There Are No Saints (Sinners Duet #1)(3)

Betsy wheels around, noticing Shaw directly behind her. She gulps, her face turning pink.

“Your painting was wonderful, too, of course, Alastor!”

Without bothering to reply, he stalks away from us.

“Put my foot in my mouth, didn’t I?” Betsy says. “Well, it’s what everyone’s saying. These prizes are so political.”

“Or personal,” I say.

Sure enough, Danvers isn’t finished venting his spleen. The following morning he publishes his review of the showcase, with several poorly-veiled barbs thrown in my direction:



While Blackwell’s work continues to exhibit his usual level of precision, there’s a cold technicality to his technique that fails to inspire the same level of energy stirred up by Alastor Shaw’s frenetic, colorful constructions. There’s a wild abandon to Shaw’s work that Blackwell would do well to emulate.



I can just imagine Alastor smirking over his morning coffee, scrolling through the article on his phone.

Danvers’s opinion on my art means less to me than the twittering of the birds outside my window.

However, I do feel a deep sense of rage that he dares to attack me so publicly.

Just as Shaw’s belief that we’re rivals offends me, so do Danvers’s pretensions that he can judge me.

I finish my breakfast, the same meal I eat every morning: an espresso, two slices of bacon, half an avocado, and a perfectly poached egg set atop a slice of grilled sourdough.

Then I wash and dry the dishes, setting them back in their places in the cabinet.

I’m already showered and dressed for the day.

I walk to my studio, which is close to my house on the sea cliffs north of the city. The vast, sunlit space once housed a chocolate factory. Now the bare steel, glass, brick, and concrete form an open cage in which I do my work.

I don’t commission my pieces, though I could certainly afford to do so. Every step of the process is completed by me, even on my most complicated or technical sculptures. I’ve built my own custom equipment for welding, gilding, cutting, and soldering. Winches and scaffolding. Even pneumatic lifts for the largest pieces.

I keep no assistants, working entirely alone.

I start at ten o’clock in the morning and labor until dinner. The kitchen is stocked with drinks and snacks, but I rarely take breaks for either.

Today I’m beginning a new piece in the same series.

I know how I want it to look—organic and yet deconstructed. I want the elements of the sculpture to appear to hang in space.

But when I look over the materials at hand, nothing seems right.

The iron is too heavy. The steel lacks luster.

I picture the precise curved shape that I want—like the hull of a ship, or the rib of a whale.

Then I smile as inspiration surges through me.





I wait outside the Siren offices on Cabrillo Street.

It’s a dingy, low-slung building with a tin roof on which a light rain patters.

Rain is incredibly useful. It obscures the view, forces people to keep their heads down, urges them to run from place to place without lingering, without looking around.

Umbrellas are even better.

I stand in the alleyway, watching Danvers through the greasy little window of his office.

You learn everything about a person when they think they’re alone.

I watch Danvers take a tin of nuts out of his drawer, open them, and eat a few handfuls, wiping his salty palm on the leg of his jeans. He pushes the nuts away as if he’s not going to eat anymore. But a few minutes later, he takes another handful. Then, in a burst of motivation, he puts the lid back on the tin and encloses the tin within the drawer. That lasts even less time before he opens the drawer and takes another handful.

After a while, Danvers’s receptionist comes into his office. She’s already wearing her coat and carrying her purse, eager to leave before the weather worsens.

Danvers steps between her and the doorway, blocking her path with his soft-shouldered body, ignoring several hesitant steps in his direction as she hints at him to release her.

His chatting stretches out agonizingly slow. I see the girl touch the phone in her pocket several times, probably feeling the vibration of text messages from friends who might be waiting for her at some nearby cafe or restaurant.

Finally, he lets her go. I expect him to follow her out—the receptionist was the last person left in the office besides Danvers himself.

Instead, he stands there awkwardly, before sinking into his chair once more.

Frustrated by whatever attention he failed to drain from the receptionist, he pours the remaining nuts directly into his mouth and flings the tin at the wastepaper basket in the corner, missing it by two feet. I see him mouth the word fuck, though he doesn’t bother to pick up the tin.

He scrolls through Facebook for a while. Though he’s facing the window with his computer screen turned away from me, I can see its reflection on his glasses. He opens a word doc, types a few sentences, then closes the document again. Apparently he exhausted all his creative energy slandering me this morning.

At long last, Danvers shuts off his computer, retrieving his coat from a hook on the wall. I’m pleased to see he neglected to bring his umbrella.

Danvers shuts off the last of the office lights, locking the door behind him.

I step out of the alleyway, avoiding the camera perched on the northwest corner of the squat brick building.