My Funny Valyntine: Book One - The Pull

Chapter Twenty-Nine - Things Ain't What They Used To Be

i.

Keeping his weaver's hold on her, Lament leads Valyntine out of the Duke's office and down the stairs of thick red carpet. The metallic smell of blood and remnants of burnt gunpowder stings in her nostrils. Her mind dwells on her last sight of Latin, lying on the floor of the office not far from the body of Charleston Monk. Without the crease in his forehead, the dancing light of mystery in his eyes, the edge of a smile always tugging at the far right corner of his upper lip, he ceased to be Latin Golightly.

If Valyntine lives past this night, she knows that for the rest of her life – a life already full of nightmares – her hand being forced to aim and her fingers made to pull the trigger will be a singular horror from which she will never wake. Whether conscious or in restless slumber, the memory will force itself upon her with intensity and malice. And it should. She deserves no less. Living with what she has done, every day, will not be punishment enough for the life she took, the life of the only person to ever know her, to ever love her.

The smell of blood grows stronger as the odd trio nears the front entrance. Thoughts of Latin shift to the back of her mind at the sight of the bodies of Monk's stewards lying near the doors. Lament and Exodus must have killed them on their way in to prevent any witnesses to the night's events.

"Ex, can you take her?" Lament asks, a strain in his voice.

Valyntine feels Lament's angry grasp on her melt away. The willful grip of Exodus surrounds her before she experiences the freedom of her own body. With each of their holds comes an odd familiarity. Following the Pull all those months she never considered more than one person or entity responsible. Now, after experiencing both of their weavings, she recalls their mingling.

Lament's hold feels like cold iron around her limbs and chest; Exodus's is more like an older brother forced to hold his least favorite sister's hand while they cross the street.

They slow their approach as they near the doors. Sometime in the past hour, the rain cleared to leave a thick grey fog in its wake.

"The fuck?" Lament says, annoyed. Pressing his cupped hands to the glass and peering through. "Can't see the bobbies." Looking back over his shoulder at his brother, he adds, sounding unsure, "They're still under Shaw's thumb, ain't they?"

In the reflection of the glass, Valyntine watches Exodus shrug his shoulders.

"Right. Something ain't smellin' right, Exy. What you reckon?"

Exodus makes a noncommittal grunt.

Lament nods in agreement, replying, "Yeah, careful to the auto, then we peel."

They walk through the doors into an oppressive silence. The streetlights yellow glow, muted, and leaden through the haze, does not reach the pavement. The two brothers and their captive keep a slow pace over the sidewalk and onto the road. Valyntine hears a dull thud from up ahead near Lament's feet, and he stops walking.

"Oh, fuck all," Lament groans. Then, in an urgent rush, "Exy, we have to ru-"

Lament does not finish his command. He is interrupted by the sound of a thunderclap, which immediately precedes the explosion of the top half of Exodus's head. Both Valyntine and the deranged, longhaired weaver from the South stand covered in warm blood, pieces of skull, and charred chunks of brains.

The maniacal wail erupting from Lament's throat, coupled with the sudden release of the supernatural hold on her, sends Valyntine toppling over one of the many bodies of the West's law enforcement hidden by the fog.

Another deafening thunderclap reverberates through the quiet street. Lament threw himself to the ground a split second before. The sound of a bullet smashing into the metal of the rag-wagon echoes its near-miss through the empty street.