but couldn’t think why. She frowned at their attention but had to admit that maybe it was justifled. Sometimes she got weird when she was dehydrated—forgetful and confused.

  Of course, that did beg the question of how she had gotten dehydrated. What had they been doing? The farmers’ market—that’s where they’d been.

  She glanced at her wrist: 11:04. Thank heavens, it wasn’t late. She hadn’t lost that much time.

  “Did I faint or something?” she asked Kris, trying to recall how she had gotten back to the car but drawing a complete blank. Her final memory was of talking about Polish dogs for lunch—which was odd, because she didn’t actually like Polish dogs.

  “You were a bit overcome,” Kris said. “We’ll have to be more careful to keep you away from . . . the sun.”

  Adora nodded slowly. The sun—that made sense. It could make her very sick, especially inland, where there was no protective fog to screen the rays. But a part of her didn’t believe this explanation and inside she asked, Joy? Did I really faint out there?

  Later. Kris is right. You need to eat, and I need to think. The voice was coming in clearer now, wasn’t so muffled, but if she didn’t know better, Adora would think that Joy sounded slightly shaken, too.

  Reviving as she sipped the water in the flask, yet still tired and floating mentally, Adora decided not to pursue the topic. If Joy wasn’t squawking about what happened, she herself wouldn’t bother to expend the energy either. At least, not right then.

  The car stopped. Morrison had parked at the far edge of the parking lot, in the limited shade of a high cement wall covered in dusty, sunburned ivy. The sound of constant traffic suffused them, amplifled by the ten-foot barrier.

  “I’ll stay here and listen to the . . . radio,” the driver said, turning in his seat as he popped a square of gum out of its foil packet. The brand name startled her. Adora watched as he began to chew the nicotine gum with loud crunching noises.

  “I didn’t know you smoked,” she said.

  “I don’t. I just like riding the nicotine rush, you know?” He grinned at her. “It’s better than speed!”

  Looking from Morrison to the dashboard, she noticed that there was a small bowl of roasted coffee beans balanced there. That was probably what he had been munching earlier. The thought of the constant buzz caused by a combination of nicotine and caffeine was enough to make her teeth ache.

  “Guys, have a heart and send something out to me. I can smell the ribs from here,” Morrison said.

  Adora shuddered. Ribs. Yeah, those would go great with nicotine gum and coffee beans.

  She got out of the car in the shade. Noon was coming—that horrible beast of heat and light that would feed on her like a vampire, sucking her dry no matter how much water she drank. Noon wasn’t so bad on the coast, but in the city, with all its reflective concrete . . . Well, she would just have to be out of the sun before the worst of it hit.

  Guessing at her distress, Kris reached under his seat and pulled out a parasol. It was antique, a silly thing made of yellowed cutwork linen, but it would do a fair job of getting the sun off her.

  “Let’s go.”

  The first thing Adora noticed about Caveman Joe’s was that the restaurant didn’t observe the statewide ban on cigarette smoking. Of course, the owners probably figured there wasn’t any point, what with all the greasy meat smoke roiling into the air from the open pits. The employees had embraced the caveman theme and were running about in animal pelts that were, she was almost positive, made of real fur, though she would have been hardpressed to say just what kind.

  The second inescapable thing about the restaurant was the acoustics. The place had an authentic echoing-cave feel. The rumbling babble of dozens of voices in the chamber was deafening.

  The final unusual aspect of the decor did not become apparent until her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and that was the bones scattered all over the floor. Adora had a bad moment where she thought that the giant rib cages might be re
al, but a second glance—and sniff—assured her they were only plaster replicas. She was still careful to step around them—especially the Tyrannosaurus Rex head, which was stuffed full of ivory fangs that were realistically sharp.

  Usually the combined assault on her senses here would be enough to drive Adora away, but just as Kris had predicted, her appetite was once again being stimulated and she wanted nothing quite so much as to sink her teeth into a giant hamburger. Normally she wasn’t big on beef, but perhaps being with Kris had influenced her tastes. There were certainly moments when the focus of her thinking shifted in his direction and she felt as though she could almost see things through his eyes.

