by Gregory Ashe
The snow came down hard. Irene blinked to clear the snow from her lashes and shaded her eyes with one hand. The storm was becoming ridiculous. Cian needed her. She didn’t have time to waste wandering the city until her feet froze off. No sign of a cab. The streets were choked with snow, and Irene doubted that an automobile could go more than a few yards.
She stopped at the next street and looked back. Already the drifts were swallowing her steps.
Irene felt a moment of vertigo. She wiped snowflakes from her face, rubbed her eyes. She was tired, and the cold was only making it worse. What she needed was a fire, and a nice drink, and a good night’s sleep.
As she stepped forward, ready to break the perfect crust of snow on the street, Irene hesitated.
At her feet, trapped in a pile of snow, was a scrap of newspaper.
A Debutante’s D—
Irene reached down and plucked the paper free, but the wind stole it from her hand. The paper vanished into the night.
A chill settled into Irene. Behind her, the sound of footsteps came again. A quiet crunch of snow. Irene threw a quick glance over her shoulder, but again, nothing. She plunged off the curb, stumbled through snow that came up to her ankles, and turned left. This street was darker—the gas lamps had not been lit, or had gone out—and the snowy bulks of buildings waited like ancient cairns.
The footsteps had grown louder.
Irene picked up her pace, but her shoes slipped in the heavy snow, and her feet were numb from the cold. Twice she caught herself on the railings of the darkened houses. On the third time, she went down, landing on hands and knees and with snow brushing her chin. The footsteps were almost on her. To her left, Irene saw a staircase that led down to a recessed doorway. She lowered herself down the steps and crouched in the doorway. She shook from the cold and fright. The ring, clasped in one fist, felt warm in comparison.
The sound of footsteps slowed. Stopped. Irene waited. Her mouth was dry. Her eyes were fixed on the snow-crusted steps, on her tracks, which led to her hiding spot. From the street came a grunt, and then a shriek that could not have been the wind. Irene pulled the revolver from her pocket. Her hand trembled. The shriek faded to a hiss, like a kettle set to boil, and then silence.
A single crunching footstep, and a dark shape took form at the top of the stairs.
Irene raised the revolver.
“Irene?”
She hesitated.
“Patrick?”
Patrick helped her out of the stairwell. He brushed snow from her coat, looked her in the eyes, and did not let go of her hand. His grip was surprisingly warm. Surprisingly strong. He smelled like wood-smoke and, very slightly, of whiskey.
He was close enough to kiss.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Patrick, what is going on? Were you following me?”
He shook his head and turned to point at the street. Dirty brick stared up from a rough circle that had been melted in the snow. Irene could feel the heat pouring off the bricks even from a distance, and as snow dusted the exposed street, it melted and boiled away.
“What happened?”
“Let’s get you home,” Patrick said. He turned and started guiding her down the street, the way she had been going.
Irene pulled her hand free of his and came to a stop. “I won’t go another step until you tell me what’s going on.”
He paused, ran a hand through dark hair—wavy dark hair, Irene realized, hair that looked quite nice against his fair skin. “Walk with me,” he said. “Please. I’ll explain on the way.”
“Very well. But I’m not going home. I need to find someone.” She gave him the address.
“Fine. Fine. Let’s go.”
He took her hand again, and they started off into the night. The snow had begun to ease, so that the thick curtains dwindled to the occasional eddy. Stars poked their way through the darkness, eager to see what they had missed. For several minutes, Irene and Patrick walked in silence, with Patrick throwing nervous glances over his shoulder. After a handful of blocks, though, Patrick let out a long breath, and some of the tension left his shoulders.
“Well?” Irene asked.
“I might ask you the same thing,” Patrick said. “What are you doing out tonight?”
“I had an errand to run,” Irene said. “And I had no idea there would be such a storm. Trust me, I might have thought twice if I’d known.”
Patrick snorted. “Storm.”
“What do you mean?”
“This wasn’t a storm, Irene.”
“Explain yourself.”
He gave her another quick look and whistled. “You didn’t know?”
“I’m getting very tired of people saying that.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just—when I saw you with the golems, and then the trouble with Seamus’s men, and then again tonight, I assumed . . .”
“You assumed what?”
“That you were part of all this madness.”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
Patrick paused at the next intersection. He was still standing close to her. Close enough that Irene could smell the whiskey and wood-smoke. Close enough that her mouth was dry again.
“Would you care for a drink? It’ll take time to explain, and this is no place to do it.”
Irene nodded, but the ring felt hot against her skin.
“A quick drink,” she said.
In a surprisingly short amount of time, Patrick took her to Kerry Patch. He let them into his bar, locked the door behind them, and stirred the furnace to life. The cold retreated by inches, ceding its hold on Irene’s fingers and toes and nose, but she remained bundled in her coat. Patrick poured himself a whiskey and mixed a drink for her. Irene sipped at it. Strong. She blinked tears from her eyes, worked the fire out of her throat, and sipped again.
Strong. But rather lovely. She flexed her toes and studied Patrick again. The drink reminded her of him in that way.
