Page 68 of Saint of the Shadows

Marisol pulled on her clothes and crawled out onto the fire escape. She jumped down, landing in the alleyway just as someone chucked a bottle in her direction. A string of expletives followed that the shattering alarm—or her city-hardened ears—drowned out. She grabbed the handlebars and whispered, “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.” The handles heated under her palms, flashing white hot.

The alarm stopped. A woman’s computerized voice said with a broken inflection, “Mi espíritu recognized.”

Marisol would have to have a conversation with Vincent about her disdain for pet names, although my spirit was more-than tolerable andeven a little perfect, but first, “Staci, where’s Vincent?” she asked the dashboard.

The alarm resumed.

If she wasn’t careful with the damn thing, the bottle-thrower wouldn’t miss this time. “No need to do that.” Another squeeze of her hands shut the alarm off again.

The seat slid back with a hiss of compressing air. A helmet emerged, and the seat clicked back into place.

Marisol craned her neck so hard that she risked a spinal injury. “Want me to get on?”

“Mi espíritu recognized.”

“I don’t have a Class M endorsement,” she said, as if that was the main issue–having the correct license, not an insistent A.I. and a missing boyfriend.

The computer repeated her pet name and lit up. Its electric engine softly whirred. Marisol put on the helmet. She swung her leg over the seat and teetered from foot to foot.

As soon as she steadied the bike, Staci chimed, “Destination determined.” Without manipulation, the motorcycle charged forward, screeching to a halt before entering the street.

Marisol fell forward and caught herself against the handlebars. “Warn me before you do something like that!”

“Destination determined.” The motorcycle pulled Marisol along into traffic.

Unlike riding the bus, the motorcycle offered no reinforced glass or metal frame between her eating pavement or winding up like a smashed bug on a windshield. She leaned forward and squeezed the sides of the motorcycle with her quaking legs. “Take me to Vincent.”

The motorcycle sped up and weaved between cars. Sweat interfered with her grip. Even if she could solidly rev up the motorcycle, she hadn’t a clue how to drive the machine. Instead, she relied on it to speed up and stop itself. At least the helmet muffled her screams because she doubted the seat would soak up her pee once the contents of her bladder jettisoned in terror.

The motorcycle zoomed between car lanes, cramming itself between side mirrors and teetering along the broken white lines between lanes. She closed her eyes, as if that would help her grow a shell and buffer against death. Speed vibrated her body as the motorcycle accelerated. Or was that her uncontrollable trembling? Dammit, she peeked. The motorcycle tailgated this car, zigzagged among those cars, and accelerated again. Perhaps Lamaze breathing would keep her from barfing up her heart.

She crossed the giant bridge, an amalgamation of cables, steel, and cement that united Shadowhaven’s east and west sides.

The Eastside was rife with the gentrified splendor of large open storefronts and impeccably shining windows. Even the concrete was whitewith promise. Shadowhaven’s industrial past was a sucked-out venom. She was near the docks where the row housing echoed the Westside homes—minus the bars in the windows and the bullet holes in the brick. The pitch of the engine lowered as the motorcycle pulled into an alley and stopped.

Marisol dismounted and removed her helmet, clutching it against her hip. “Where am I?”

The motorcycle turned its right blinker on.

Marisol eyed the building to her right. “Is Vincent in there?”

The dashboard read 45 and powered down. Shields emerged like reptilian scales and covered the motorcycle in a metallic gloss.

Marisol sighed. She lost the last shred of her mind depending on a motorcycle that contained the computerized soul of Vincent’s fake wife. After following the blinker, she discovered an entrance to an apartment complex. She pored over the dented call box for a clue while she moved her pendant up and down its chain. A peeling label said, “Enter Number and Press *.”

She let go of her necklace and entered 45 and pressed *.

A throat cleared over the speaker. “Hello?”

The magic of coincidence dropped her jaw. “Tobias?”

“What do you want?”

“It’s Marisol. Buzz me in.”

A buzz shook the door as Marisol let herself inside.

Tobias stood in his doorway, brushing his teeth while pulling on a T-shirt. His unbuttoned jeans sat on his hips. He garbled, “I got you coming over at all hours too?” Toothpaste foam gathered in the corners of his mouth.

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