  Or his rose-colored glasses.

  A hostess—if that was the correct term—with a short fuzzy skirt that looked very old, and large breasts that looked very new, came bustling over. She paused for an instant, taking them in, and then with a pat of her blue-streaked hair and a small shimmy, she leaned into Kris and asked what she could do for him.

  The breathy voice, the overpowering perfume, the proximity and mostly the silicone breasts combined to annoy Adora. Before she had time to think about her actions, her hands were reaching for the woman’s red-taloned fingers, which were inching up Kris’s arm. She swatted them away as she would a spider.

  Startled, the hostess backed up. Her mouth actually trembled, and disappointment filled her face. She looked like a little kid who’d had candy stolen. But the doe eyes only made Adora want to smack her with the parasol.

  Adora could feel Kris’s amusement at her actions, as well as Mugshottz’s concern, and she was suddenly embarrassed by both. It wasn’t like her to make a scene, but she absolutely could not stand to see this woman rubbing up against Kris.

  “We’d like to get an order to go,” Kris said, his voice smooth and somehow seductive. Charm wafted off him like a wave of warm air, and it displaced some of the noise and smoke, enclosing them in an intimate bubble. “Can you do that for us?”

  The hostess’s pouting mouth quickly smoothed and she nodded obediently, her eyes aglow.

  “We need beef ribs, zucchini slaw and chocolate mousse for three,” Kris began, without consulting a menu.

  “And a hamburger—medium-well done,” Adora put in. Catching a stray whiff from the deep fryer, she added, “And an order of onion rings. And a root beer float.”

  Kris repeated the order to the hostess, who nodded, then he turned to Mugshottz, who ordered a venison steak, raw, and an orange soda. The girl never blinked, not at his request or at Mugshottz’s hard, inhuman voice. She seemed unaware of anyone but Kris.

  “Better throw in two ginger ales. Do you need to write this down?” Kris asked gently, and the woman nodded again, reaching for a pad of paper at the podium constructed of stegosaurus tails. She scribbled quickly and then backed away, smiling all the while at Kris, her eyes slightly glazed.

  “Goblin-fruit addict,” Mugshottz muttered.

  “She’s been fey-struck,” Kris contradicted.

  Once the hostess had backed around a tunnel corner, Adora allowed herself to stop glaring and to take in some of the restaurant patrons. They all looked human enough, but she had a strong feeling that many of the diners had been born with a second pair of arms.

  There was one table of young toughs who seemed particularly interested in Mugshottz. They scowled a lot, and their eyes blinked independently under tattooed lids. One of then pulled out a cell phone and laid it on the table. His black-nailed finger tapped it repeatedly. It somehow seemed like a warning.

  “You see them?” Kris asked quietly. He had melted back into the shadows.

  “Yes,” Adora answered, before she realized that he was probably talking to Mugshottz. “What’s wrong with them, anyway?”

  “I suspect they are part of the rebel force massing at the outskirts of the city.”

  “Are they dangerous?”

  “Most of them are like ants at a picnic—annoying but not lethal. But some of those groups are well-trained, well-organized and well-funded. In sufficient numbers, they can be a threat.”

  “Rebels against what?” Adora asked, keeping her voice down. She glanced up at Mugshottz and found his eyes riveted on the goblins. His expression was unusually forbidding. She noticed above his head a sign that read:

  BURNT OFFERINGS

  TUESDAY NIGHTS

  12 A.M.

  BYOS

  BYOS?

  Bring Your Own Sacrifice, Joy suggested, making Adora shudder.

  She saw Joy’s point, though. This was a hostile place. The tables near the dance floor and bar were large, but the to-go area where they waited had a grudging look; it was small and almost shabby, and there were no chairs. She understood the psychology they were employing. If you took your order out, they could only soak you once. They wanted people to come in and stay, to have dinner and then dance wildly, after which you would need snacks and something to drink at twenty bucks a pop. They probably had other offerings too. What had Mugshottz said about that stupid slut waiting on them? She was a goblin-fruit addict?

