Page 36 of Saint of the Shadows

“And fill out… paperwork... about the dead big one.”

“I will take her to safety. Do you trust me?” the Patron Saint asked.

“Do I have a choice?” Tobias answered.

Orderlies and nurses bound to the hall and cowered. Nothing like a dead body and the Patron Saint to induce paralysis.

The Patron Saint nodded. “Hold your breath if you want to remember this, Quinlan.” He dropped a gas canister to the ground. A wall of smoke separated them from Tobias. The Patron Saint raced with Marisol in his arms out the fire exit and up the stairs.

She warmed with reverence. He hadn’t abandoned her. “Where were you?”

He flinched and mumbled, “I busted the window out of a home of a family choking on the fumes of their space heater. Stopped some hooligans harassing a jogger in the park. A stabbing. A robbery. But I didn’t… not when you needed me.” He stopped running. “I made a mistake, but I swear from now on that no one will ever hurt you again.”

Of the three promises she had heard today, she wanted his to come true the most. “How?” she asked. Because he’s all-powerful—radioactive or alien?

“I’m taking you to a safe house.”

“Will you and I finally be getting some one-on-one time?”

He clenched his jaw. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m physically broken, suffering some serious grief and abandonment issues. And anyone I have contact with seems to be targeted by murderers. I only need a kind, familiar face. Even if it’s behind a mask.” She caressed his jawline.

“No. I’m sorry for this.” The Patron Saint raised his hand to her face. He blew powder into it. She breathed in and…

13

Safe House

…breathed out, opening her eyes. She had teleported into a bed. Where? Unknown. Shadows cast the room in a dark haze. Her hands glided over cool satin sheets. Her broken leg rested on a mound of firm pillows. More pillows hugged her neck and shoulders.

In the low light sifting between the slats of the window shutters, she fumbled to turn on a lamp at the bed stand. The bed stand displayed prescriptions with her name on it. A plastic bag of her keys, cross necklace, and phone rested on the stand. She opened it and took out her phone. It appeared unharmed by her fall, but the battery was dead. She had to figure out where she was the old-fashioned way. But first, she fastened the chain of her necklace around her neck and touched the pendant.

The luxury of the room jarred her. It had wood paneling with carved filigree. When Tobiasmentioned a safe house, he made it sound like a roach motel. Not this. She couldn’t quite remember how she got here. Did Tobias drive her? The morphine fogged her memory.

What time was it? Hell, what day was it? The funk emanating from her and the griminess of her hair indicated awhile since the hospital... since her leg broke in a fall... since the monsters murdered Annie. She flinched three times, reliving the explosion of gunfire that took Annie’s life. She rubbed where a cold sweat gathered at her nape. Her hands trembled. “You don’t have time for this.” She needed to figure out where she woke up.

She discovered a wheelchair propped against the far corner of the bed, dragged her body into it, and wheeled around the room. Through a doorway, she entered an ensuite, palatial bathroom with a glass-encased shower, a deep bathtub, and a sprawling vanity. There, unopened designer-brand necessities had been arranged in neat rows.

She brushed her teeth, tied her hair up, and cleaned herself, administering the worst sponge bath ever, as her experience with them was never self-inflicted or impaired. Clean enough, she looked in the mirror. The cut on her temple had faded into a sallow, yellow bruise. But that wasn’t the most pathetic part of her appearance. The hospital gown was.

She pushed herself back into the bedroom toward a double-door wardrobe. In it, she found sleeveless undershirts, striped boxers, and blacksocks still in their packaging. Plaid flannel shirts hung off padded hangers. They were too small to fit Tobias. She broke open the plastic packages. One glimpse of the hospital gown, and whoever these clothes belonged to would forgive Marisol for borrowing them.

Putting on clothes prodded her bruises and muscles, reliving the pain experienced by her body. Her broken leg continued to throb with a constant dull pain. The side of her body that slammed against the elevator car had dark purple bruises pooled around her ribs and underarm. When she pulled on her shirt, each bruise stung. She wiggled into a pair of shorts and lassoed a single black sock on her bare foot. Luckily, putting on a flannel didn’t require copious amounts of pain or effort.

Physically spent from dressing, she popped a dose of Percocet. She dry-swallowed the pill, and it forced its way down her esophagus. She wheeled back into the bathroom and cupped her hands under the sink, sipping to wash the pill down. Now she was ready to explore.

Her bedroom door opened to a hallway of windows stretching from floor to ceiling. The place overlooked a lake reflecting the warm pink hues of the setting sun. Dusk. The view would have been exhilarating had she been there under more positive circumstances.

She heard a faint sound of old jazz that must have been coming from a record player, as the sound crackled with age. Either she resided in ahaunted house or shared the space with an old man. She tensed as she continued down the hallway, unsure of who or what would listen to such music. Wherever she was, she was far from Shadowhaven.

The hallway opened to a living room with a vaulted ceiling that blended into a dining area and open kitchen. The living room belonged in a time capsule. Thick curtains covered the windows, blocking the waning light of the evening. Tables and bookshelves made of dark, heavy woods brimmed with trinkets and shrouded the open living room with a cave-like appearance. Everything matched a red-white-and-blue color scheme, from the floral patterns of the rug and pillows to the plaid upholstery of the sofa.

Old, beautiful, and lush objects surrounded her, yet she felt no curious wonder. Her heart carried a heavy weight. The weight of Annie’s death. The weight of living in fear.

A baritone voice said, “Welcome to the safe house.”

She turned her wheelchair toward the direction of the voice. Vincent Varian stood behind her. She asked, “What are you doing here?”

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