Saint's Sacrament - Sins of the Father (48 page)

“Mmm hmmmm, I’m ready,” Xenia answered, her tone weak, as if she could barely speak. Saint burst out laughing, unable to hold it in any longer. Everyone turned to look at him, then went on about their way.

“Wow, you look really relaxed!”
one of the ladies said to Xenia, causing a giggle storm in Saint all over again. He’d just gotten quiet, and now, here he was an instant mess, as if he’d been smoking weed all day.

“Yeah,
she does seem pretty relaxed.” He put his head down, trying to cool himself.

“That back massage must’ve done the trick
,” another woman offered.

Xenia nodded, a smirk on her face.

“Okay, so we will get started and I’ll just set the food over here, but you two really ought to try out these chocolates.” Saint peeked closer and looked at the wrappers to see what kind it was. One of the masseuses noticed his glare.

“They are called Chocolate Kitties! They are to die for
. Have one, I bet you will eat it right up.” She plopped one in his hand…and then, he lost it. The irony was his undoing.

“Chocolate…kitties…eat it…right…up?” He could barely breathe.
He laughed so hard, he thought he may pass out as he thumbed the foil-covered candy in his palm. He felt giddy. He felt in love. He couldn’t help it. As soon as he settled, Xenia suddenly jerked and shook, as if she’d caught a draft, and he lost his cool again.
Another orgasmic tremor…oh my.
He caught his image in a side mirror. The vein in the middle of his forehead was protruded and he was red as a beet as the laughter got the better of him once more.

“I’m
,” He put his hand up, tears welling his eyes. “I’m so sorry, ladies. I just had a thought is all…you know how that is.”

Both women
looked confused but nodded and smiled as they set their items out to complete their work. Saint and Xenia sat up and exchanged glances. Now, they both were laughing. He scratched the side of his mouth, still tasting her essence on his tongue. Just then, the tiny blonde that was working on him looked up and stared at his erection that hadn’t yet subsided. Another cue that had him break in laughter until tears came out of his eyes.

Xenia
got a hold of herself first. “You’ll have to excuse my husband. We were uh, having a discussion right before you came in and it was sorta funny.”

Both women nodded. Saint tried his damn
edest to get serious. Sporting a grin, the blonde pulled up a stool and sat in front of him, preparing to begin his pedicure and foot massage.

Xenia winked at him and blew him a kiss. He pretended to catch it and winked back.

Damn, I love that woman…

~***~

“Are you sure about this?” Saint was starting to have reservations as the outside noise grew stiff and quiet. It seemed as if a massive, invisible vacuum came and sucked all the sound out of the world as soon as they pulled up.

“Yes
,” was all Lawrence offered as he secured his army green vest, pushed his wallet into his back pants pocket, and got situated on the car seat.

They’d arrived in a place that seemed to have no first name, no existence of life
, the scene reminiscent of a Van Gogh painting. Surreal, creepy. Saint felt his reserve of patience diminish by the second. He’d waited impatiently for weeks, and now that the moment had arrived, he experienced pangs of regret. “Where the hell are we anyway?”

Lawrence got out of his snow white
Jaguar XK 120. The ride over had been a blast. Saint laughed and joked, believing it would be a simple procedure, such as going to the doctor’s office to get a check up and then leaving with a red lollypop. He even dared to play with Lawrence’s radio settings on the way over—a no-no, but the man let him do it. That was Saint’s first indication that his friend knew something fantastically bizarre and shocking was about to go down. All of that jovial banter and mood dissipated. Jagger got out from the back seat and looked at the small, dilapidated brick building with a worn, barely legible sign that read, ‘The best bread in town’.

“
This
is where he wanted to meet? Looks like something out of a horror movie, damn.” Jagger slid two loaded M 1911s out their holster, clicked them, and secured them back to his hips. Lawrence and Saint looked back at him, the cracking noise alerting their attention. “Don’t look at me like that. You can never be too careful. You’d be happy I had these puppies if you found out this was some sort of set up. I’m always strapped. Remember that.”

