The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1)

by Gregory Ashe

Harry Witte stood in front of the door, his back to Cian, his mouth open as he cut off in mid-shout. Beyond Harry stood Irene, in a dress that showed plenty of legs and shoulders and made Cian’s mouth drier than the Sahara. Pearl and Freddy stood a bit further back, watching the scene unfold.

  Irene’s eyes widened when she saw Cian, and she gave a delighted squeal and pushed past Harry. “You’re awake,” she said.

  “Softly,” Cian murmured, rocking back as she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. “My head’s about to split.”

  She laughed, released him, and stepped back. Then, for no reason Cian could understand, she started sobbing. Huge sobs that were either relief or total despair.

  Judging by the fact that he was wrapped only in a blanket, Cian assumed it was despair.

  Pearl and Freddy both came forward and guided Irene to one of the armchairs. While Freddy fixed a drink, Pearl fixed Cian with a look.

  He’d seen that look on women before. That look meant Trouble with a capital T.

  “Well,” Harry said. “You’re alive.”

  “Yeah. I owe you my thanks, I suppose?”

  Harry nodded. “For a part. But you really owe your life to Irene.”

  “Oh.” Cian stood there for a minute, flustered and wishing the blanket weren’t quite so itchy. Then, “Thanks, Irene.”

  She burst into fresh sobs.

  “God above,” Harry said. He grabbed Cian by the shoulder. “Let’s get you some clothes.”

  In one of the bedrooms at the back of the apartment, Harry left Cian with clean—and new—clothes. Cian let the blanket drop and picked up the trousers, then glanced over.

  Harry stood in the doorway, staring at Cian. The other man stood there a moment too long, stared a moment too long, before excusing himself and shutting the door.

  The skin on the back of Cian’s neck crawled. There were a million reasons not to like Harry Witte. He’d just learned another one.

  When he’d dressed—good wool trousers, a shirt white enough to hurt his eyes, and even a heavy, gray wool coat, new socks and shoes, and all of it fitting like a glove—Cian returned to the front room. Irene’s eyes were red, but when she saw him, she laughed and said, “I’m sorry, you must think I’m completely mad.”

  “I already thought that,” Cian said, but he smiled as he did. Irene laughed again. “I meant it,” Cian added. “Thank you.”

  “You don’t even know what I did,” Irene said. “You might feel differently when you do.”

  Pearl appeared then with a plate of potatoes and eggs, with a lonely strip of bacon in the middle, and she set it down before him. “Freddy ate all the bacon,” she apologized.

  “I’m older,” Freddy said. “I need to keep my strength up.”

  Cian set to work eating. As he ate, Harry and Irene filled him in on what he had missed. Parts of the story he didn’t like—being reminded of that wall of fog that had appeared outside the apartment, or Irene’s story about being trapped in another barrier of snow, or the bit about the ghost. At this point, though, he had to admit that he had seen too many strange things to call Harry Witte a liar outright. As Cian ate, his headache cleared, and he found his mind racing to keep up.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, when Irene had finished. “Thank you for what you did. I’m grateful, truly. But you shouldn’t have made a deal. You don’t owe me anything.”

  “You saved my life.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “It doesn’t matter at this point,” Harry said. He took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was more even. “It doesn’t matter. The deal is made. Now at least we have a chance to get it.”

  “You think this is a good thing?” Cian said. “She was out there, alone, in the middle of the night, mixed up in God knows what, and all you can talk about is how it’s helped you out. What the hell is wrong with you? Now she’s got a spirit, or a ghost, or something after her, and it’s all because you got her into this mess.”

  Harry surged out of his seat. “I got her into this mess? Listen here—”

  “Stop it,” Irene shouted. “Stop it, now. No one got me into this. God above, you’re both the biggest fools I’ve ever met.” A flush mantled her pale shoulders and her throat and her cheeks, and Cian found it hard to remember that she was angry with him. Irene looked at Harry, who still hadn’t sat down, and added, “I make my own decisions. Both of you would do well to remember that.”

