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

by Gregory Ashe

  “It’ll be good for you,” Cian said.

  Sam swore again and drank from the bottle.

  Cian straightened and raised the bloody handkerchief. “I’d give this back to you, but I imagine you don’t want it anymore.”

  Irene smiled, and it was like he was seeing her smile for the first time. A tremulous smile, like a spring morning that wasn’t quite sure if winter was past. She shook her head. “Keep it,” she said, and her smile slipped back into the playful look he was more familiar with. “As a token of my affections.”

  “A bloody handkerchief,” Cian said. “I’m practically swooning.”

  Pearl covered a smile with one hand.

  Sam took another drink and glowered at Cian.

  All in all, as far as Cian was concerned, that seemed just about right.

  Then, from the other side of the dungeon, Harry shouted, “What do you mean you have it?”

  Cian, Pearl, and Irene moved towards the men. Freddy was pale but stood erect, his shoulders back, his lined face hard. The old Hun reached into his coat and withdrew an amber disc, its diameter the size of man’s hand. Carvings covered the amber, but in the weak light, Cian couldn’t make them out.

  Harry reached out to grab the disc. Then he slammed his hand into the wall. “God damn it, Freddy. You told me it had been destroyed.”

  “I—” Freddy began.

  Harry spun, took a step in the other direction, and then swung around towards Freddy. Freddy didn’t move. For a moment, Cian was sure Harry would hit the old man. Then Harry dropped his arms and stalked off to the far side of the cellar.

  The Hun’s face had lost its color.

  “What was that all about?” Irene said.

  Pearl, however, was staring at the disc. “Oh, Freddy,” she said.

  That seemed to affect him more than anything Harry had said. He held the disc out towards Pearl like a supplicant. Pearl shook her head and joined Harry. Her voice was a murmur punctured by the occasional loud oath by Harry.

  Irene cocked an eyebrow at Cian.

  Cian shrugged. He reached out and took the disc. Freddy made a sound of protest, but it was halfhearted, and Cian ignored him. The disc was cool and dry to the touch. Its shape was uneven—thicker in some places and thinner in others. Up close, the carving seemed to represent a sun, with rays of light streaming from the center of the disc. Cian flipped and caught it. Freddy gasped. The old Hun snatched it back and cradled it against his chest.

  “Valuable, huh?” Cian said.

  “You have no idea what you’re playing with,” Freddy said. “This comes from the Egypt’s early dynastic period. Its worth is incalculable.”

  “I bet I could calculate it,” Cian said.

  Irene smothered another laugh as Freddy’s cheeks reddened.

  “So why were you supposed to destroy it?” Cian asked.

  “Because it’s damn dangerous,” Harry said, Pearl at his side as he rejoined them. “Because we took it from a two-bit sorcerer who probably couldn’t have lit a candle on his own, but who turned four square miles of forest to ash with this little thing. And most of all because Freddy told me that he was going to destroy it. How many others have you held onto, Freddy? How many have you kept hidden away that you promised you had destroyed?”

  Harry’s hand was resting on a fat revolver at his side.

  Freddy shook his head. Despair made his voice flat. “None, Harry. It was only this one. I brought it tonight because I thought we might need it. It looks like I was right.”

  Harry snorted. “You brought it because you’re obsessed with it and you’ve been aching for a chance to use it. Hand it over, Freddy.” When the old Hun hesitated, Harry pulled the revolver from hits holster. “Now.”

  “I’m sorry, Harry,” Freddy said. “Truly. It was a mistake.”

  Harry took the disc and headed for the stairs. He holstered the revolver, motioned Sam out of his way, and said, “Stay down here.” Then he glanced back and added, “And this time, I mean stay.”

  “Why is he looking at me?” Cian asked.

  “Your reputation proceeds you,” Irene said. Then she looked at Freddy and asked, “What did he mean, you wanted to use it?”

  Freddy shook his head.

  When Irene glanced at Pearl, Pearl sighed. “I’m sorry, Freddy. They need to know all of it.”

  With a stiff nod, Freddy moved to the corner of the cellar, his face to the wall. The little Hun looked ready to fold in on himself and disappear. Pearl watched him for a moment. Then she said, “Freddy has a history.”

