Page 45 of Saint of the Shadows

The way she understood that morning dropped out from underneath her, throwing her into a free fall. “Holy shit, Vincent, I’m sorry.”

He rubbed his hands together and stared at them. “I’m sorry. I lied because I couldn’t bring myself to accept kindness because…” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Kindness makes the pain too real. I’d rather do what I do. Put on the mask and become the fool.” Finally, he looked at her with clear eyes but a strained smile.

“It was just a tissue.”

“No. Me diste esperanza.”

You gave me hope. His low, whisper-like voice tensed inside Marisol’s abs. The only one who could bother her that way was him. A notion she couldn’t quite place tugged at her.

She reached her hands to Vincent’s face to make the mask, to connect. But he couldn’t be, not with his average stature and lean frame. She folded her hands into her lap. Of course not.

“You’re thinking about something,” he said.

Vincent had a way of fishing out the truth, so she might as well admit a part of it. “Your voice. You’re not putting on that affectation.”

“I don’t speak with an affectation.”

“You do. I’ve noticed now that it comes and goes. It’s how I can tell when you’re performing and being real.”

Vincent scowled and clamped his mouth shut. “Hm.”

Damn, she touched a nerve again. “I didn’t mean to make you self-conscious. I’ll put my good foot in my mouth.” She released her brakes, backed away from the table to retreat, and wheeled halfway down the hallway. If she kept going, she’d wind up alone with her thoughts. She stopped. “Could you read to me?”

“Not put off by my voice?”

“The opposite.”

He cleared his throat. “Any preferences?”

“Something I’ll understand.”

In her bedroom, Marisol popped a painkiller and heaved herself into the bed. She moved to one side to leave a space for Vincent. She ran her fingers through her hair and slid out of the bulky robe. Sure, he’d just read to her, but it’s not like she couldn’t try to look her best despite the circumstances. Her primping completed just as Vincent entered her bedroom with a book in his hand.

“What do you have there?” Marisol straightened the wrinkle in the sheet next to her.

Vincent fanned the pages and sat in the easy chair in the room’s corner, opening a tattered paperback. He cleared his throat.The Curse of Capistrano.

Eyes in the book and butt in the chair across the room from her, he hadn’t taken the bait. She adjusted herself again to sit in the middle of the bed, no longer leaving an inviting space. She listened to the tambour of Vincent’s voice. His true voice.

For the rest of the night, he read to her. As her eyes grew heavier, she heard him read,You seek adventure? Here is adventure aplenty, fighting injustice. Band yourselves together and give yourselves a name. Make yourselves feared the length and breadth of the land! And then you shall be caballeros in truth, knights protecting the weak, Señor Zorro said.

Huh, Zorro. Another masked hero. She drifted off to sleep.

16

Bone Deep

Marisol turned over in the bed. Although due for another round of painkillers, a rush of energy still coursed through her veins, the energy of seeing Vincent.

But he was gone. He had neatly piled his pillow and blankets on the easy chair in the corner. She hated that chair.

Annie, sprouting from Marisol’s mind, rebuked her, “Dirty slut. I thought you had a mask thing. Now you’re feeling butterflies over Vincent Varian?”

Marisol shrugged, both as a response and as the only sane way to handle her newfound ability of talking to the dead.

Annie apologized, adding, “When I called you a dirty slut, I didn’t mean it in the pejorative but in that reclaimed power sort of way.”

“I know,” Marisol said, as she rolled out of her room. Annie faded away. Unfortunately, the emptyquiet of the kitchen and living room reflected the conversation in her head like a funhouse mirror. Everything inside was empty and Vincent-less.

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