  “I’m sorry,” Harry said after a moment. “Cian is right, to a point. We did bring you into this—”

  “Did you not hear a word I just said?” Irene asked.

  With a quiet smile, Pearl said, “He hardly hears anything these days. It’s like talking to a man with his head in the sand.”

  Cian thought Harry might launch into another shouting match, but the red slowly drained from Harry’s face. With a sheepish smile and a shrug, Harry said, “Very well. I see I’m outmatched by the women of our little group.” He sat down. “Friends?” he asked, holding out one hand to Cian.

  “You put her in danger. And you put me in danger. And I don’t trust anything about you. No, Harry. We’re not friends.”

  Harry held his hand out a moment longer before dropping it. An uncomfortable silence descended on the group. Then the old Hun leaned forward, one hand plucking at his short, silvery beard, and said, “If you’re finished?”

  Harry nodded but he didn’t take his eyes from Cian.

  “According to Miss Lovell,” Freddy said, “the box contains an ancient relic. If it is what I believe, then it is most commonly known as the Mask of Dagon. Henry, you will know more about this than I do, but I have read enough about the mask to know that it is a relic of unbelievable power. According to a cuneiform tablet, the mask’s first known location was in the great temple of Dagon, in Ur, and it was worn twice a year by the high priests in rituals of communion. The mask vanished after Ur was conquered by the Chaldeans, but it appears again depicted in a silver urn recovered from the temple in Jerusalem.” Freddy paused. “The record grows even more scarce after that. Louis XIV claimed to possess the mask, but he also claimed to have destroyed it. There are hints—manuscript entries—that the mask was entrusted to an illegitimate child and eventually found its way through a shipping magnate to La Nouvelle-Orléans, which Americans call New Orleans. It disappears again, although half the founding families of New Orleans claim to have held the mask at some point.”

  Harry had a faint smile on his face. “Freddy, I think it’s safe to say that you know more about the mask than I.”

  Freddy blinked. “Oh. Well.”

  “How the hell did he know all that?” Cian asked.

  “Mind yourself, sir,” the old Hun said. “There are ladies present. I know the history of mask because I specialize in ancient worship. Anyone in my field would have heard of the mask, the way any self-respecting artist would know about the Mona Lisa.”

  “Right. The Mona Lisa.”

  “We’re getting off track,” Harry said. “Freddy, you say the mask is powerful. How powerful?”

  “Powerful enough to make the Winter Bride’s heart look like a street magician’s trick,” Freddy said. “The mask allows the wearer to commune with Dagon, even though he sleeps. Louis XIV claimed that the mask would raise Dagon from the depths and wake him, if used properly, but such a claim is uncertain. The French are creatures of fancy.”

  Harry had gone pale. He gripped the arms of his chair with white-knuckled hands.

  “Harry,” Pearl said. She turned to Freddy. “Why did you bring that up? The Winter Bride—”

  With a start, like a clockwork toy springing to life, Harry leaned forward and waved one hand. “No, Pearl. It’s fine. I just—I was surprised.” Some of the strain in his face eased, but he didn’t let go of the chair. “If this thing is as powerful as Freddy believes, then we have to find it. No more mistakes.”

  Pearl nodded, but unhappiness was written with a bo
ld brush on her face.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any way of convincing you to leave this alone?” Cian said to Irene.

  The flush had faded from her neck and shoulders, leaving skin white as cream. Her thinness didn’t bother Cian quite as much as it had. The lines of her neck, the muscles in her shoulders—he realized, too late, that she was speaking and that he had missed the first part.

  “—and if I don’t at least find the mask, I break my deal with Marie-Thérèse, and you’ll die.”

  “I don’t want you to—”

  “It was my choice,” Irene said. “And I’ve already made it.”

  “Then wait here,” Cian said. “We’ll go find this damn mask without you, and you can tell her that you found it”

  Irritation was bright in Irene’s eyes. Cian didn’t care.

  Harry laughed, let go of the chair, and rubbed his hands together. “Sorry, friend. An impressive bit of chivalry, but I’m afraid Miss Lovell will be going with us.”

