by Gregory Ashe
And all of them ignorant of the real world. Not just the monsters and the magic and the madness that Irene had seen over the last week. Not the terror, the violence, the kick of the revolver. The other things—the poverty, the hunger, the cold.
It was like stepping through the looking glass. It turned Irene’s stomach.
Was this how Cian saw her? Pretty and delicate and useless?
Her cheeks were hot as she took the elevator to her floor.
She bathed and put on a navy blue dress. It had a coral sash at her waist and more coral lining the folds that fell just at the knee. She removed the rest of her jewelry and hid it in her suitcase. She felt strange wearing it. As though it belonged to someone else now.
And then she was thinking about Cian again. She glanced at the clock. Not even eleven. That gave her plenty of time. She pulled on her coat and hurried back downstairs.
She had errands to run.
By the time she made it back, it was almost noon. Irene checked her hair one last time, made a quick study of the revolver, which needed cleaning, and then there was a knock at the door. When she opened it, Harry stood there, freshly washed and wearing another expensive suit. Cian had bathed too, it seemed, for his hair looked better—a haystack instead of a haystack after a windstorm—but he wore the same clothes. Irene felt a glimmer of satisfaction.
“Well,” she said, hurrying out before they had a chance to enter her room. “What are we waiting for? Do we have time for lunch? I’m starved.”
“Maybe after,” Harry said. “Business first.”
As they took the elevator down, Cian studied the stylized lines of the elevator, done in brass and mahogany with a maroon carpet.
“Ritzy place,” he said.
An overweight woman, sweating in the confines of the elevator, gave a sniff and stared at Cian. It took a moment before Cian noticed, and then his cheeks reddened, and he stared at the floor.
Irene worked moisture into her mouth. Then she said, “Oh, not that ritzy, I don’t think. After all, they let all kinds stay here.” Cian looked up, and Irene threw a long, cold glance at the woman.
The woman gave an incredulous sniff and fanned herself with one hand.
Cian grinned at Irene.
It was like setting a spark to tinder. She was warm all the way to the Old Cathedral.
In the early afternoon light, the verdigris steeple showed glimmers of copper, and the letters above the door of the church caught fire. To Irene’s surprise, a sizable crowd waited outside the doors. She wasn’t Catholic herself, but it seemed strange for so many people to be standing around outside on a weekday, especially in the winter. Perhaps a Mass had just let out. Harry guided them through the thicket of people. Towards the doors, the crowd grew dense. Cian tapped Harry’s shoulder, cocked his head, and took Harry’s spot. With slow, implacable steps, Cian forced a path open, using his size—and its effect on the men and women who might otherwise have protested—to clear the way.
When they reached the front of the church, Irene saw what had drawn the crowd. The massive double doors of the cathedral were splintered. One had fallen inside the building, while the other hung from a single hinge, stirring as a breeze moved it. Through the doors, police were visible, studying the wreckage of pews, examining overturned stands of votary candles, searching through the rubble of broken statues.
“Looks like someone else got here first,” Cian said.
“Who would do this?” Irene asked, staring through the ruined doors of the Old Cathedral. The police continued their examination of the damage to the nave and the chapels. Farther back, near the altar, Irene thought she saw a foot. Before she could be certain, though, a police officer stepped into her line of sight, frowning at her and waving for her to move along.
Harry motioned for them to follow, and they left the Old Cathedral and its crowd. As they walked, Harry led them south, following the snow-choked sidewalks away from the river. “The question isn’t who would do it,” he said after a pair of blocks. “The question is who could do it.”
“Maybe Seamus’s boys,” Cian said. “Or I guess I should say Byrne’s. Maybe they heard we’d been to the Old Cathedral.”
“Or those things that were following us,” Irene said. “The Children and their golems. Maybe they knew Marie-Thérèse sent us and they were angry with her.”
Harry shook his head. “Impossible.”
“It’s not impossible,” Cian said. “Byrne’s men have been looking for us, and Irene’s right about—”
“I’m telling you, it’s impossible. You don’t understand. Marie-Thérèse isn’t just some ghost clinging to the world like a bad echo. As much as I hate to admit it, she was right about that much. Marie-Thérèse is a power in this city. She’s strong and clever and dangerous.”
“How strong?” Cian said.
“Strong enough that I haven’t gotten rid of her,” Harry said drily. “And certainly strong enough to get rid of any two-bit thugs from Kerry Patch. Strong enough that the Children are careful not to antagonize her. Those people at the party last night would give their right hand to have the mask, and I don’t doubt that a fair number of them are lost in cultic madness. But most of them couldn’t do enough magic to give you a boil. Whatever hit the Old Cathedral was powerful enough to take out Marie-Thérèse where she’s strongest, and that’s after it crossed over onto consecrated ground.” He drew a line around his mouth with his fingers. “What I’m saying is that someone new has entered the game. Someone very, very powerful.”
“What do we do now?” Irene said.
“We get out of town,” Cian said. “As fast as we can. All of us. The Children already have the mask. Let them deal with this new person. And Marie-Thérèse too. They can slit each other’s throats for all I care.”
