My Funny Valyntine: Book One - The Pull

Chapter Thirteen - The Saints

i.

Instead of the complicated route Latin planned for them, he and Valyntine take a single hack into C'est Si Bon District. Latin doesn't speak or portray any characters on the journey. He stares out the window with the silver top of his walking stick resting on his chin.

Exiting the hack, Valyntine brings a hand up to cover her nose and mouth. Latin was right, being this close to the port reeks of dead fish and dirty water. He pays the driver and starts walking up a steep path between two rows of townhomes. The cobblestones, incline, smell, and gusts of wind barreling in off the river all make the hill a tough climb.

They stop halfway down a curve in the street. Valyntine shifts her gaze down both ends of the road and is unable to see the end of either. Taking in a deep breath, Latin steps forward and knocks on the door.

Valyntine brings her attention to the townhouse and looks more closely at the wooden door. Leaning forward, narrowing her eyes to better see in the low light, she notices odd engravings. They're everywhere – patterns and scenes so intricate and small she cannot discern one symbol from the next. The pictures flow and entwine around one another. The second round of Latin's loud knocking snaps her out of wonderment.

The door flies open before the hinges have a chance to squeak. A sawed-off, double-barreled scattergun appears at Latin's head, and a volver less than an inch from Valyntine's left eye. Two rotund, middle-aged men hold the weapons.

"Thomas, Anthony," Latin says to each.

Their guns lower.

"Let's get this over with," one of them says, and before Valyntine can register the scene the two men are heading down a narrow hall.

Once inside, the combined smells of cigar smoke, coffee, and garlic replace the stench of water and fish. The Saints keep their house dark, and Valyntine has difficulty making out details. A staircase goes up to her left as the two men continue down the hall to the right. Sepia tone pictures line the walls while stacks of daily rags cover most of the floor. Valyntine watches their reluctant hosts walk through the last door on the right. She looks over her shoulder to Latin. His eyes are focused ahead, deep concentration painting an unfamiliar visage.

"Before you go in," Latin whispers, low into her ear, hooking her arm a few feet from the door. "Don't stand up for me."

"What?" she asks, irritated he's waited until the last moment to tell her anything of importance.

"The Saints don't like me. I would be remiss if I said it was not for a good reason. If they say horrible things to or about me, or even come at me, let it happen." Before she can answer, Latin's hand is on the small of her back pushing her through the door.

ii.

Valyntine thought the number of books in Mrs. Jones's sitting room is the most she's ever seen in one place. In this room of the Saint's home, vast volumes lined every shelf from floor to ceiling along each wall. The available space is inadequate as piles upon piles are stacked on the floor like a cityscape.

Despite all the books and the smells of acrid smoke and mold, the room looks surprisingly tidy. She doesn't yet know which brother is Thomas and which Anthony as they lean against a desk situated in front of the far wall of books. The desk creaks beneath their combined weight. Both men are thick through the chest with well-fed bellies. The Saint to the right has his hands in his pockets, looking passive. The Saint on the left broods, his arms folded in front of his chest. They are waiting for Latin to speak.

"You've heard?" he asks.

"We have," says the man on the right, the one with his hands in his pockets. He wears a stocking cap, his face is kinder than the other, who has shifting eyes and keeps his nose pointed downward like a threatened, cornered dog, preparing to strike.