Page 24 of Penny for Your Saints

“So that’s why you’re immune to my charms, hmm?” Louise snorts derisively, taking one of the cigarettes. Her big dishy red-brown eyes turned up to Quentin as she waits for him to light her cigarette.

“Indeed,” he smirks, placing a cigarette between his own lips before lighting it with a brass plated butane lighter. “Aposematic little princess that you are—as much as you shout with every fiber of your being that you’re dangerous.” He leans down so that the glowing ember of his cigarette falls into line with the end of Louise’s cigarette—still dangling from her sealed lips. “—you don’t want to be touched,” Quentin almost whispers the last words around the cigarette in his mouth as he presses the lit tip of his cigarette to hers.

None of us miss the microscopic flinch that passes, electric, through Louise’s body before she closes her hands into fists—breathing deeply so that the end of her own bogey catches the Promethean gift of flame.

“I know better than that. I can smell it on you,” Quentin purrs, his eyes locked with Louise’s—barely inches apart.

The gesture is surprisingly intimate. I can see out of the corner of my eye. Seb and Caz at the very edge of their seats—Caz’s hand draped absently over Seb’s knuckles so that Sebby doesn’t chew his nails anxiously.

“I can tell that you and I want some of the same things,” Quentin continues, his motions slow and syrupy as he retreats to his side of the table, taking a drag on his cigarette.

“Yeah, like what?” Louise encourages Q to elaborate.

For the first time in days, I see her posture sag gently—her hypervigilance softening for the moment, even if only slightly.

“I know that you didn’t have very much insight into your parent’s research, but it would be an insult to your obvious intelligence to assume you didn’t know that they had broken some very important ground when it comes to pre-determining designations; the possibility of changing them—something that has been widely held to be scientifically set in stone since the inception of the department of reproduction back in the 40’s.” He rotates his wrist casually—offering her the flask once more.

Louise watches in complete stillness, waiting for Quentin to furnish his monologue with something of interest to her.

“It would appear that they were more successful than they bargained for. Not only did your parents make huge breakthroughs in our understanding of designation assignment, early indicators and genetic markers that could potentially find out a child’s designation while still in utero,” he adds nonchalantly, giving the flask a gentle swirl before taking a last swig and screwing the cap back into place.

“So? Whatever testing methods they may have been developing haven’t been approved by the FDA, nor have said methods been socialized to the public.” Louise shrugs Quentin off coldly, her posture still slack.

This isn’t news to her.

“Rumor has it, they managed to use that information to reverse engineer designation to some extent—to truly be able to change one’s metaphorical stars.” Quentin presses carefully, his reverent gaze soft and seeking.

Louise rolls her eyes and sucks hard on her cigarette—the feathery ash at the tip nearly doubling as she takes her drag.

“If your rumor mill has so much to churn out, why don’t you bring them to this charming establishment?” She makes a small loop with the glowing cherry of her cigarette, gesturing to the makeshift interrogation room. “They seem to have more to sayon the matter than I do.” She taps her cigarette on the side of the ashtray, looking bored.

“Well, my little birdies also told me that good old Landon and Margot stumbled onto a bit more than they bargained for—I’ve heard tales of a strange sickness, fated mates, and a lucky little shiny Penny that the good doctors might have kept for a rainy day,” he floats the suggestion on a ribbon of smoke as he exhales.

“Fascinating story. Can’t help you, though.” Louise only shrugs and brings her cuffed hands up to her face once more to take another lazy drag of her cigarette. “You all could have sent me an email from a sockpuppet account and saved yourselves a shitty time in federal prison—but hey, I get that most of your ‘business’ has likely been face-to-face, or possibly sniper rifle sight to back of head or whatever—but you know what I mean.” She pantomimes a bored yawn.

“You know—you’re right. I had wanted to ease into things, give you a little bit of a break after our uncouth… acquisition the other day,” Quentin sniffs, his robe falling ever slightly more open, his rippling abdominals now visible in the greasy light of the overhead bulb. “But I don’t have that much time before he busts in here and starts doing things the hard way.”

I feel the smirk pulling at the corners of my mouth as Quentin begins to lay the groundwork for my entrance.

“What if I were to tell you, that we know that your parents had been successful not only in determining someone’s designation at birth, but that they had also managed to unlock the secret to identifying the fated mates of adults who have presented their designation? That your dear old mum and dad had tried their hands at playing god and changing designations and fated mates—and were so punished for trying to take that power as their own?”

Any ease in Louise’s posture has sublimated; her spine straight as an arrow—her gaze, razor sharp.

“I’d say you’re off your fucking nut, or a colorful liar,” she seethes back at Q.

“The word is, that they used their beautiful little girl like a guinea pig without her even knowing—that you may have unknowingly contributed to the creation of their abomination,” Quentin divulges this last bit barely above a whisper.

“We’ll never know if your little birds are full of shit or not—because the only people who could have confirmed or denied those allegations are six feet under a poorly irrigated stretch of cemetery lawn in Lexington, you shitstain,” Louise snarls, her lip curling away from her sharp canines as she flicks the still burning cigarette at Quentin’s face.

Q bats the lit butt away without blinking and heaves an exasperated sigh.

“Well, if that really is true—then I’m sorry for what’s about to happen.” He shakes his head with resignation, pushing back from the TV table to collect the smouldering butt from the ground. “I only ever worked these kinds of little interrogation sessions on the right side of the law,” Quentin clucks his tongue thoughtfully as he grinds out the cigarette in the little red ashtray. “Frank, on the other hand, specializes in techniques to help… inspire detainees to talk.” He sucks air in through his teeth as if in pain, my cue to make my way to the locker.

Showtime.

Quentin emerges from the interrogation room, clinging to the back of the flimsy pressure board portal as it clicks closed behind him like a survivor clinging desperately to a raft in ashipwreck. Instantly, I am reeling from the blast of intermingled perfumes that wash over me in the small pouf of air from the swinging door; the combination of Q’s rose, sandalwood, and expensive single malt scotch against Louise’s iris, juicy green apple, and pink pepper nearly brings me to my knees.

I must start reeking something fierce, because Q’s head snaps up—his phosphorescent green eyes crackling with need.

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