  “Everyone’s done things he’s not proud of,” Cian said. Irene threw him a quick glance that he ignored. “No need to go dredging it up.”

  “In most cases, that might be true. Here, it’s not. Freddy is a professor and a scholar, as we told you. He knows a great deal about cultic ritual. What most people call magic. That’s how Harry met him. Harry was hunting a magician, or a sorcerer, or whatever you want to call him. When Harry tracked the man down, though, he was dead.”

  “Saved Harry a few minutes work,” Cian said.

  “Freddy was standing over the dead man,” Pearl said. “He’d been struck by a lightning bolt. On a clear day. Inside a room on the third floor of a hotel.”

  Cian paused. “Damn,” he said.

  Pearl nodded. “Freddy insisted it was self-defense, and Harry believed him. But Harry also warned Freddy about cultic magic. See, we can’t track down everyone who uses magic. There are too many folk rituals, too many things passed down family to family, too many covens and secret societies. We take care of the ones who are hurting people. Usually, they’re also the ones who have gone mad.

  “That’s what cultic worship does, in the end. Exposing yourself to the chaos of the universe, to the old gods, to the Devil—whatever you want to call it, whatever you believe—it’s like a photographic plate. Even if the light only touches it for a fraction of a second, it changes it. The more magic you use, the more you change, until you’re mad. Or worse.”

  “What’s worse?” Cian said.

  Irene slapped his arm. “I don’t want to hear about that. Not now. Not here.” She shivered, and her eyes went to the dungeon’s corner. “And Freddy?”

  “Freddy was more than a professor, it turned out. He was a sorcerer too. Harry . . . Harry had to stop him. I don’t know all the details. I don’t know, to be honest, why Harry left Freddy alive. But I know the one condition that Harry made absolutely clear: Freddy had to stop using magic. We all believed he had. Freddy still knows a great deal about magic and about the artifacts, and so Harry entrusted Freddy with destroying them. But now—”

  Freddy walked past them. His eyes were rimmed in red, but his head was up, and his back was straight. “I have not betrayed my promise, Pearl. It was one mistake.”

  Pearl nodded. She looked miserable.

  “Mad as a hatter,” Cian said. “That explains a lot.”

  Freddy glared at him.

  A wash of red light tumbled down the steps, outlining Sam and Freddy and growing brighter until Cian had to close his eyes. Heat poured into the dungeon. The smell of hot metal filled the air.

  The light and heat vanished as quickly as they had come.

  “Come on up,” Harry called.

  At the top of the stairs, the iron grille had melted into a pool across the narrow hall. It was already cooling as the cellar floor and air sapped its heat. Cracks spread over the dull surface of the metal. Here, the air was dry and dusty, scratching Cian’s throat. Harry skirted the pool and Cian helped Pearl and Irene to the far side of the hallway. When he glanced back, Freddy was staring at the molten metal like a man who had just seen his wife in another man’s bed.

  Harry led them through the wine racks, up the stairs, to the wooden door. He tested the handle.

  “Give me half a minute,” he said.

  “Half a minute,” Sam said. He had taken another bottle of wine from a rack and was trying to open it. He pushed the bottle into Cia
n’s chest and nudged Harry out of the way. The lock clicked open a moment later. Sam pushed the door open, turned, and said, “That’s how—”

  A bullet cracked against the door frame. Harry pushed Sam down the stairs. Cian caught him, returned the bottle of wine, and then drew the Colt. Cian took the stairs two at a time until he reached Harry.

  “On three,” Harry whispered.

  “Fuck three,” Cian said and kicked the door open.

  A massive man stood at the top of the stairs, half of his body hidden by the wall. He started at the sound of the door. Cian aimed and fired. The blast of the shot was deafening in the cellar, but the bullet caught the man in the face and he hit the ground screaming.

  Cian sprinted up the stairs. Another big fellow was coming around the corner. Cian squeeze off two more shots. One caught the big fellow in the shoulder. The other struck his arm. The man was built like a moose, and somehow he kept coming.