“Tonight, that snow, it wasn’t a storm,” Patrick said. He took a drink, and then another. “It was a barrier, a kind of trap, designed to keep you moving in a circle. Something was following you. Hunting you, I believe, but possibly just waiting for the cold to claim you.”
“How is that even possible? A trap that makes me go in circles? Something hunting me? I’ve lived in St. Louis most of my life, Patrick. I don’t get lost easily.”
“You’ve seen golems, Irene. You know that there are explanations that aren’t easy.”
Suddenly the drink no longer tasted so good. “You mean to tell me that it was something supernatural.”
Patrick nodded.
“There was something—the other night, when Cian was hurt, it was a clear night. But when we came out of the apartment building, I could see a wall of fog surrounding us for several blocks. It didn’t look . . . natural, either.”
Another nod. “That sounds like a barrier, albeit a bit less subtle than the one you faced tonight.”
“Something attacked us that night. It wasn’t human.”
“Most likely not.”
“What was it? It had scales, I think. And it was big. Bigger even than Cian.”
“I won’t know without seeing it, but it sounds like a sauria. They’re big and nasty and have scales.” He paused, swirled his drink, and took another sip. “Let me ask you a different question.”
“All right.”
“What is Cian to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the first time I saw you with him, you had a gun to his back, and then the two of you ran out of here like old friends, and then I helped you track him to that hospital.”
“Why does it matter?”
The barest hint of a blush rose in Patrick’s cheeks, but his gaze was steady. “It matters because I don’t want to poach on Cian’s grounds.”
“I am no man’s grounds, Patrick.” Irene tried to soften her voice. “I owe Cian my life, and I need his help, but nothing more.”
Patrick watched her for a moment longer, and Irene felt her cheeks heat, but she refused to say anything more. After another minute, Patrick nodded and drained his glass. “What else do you want to know?”
“What was hunting me tonight?”
“I don’t know. I could only see it at halves, as though I were catching a glimpse of something through a bad piece of glass, but when I put a knife through the back of its head, it came apart like a bad seam. It was hot, hot enough to melt that snow and bake those bricks, so I would guess it was something elemental.” He paused. “That fits with the barrier and the snow, too. Whoever was tracking you is skilled with the elements.”
“Was it the same one who trapped Cian and me the night before?”
“Perhaps. It seems unlikely though. What you described sounds fairly blunt, not like the more sophisticated show tonight. And a sauria is far less trustworthy than an elemental servant.”
Irene finished her drink, wiped her mouth, and laughed. “You make it sound so ordinary. As though all of this weren’t perfectly mad.”
“It isn’t ordinary. But I have to think about it this way. If I don’t—if I let myself dwell on it . . . Anyway, that doesn’t mean it’s not mad. If you see enough of these things . . .” Patrick shrugged. “It doesn’t end well
“How do you know all this?”
Patrick smiled, that boyish smile that crinkled the edges of his eyes and made Irene’s heart beat faster. “Let me have a few secrets at least.”
Irene laughed at that. The warmth of the drink settled into every nook and cranny. Outside, the wind had slowed and the snow had stopped.
“I need to go,” she said. Then, “Wait. Why were you out there tonight? Were you looking for me?”
“No. I was out for my own reasons, and I happened to see you. When I tried speaking to you, though, you walked right past me, and I realized something was wrong.”
Irene laughed again. “Not every woman is swayed by your charms, Patrick.”
When he spoke, he was smiling, but his voice was serious. “I don’t care about every woman.”
Irene laughed. It did nothing for the sudden coil of energy inside her.
They hardly spoke again that night. Patrick accompanied her to Harry’s apartment. He left her at the door with a simple, “Good night.” Irene stood there a moment longer, watching him disappear into the city.
Then she thought of Cian, and she knocked on the door, and waited.
Harry stood there in his shirtsleeves. In spite of the late hour, he looked awake and alert, and he motioned Irene in without a word. He helped her out of her coat, held a finger up to his lips for silence, and led her deeper into the apartment. As they passed the living room, Irene saw Freddy asleep in a chair, his cane across his lap. Harry pulled Irene into the study. The air was heavy with the scent of leather and aged paper, and the gas lamps burned low, shedding quiet yellow petals across the upholstered furniture.
“I need to see Cian,” Irene said.
Harry studied her for a moment. “Pearl’s with him for now. Let’s talk.”
“He’s dying.”
“He’ll last another ten minutes.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say.”
Harry shrugged.
“What, then?” Irene asked. “What’s so terribly important that it can’t wait?”
“What did she want?”
“What did who want?”
His smile wasn’t like anything Irene had seen before. Hard and devoid of anything approaching kindness. Harry’s voice was iron scraping leather.
“Irene, you’re a smart woman. Please don’t make me ask again.”
Irene perched on the arm of one upholstered chair, crossed her legs, and put one hand over her bare shoulder. Harry’s smile closed by inches, like a spring being wound tighter, until his face was tight enough to burst. Irene studied the bookshelves. Many of the titles were in French, a few were in Spanish. Some Latin and Hebrew and Greek. The top of the desk was clear, and the drawers had heavy locks on them. When she looked back at Harry, he wasn’t one bit less frightening. Irene’s hands were cold. Every inch of her was cold, and it had nothing to do with the weather outside.