All three men approached the building,
jagged concrete pebbles crunching under their feet. The sky turned into a murky gold with streaks of vibrant orange, and the silhouettes of pitiful trees, clutching on to a leaf or two, dotted the grass barren area. Soon, the sun would be gone, and everything would be pitch black for he could see no streetlights. There was no sign of civilization, minus the small black Fiat parked nearby. Ahead, two doors from the building slowly swung open with a creak, showing nothing but darkness beyond. It was the type of blackness you have to see to believe…a midnight sort of darkness on a starless night. A darkness full of mystery and causing instant trepidation.

Saint briefly closed his eyes and caught his breath. His nostrils detected the strong aroma of various incenses, burning candles and the unmistakable scent of fresh blood.
Jagger turned and paused, his nose in the air, picking it up, too. The men drew closer until, out of the shadows, a ruddy-faced man appeared, his cheeks the color of Georgia dirt. The scent of wet Earth seeped from the stranger’s pores. His pupils were dark coffee and the whites of his eyes glittered. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and pants, paired with sandals, the Healer leaned against a clear glass staff that he obviously didn’t need. His wavy cropped salt and pepper hair suited him, and several strands of colorful choker necklaces were wrapped around his long neck. The older man’s dark eyes moved from one man to the other, starting and stopping again with Saint. His face cracked a smile, showcasing his teeth, one noticeably crooked on the bottom row.

“Saint
….”

His voice sounded like waves washing ashore, and out the side of his mouth escaped a small wisp of red smoke.

Saint nodded, then bowed his head in reverence. His heart thumped loudly below his flesh, as if he were feeling the vessel for the first time. Overcome in mere seconds, and the man hadn’t even touched him yet.

“Come.” The man stepped aside, allowing the three to enter the strange dwelling.
They did in single file, and Saint couldn’t help but smile at the sound of an enchanting African beat of basic drums and humming coming from the darkened quarters. As he moved about, he could barely see his hand in front of his face, then, finally, the scent of several matches being struck filled the air and the dancing flames of numerous torches lit the area. They all sat on the dusty ground, forming a small circle before an unlit fire.

“You’ve come a long way
for my friend, Krishna. Thank you,” Lawrence said, then removed a black raven feather from his pocket and handed it to the man. Saint felt a strange energy around him, one that was familiar, but morphing, heating. He turned to Jagger and spotted the man in some sort of daze—scanning, breaking down walls with his mind. His eyes, a vibrant purple, sparkled like jewels. Krishna looked at Jagger as he got ready to kneel before the piled sticks to light a fire.

“Your friend here, Jagger
…” The Healer laughed and nodded. “Very funny…strong, powerful. Good friend. Protective of you, Saint.” His dialect was thick. “He is doing something to look in my mind. Doesn’t trust me. That is good.” He laughed lightly as sparks flew up into the air, swirling, twisting and biting one another like angry, venomous snakes amongst a ricochet of fireworks for the 4
th
of July.

“
You must trust me however, Saint. Give it to me now.”

“Give
you what?” Saint looked at Lawrence, perplexed. Lawrence pointed back to Krishna.

“You don’t know
the process. My apologies. Saint, arm...give me your arm.”

Saint paused and reflected
on what was being asked. He sighed, a bit apprehensive, but complied. He rolled his shirtsleeve up and pushed his arm toward the flame. In a flash, Krishna gripped his wrist hard, his dark fingers digging into Saint’s wrist—the touch was painful yet soothing all at once. Saint let out a slight grunt and repositioned himself as the man held up a serrated piece of red glass and sliced his flesh clean open. Saint gasped. Blood dripped into the dancing flames, making them jump and scream. Krishna took the raven feather given to him by Lawrence and ran it lightly over the open wound, then began to chant in a strange, unintelligible language.