  “For one thing, this rebel sect is against the current laws mandating all goblins who live aboveground have surgery to look human,” Kris said, interrupting her unkind thoughts. “Their eyes are the giveaway. The first surgery hive-goblin children have is on their eyes. Surveys have shown that humans are more disturbed by lutin independent blinking than they are by extra arms, so it is corrected almost at birth.”

  “They look nasty,” Adora admitted. “But I guess I can sympathize. I mean, I can’t imagine living in a place where they ordered bodily mutilation of infants. I should really interview some goblins. I can’t believe how ignorant I am.”

  “No,” Kris said.

  Adora blinked at the flat reply.

  “Why not? It would help with the book.”

  “No.”

  “Look, with nonfiction you have to be accurate and balanced. Research and input from many sources is important. You can’t just hum a few bars and then fake the rest.”

  “I’m sorry, but it isn’t safe. The bodily mutilation is the least of what goes on,” Kris said. “And don’t be misled by sympathy into attempting to socialize with them. These rebels are also against the laws that forbid the hunting and eating of humans.”

  “You must be joking.”

  “I only wish I were. It used to be a common farming practice, using humans as fertilizer in the goblin-fruit fields. And most goblin rebel leaders have one thing in common—a certain innovative sadism that appeals to their followers. They practice what you might term a tombstone philosophy.”

  “What’s that? A tombstone philosophy?” she asked.

  He seemed not to hear her. “It’s very interesting that they are here and sitting openly in this public space. I think we’ve stumbled into a wretched hive of scum and villainy.” Kris did a wonderful Alec Guinness impersonation. He added in his usual voice: “In fact, I bet if we went into one of the back rooms we’d find a stash of goblin fruit—the real stuff, fed on blood and bones.”

  Mugshottz grunted. Adora, having a sudden nauseating visualization of heavily laden tomato plants whose roots were twined through a human skull, decided that maybe she would take all produce off her hamburger—just to be safe.

  “That might be wise,” Kris agreed.

  Their hostess reappeared bearing two large bags covered in the restaurant logo. She hadn’t been gone long, and Adora was willing to bet that their order had been filled with food that belonged to some other patrons.

  “I’ve included utensils and extra barbecue sauce. If you’re sure that’s all—,” the hostess began.

  “Yes, thank you.” Kris’s voice was again deep and smoky. He smiled. “What do I owe you?”

  The woman looked disappointed that there was nothing more she could get him: salt and pepper, extra napkins, a blow job . . .

  Meow. We are in a bad mood today, aren’t we? Why do you care what she does?

  Stupid bimbo—she�
��s all but drooling. It’s disgusting.

  He’s not drooling back, so just cool it.

  “The total is two hundred and eight dollars,” the hostess said.

  Adora almost squawked in protest.

  Yeah, even with a blow job that would be kind of high, Joy agreed.

  But Kris reached in his pocket and handed over the bills without protest, including a generous tip. “Thank you very much. You’ve been very helpful,” he assured her, and the hostess shivered with pleasure.

  “Our number is on the receipt. If you want anything, just call.”

  “Come on,” Adora muttered as she stalked for the door. It was hot and bright outside, but it still felt cleaner. She’d had more than enough of bimbos, bug-eyed rebels and burnt offerings.

  Kris and Mugshottz apparently felt the same, since they followed immediately, though the troll took the time to open his bag and fish out his raw venison. Adora watched in fascination as his jaw unhinged and he swallowed the steak whole, just like a python would.

  “This has been the weirdest day of my life,” Adora muttered.

  “And it’s still young,” Kris said cheerfully, reopening the parasol.

  And then they killed the burnt offering and took it to the king, who was pleased. But though praised for their gift by the king’s priests, still famine and darkness came to the land and many died that winter.

  —Niklas 8:9

  “You cannot possibly hope to pass me off as a Bishop,” Niklas objected.

  “My son, new religions are like infants taking their first steps. They must be assisted. You are already revered far and wide for your many kindnesses, and I strongly suspect . . .”

  “Yes?” Niklas asked gently. “What do you suspect, Father?”

  “I think that it is not so new, this veneration by the masses. You have known it before.”

  The two men looked at one another, both old but only one of them wrinkled.