Page 31 of Saint of the Shadows

He held his mask in place. “What are you doing?”

“If we are about to do what I think we’re about to do, why not as the real you?”

“I’m not ready.” His gaze drifted down.

She lifted his chin. “That’s kind of adorable.” She kissed him on the cheek.

He broke from her embrace and moved to the edge of the roof.

Marisol, unsatisfied, reached out for him. “You’re leaving? Now?”

“It’s almost dawn. What else are we going to do?”

She arched an eyebrow. What did he think?

“That was a purely rhetorical question.”

“Okay. When can I see you again?”

“Tomorrow, here, at sundown.” He kissed the inside of her wrist. “But the mask stays on.” He smirked, and with that, he jumped down from the ledge and out of her life.

She twirled in place and sat down on the wrought-iron bench, bending to pick up her mask and stuff it in her pocket. Her phone vibrated against her hand. She checked it. It beeped incessantly from a slew of missed calls. The first one was from Annie. Marisol sprung back to her feet and walked down the fire escape, redialing. Straight to Annie’s voicemail. "I'm heading to your lab right now. You really need to start charging your phone."

As she headed toward the hospital, she occasionally stopped herself and smiled. She’d lick her lips to savor the Patron Saint. She’d touch her cheek, reliving the burn of his skin against hers. Tomorrow, she’d offer the other parts of her that yearned to be explored.

Marisol swiped her badge to enter the building. She clamped down her widening smile as she rode up the elevator and turned the corner of the hallway. She should just shout her good news—how the weight of his body felt oh-so right against hers, or how his mouth tasted almost metallic. As sheneared the light of Annie’s lab, Marisol added a skip to her step. “Annie, you won’t believe—”

Marisol turned the corner. The sight through the window froze her.

Annie wasn’t alone.

Interlude

You ask, “What are you doing here?” and wipe at your eyes with the back of your arm and sniffle. Drama already visited you tonight. Shattered glass on the counter? An empty mouse cage? What trouble did you get yourself into, little girl?

You eye my partners, the monstrous yet dim-witted Yevgeny and the volatile yet small John-Boy. You inch back and rub your lower back. You’re nervous. No need to be, my cherub. You’ve always been a good little girl. “I’m giving lab tours for interested parties. I’d ask you the same question.”

You whisper, “I came to feed the mice.”

I explain that I know this seems odd and unnerving in the middle of the night. I like to give tours when the labs are quiet. With everything empty and silent, we are more apt to see its potential. All lies, but it’s that potential that I want to talk to you about.

You remain quiet, and the gaze from behind your glasses bounces from one person to the other.

I say that we all heard the rumors—that Vincent Varian has a secret side project. Whatcould it be, I’ve often wondered. I’ve heard it all. Super cop program? Alternative energy? But I never once heard about perfection in a pill. Could this be the secret project? I sit in your office chair and put my feet up.

You shift your weight. The broken glass from the cage crunches underneath you. Better get on your knees. Clean it up. Wouldn’t want my sweet little girl to get hurt. Then you murmur, “Oh. I was just talking. You know how people talk at parties.”

But you’re not like other people. You like it when I say that to you. I see how you twitch your mouth and lick your lips when I say it: There’s no one like you. You’re special, my cherub.

I remind you, “You said within the year. And I believe you even said, ‘under-promise, over-deliver’?” You gasp. Red splotches travel down your neck. “What is in that little head of yours?” I imagine that freshly slapped look spreads to your breasts.

And in that tiny, quiet voice, you say, “I’m afraid it’s only in my head. I was talking hypothetically last night.”

“No!” I say with a clap. “What is Vincent Varian hiding?” The other morons who tried the kidnapping schtick bungled their jobs. But you never bungle a job. You’re my dependable girl.

You say, “I barely talk to the guy; let alone know about any secret projects. I’m just a lab lackey.” You rub your lower back again. “You’re on the board. You’d know more than I would.”

I was afraid of this. No one understands emergencies anymore. What if I told you something bad’s going to happen? “A lot of Shadowhaven’s people are going to get sick. They might die. I believe it has something to do with what was stolen from the W.H.O. in Manila? Would your pill be hypothetical then?”

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