Krishna did have the same power level as Saint
; Lawrence had been right. He possessed a seasoned, ripe power, coated in the thick, gray paint of wisdom and humility. Saint overdosed on the man, seeing a more refined version of himself in him, and it did his soul good. It was amazing to feel that sort of energy in someone so good and holy, unlike his cousin who’d squandered the rare gift. Red smoke began to fill the room, cottony soft like a woman’s flesh, and sweet like pussy perfume… Saint smiled as he drifted in fantasy, becoming high off of something—of what, he wasn’t sure. Willowy hands and feminine laughter echoed in his ears. All the shit that gave him comfort surrounded him now, and he drowned in the moment, loving it all. After a while, he sleepily looked to his left—Lawrence was gone. He looked to his right—Jagger was gone, too. He looked ahead, and there Krishna kneeled, now with a snow white hood over his head, his body contorting as he chanted and the flames continued to crackle and dance, screaming in bloody rage, agony and release. Saint’s eyes hooded. The drum beat intensified, reminding him of Steely Dan’s, ‘Kid Charlemagne.’ He was sure he was losing his mind, and he loved every moment of it as the damn red smoke choked him like lingerie covered thighs locking him in a tight embrace…

“Shiiiiiit…
,” he slurred as he fell back against the cold wall. “Xenia, baby…,” he murmured, convinced she was sitting on his chest, her pussy close to his lips… and he longed for a taste. Krishna held Saint’s arm out, allowed the blood to keep on dripping.

“Saint, this is your time. It is time to release. To purge. This is your blessing. Protection. This will carry you through your life, not just tonight and a month later.
This is
forever
…” Suddenly, the man’s voice seemed crystal clear, no dialect at all. Saint strained to keep his eyes opened, to focus. Krishna wasn’t moving his mouth—he was speaking to him telepathically, in a way he could understand. No more confusion.

“Lawrence brought me the raven feather. It is a bird of mystery, of magic. It will help you hide from those that wish to seek you to destroy the good within you
and all that you do. We are ravens—we are the Angels’ Children, and also their clean-up crew. We pick up the pieces. Make everything right. Scavengers of the evil and half dead…that is what we are. We go down into the valleys where others won’t, and we do it well, and with pride. My job is to bless and heal, that is my calling. Your job is to teach and kill, no more stonewalling…”

Saint realized the man was rhyming, speaking to his soul in a way he could understand…in words
that matched the thick, heart-pounding beat of the drum. He was doing it in song, just like a rap, just like the children beating on the dented, metal trashcan lids along the garbage-filled streets in the Bronx on hot summer nights. To the beat of the Salsa and Gauracha music blasting from partially opened windows over a view of dirty sneakers hanging across the telephone lines… a place where cinnamon and dark chocolate brown, buttery beige, azure black and peachy tan kids moved together, their shoulders bumping into one another and moving in sync, like musical notes… slapping their hands against those damned cans, laughing and singing lyrics to things they’d not yet understood or experienced. Things like being in love, you know, having a girl on your side that all the other boys wanted. Having fancy cars like the neighborhood pimps and drug dealers, all the money in the world and fame and fortune. The chorus was the city noise.

Bursts of strong words in Spanish, Yiddish and thickly accented just straight New York
English, no chaser, blended together to make a sinfonietta of life.

“That beat is mad stupid, yo!”

They were children… with different names, different claims, but right now, all the same… His memory spun warm, worn thoughts but were interrupted as Krishna’s voice cut through them like the glass that had slashed his arm…

“
Your mother was a polite woman of faith; she knew your heart before she saw your face. She knew you’d be a great one, and no one could take your place. Your father was in fear of you because he loved his son. Didn’t want you to be in pain, so in return, you were shunned. Born from a woman and man that loved each other so hard, in a world so cruel, made of angels and fools; the demons left it burnt and scared. You envisioned your childhood—a portal of hell. But out of it were born angels, and inside of them, you dwell. The devil dances with delight, by your soulful tears in candlelight. But that’s only because he is blinded by the true vision, the Godly third eye’s sight. You scare the imps, your love is strong, and so is your reserve. You stand mighty tall, even up against the wall, and your bravery has the last word. You show me things; I’ll show you things, in a crystal ball covered in blood. You sacrifice, you’ve paid the price, and now your eyes will flood…”