Page 19 of Saint of the Shadows

Marisol turned to the bathroom mirror and touched away the tears in her eyes with a tissue, careful not to smudge her mascara. In the mirror, she noticed Vincent’s date stretched out on a lounger, clicking through her phone in a drone-like fashion.

Marisol turned to his date and swallowed back her tears. “I know you from somewhere.”

The all-blue woman rolled her eyes and set down her phone. “Whit DeWinter, content creator and influencer.”

“Marisol Novotny, nurse. So, you’re dating Vincent Varian?”

“Dating is such an antiquated term. We are consciously intertwining lifestyles.”

Hearing the ridiculous phrase lifted Marisol’s spirits. She smirked. “What’s that like?”

“We met last summer taking ‘shrooms and dancing at that one desert musical festival. So much fun. Highly recommend. I heard all the colors of the rainbow.” Whit held her phone to her heart, snorted, and looked back at her phone. “But tonight...”

Morbidly curious, Marisol asked, “What’s wrong tonight?”

“The last I saw him we were smoking peyote in his air-conditioned tent. Tonight, he’s so boring.” Whit stopped scanning her phone and furrowed her eyebrows. “I think he’s a little sad. It must be all the old people here. Their idea of a party is eatingsomething gross that costs a lot. I’m telling you, knowing Vincent Varian is a head trip. It’s like meeting two different people.”

Marisol nodded. The Patron Saint awakened every one of her nerves. One set tingled with admiration, another with fear. As Tobias, she felt the admiration and fear at the quietest volume level. It was as if the costume brought out the alluring element—the part that she desired.

“Who are you avoiding here?” Whit asked.

Marisol grimaced, unsure of how to answer the question because her answer could’ve been “Everyone” or “Vincent Varian.” She chose the safe answer. “Not avoiding. I’m just touching up my makeup.”

Marisol needed out. She hurried through the ballroom. Her heels unfortunately clomped as she escaped through the French doors and onto the empty terrace. As she leaned against the balustrade, she focused on the lights of Shadowhaven. That’s where she belonged, and the terrace was the closest thing to home in Varian’s estate. Although she shivered, the cold equally invigorated her compared to the inside’s stuffiness. Marisol could stay out here forever, admiring the city lights from afar.

The hair on her arms stood on end. She touched her cheek, reliving her tear being wiped away by his hand. She closed her eyes. He’d hold her against his body, a solid wall of warmth.

A voice shattered Marisol’s dream. “It’s too cold of a night to be standing out here alone.” A familiar voice. Vincent Varian.

She hiked up her shoulders to protect her ears. “Sorry. I came out here to be alone. I don’t think I’ll make good small talk.”

“No small talk? Big talk it is then. The meaning of life, geopolitics... that dress.”

Marisol looked over her shoulder. The light from the ballroom highlighted half of his mischievous, cat-like grin. She bit her cheek to stop her smile from forming. She appreciated a smart aleck retort but not from him.

“That dress fits you well,” he said.

She turned back to face the skyline and sighed. The muscles in her back tensed, preparing for a cheesy come-on.

He added, “It looks like chain mail. Like you’re ready for battle. Fitting for a bold risk-taker like yourself, Nurse Novotny.”

The fancy-tissue and hangover incident must’ve left an impression. She released the inside of her cheek, and the tiny smile she had held back crept across her face. “You remembered my name.”

“I saw it on the guest list.”

Her name wasn’t there. He must have asked about her. Marisol played into the ruse. Let this playboy think he made a slam dunk before he fell flat on his back. “Not many nurses on your guest list. For a hospital ball.”

“And not too many bold risk-takers. For being Shadowhaven’s finer people.”

“Maybe you should invite more nurses.”

“If they look like you, I’ll consider it.”

Marisol scowled, skin burning from Vincent’s caustic irritation. “Why should someone’s appearance tell you their worth?”

Vincent dumped his champagne over the balustrade. “We choose how the world sees us.”

“Like how you want the world to see you in your tuxedo and ballroom when you could easily donate a hundred times the amount this party could raise and wouldn’t look twice at your bank statement? It’s almost like this ball isn’t for saving sick children but for everyone’s ego.”

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