  The bullets bought Cian enough time. He slammed into the big man, driving his shoulder into his gut and carrying both of them to the ground. Cian drove his fist into the man’s side. He felt a punch land under his ribs, felt the sickening wave of pain, but Cian landed a blow on the side of the man’s head. The man’s head snapped to the side and he went still.

  Cian got to his feet. The hall spun for a moment. He clenched his teeth. Cian Shea didn’t empty his stomach over one lousy punch. He did, however, shake the ache from his hand.

  Over the ringing in his ears from the gunshot, Cian heard screams.

  Harry had reached the top of the stairs and was watching the paneled room. He fired once, and the screams escalated.

  “Hurry,” Harry shouted.

  The rest of their group sprinted past Cian and Harry, heading back to the servants’ door. A bullet chipped plaster from the wall, and Harry shoved Cian back a step.

  “You can walk?” Harry shouted.

  “I’m standing, aren’t I?” Cian said.

  He started after the others, taking up a position at the next intersection while Harry made a slow retreat. Once a man darted into view, firing wildly, and the bullets ate a line across the floor. Cian offered a return shot. The screams had stopped by that time. They continued their retreat in stages, until they reached the servants’ door and plunged into the cold. Wind had risen, shattering the frozen cap of the snow and stirring long clouds into the air. The spume of snow glistened in the weak moonlight. It felt like a caress on the back of Cian’s neck and cleared his head from the throbbing in his side.

  As they skidded down the icy slope, lights bloomed in the house, and more gunshots came from behind them. Cian twisted around to see, felt the pain in his side latch onto him like a hound, and started to fall.

  Harry caught him, grunted, and said, “Damn you’re big.”

  Then Cian recovered his footing, and he shoved Harry off, and they reached the bottom of the hill.

  A moment later, the Model T spun out from a cluster of shrubs, its lights like mourning yellow eyes. Harry and Cian climbed in. Pearl, in the driver’s seat, set off again, the tires churning the snow until they reached the relative clear of the drive.

  The gunshots, the screams, the lights from the houses disappeared as soon as they had passed the stretch of woods. It was like dropping a blanket over a lamp. Cian fell back to rest against the seat. His side hurt like hell, as did his hand, and his ears were ringing like Christmas. When he looked over, Irene was flushed, her eyes bright, and she was staring at him.

  “That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen,” she snapped.

  Her face told Cian otherwise.

  Sam reached across Irene and handed Cian the wine.

  Cian took the bottle, tilted it in thanks, and took a long drink. And then another.

  Irene was still looking at him.

  Not a bad night.

  Not a bad night at all.

  The next morning, Irene woke in Harry’s bed. It smelled like him: a slight masculine musk that wasn’t unpleasant but was distinctly Harry. She lay there for a moment. She wanted a bath and a coffee and to slap Cian Shea’s face, and perhaps not in that order. The night before, the men had insisted that they all stay at Harry’s apartment, and Harry had ceded his bed to Irene and Pearl. The other woman must have already woken, for Irene was alone.

  Alone in Harry Witte’s bed, the smell of him clinging to her skin. Harry Witte, who was brave and charming and heart-stoppingly handsome.

  So why in God’s name was she thinking about slapping Cian Shea?

  Irene got out of bed, pulled on her dress—in need of a good cleaning after the last two days—and tried to do something with her hair. She checked her stockings for holes, found several, and put them on because she had nothing else. Then she sat for a minute and tried to figure out why she was such a fool.

  In the end, she decided that she wasn’t a fool at all. Cian Shea meant nothing to her, even after last night. Not his bravery—or idiocy—when he charged out of the cellar. Not the way he had helped Sam. Certainly not his smile.

  She marched out of the bedroom. Pearl was in the kitchen. A pot of coffee sat on the table. Irene helped herself to a cup and glanced out into the living room. Freddy’s hands and legs were visible, jutting out from behind a screen of newspaper, and Cian—all shoulders and arms—sprawled across the sofa, snoring. He looked like an overgrown child. Irene fought a smile, and when she saw Pearl watching her, Irene took a sip of coffee to hide the expression.

  “How did you sleep?” Pearl asked.

  “Not well.” Irene sipped at the coffee again.

  “Nightmares?”

  Irene nodded.

  “I had them too. For weeks and months. I still do, I suppose, only not as often.”