“The box,” Irene finally said. “She wants me to find it. Nothing else. Now tell me. How did you know?”
“What’s in it?”
“I didn’t say a word to you, Harry Witte. How did you know?”
“What is in the damn box, Irene?” He leaned over her, his hands on the chair, his face inches from hers.
Irene reached up, pushed him back an inch. Cold sweat had started along her back. She forced a smile, patted Harry’s cheek, and said, “I think I’ll see Cian now.” Then she stood up. Harry stepped back, his hands flexing, and for a moment Irene was sure he was going to hit her. Then, with an ugly flush climbing his cheeks, Harry moved aside.
She made herself walk slowly out of the study. Harry followed her, and so Irene forced her legs to be steady, in spite of the shakes that were starting. She passed the living room and Freddy and let herself into the sitting room on the far side of the apartment. The gaslights gave only a dull sheen to the room. Pearl sat in one chair, an abandoned pile of knitting in her lap, staring into a corner. When Irene entered, Pearl glanced over, and a look of surprise crossed her face. She stood up, gripping the knitting needles as though they were daggers, and said, “What’s wrong?”
Irene shook her head, but Pearl didn’t move until Harry said, “Nothing.”
Clutching the ring in one hand, Irene knelt next to Cian. He lay on the couch, blankets tangled around bare legs. Wisps of dark red hair covered his chest and arms. Irene felt a blush start somewhere in the pit of her stomach and climb all the way to her hair. She thought about Patrick’s smile and felt guilty, and her face twice as hot as a coal, and she reached out and took one of Cian’s hands. A big hand. So much bigger than her own. The skin hot and rough. Cian murmured something in his sleep and tried to roll away. Blood stained the bandages along his side.
Irene slid the ring onto his finger.
She waited for something miraculous. A flash of light, a golden glow, a shiver across her skin. But nothing. Cian mumbled again, his hand closed tightly over hers for a heartbeat, and then he let go. Huge drops of sweat covered his face and chest.
The room pounded, as though it were the skin of a drum, and a headache had started behind Irene’s eyes. Pearl helped her up. Harry stood near the door, but Pearl gave him a shake of her head and led Irene past him. Irene’s legs had turned to wet noodles. Pearl all but carried her into a darkened bedroom and got her into bed. As the older woman drew the sheets over Irene, Irene felt another wave of the pounding dizziness, and the said, “Is he going to be alright?”
“Rest now,” Pearl said.
The other woman left without another word.
Beyond the curtained window, night waited, pressing itself against the glass with obscene eagerness. Irene shut her eyes, as she had as a child, but the dizziness refused to subside.
Sleep pulled her down with long, clawed hands, but before she slept, Irene felt her skin prickle, flushed with guilt, as she thought about Patrick’s smile and the feel of Cian’s hand closing over hers. A quick, hard squeeze.
And then sleep, and rising out of the darkness, round and pale as the moon, the face of Marie-Thérèse.
It was the shouting that woke Cian.
He rolled over, head pounding, and searched blindly for a bottle of something. Anything that would take the edge off his headache. His headache worsened, and he squeezed his eyes shut, but a sliver of light still reached him.
God, it was going to be an awful day.
Instead of finding a bottle, though, or the rough floorboards of the room he rented from the Doyles, Cian felt his fingers brush a carpet with a thick weave. Then other details started to filter through the pounding in his head. The shouting first. A man and a woman. Or maybe two men and two women. It was hard to tell. Then there was the fact
that Cian was warm, almost too warm, instead of damn near freezing in the drafty room above the sausage-maker’s shop. His bed was more comfortable too.
Suspicious. Very suspicious.
He cracked an eye and immediately wished he hadn’t.
The light stabbed a long silver needle into his brain. Cian blinked, his eyes tearing up, and tried again. And then again. After a minute, he could open his eyes all the way, in spite of ungodly brightness. He was in a small, well kept room. His bed was not a bed at all, but a leather sofa, and he was wearing nothing but his white cotton undershorts. There were other things in the room—a table with a silver vase and silk flowers, a liquor cabinet, a collection of ivory figurines on a sideboard—but all of those things slipped right out of Cian’s mind.
He focused on the important details. He was, for all intents and purposes, naked in a strange place.
The shouting hadn’t stopped.
Thick bandages wrapped his side and chest, and other memories began to filter in. Escaping that apartment building with Irene, and then being attacked in the alley. Looking down into golden, reptilian eyes, and the flash of pain.
The hospital.
Captain Irving Harper.
After that, things became a blur again. A few things, though, were obvious. First, Cian was no longer in the hospital. Second, he had moved up in the world. And third, whoever was shouting was clearly not going to stop any time soon.
He stood up. It took two tries, and his legs were about as strong as a sick cat, but he was on his feet. He wrapped the blanket around himself, rubbed sleep from his eyes, and helped himself to a bit of Scotch from the liquor cabinet.
Good Scotch.
He helped himself once more. To get his strength up.
Then he went to the door and threw it open. He recognized the next room, with its sofa and chairs and paintings.