Page 89 of Saint of the Shadows

He looked back. “I love you too.” Boom! The wall closed.

She didn’t know Morse code, but Vincent knew their code. That’s all she needed.

A throat cleared in her ear, buzzing her earpiece, and a familiar nasal and gruff voice cut through. “My watch is lighting up. What’s up?”

“I’m off to work, old man.”

“Vinnie and I will keep it nice and boring for you.”

“You promise?”

“A wise woman said my promises don’t mean shit, but I’ll see what I can manage.”

Marisol emerged from the hidden basement onto the sidewalk packed with fans decked in the Rooks ’colors: black and royal blue. Perhaps Vincent disappeared so quickly because he looked like an overzealous fan. She headed upstream against the traffic of people. Cars crawled along, filling the air with smog and the smell of diesel. There’d be no easy escape once people packed in the arena. She touched her clavicle at the hollow where her necklace would rest. Vincent and Tobias had to succeed.

She picked up the pace toward the employee entrance. By the time she entered the emergency room, she was running.

“Novotny! You’re back!” the janitor said.

Marisol nodded. She wound through the hall; people greeted her with “Novotny!” as she passed.

Clocking in, she asked, “What kind of day are we having today?”

Nurse Rossi answered without looking up from her smart pad, “Superfans who can’t handle their liquor already occupy a handful of beds.” As she set the pad aside, she completed a double take. “Marisol!” Before Marisol had a chance to speak, Rossi hugged her tightly. “When we heard about the attack, we thought—”

“I’d retreat with my tail between my legs? It’s going to take a lot more to get rid of me.”

“They must love you if they make today your first back,” Rossi said with the sarcasm of every jaded worker in America.

The bosses may be piss-shitting assholes, but they were Marisol’s piss-shitting assholes. Showing up when the world could end was her act of love. She placed her hands on her hips and flicked up her chin. Her invisible cape flapped in a gust of central air. “I go where I’m needed.”

But apparently, the sleepiest shift of her career needed her as she monitored saline solution bags and bandaged minor contusions. And—yes—she could stick a vein on the first try. Almost an hour in, and all she practiced was the type of first aid she’d been capable of since elementary school. However, Marisol worked enough ER shifts to treat calm with suspicion. Stillness in the Spring always warned that a storm was brewing.

Her earpiece rattled. “I see him!” Tobias said. He panted, probably running. “Freeze!”

Marisol ducked behind a corner to drown out the beeps and whirs of the hospital. She cupped her hand to her other ear.

“He complied. This is too ea—” Tobias gasped. Marisol dug her fingernails into her palms. “It’s not him.” After a faint ripping noise—duct tape from flesh?—a man shouted in the background. Tobias’s breathing became a wheeze. “There’s more of them. He’s got those weird parasite masks on people everywhere!”

“On it,” Vincent said robotically.

“Holy fireworks! He’s got explosives strapped to him. All the Bloodsuckers do.” He took a deep breath and shouted, “Everybody clear the area!”

The crowd screamed. A series of loud pops followed.

“Tobias!” Marisol clapped her hand to her mouth.

“Novotny,” Dr. Foster said with a sigh, “there you are. Come here! Something’s happening at the arena.”

Marisol moved to the massive room with curtains partitioning patient beds into temporary cubicles. Patients and medical personnel alike huddled to view the small flat screen television bolted to the corner of the ceiling.

Live footage from the arena showed hives of people scattering to the exits. Some barreled overthe chairs. Others stumbled onto the court and ran away with the players.

The sportscaster said, “There appears to be some masked terrorists attacking the arena. People heard shots fired at the north end of the arena.”

Rossi gripped Marisol’s arm. “Why would anyone do this?”

Marisol could answer a lot after this week, but figuring why was a whole other conundrum. Appearing to brush a strand of her hair, she tapped at the earpiece. No sign of Tobias or Vincent.

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