  “It’s so much to take in. Monsters and magic and crazed cultists. Sitting here, with coffee and sunshine, it’s hard to believe. But when I think about last night.” Irene shivered. “How did you meet Harry?”

  Pearl didn’t answer. She toyed with the rim of her cup. She looked up at Irene. The saucer slid a half-inch across the table.

  “I’m sorry,” Irene said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “Please don’t apologize. Another time, perhaps?”

  “Of course.” Then Irene grinned. “Unless Harry decides to separate us for plotting against him. He’s rather touchy about that sort of thing, isn’t he?”

  Pearl laughed, a rich, full sound that Irene hadn’t heard before. “Sometimes I don’t think Harry Witte would know what to do with a woman on his best day.”

  “Well, I see you two are awake,” Harry said from the doorway. “And getting along it sounds like. What are you talking about?”

  Pearl looked at Irene. They both burst into fresh laughs.

  Harry flushed, but his smile never faltered. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He disappeared into the vacated bedroom.

  “God in heaven,” Cian groaned. The sound of tortured springs came from the living room and then footsteps, and Cian appeared in the kitchen. His shaggy red hair stood on end and his clothing was rumpled, exposing a line of skin along his chest that made Irene’s eyes wander. In general, he looked like a bear hauled from his den.

  “Sleep well?” Irene asked.

  He took a chair, poured himself coffee, and glared at her. “If you think it’s funny, it’s not. I might as well have been sleeping on Procrustes’ bed. And yes, before you say something smart, I know who Procrustes is.”

  Irene had to fight back another giggle. “Something smart? I wouldn’t dream of it. Not around you.”

  “Give him a break,” Pearl said. “Do you want toast, Cian? I’m afraid Harry’s cupboard is bare.”

  Cian watched Irene suspiciously, but he nodded. “Yes, thank you.” And then, still watching Irene, “Heavens, Irene, what is it?”

  And then Irene couldn’t hold it back any longer. “Procrustes,” she burst out, her laughter threatening to topple her from her chair.

  Shaking his head, Cian poured himself more
coffee. “Any whiskey for this coffee, Pearl?”

  An hour later, they had all breakfasted—toast and coffee, all that Harry had on hand—and so Irene grabbed her coat and moved to the door.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” Cian asked.

  “What does it matter to you?” She pulled the coat on.

  “It’s dangerous right now. After last night, you shouldn’t be out there, wandering around alone.”

  “I’m a grown woman, Cian.”

  “Not grown enough to have a lick of sense. You—”

  “Don’t you dare tell me—”

  “Children, enough,” Harry said. “Where are you going, Irene?”

  “To my rooms at the Louisiana Grand for a change of clothes and a bath.”

  “You can bathe here,” Cian said.

  She smiled. “Is that an invitation?”

  Cian turned so red that she thought he might burst a vein. He stared at her, mumbled something incoherent, and stomped to the back of the apartment.

  Harry shook his head.

  Pearl was focused on her knitting, a shadow of a smile on her mouth.

  “Do you want someone to go with you?” Harry asked.

  “Now you want to take a bath with me?” Irene said. “What’s a girl to do?”

  “Fine,” Harry said. “Go.” Then he added, “Wait. Irene, do you have any sense of where the mask might be?”

  She paused at the door. Shook her head. “Not since we reached that cellar. What does that mean?”

  “It means Marie-Thérèse set us up. Or perhaps someone else did. We’re going to have a talk with her. Go have your bath.” He smiled wickedly. “Alone. We’ll meet you at your rooms.”

  “Noon?”

  He nodded. “She’ll be weaker then.”

  Irene caught a cab and was back at the Louisiana Grand faster than she had imagined. Walking through the high-ceilinged rooms of gilt and marble and Turkish rugs, watching men and women in elegant clothes trailed by bellboys and stacks of luggage, Irene felt as though she were in a world apart. A blond woman with an elaborate coif harangued a servant. A trio of men in expensive suits smoked cigars, laughing and passing around sections of the newspaper. At the desk, an elderly couple held out a map to the concierge. Men and women of substance and means, living the kind of life Irene had lived until so recently. Men and women who knew how the world worked, who had climbed to the top, who were powerful.