Page 26 of Saint of the Shadows

“It’s head wounds all around, I see.” He arched his eyebrows and pointed to the Steri-strip on Marisol’s head.

She jerked her gaze away from Vincent as the truth of her violent mugging dared to surface. “Lost a battle opening a cupboard. I’m such a klutz.” She prepared gauze with a sterile solution. “You need to lie face down.”

“Gladly.”

She moved the dress shirt from his wound and dabbed at the dried blood. “It’s strange. I thought with how much you bled, you would for sure need stitches. They barely made a dent.”

“I heal quickly thanks to a daily vitamin infusion. You should try them.”

“I’ll consider them the next time I get hit over the head,” she said with an outpouring of sarcasm.

“When you lose another round to a cupboard.”

“Right.” She patted his wound dry.

Dr. Foster came in and repeated Marisol’s surprise of Vincent not needing stitches. Shining lights in his pupils, the doctor checked for a concussion and asked Vincent basic questions to test if something worse happened to his head. Marisol tried to hold back an astonished expression when he said he was thirty-three. He had seemed younger to her.

“Do you remember how you hit your head?” Dr. Foster asked.

“Struck from behind.” Vincent raised his arm and gestured the blow to his head.

“Do you remember what happened after your injury?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“I’m an ER doctor, Mr. Varian. You might be surprised about what I’m willing to believe.”

Vincent’s chin trembled. “They were going to… to...” His voice quivered. “To cut my fingers off with gardening shears if I didn’t tell them my secrets. Whatever those could be.” He rubbed his face in his hands and whimpered.

Dr. Foster looked at Marisol with pointed eyes, directing her to “do something.” Vincent let out a high-pitched hiccough, and his shoulders heaved. Marisol rolled her eyes, grabbed some tissues, and walked over to Vincent, patting him on the back. She handed him the tissues. Instead of taking them, he gripped her hand. He straightened with his composure completely regained. Marisol wrinkledher nose, puzzled as she watched his emotions quickly turn. His eyes weren’t even red from crying.

With his sudden resolve, he continued the story. “Once they knew the police were on them, they pulled into a parking garage. Said they were going to switch cars to throw them off. Out of nowhere, a man in a dark cape and mask jumped on the hood. He dented the whole thing. It was inhuman. He punched right through the windshield and ripped the driver from the seat. The car crashed into a wall, throwing me from my seat. I’m not sure if I blacked out, but the next thing I remember is Detective Quinlan pulling me from the car.”

Marisol flickered a smile and yanked her hand away from Vincent’s. Tobias had to be the Patron Saint.

“I’m glad you’re safe, Mr. Varian. You may have an unconventional story to tell, but you don’t have a head concussion. Nurse Novotny will tape you up, and you’ll be good to go.” Dr. Foster left.

Vincent lay back down on his stomach. Marisol taped the cut on his head.

With his chin against his arms, he asked, “Do you think my story is unconventional?”

“Actually, I don’t.” Marisol glided away on the stool. She looked down, unsure if she should admit it. “I’ve seen him myself. The Patron Saint.”

Vincent sat up. “Do you think he’s the real deal? The man you saw?”

“I don’t know. This city can wear on you, you know? And I think whatever he is…”

Marisol paused, remembering the repaired necklace in her locker. She rolled closer to the exam table. “He gives me hope.” She looked into Vincent’s eyes.

Vincent gulped. He blinked, and then his serious expression turned into a smirk. “You lied to me earlier. About your head.”

Marisol scooted back. “How did—?”

“Ticks you pick up from people when you deal with a lifetime of sycophants. Lack of eye contact. Strained smile. I see it a lot. People who want something from me tend to lie—”

“I don’t want anythi—”

“You didn’t want me to worry about you.” The glee he took from catching her in a lie chafed worse than his pompous mug sunk in pity.

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