The King. Tiffany Reisz

Kingsley said. “So I’ve heard.”

      “I’m not normal men. And don’t pretend you are, either.”

      Kingsley rolled his eyes, waved his hand again. “So she’s your friend and...?”

      “My first two years of seminary were difficult. I’m not sure I would have made it without Magdalena. I owe her, but she refused to accept any form of remuneration from me.”

      “I’ve known a lot of prostitutes. Never heard of one refusing money from a john. Of course, it’s you, and I’d pay you money for another—”

      “Kingsley, she and I never slept together. We were friends. I learned from her.”

      “You learned how to knock a cigarette out of someone’s mouth with a whip?”

      “One of the first skills she taught me, yes,” Søren said.

      Now Kingsley knew what Søren’s “other hobbies” were. He’d learned the art and science of sadism over the past decade. Sounded far more useful to Kingsley than a degree in theology.

      “I traveled a great deal while in school,” Søren continued, “but when I was in Rome, not a week passed that I didn’t find myself at her home.”

      “She let you hurt her?”

      “She did,” Søren said. “Although she herself is a sadist. And a very good one.”

      “How good?”

      Søren looked away and smiled at something before looking back at Kingsley.

      “She was very mean to me,” Søren said.

      Kingsley pointed at him. “Good. Someone needs to be. Is the reason for all this...” He waved his hand again.

      “This what?”

      “Good behavior?”

      “I just told you I went to a brothel every week in seminary to learn sadism from a madam. You have an interesting definition of good behavior.”

      “When I started at St. Ignatius, everyone was terrified of you. Everyone. Tout le monde. Even the priests were afraid of you, and they liked you. You didn’t even speak to other students. You were this impenetrable blond fortress, and everyone hated you—for good reason. What happened?”

      “I grew up,” Søren said. “I’m not in high school anymore. That does wonders for a person.”

      “I don’t like it,” Kingsley said.

      “You don’t like me?”

      “No. Yes. I don’t know,” Kingsley admitted. “When we were in school, we were all like scared puppies, and you, you were a wolf. I don’t like seeing you...”

      “What?”

      “Domesticated. They even put a collar on you.”

      “I put on my own collar.”

      “You used to scare me.”

      “Have you considered the possibility that the reason I don’t scare you now is that you aren’t a puppy anymore?”

      Søren waited.

      Kingsley looked at Søren and barked. Søren only looked at him. Maybe he should try a bite next time.

      “If it makes you feel any better,” Søren said, “the wolf is still there, but he’s on a stronger leash.”

      “You let the wolf off the leash with me.”

      “Which is why I needed a stronger leash.”

      “I don’t know if I want to pay this Magdalena person for making you boring.”

      “What she did was make me take myself less seriously, which is, as you know, the first of three miracles she’ll need to qualify for sainthood.”

      “I envy her,” Kingsley said. “She had you in her life. I never thought I’d see you again.”

      “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if it wasn’t for her,” Søren said. “I wouldn’t have been able to face you without her help.”

      “Then I suppose I owe her, too. Even if you do yell at me.”

      “I don’t yell.”

      “What’s her address?” Kingsley asked.

      “Why?”

      “I’ll send her a check. If she’s the reason you’re here right now, then I owe her and you both.”

      Søren sighed, picked up a pen and a scrap of paper off Kingsley’s desk and wrote the address. He held it out, and Kingsley reached for it. Søren pulled it back out of his grasp.

      “I know what you’re doing,” Søren said.

      “What am I doing?”

      Søren glanced to the right and looked pointedly at Kingsley’s filing cabinets.

      “Blaise has a big mouth,” Kingsley said. “One of her better qualities. Usually.”

      “Here,” Søren said and gave Kingsley the address. “You should visit her. She could help you like she helped me.”

      “I’m fine,” Kingsley said. “You act like I’m falling apart.”

      “You were shot last year and almost died.”

      Kingsley shrugged. “Worked out well for me, didn’t it? Someone came to my death bed and left me an ‘I’m sorry’ gift.”

      “It wasn’t a gift. And it wasn’t an apology. It was a payment.”

      “Payment? For what?”

      Søren reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a tiny clear plastic tube. He sat it on Kingsley’s desk.

      “What is this?” Kingsley asked as he picked up the small tube. A few flecks of metal danced in the afternoon sunlight.

      “If you were a cat, that would be one of your lives.”

      “This is my bullet?” Kingsley asked in shock.

      “What’s left of it.”

      “Why do you have it?”

      “I wanted it,” Søren said. “I took it. I paid you for it. So now you don’t owe me anything.”

      “They gave it to you in the hospital?”

      “I asked for it.”

      Kingsley spun the tube, pretending to study the shrapnel. In truth, he couldn’t care less what it looked like. All that mattered was that Søren had kept it. Why? Was it a talisman? A memento? A reminder of the last time they’d seen each other? Kingsley thought about reaching into his pocket. In it was a small silver cross on a broken silver chain—the one memento he’d keep from his first night with Søren. The cross and the memories.

      “You kept this? All this time you’ve had my bullet with you?” Kingsley asked.

      “I have. If you want it back, you’ll have to pay for it.”

      “I will never understand you,” Kingsley said.

      “Then stop trying.” He held out his hand, and Kingsley dropped the tube with the bullet fragments into his palm. He liked the idea of Søren having this piece of himself in his possession. Was there an object in the world more intimate to a victim than the weapon that had nearly killed him? These bullet fragments had been inside Kingsley’s body and had almost destroyed him. Instead of ending his life, that shot had changed his life. No wonder Søren felt such a kinship to those deadly remnants. They had much in common.

      Søren pocketed the tube that held Kingsley’s bullet fragment.

      “Are you