  “Why?” Cian said. “Because you say so? I know your type and I’m not scared of you.”

  The laughter left Harry’s face. He stood up, but this time there was no threat in the movement. Instead, it was a gesture of dismissal. Harry headed down the hall towards the bedrooms, and over his shoulder he called back, “Irene is going with us because she’s the only one who has an idea of where to look.”

  Cian looked at Irene and saw the confirmation in her eyes. His stomach dropped.

  The woman was determined to get herself killed.

  “Stay close to me,” Cian said as they bounced along in the car. He kept his voice low and hoped that only Irene could hear him. They had crowded all five of them into Harry’s Model T, which skimmed along the road and rocked like a bad wagon at every bump and turn. Pearl sat next to Irene and kept her face forward and expressionless, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t hear them.

  Irene smiled.

  “I’m serious,” Cian said. “And keep clear of Harry. If anything goes wrong, I want to be able to get you out of there.”

  “My knight in shining armor,” Irene said.

  “You’re mocking me.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “At least I have some fucking manners, unlike him and every other fellow like him.”

  With an arched eyebrow, Irene said, “I’ve never heard of fucking manners. They sound like a scream.”

  “Forget it. Do what you want. You will anyway.”

  Cian settled back against the seat, cursing her and feeling like a sardine stuffed in a can. On the one side, the window showed dark fields buried under snow like carded wool. On the other, Irene’s slender frame, her hip pressed against Cian in a way that tied his throat in a knot. Never mind that he had half a mind to pull her out of the car and drag her back to the city on foot. He sighed, his breath fogging the glass, and tried not to think about Irene, or Harry Witte, or where they were headed.

  Irene laughed at something Pearl had said, and the sound sent a fresh wave of irritation through Cian.

  In the front seat, Harry drove while holding a quiet conversation with the Hun. Freddy leaned forward, his face almost pressed to the windshield, body taut with excitement. The man had been wound tight as a fiddle since learning about the mask. He looked like a soldier who had just learned that his girl from home was waiting in the next town. The kind of look that made men do stupid things.

  Harry, on the other hand, had the same easy manner as always. More than once, Cian had caught the man’s eyes wandering towards him, and more than once Cian had felt his suspicions grow. Harry Witte was, to judge by Irene’s reactions, handsome and charming. Pearl was in love with him—that much was obvious even to Cian. None of which explained the strange encounter with Harry in the bedroom, or the man’s sidelong glances.

  The Ford hit another rough patch, knocking Cian into the air. His head hit the roof. He bit his tongue. Landed hard on his ass.

  Cian wished they had walked.

  Outside, the fenced fields of farmers began to separate, like patches of a quilt tearing at the seams, broken by lengths of woodlands and fallow clearings. This far from the city, with the land buried in winter, made Cian think of France.

  France made him think of Corinne, with her dark eyes, with her smile that he had thought was just for him.

  France made him think of Harley Dunn, who was handsome and charming like Harry Witte.

  Cian stared out the window. The sound of the bullet splitting bone and brain.

  Irene was laughing again.

  What could be so God-damned funny?

  When he looked over, though, Irene and Pearl were both staring at him, and the women burst into fresh laughter. Cian turned his gaze back to the window.

  Not a bit of sense to either of them.

  Harry Witte was every inch the same as Harley Dunn. The kind of men that women loved. The kind of men that other men wanted to be. The kind of men that other men would follow into battle, would trust with their lives, with their fears, with the dark nights far from home in a foreign land.

  And that was why Cian was going to save a bullet for Harry Witte. Because it was only a matter of time before Witte betrayed them, just like Harley Dunn.

  In the middle of breathless laugh, Irene sat up straight and leaned over the front seat. She pointed with a finger. “Here,” she said. “Here.”

  “Where?” Harry said. “I don’t see—well. There it is.”