“You want to run away?” Irene said.
“Running away is the only smart choice sometimes. This is one of those times.”
“I’m not going to let them have the mask. I need it. And I need you.” Irene flushed when she heard the words out loud. “To prove my father wrong, I mean.”
“The first train out of here,” Cian said. “That’s the only smart choice.”
“Let’s talk to Sam first,” Harry said. “There’s more going on than we realized, and maybe he knows something.”
Cian gave a grim nod.
“Fine,” Irene said with a sigh. “But can we please eat first?”
It took longer than Irene had hoped to find somewhere to eat. They passed a half-dozen places—a pair of respectable restaurants that even her parents would have enjoyed, then a pharmacy lunch counter, and a few smaller restaurants—and every time Irene suggested one, Harry would nod approval, but Cian would put on a face like a sick horse and shake his head. Finally Irene threw up her hands and said, “Fine, then. You choose.”
Cian did choose. Irene regretted her words.
It was a dump of a place. Dust and dirt clung to sticky spots on the tables. The floor was a battlefield of spills and crumbs. Instead of menus, their waitress—a middle-aged woman whose stomach was taking a running dive over the strings of her apron—read them a list of three options. Cian had a hot sandwich. Irene had the soup. Not a specific soup. Just the soup. Harry hesitated and ended up with eggs and potatoes.
Irene watched the hem of her coat to make sure it didn’t touch the floor. She wished she could say the same for her shoes.
“Charming,” Irene said.
“You could have eaten somewhere else,” Cian said. “There’s no rule we all have to eat together.”
“Really? I thought I had to report my every move to you. I was certain that when I tried to leave this morning, you all but jumped down my throat, telling me where I could and couldn’t go.”
Harry sighed and sat up, as though looking for someone—anyone—he might recognize.
The handful of other patrons were old men, their beards trailing in cups of soup.
The soup. No other identifier.
&nb
sp; “You think I care what you do?” Cian said. “Let me set you straight. You can do whatever you please, Irene. You can spend your time with the Man in the Moon for all I care. I say one thing this morning—a solid piece of advice—and you can’t even hear that without putting your back up. God be good, I’ve never met someone as headstrong.”
“No,” Irene said, giving him her sweetest smile. “I imagine the women you meet are normally much . . . easier. To get along with, I mean.”
“Enough,” Harry said. “You two can go after each other with daggers when we get back to the apartment. Until then, I’d like to have a civil meal.” He stared at their waitress, who was coming back with their food. “Or whatever might pass for one.”
The woman served their food. Up close, she looked like she was starting a beard of her own, and it was an impressive start. After the plates were settled, the woman stood rooted to the floor. Irene was confused until she saw Cian dig money out of his pockets.
“Here,” Harry said, pulling out a leather billfold. “I’ve got it—”
“I can pay for my own damn food,” Cian said. He counted out a paltry amount of change, dithering so long that Irene began to tap her spoon against the bowl in impatience, until she realized what was wrong.
He really didn’t have any money.
Face as red as his hair, Cian dumped the coins into the woman’s hand. She started to count them, but Harry passed her a bill. “For myself and the lady,” he said. “You can keep the rest.”
There was no expression on the woman’s face. She pocketed coins and bills alike and disappeared into the kitchen. Cian set to work on the sandwich. Harry picked at his potatoes and eggs, his expression mistrusting. Irene disturbed the thin layer of grease that had settled across the top of her soup.
She felt an inch tall and had no appetite. She made herself eat the soup anyway.
Afterward, she still didn’t know what the soup had been—vegetable? Beef? But it was only in part due to the bland dishwater they had served. Mostly, it was due to the sudden, suffocating realization of how she had acted. That morning, she had prided herself on being so much worldlier than the other patrons of the Louisiana Grand. She had thought how she had known fear and danger and cold and hunger.
For a grand total of what? One day? Two?
Opposite her sat Cian Shea, devouring his hot sandwich, a goopy string of cheese brushing his chin, his eyes on his plate. Cian Shea, who was wearing the clothes that Harry had given him for the second day in a row. Cian Shea, who barely had enough change in his pocket for a place like this, let alone new clothes, or a room at the Louisiana Grand.
And he had saved her life more than once. And he shouted and was rude and ignored reasonable suggestions. And he looked like a bear in winter, with that mass of fiery hair that refused to stay settled. And when he laughed, it made Irene forget about everything out else.
Her spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl.
The sound set the world in motion again.
She realized Harry was devouring his food. Somehow, the slender man made eating a plate of eggs and potatoes look more appealing than a tray of caviar. Harry glanced up at Cian.
“These are excellent. Good choice.”
Cian grunted.
Irene fought the urge to pick the string of cheese from his chin.
“Military?” Harry said.
Cian wiped his face. “What?”
“You. I don’t know a thing about you.”
“And why the hell would you care to know a thing about me?” Cian said. The words were as rude as ever, but there was an extra layer of suspicion behind them, something Irene hadn’t heard before. The way Cian looked at Harry—
“Because I like to know something about a man if he’s watching my back. Or if I’m watching his.”
