Page 22 of Saint of the Shadows

“Are you okay?” the Patron Saint asked.

“I’m peachy.” She passed out to the sound of fists beating flesh.

She woke up with a pounding headache, so she touched the source of the pain, feeling a bandage. Someone had good first aid skills. She rubbed her neck. Her abuelita’s necklace was gone. Opening her eyes, she searched for something familiar. Her roving gaze confirmed she lay on a wrought-iron bench bolted to the roof of her apartment, and a blanket draped over her. A gust of cold wind pierced her, so she drew her blanket closely around her.

It wasn’t a blanket but a cape.

She jolted up. Sitting on the opposite side of the rooftop was the Patron Saint. He appeared like a floating jawline and a set of eyes. His body blended into the shadows, but his eyes glimmered blue. He was her Patron Saint.

His voice was deep and husky like a growl. “Glad to see you’re okay.”

“I almost got him,” she said. A joke, but he didn’t laugh.

“Foolish to pick a fight with someone strung-out on B’Lee, but you’re talking coherently. I doubt you have a severe concussion. You should get some rest.” He stood upon the ledge. “Keep the cape.” He rocked his weight back to prepare to jump. And disappear from her again.

“Wait!”

He hesitated.

“I want to thank you.” She stood, dropping the cape to the ground. Her deep breath heaved her breasts upward. Every vein in her pulsed with wanting. His gaze moved down and quickly back up. She cracked a smile, finally glad that Annie rented her this dress.

He stepped down from the ledge and cleared his throat. “Your words are enough.”

“Sure.” She rolled her shoulders back and held out her hand. “But I want to shake your hand. A little contact doesn’t hurt anybody.” Though it might hurt her. Hand on hand wasn’t the contact she talked about.

”You were in danger. In danger, your brain releases chemicals that make you experience a rush of feelings.” He stepped closer to her. “Lust, for instance. I couldn’t take advantage of you after being in danger.”

“That’s what this is? A chemical reaction?”

He moved even closer. “Most certainly.” She felt the heat of his breath.

“Did you feel a chemical reaction? When I saved you? Don’t you want to thank me?” She lowered her eyelids and tilted her chin, offering her lips to him.

“Or shake your hand?” His gloved hand took hers.

She opened an eye, searching for a clue to tell her where her kiss had gone. He pulled her hand to his face. Then, on the inside of her wrist against her pulse, he kissed her. His lips felt warm and soft against her cold skin. A sigh traveled from her mouth, vaporizing into the air.

He moved from her to the edge of the rooftop. She reached out. “Could I convince you to stay awhile? You and me? A couple of beers? Like you talked about?”

“Like I talked about? I’ll have to take a rain check.” He smirked before taking a running leap off the ledge.

She gasped and ran to the ledge. No way could a man handle that kind of jump. As she looked down, she watched him sprint into the shadows. “Tobias?”

9

Head Wounds All Around

Marisol needed a real day off. Not a day off consisting of numbing her headache with pills and scrounging the last of her cash to replace her stolen phone.

After couch diving and a trip to the coin machine at the supermarket, she had her new phone in hand, but she wouldn’t complete her mission until she headed in the direction of the police precinct to file a report. Probably for her insurance agent to do nothing but wipe his ass with, but it was one of those things. If she didn’t file a report, there would be hell to pay. Or a grand. But hell felt more accurate as the recent events of her life depleted her savings account. She pulled her black stocking cap lower to cover the bandage on her head and wore an oversized gray Shadowhaven Rooks’ basketball sweatshirt that an ex-boyfriend left behind in her apartment long ago.

The memory of the Patron Saint mere hours before warmed the inside of her wrist. Was Tobias at the precinct? Don’t be a little girl. Of course, he wouldn’t be working. It was Sunday.

Before crossing the street to the precinct, she glimpsed her reflection in a parked car’s window. What if she saw Tobias? Compared to her dress the night before, she appeared a sorry sight. She had to think quickly, so she ran her fingers through the ends of her hair and put on lip balm. The bulky ex-boyfriend’s sweatshirt had to go, so she took it off and tied it around her waist. Her Henley, a utilitarian layer, served little against the cold. She rubbed her arms together as she marched up the stairs into the precinct.

Inside, the dull greeting from the officer at the front desk calmed her foolish notion of Tobias being there. But after the officer handed her a copy of the filed report, she dared to ask, “Is Detective Quinlan in today?”

The officer walked her over to Homicide and opened the door a crack. Marisol peered inside the department. Everything inside appeared gray and reeked of stale coffee. The overhead lights were off, clouding the room in shadows and the smoggy haze of veiled daylight. With the way the sparse Sunday crew slumped at their desks, they all must’ve been nursing hangovers.

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