Page 67 of Saint of the Shadows

“Staci was my wife on paper but—”

Marisol patted his chest. “Don’t feel you have to under-embellish the truth for my sake.”

He opened his other eye, and he propped his head up. “Security Transportation and Communication Interface. She’s the computer program that operates my security system, vehicles, and commlinks. The woman in the pictures was a robot Leonard put together. Based on a real person. Hence the paperwork. Good for photo ops. Terrible conversationalist.” He shrugged away robot clone artificial intelligence the way other people say, “grown apart,” cueing her to nod in understanding.

She ignored the massive weight of his life story, which receded into infinity like a mirror reflecting another mirror. “But I know about you.” Though there was still so much to know, the notion hit like a stiff drink, buzzing with strength. She was the only one to possess him in entirety. Although he wasn’t a possession, it assured her enough that perhaps in another hundred years, he wouldn’t bein a similar conversation, lumping Marisol with some.

He held her tighter, drawing his magically dry cape around her. Inside his perfect warmth, she dozed off against him.

She opened her eyes to find Vincent sitting at the edge of the bed, mask back on, and zipping himself in his suit.

She rubbed his back as he jammed his feet into his boots. “Where are you going?”

“Work.”

She checked the time. Only midnight. “After that? I’m surprised you’re even awake.”

“Benefit of super recovery.” He kissed her and eased her to the back onto the pillows, tucking his cape tighter around her. “Love you.”

Marisol snuggled inside the cape’s warmth. What did he just say? She sat up. “What?”

“Um...”

“You didn’t say the ‘I’ of ‘I l—’” She dared not to repeat it. The words conjured a superstitious force that would definitely break her heart. “That’s like saying, ‘Good night,’ right? You didn’t mean to say—”

“I love you?” He clipped on his utility belt and adjusted his mask. “I suppose I have no right to say it given my circumstances, but I feel it. Overwhelmingly, in fact. Being around your compassion and courage moves me like witnessing someone walk on water.” Vincent held her chinbetween his thumb and forefinger. “And for that, I want nothing but life and joy for you. I will be whatever you need to make that true.” He brushed her hair with his fingers so that it gathered on one side. “Let me carry your burdens.” He kissed her clavicle. “Let me be your vengeance.” He kissed the edge of her jaw. “I will take your anger so that you can have peace. I will be your wrath so you can be our healer. I will bring you the justice you deserve.” With a gentle pull of his hand, she faced him, lifting her eyes to meet his. His eyes glowed. “When the Bloodsucker looks into the abyss, it will be me who looks back at him.”

A single tear trickled down her cheek. Not a tear of sorrow but of awe, as if she witnessed the beginning of the universe.

He wiped away the tear with his gloved thumb. “I can’t give you a future, but I can give you this.”

Rendered speechless, she kissed the inside wrist of his tending hand.

”I’ll return before dawn.” He opened her window and crouched on the ledge.

No. He couldn’t just say “I love you” and leave. She had to say something, anything back.

But he jumped out below. Her gauzy curtains fluttered and went still.

22

Feminine Intuition

6:32 a.m. How did his powers work, anyway?

The rules were different with Vincent. There was no threat of death or injury on the job. He wasn’t like the police. Was he?

Marisol gulped the last of her now-cold coffee and set the empty cup on the windowsill. Not wired enough, she brewed another pot of coffee.

What if he was okay and at home in his pajamas, relishing in a saved day and the side of pussy he got from her? He beat her in the fuck-and-run race before she had a chance to put her feet on the starting blocks, didn’t he?

But he said that he loved her, that crazy son of a bitch. And he wasn’t a liar—well, not the kind of man to lie about that. Right? She slammed the cabinet doors shut and smacked around the little, plastic coffee maker, preparing to brew coffee with the same subtlety as she would destroy drywall with a mallet. Coffee-making reached an anti-climacticend with the quiet click of the ON button. The button glowed like Vincent’s commlink. Which made her think.

She rushed back to her bathroom. Vincent had set her ripped commlink next to her domino mask. She pressed it and ran to the window, but nothing changed.

She picked up her empty cup and headed to the kitchen for a refill. He was avoiding her, wasn’t he?

Whoop! Whoop! Honk! The car alarm blaring outside her window stopped her in midpour—the alarm coming from the once-empty alley. She poked her head out the window. Below, Vincent’s motorcycle honked and flashed its lights. All-the-more-strange because it was Vincent’s motorcycle without Vincent.

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