One Hundred Saints (5 page)

After the parade tomorrow, I’d go see Market Monroe and hopefully be able to talk to James. Once I found out everything he knew about Grimm, if he knew anything at all, I would swallow my pride and go to my parents’ house and talk to them face to face.

But for now, I would just gather my clothes off of the balcony, dress in something comfortable, and take what I had been wearing down to Carrie and see if she’d be kind enough to have housekeeping give my used clothes a wash.

A
s I had previously suspected from when I first talked to Carrie, being Market Monroe’s friend seemed to come with perks. She was more than willing to have my clothes and towels washed for me, and also told me that I didn’t need to wait for housekeeping whenever I wanted something like that done.

I spent a couple of hours at the front desk with her just chit chatting, which was nice, since I hadn’t had anyone to do that with.

In fact, I was so comfortable after about ten minutes of talking to her, that I laid out my entire reason for being in New Orleans. I told her about how upset my parents had gotten over the fact that they weren’t the sole reason I had come back, and how James had vowed to help me find my friend. I didn’t tell her about the nightmare though; that was too vivid still and I was trying to push it away.

“Here you go, Miss,” one of the housekeepers said, coming over to hand me my perfectly folded laundry.

“Would you mind taking that up to my room, please?” I asked sheepishly. She nodded though, the pleasant smile never leaving her lips, and Carrie told her what room to go to.

“So, anyway, that’s pretty much my story,” I said, turning back to her with a laugh.

Carrie leaned on the counter top with a thoughtful look on her face. I wasn’t sure if she had been listening or if she had tuned me out after awhile, but something was definitely on her mind.

“Sorry. I must’ve bored you,” I replied with a grin stretching across my face.

“It’s not that at all, Miss Emily,” she said, her voice as thoughtful as the look on her face. “I just ... I feel like I know that person you’re looking for, for some reason.”

I know that should have been good news, but I couldn’t help but sigh. It seemed damn near everyone I talked to so far either knew who Grimm was, or offered to help me find him, which gave me an inkling that they must’ve known who he was to some degree.

It’s like everyone knows where he is but me,
I thought in frustration.

“James won’t find him though. Not if it’s the man I’m thinking of. He didn’t go down there alone, did he?” she inquired, turning her eyes toward me.

“Not that I know of. I mean, he promised me he would take some friends with him,” I corrected myself.

“Hm.”

That’s it?
I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake what information she had out of her, but I didn’t want to be rude to one of Monroe’s friends. Instead, I decided to try a more tactful approach.

“Seen him around, have you?” I asked, forcing the grin to stay friendly.

“Maybe once or twice. Can I give you some advice Miss Emily?” she inquired, giving me a shaky look.

“Emily is fine,” I replied, holding up a hand. “And yes; advice is always welcome.”

“Don’t look for him anymore. Spend time with your parents if you want, or go back to wherever it is that you call home now, but don’t look for that man.”

I raised an eyebrow at her. She pulled her arms back from the counter top and looked down at her now clasped hands. She knew something about Grimm and she didn’t want to tell me, but I had come to Louisiana for answers, and I was going to get them.

“Why not? Grimm was a decent person when he was a boy, I’m sure he’s grown into a decent man,” I replied defiantly.

It may have seemed silly that I was defending a man that I didn’t know, but I really wasn’t. I was defending the child that would let me talk his ear off for hours at a time. I was defending the child that had inspired me to compose a song, and sneak him into my house so I could play it for him.
That’s
who I was defending.

“I got nothing else to say,” she said quietly. I watched as she began to busy herself with a thick appointment book, before she turned her back to me to place it on the counter behind her. It made me damn angry that had bad thoughts about my friend and wouldn’t tell me what they were.

“He ever come to the French Quarter?” I inquired in a loud voice.

“Sometimes.”

“Carrie! What’s the matter? You almost sound like you’re scared of him!”

“A little bit,” she confessed, her back still pointed at me.

