Page 46 of Saint of the Shadows

There was only whipping and tapping in rapid succession. She followed the sound and discovered Vincent outside on the deck. His back to the windows, he jump-roped with perfect form—elbows tucked at his hips and forearms parallel to the floor. Sweat streamed down his stick-straight back, darkening the back of his sweatshirt. The rapid whips and taps of the rope played an ode to his balance, speed, and strength. Marisol laughed to herself, enjoying the sight too much.

She knocked on the window and caught Vincent’s attention. He threw down the jump rope, jogged to the sliding glass door, and opened it. “Come out. I have something to show you.”

The air, though cold, held the promise of spring. She wheeled to the end of the deck, where Vincent pointed. There sat an awkward tower of unfinished wood scaffolding. From it dangled a leather speed bag that had a patch sewn on its side. “I found this among Leonard’s things and thought you would like it.”

“How did you know that I—”

“There were some kickboxing gloves with your items from the hospital.” He presented her gloves and a roll of gauze that awaited her on the deck’s ledge.

Marisol hid her smile by looking down at her cast. “Kind of hard to box with a bad leg.”

“You’re not ready for the ring, but you could work on your rhythm. Give me your hand.” Vincent wrapped her knuckles in gauze.

She shifted in her chair, straightening her posture. Vincent’s presence unwound her muscles held in a twenty-five-year-long clench. What did that mean? What was he to her?

A man with a tender touch who tucked in the end of her gauze as he prepared her fists for beating the shit out of something. A strange man. A good man. But good things in Marisol’s life had the shelf life of a mayfly.

While she squeezed her hands into her gloves, Vincent poised the speed bag at Marisol’s sitting height. To concentrate, she licked her lips and raised her fists above her chin. She started with gentle, repeating jabs to understand the new rules of her healing body. She hit the bag with the sides of fists, rotating her arms. Once she found the rhythm, she picked up her speed, hitting the bag with more force.

Old Marisol wouldn’t need to be gentle with the bag or herself. Dead friend? Jab. Her killer on the prowl? Jab. Jab. Leaving Shadowhaven and the Patron Saint? Jab. Jab. Cross hit. Throw the entire shoulder into it. The contraption wobbled, rocking from leg to leg. It threatened to tumble to the floor until a miraculous feat of engineering kept it upright.

Vincent flashed a smile. “All right, Lady Dynamite. I think you’re ready for your next present.” He motioned for her to follow him inside.

Another present? How long would she have to repeat that it was too expensive before admitting she liked it? Then, in the middle of the living room, he handed her a pair of crutches.

She stood and tottered around the room. Mobility. Took the Bloodsucker robbing it from her to get her to miss it. Freedom was better than any overpriced tchotchke she imagined. “Thanks.”

Vincent added, “Next will be a walking boot, but surely you’ll be back in the city by then.”

She’d be back in the city, alone. Annie-less. Friendless and doomed to be alone. She flopped onto the sofa. “Sure.”

“I thought you hated it here.”

“I hate the situation. I don’t hate it here.” She rubbed her face in her hands. An idea struck her. “Back in the city, I’d end up crashing at my parents and helping them out despite the bum leg. If you came with me, you could be my thunder vest. You know, help me ‘til my leg heals. Whatever you do, I can’t have one more friend...” Her breath hitched. Leave, she meant to say.

Silence hovered between them before he asked, “We’re friends?”

“Of course.” Her gaze lifted, looking him straight in his eyes.

He shifted his sight to the windows. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Her sinuses burned again. “Not glamorous enough for you?” She blinked away the oncoming tears.

“The paparazzi have a tendency to descend on anyone I give attention to. I’d be... inconvenient.”

Inconvenient—the opposite of her Patron Saint. The simplicity of hideaway living had deceived her. Of course, Vincent’s visits to her apartment would consist of micromanaging PR teams, minute-by-minute schedules, and intruding photographers. And yet... “You’re right about the masked guy. He will end up as another story—some weird factoid about the messed-up city I live in. With Annie gone, I have no one around to keep me from going crazy. And…” She rubbed her lips to give herself a moment, needing to add more bitterness to the sickeningly sweet sincerity clinging to her, she blurted, “I’d rather have a friend around, even if that means life gets a little inconvenient.”

He cleared his throat. “Maybe.”

She nodded, having said that very same line with loads more of indifference to the occasional moon-eyed chump whom she wanted out of her bed and out of her apartment. The good part about her family was that potential partners rarely entered her life, and for those who did, her family’s dysfunction ensured their exit.

Even if Vincent became her friend under the public’s eye, she wasn’t quite sure what a friendshipback in the city entailed. It’d be a strange sight, for sure, but her soul was strange, never quite at home on the Westside but certainly not belonging to the effete assholes with whom she went to school. And Vincent was theeffetestof the effete. A friendship in the city probably lacked hugs against his chest or tingling touches or borrowed warm robes pinging with static electricity.

And… damn, she’d become the moon-eyed chump.

“The only future you should worry about is what we’re going to have for dinner. I’m not promising that it won’t be canned and cured, but I can do something extra special.”

“Sounds good,” she answered, knowing that the one thing she wanted to hear was where you go, I go.

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