“I can watch my own back.”
“For God’s sake, Cian,” Irene said. “Can you act decently for once? It’s just a question. You’d think Harry was trying to get state secrets out of you.”
To her surprise, Cian flushed. “Sorry. Yes. I was in the war. You?”
Harry shook his head. Irene waited for an explanation, but Harry remained silent.
The silence seemed to confirm something, and Cian gave a half-nod.
“What is going on?” Irene asked. “The two of you are impossible.”
“Now, you know how I feel when you and Pearl get going,” Harry said with a smile. He polished off the last few bites of his meal and stood. “Shall we?”
As they headed back to the apartment, Cian stirred from his usual silence. “What kind of work are you in?”
“And why the hell would you care to know a thing about me?” Harry said, his tone light, and with a smile to cut the tension.
Cian laughed. Not the full laugh, not the one Irene liked. This one still had plenty of tension behind it. But it was laugh. “Fair enough,” he said. “I deserve that. Square?” He held out his hand.
Harry shook it.
“To answer your question,” Harry said, “I’m a private investigator. Pearl works with me. We do all sorts of work. Infidelity, of course, because that’s where the steady money is, but all kinds of things. And people know that we handle the weird ones. The ones they can’t take to the police or anyone else.”
“And you make money?”
“Sometimes,” Harry said with a smile. “Never enough, though. Ask Pearl. She’ll tell you all about it.”
“She keeps your books, then?”
“She does, but don’t say it to her like that. She does her own bit of investigating too. Pearl sees a lot that most folks miss.”
“Is it dangerous?” Irene asked.
Harry laughed. “Not unless the cheating spouse is working magic and trying to steal an ancient cultic relic. Nothing like the last few days.” He paused and looked at Cian. “What do you do?”
“Try to stay out of trouble,” Cian said. He glanced at Irene. “I’m not doing so well at that, though.”
Harry laughed. “Lucky for us. I’d be happy to have a man like you, Cian. If you want a job, say the word.”
The desire in Cian’s face, the hope, was so painful it hit Irene like a hammer. But he tried to sound casual when he said, “That might work. Let me think about it.”
Harry nodded, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. That was when Irene realized that Harry had seen it all too.
She suddenly liked Harry Witte quite a bit more.
“And what about me?” Irene said. “I haven’t heard a word about where I fit into this picture.”
“My apologies,” Harry said with a grin. “I simply assumed that a woman with your means, staying at the Louisiana Grand, would have no interest in mucking about with the likes of us.”
“Mr. Witte,” Irene said, “that simply shows that you know nothing about me, or about women, or, more generally, about hotels.”
Harry’s grin fell into the snow.
This time, Cian’s laugh followed them all the way back to the apartment.
By the time they got back to Harry’s apartment, Cian had to admit to himself—if no one else—that he might have misjudged Harry Witte. Just a bit. The thought flew out his head, though, when they walked inside. Freddy sat glowering in the living room. The newspaper was folded at his side. His hat was on his knee, his cane at his side, and an empty tumbler on the table. When Cian and the others walked into the apartment, he surged out of his seat, grabbed his cane, and stalked towards the door.
“About time,” he said. “You said an hour, Harry. I do not have time to spend all day watching this cut-purse.”
An outraged, “Hey,” came from the next room.
“Everything alright, Freddy?” Harry asked.
“He tried to escape twice. Once through the door. Once out the window. He’s secure for now.” Freddy jammed on his hat, brushed past Irene, and was out the door.
“Warm as a summer day,” Cian said.
“That’s just Freddy. You get use
d to him.”
“Like a bad rash,” Cian said.
Irene swatted his arm.
“Is that old Hun gone?” Sam’s voice came from the next room. “A little help?”
“Shall we?” Harry said.
In the next room, they found Sam handcuffed and tied to a chair. A fresh bruise colored his cheek, standing out against the cuts and bruises from his imprisonment. He wore a borrowed shirt from Harry. He squirmed in his bonds when he saw them.
“Thank God,” he said. “He’s had me like this for a pair of hours.”
“You shouldn’t have tried to leave.”
“Let me out, would you? I have to—” Sam cut off and looked at Irene. “You know.”
Harry undid the cuffs and ropes. As Sam stood up, Cian laid one hand on the thief’s shoulder.
Sam froze.
“Sam, I kind of like you,” Cian said. “So I hope you’re not going to do anything stupid. Just a quick trip to the bathroom, right?”
“I got rights,” Sam said. “You can’t just hold me like this. I’m a free man.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Cian said. He gave Sam’s shoulder a light squeeze, and Sam’s face whitened. “See how smart you are?”
Sam mumbled something.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Harry said.
Cian marched Sam towards the room, glanced back at Harry and Irene, and grinned.
Harry rolled his eyes.
Irene grinned right back.
Perhaps because the bathroom window was too small, or perhaps because Sam had gotten smarter over the last few minutes, he didn’t try anything. When he’d finished, Cian led Sam back to the impromptu prison, which had formerly been the sitting room.