“Why?” I asked in frustration.

She shook her head in response and almost threw herself at the front desk phone when it rang. I think she was thankful for that moment, because she knew it would stop my questions as long as she stayed on her call.

I waited as long as I could; patiently at first, but when my fingers started to involuntarily drum along the top of the counter, I knew I had to go back to my room. Listening to her constant barrage of “uh-huh” and “yes, of course” was starting to wear on my nerves.

I opened the door to the small staircase and ran up the three flights. I didn’t care much for waiting for the elevator right now and I wanted to just get out into the city, but I knew I would probably need money, and for that I needed to retrieve my wallet.

The key card unlocked the door once I slid it into the slot, and I pushed the door open in a huff. The laundry was sitting neatly on the edge of the bed and my wallet was just wear I had left it; on the nightstand. I opened it up to see if I had any cash left after being everyone’s personal saint by handing out money.

Should be enough,
I thought zipping it back up and walking out of the room. I let out a sigh as I took the stairs down to the main lobby where Carrie was still on her phone call. I guess she must’ve thought I was dumb, or maybe the person on the phone was dumb, because that was the longest phone call over vacancies I had ever witnessed.

“If you see Grimm, tell him I’m looking for him!” I called out to her as I left through the front doors.

Not that he would come to a place like this. He never did like fancy,
I mused to myself as I walked down the street. I wanted to go into that old voodoo shop I had seen and get my cards read. Or maybe throw some bones; whatever they had to offer. It would pass some time and even though I had no intention on asking anything specific, chances were that whoever owned the place might have heard of Grimm too.

After all, everyone else seemed to know the man I was chasing. Even if he was just a ghost to me for the time being.

M
ost people would be ashamed to live the way I do; in an old broken home that I had to partially rebuild, barely enough food to last the week, and only enough water to bathe every other day if I wanted any to drink. Good thing about me, is that I’m not like most people and I never gave a damn what anyone thought about me, even less so these days since I had given myself an important task to accomplish.

Keeping to myself was an easy thing. It was what I preferred, and a solitary life allowed me to do my work without prying eyes and admonishments that weren’t solicited or warranted. I didn’t think of myself as a bad person for what I was doing. I thought of myself as the kind of man that helped those that needed it but were afraid to ask for it.

Not once had I taken someone who would have been noticed when they went missing until that boy came to my home. Even by his ragged clothes, I could tell he had a family that would launch a search for him, but he told me that no one knew he was here except for the person that sent him. “Miss Emily” was what he called her when I was drawing my circle, and I couldn’t help but think of the sweetest girl I had ever met. Her name was Emily too, if I remembered correctly, and she was the only one that had ever seen more to me than my appearance.

I actually found myself feeling delighted that if it
was
her, she had sent me another saint. The boy whose name I didn’t know would be number ninety six in a long decade’s worth of work, which meant I was only four more away from being done.

As I sat in my old bathtub that was missing one of its legs, leaned my head back against the cold ceramic, I thought of how the boy met his end.

It wasn’t as particularly brutal as the others had been, and I was sure that I had done him a small mercy. Once my circle had been drawn, symbols put into place, and a wide enough spot for the two of us to be in without disrupting anything, I instructed him to start beating on a ceremonial drum I had. I never used it before, I just really liked it for decorative purposes, but I felt like since he was going to be the youngest saint I had made, he would most likely benefit from participating in the ritual.

Once I was sure the spirits had surrounded us and were happy with him being a saint, I moved quickly. I pulled him up from where he had been sitting outside the circle, drumming as if it would save his life, and used my machete to slit his throat from ear to ear. His body twitched and his hands went to his neck as I quickly picked him up and held him by his ankles, letting him bleed out onto the symbols I had made. I remembered closing my eyes as he gurgled, and his body began to slow down all signs of movement. While it wasn’t as brutal as the path to sainthood usually was, it was crueler, and because of that the Orishas would welcome him with open arms into the afterlife.

