My Funny Valyntine: Book One - The Pull

Chapter Nine - In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning

i.

Musty, acrid air awaits Valyntine at the bottom of the ladder. Waving a hand in front of her nose, she asks, "Where are we?"

Latin holds a flashlight, waving its beam down the shaft. "Underground. We can't go out the main, side, or even the back exit of The Robin's Nest," he says, walking. "There's one exit used for those who don't wish to be seen coming in or out of a saccharine house, but it isn't exactly a secret. Only a handful of people know about, or have ever used, this particular egress." He shines the light up to the low ceiling. Wooden beams crisscross the top, holding the packed earth in place. Their footfalls echo in the darkness as they continue along the corridor.

"Mrs. Jones's mother, the previous owner of the Nest, had this built during the days of the Expanse, in case she ever needed a fast, secret escape," Latin says. "Back then, they didn't have the South to take the worst of us. Gang wars raged, territory went back and forth, businesses were forced to pay protection and other fees." They hike another twenty yards when Latin turns to her, walking backward. "This is only my third time down here. I suppose you should feel lucky; you're the first person outside of Mrs. Jones's circle to know about this."

"Looks old," Valyntine says, dodging a spider web.

"Things were more dangerous and unpredictable before the Merge. The West was especially savage."

"I've heard," Valyntine says, remembering stories from Margie and Louise of the insanity and unrest that once ruled Porter City. "Then the Compass Families merged the districts into four defined boroughs, dividing and sharing the resources," she adds, like a student forced to repeat a lesson for the hundredth time.

A stitch has worked up in Valyntine's side by the time they arrive at another ladder. Taking off her burden of their extra weight, she presses her back to the wall, clutching at her side. Latin, not winded in the slightest, has nary a bead of sweat on his brow.

He climbs the ladder, stopping near the top to move a lever aside and open a trapdoor. Valyntine crawls halfway through the floor and into a darkened room, calling out for Latin in a whisper. He answers by striking a match and lighting a candle.

"Now where are we?" she asks. Even with the candle, it's difficult to discern their new surroundings.

"A small apartment building over the border from Blueberry Hill, in Jolson Park. The Jones Family has owned it for more than seventy-five years. They keep several apartments around the West as cool down houses." He offers to help Valyntine the rest of the way through the door. She refuses, shoving her bag through first, then hauling herself up to dust off the refuse of the tunnel.

"Have a seat. I'll make us a drink," Latin says.

Sheets over the furniture serve as protection from dust and time. Valyntine pulls the covering off of the couch. "Is this where we're staying?" she asks, sitting down.

"I should think not."

"Then, shouldn't we be leaving?"

"Not just yet," he says from the corner, cleaning two glasses with a handkerchief. "No ice, but I prefer it neat. How about you?"

"Whatever," she shrugs her shoulders. She doesn't know what 'neat' means. Latin hands her a measure of light brown liquid. Swirling his glass once, he smells it before taking a sip, closing his eyes and savoring the taste.

"Like me, this whisky gets better with age." He smiles at her, taking another sip.

Valyntine takes a small drink, letting it warm her as it burns a trail down her throat. She doesn't drink often. The Strutters forced all kinds of foul concoctions down her to make her more amiable when they weren't in the mood for a struggle. She once found a bottle of poorly made gin in the back of a cupboard after moving into her apartment, drinking it over that first winter to allay the boredom. Margie and Louise celebrated their tenth anniversary with a bottle of champagne, sharing it with her and Horace after closing. The champagne had been her favorite. This whisky, however, is different than anything she's had before. Warm and robust, she likes its smell of burning wood and molasses. It tastes like smoke and oak-pepper, leaving behind cream and walnuts. Impressed, she stares down into the glass.