Page 4 of Saint of the Shadows

A renewed sense of urgency sucked the moisture from her mouth. She plucked the forceps from his side and kneeled, studying the wound closer. The forceps failed to grip on to a sharp piece of metal. “If I pull that out now, I’m afraid you’ll bleed out. At the ER, a surgeon could—”

He put his hand on top of hers. “It digs... in deeper... when I move. If you get… it out... I will... go to... the ER.”

She needed to help him soon, or the shard would bore a hole through him, and he’d bleed out of two places rather than one. Marisol turned around, gathered gauze and antiseptic, and removed a skinny pair of forceps from sealed plastic, placing the supplies ceremoniously out on a stainless-steel tray. Returning to her mysterious patient, she dabbed the wound with the gauze and antiseptic. Marisol grabbed the smaller forceps and hovered them over the gash. Another wave of doubt hit her. “Sure you wouldn’t like some topical anesthetic?”

He clenched his teeth. “Get it out!”

Let’s hope he keeps up his end of the bargain.Marisol dug the smaller forceps into his side. “Okay. Here...” She gripped the metallic object. “We…” Then she leaned her weight on her right leg, pressing her foot against the table. “Go!” Marisol pushed her leg against the table, pulled the forceps, and–squelch!–yanked out the blade. The man collapsed onto the exam table. Marisol dropped the broken blade into the metal tray, where it landed with a clank. The hilt was missing.

Marisol pressed more gauze against his side, and her eyes met his. Her head rushed with warmth. Adrenaline. That had to be adrenaline. She parted her lips, inhaling and exhaling.

He turned up one side of his mouth; she realized he mirrored her own awkward smile. Between ragged breaths, he said, “Thank you, Nurse Novotny.”

Her fixation broke. “You know my name?”

He pointed to her badge clipped to her shirt.M. Novotny, RNwas barely discernible in the room’s limited light.

Of course. “People who owe me big favors call me Marisol.”

He repeated her name, and it sent a tingle of dopamine throughout her body. Marisol’s chest heaved. “Hm.”

He echoed, “Hm.”

She shifted her weight, rubbing her thighs together as the tremors of his low voice rumbled through her. Too much dopamine…

“You hurt your hand,” he said.

Her busted knuckle appeared as a slight discoloration in her gloves, practically lost in the angry red of his blood. How did he know? She blurted, “I’m fine.”

“Swiping a single bandage in the dark because you’re fine.”

A chill like a sudden nakedness whispered over her. Most people failed to pry past her half-truths. She looked down, concentrating on suppressing the bleeding. “I will call someone to bring a gurney, and we can look at you in the ER. Can you keep the pressure on the wound?”

He nodded.

When she moved her hand, the gauze fell away. The gash didn’t seem that deep or wide, more like a paper cut. As she held fresh gauze against the wound, she attempted a second look at it, but the Patron Saint snatched the gauze and took over once again.

She turned around and whipped her bloody gloves off into the trash. While she washed her hands, he slipped the top part of his costume back on. She held her hand up for him to stop. “Keep pressure on it!”

Without the knife in his side holding him back, he zipped his costume with ease. But with anadmonishing look from her, he cradled his side again and nodded his head.

Marisol turned around again and pressed the call button. She waited for a click and a beep. A voice returned, “How may I help you?”

She looked over her shoulder. The sight squeezed the air from her lungs. He was gone. “Never mind.” She ran to the window, opened it, and stuck her head outside. Nothing but an empty alley. He couldn’t have jumped and sprinted, not with that wound. She sighed and shut the window. “I’m having a weird night.”

Before returning to the ER, she remembered what he had said. People couldn’t know about him. For some reason, those eyes earned her loyalty. She pulled on a fresh set of gloves and wiped the blood from the cabinet, cleaned the forceps, dispensed them in the bin to be sanitized, and emptied the bio-waste. She gave the room another scan. No sign of a break-in or a clandestine treatment. All traces of this Patron Saint converted into a memory, a tale—The Sexy Vigilante and the Mysterious Knife Wound.

Interlude

Whenever someone needs blood squeezed from a rock, they hire me. Business turning in zero profit? I know how and where to apply pressure, even on whom. And since adversity begets creativity, sometimes people don’t know what they’re capable of until I arrive.

Hello, Shadowhaven, welcome to your true potential. It’ll be uncomfortable at first, but I swear you will like it. I’m a real hero that way.

Consequently, I get a little offended when you say I’ve gone too far. You’re really going to argue that you made too much money? That the drug works too well? That I was too literal when I got rid of the competition?

There are two types of people: those who bend to change and those who break. Refuse to accept change, and you pay the price.

To my dear friend Signore Romano, last of the mobsters, I’m afraid it’s your time to pay. How do you want to break? An injection of jubilation? You might live through it. No? A knife, then? You’d go out fighting. But I see the worry twitch in your upper lip. You’re old and out of shape. There’salways the simple third option. The gun. Resign yourself to the fact you aged out of this New World.

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