I stood in the circle, holding him upside down, until the sun had come back up this morning. Once I was in that place that I needed to be, I could stay awake for hours if I needed to. When it was over, when the sun had broken through my busted windows, I let his ankles go and walked away after his body had made a dull thud on the wooden floor.

I had been in the tub ever since. I needed to wash away the blood and the salt before I went back to work. Spiritual currency was a big business in the underground voodoo world and I always provided the best of everything. Blood had always brought me the most income because of being mixed with the sanctified salt.

I sighed and ran a hand back through my hair. All the money I had hidden in this home and I lived like a pauper. It was good for me though; it kept me grounded and on course to what I needed to achieve. Once I was done, I’d be happy and able to live my life the way I wanted. For now I would have to accept that I had myself a servant to the whims of others and do my best to do what was asked of me.

Most people that knew of me were afraid of me. They said I took this all to a dark place, but if you want to be powerful, you have to be willing to sacrifice for it.

Closing my eyes, I draped an arm over the side of the tub and felt a smile starting to crease my lips. I was thinking about the “Miss Emily” that the boy had spoken of. I wondered if it was Emmie, and if it was, I wondered what she was doing back in New Orleans.

The last time I had seen her, she had played a song she said she had composed just for me. I remembered it clearly and would hum it to myself while I worked.

Of course, her father never cared for me. The night he chased me away before they left, he was yelling at me about being “a filthy, little scum from the poor side of town” and to “stay away from his daughter.”

It must’ve been nice to have such a big house to live in, constant food on the table, and two parents that cared enough about you to keep away the people they thought weren’t worthy of being your friends.

I never really cared one way or the other if he liked me or not; I hadn’t gone to his house for him. I had gone to his house for his daughter, who was quite honestly the only friend I had.

I wondered about her every now and then. Did she remember me? Did her father convince her that I was not good enough to be around her? I liked to think that she was smarter than that, but if she had come back to New Orleans and sent someone to find me, I could be wrong.

If it’s even the same Emily,
I told myself.

But thinking of Emmie made me think of the boy and the work I still had to do. The only way to fully martyr him would be to cut the skin straight off of his body; no mistakes or nicks would do. I’d put his muscles in jars and make sure the bones were still in tact and clean. For the others like me, the bones would be the next best thing I could sell to them because my brand of blood always sold quickly.

I opened my eyes and got out of the tub. It was time to get to work and today was Mardi Gras. It would be a good day to find more saints and come one step closer to completing my work. I would have to move quickly and quietly and hope that whoever I chose would be good enough to be a martyr.

T
he biggest problem I ever had was flaying skin from a body. I lacked the patience to keep my hands steady and as such, I had to discard so many victims and try again. The fact that I was on number ninety six was a miracle in itself, but I hadn’t gotten any better at it.

It took several deep breaths, me walking away and coming back, as well as pulling the boy’s body onto my bare leg to be able to cut properly. I always did this part naked because I didn’t want to have to throw away clothes since I didn’t have anything to wash the blood off with.

I let out a sigh of relief when my blade slid through the last piece of skin that was holding onto the ankle bone, and shoved the corpse off of me. I got off of the salty, bloody floor and went to find my large mason jars. The muscles would be easy to cut off; mostly they were held together in place by thin strips of skin like material that would always buckle under my blade and a tug. If it wasn’t so messy, I would actually classify it as almost fun.

But I knew that this wasn’t supposed to be fun; it was a serious thing I was doing and I was so close to being done that I could almost taste it.

When I found enough jars to hold his small muscles, I went back and sat down where I had left him. I started with his head because the skull would be the most precious item made of bone I could sell if I didn’t want to keep it. I turned his face to the side and put a hand gently across it as I slipped the knife underneath and began to cut away at the ends. Once I had loosened it enough, I put two fingers underneath the cheek and started to cut on the other end until I was able to pull it free. It made a wet sound when I dropped it into the jar, but I never minded it.