  The automobile slowed, and Harry turned onto a well-kept, unmarked road. Irene leaned back, her face intent now as she followed some sort of internal compass. Cian didn’t like it one bit. She’d made a deal with Marie-Thérèse to save Cian’s life, and that rankled in him like a barbed fishhook. What was worse was that the old ghost, or whatever she was, had done something to Irene. Put something in her head that would lead her to the mask. It sounded like witchcraft to Cian. It sounded dangerous. But most of all, it sounded like a trap for Irene.

  And that was the part he liked least.

  The road carried them through a dense stand of trees, their branches forming lattices against the night. A few lonely evergreens wore needled coats, still and silent observers of winter’s desolation. Something darted ahead of them, at the edge of the automobile’s lights. A very small wolf, perhaps. Or a very large fox.

  When they cleared the trees, the house was visible. House was a poor word for it—the kind of word that someone like Cian would use. Irene, on the other hand, probably had a dozen words for it. Manor. Country estate. Villa. Cian stared at up the monstrosity. Even in the darkness, its massive size was obvious, filled out by dozens of lighted windows. Against the vast dome of stars, the house looked built perfectly to scale, as though it could fill all that emptiness itself.

  In the glimmer of the Ford’s headlights, rows of parked cars were visible. There had to be at least a dozen of them. Most were expensive models—Cadillac and Packard, a pair of gleaming Rolls Royce, Duesenberg, more. Only a few came from the more humble lines of Henry Ford’s factories. That meant rich people. And rich people, in Cian’s experience, were trouble.

  Harry pulled the Model T to the right, between a pair of overgrown, snow-dusted shrubs. Branches scraped the windows like fingers. When they reached a small clearing, Harry stopped, and the car settled like a dog shaking itself before it went to sleep.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” Cian asked. “That place is practically a castle. What are we going to do? Knock and ask if we can look around?”

  “It’s not a joke,” Irene said. “And if you had half a brain, you’d know that.”

  “Half a brain? Listen here, Irene, I—”

  “God, enough,” Harry said. “Both of you. Irene, you’re sure it’s there?”

  She nodded.

  “Fine. That’s good enough for me. Pearl, Irene, wait here. Cian, you—”

  “I don’t take orders from you,” Cian said.

  Harry’s face was expressionless. “I was going to say, you can do wh
at you wish.”

  Cian snorted.

  “If you think I’m going to sit out here and freeze my toes off,” Irene said, “you are sadly mistaken, Harry Witte. Besides, you’ll have no idea where to look once you get inside that house. I’m going with you.”

  Harry looked at Pearl.

  She turned to look out the window at the house, then at Harry again. “We need everyone we have, Harry. You and Freddy haven’t been enough on the last few jobs—the Children have always gotten to the artifacts first. I think we should go.”

  “Two women,” Harry said, rubbing his chin. “Two women were a mistake.”

  “You’re about to make an even bigger one,” Irene said with a sweet smile.

  Cian smothered a chuckle. The sound died when Irene and Pearl turned to stare at him.

  He held up both hands. “Let’s go before Harry has another brilliant idea.”

  They climbed out of the car. Pearl and Irene had their heads together, and Cian was certain he heard the words, “Men,” and “children,” and then Irene’s muffled laughter.

  “We’ll go around back and look for a servant’s entrance,” Harry said. “A place this big is bound to have one or two. Once inside, we’ll see if Irene can get us any closer to the mask.” Then he added, “Any questions?” Harry turned to look at Cian.

  “Would you mind waiting in the car?” Cian asked.

  Harry turned and started up the hill without a response.

  “You needn’t antagonize him,” Irene said as they walked after him.

  “One of us should keep both eyes open,” Cian said. “That man could sneeze and you’d fall over out of pure delight. He can’t be trusted. I know his type.”

  Irene glared at him and then quickened her pace, moving to walk with Pearl. The two women put their heads together again.

  The rest of the way, Cian walked with Freddy. The old Hun was small and thin, and his hair and beard looked like they’d never been mussed in his entire life. His breath came in energetic puffs as he used the silver-handled cane to help himself up the hill. This close, Cian couldn’t help but notice the odor of cabbage that clung to Freddy.