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

by Gregory Ashe

  He didn’t believe it one bit.

  She wouldn’t look at him.

  He helped her onto the window sill and stood next to her. The wind whipped between their legs. Her perfume filled Cian’s nose. He held her hand a moment longer than he needed to and hoped she didn’t notice.

  A massive blow split the bedroom door. The dresser began to slide across the floor.

  “Hold onto me tight,” Cian said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “It’s not far. We’ll be down quick as lightning.”

  “What a terrible image,” Irene murmured.

  She was right, so Cian didn’t respond.

  With Irene clinging to him, Cian lowered himself, gripping the sill and then wedging his fingers between the stone face of the building. When he lowered himself again, Irene gave a gasp, and he felt her arms slip. Cian dug his fingers into the freezing stone. The cold sank sharp teeth into his hands, gnawing at his grip, threatening to send them tumbling.

  “All right?” he managed to choke out.

  Irene tightened her grip. He felt her nod into his shoulder.

  She was shaking.

  Damn, he was shaking himself.

  There was another window, perhaps ten feet down, and those were the longest ten feet of Cian’s life. When Cian got his footing on the sill, he heard Patrick say, “I’ve got you, Irene. You can let go.”

  Cian looked over his shoulder and watched as Patrick caught Irene. He cradled her in his arms. She was staring up at Patrick, relief flooding her features.

  So. That was how it was.

  Cian lowered himself down the last length of stone and dropped onto the empty terrace. He didn’t even feel the cold anymore.

  Overhead, the open window was a square of bright light.

  “They haven’t even come near the window,” Patrick said. “I guess strong doesn’t mean smart.”

  “Good. Let’s go.” Cian started down the length of the terrace. Away from Irene. Away from Patrick.

  Ahead, a narrow service door opened into the building. Cian jiggled the handle.

  “Cian,” Patrick said. He still had Irene in his arms.

  Cian kept his gaze fixed on the door. “What?”

  “I think—”

  A thud shook the terrace. Cian looked back the way they had come.

  One of the golems had landed on the terrace, standing stiff as a board. If the fall bothered it, though, there was no sign. The second golem landed a moment later, dropping with all the grace of a stone. The two golems marched towards Cian.

  Cian threw his weight into the service door. The frame snapped, the bolt popped loose, and the door flew open.

  “Go,” Cian said, gesturing down the darkened hall.

  Patrick broke into a staggered run, holding Irene to his chest, disappearing into the hotel. Cian pulled the Colt and fired a shot. It caught one of the golems in the shoulder. A man would have been knocked on his ass. The golem didn’t even flinch. It kept coming. A landslide wrapped in a cheap coat.

  After a second shot, Cian pulled back into the hotel. He didn’t bother with the door. A glance down the hall showed no sign of Patrick or Irene, and Cian hoped that meant they were a safe distance away. To Cian’s right, a narrow flight of service stairs ran through the hotel.

  He waited until the golems made it to the service door. He fired again.

  The bullet cracked against one golem’s head.

  “Come on,” Cian said. “Come on!”

  Moving at their unchanging, lumbering pace, the golems came.

  Cian took the stairs down. The golems followed, shaking the cement steps with their weight. They moved faster now, propelled by gravity, and Cian sprinted to stay ahead. Behind him, the golems began to close the distance, crashing into the stairwell with unbelievable force and ricocheting after him. At the third landing, a massive hand brushed the back of Cian’s coat, and he threw himself forward by instinct.

  Plaster exploded behind Cian as the golems slammed into the wall. They kept moving, though, unhindered by their reckless passage. Cian gave up running; they were too fast now. Cian’s chest felt like he’d swallowed swords. Part was the running. Part was the damage down by the monster in the police van.

  He crawled over the railing and dropped to the next floor. The jolt shook him to the teeth. He dropped again, keeping to the outside of the rails.

  The golems were fast, but not this fast.

  Sweat prickled on Cian’s face and chest as though he’d rolled in nettles. Someone had been sharpening his ribs, and they stabbed him with every movement. But after what felt like an eternity, his heels hit cement, and Cian realized he was on the ground floor.

  A bent, old woman with a broom stared at Cian. The broom was motionless.

  Overhead, the golems came down like rain in a barrel.

  “Get out of here,” Cian shouted, hustling the woman to the door. “Now.”

  She dragged the broom with her.

  They emerged into the lobby of the Louisiana Grand. Marble and gold leaf and rich people. Cian gave the old woman a push away from the door and sprinted for the front of the building.

  A moment later, the door to the service stairs exploded like a case of firecrackers. Screams rang through the lobby as well-coiffed women and well-dressed men scattered. The golems, still moving like twin landslides, came after Cian.

  Cian didn’t give them a second look. He charged through the doors and skidded out onto the frosty sidewalk. As he turned to run south, a voice stopped him.

  “Cian!”

  Patrick waved from a cab and popped open the door.

  Cian threw himself into the back seat.

  “Drive,” Patrick shouted.

  The cabbie put the car into gear.

  Everything else seemed to happen at once. The doors of hotel burst outward in hail of glass and metal and wood. The golems hit the snow-slick sidewalk. One of the golems went down with a crash like a mountain falling. The second, however, kept coming.

  The taxi inched forward.

  With the groan and screech of metal, the golem hit the back of the cab. Rough fingers scrabbled at the back of the car. The cab slid sideways. Its tires caught a clean patch of pavement.

  The golem slipped.

  And the taxi pulled out into the street and into the night.

  Irene’s shoe broke the ice. Water slipped over her foot.

  “Damn it all,” she muttered.

  “What?” Cian asked, glancing back as he led them down the sidewalk.

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you—”

  “I said nothing.”

  He turned forward and kept walking.

  Irene stomped after him, her stocking squishing between frozen toes.

  The cab had dropped them after three blocks. Dropped them was not quite the best way to say it. The cabbie had thrown them out, screaming about damage to his automobile, demanding payment. Cian had shouted back, until Irene reminded him that they needed to keep moving.

  He’d looked just as sullen then as he did now.

  Patrick walked at her side, helping her along, half-carrying her at times. Irene refused to let him heave her over his shoulder like a sack of meal. Better this slow, sodden crawl.

  It was the principle of the thing, after all. Women didn’t need men to save them. They didn’t need men to carry them out of burning buildings. Irene was quite capable of escaping a burning building herself.

  The barb under her skin, of course, was tonight.

  Tonight had proved that wasn’t always the case.

  By the time Harry’s apartment came into view, Irene’s feet had turned to ice.

  “One more night in Harry Witte’s bed and I might as well marry the man,” Irene said.

  “I don’t imagine that would bother you much,” Cian said.

  “Your imagination is not your strongest quality,” Irene said.

  Patrick stared at both of them and tried not to make it obvious.

  At the stairs that led up to H
arry’s apartment, Irene relented. Patrick was gentle when he picked her up. He still smelled of sweat and smoke. The feel of his arms and chest was nice. Very nice.

  But even nicer was the flicker of rage on Cian’s face.

  Her satisfaction vanished when they reached Harry’s apartment. The door stood open. The living room was in disarray—one chair turned over, a book on the ground with its pages torn free, a broken glass and the smell of spilled scotch. Cian waved Irene and Patrick back and moved into the apartment with his gun drawn. After a pair of minutes he returned, ushered them inside, and locked the door.

  “Golems?” Patrick asked.

  Cian shook his head and started towards the sitting room. “Freddy’s here. Out cold and with an Easter egg growing on the back of his head, but alive. The door and the locks are fine, which mean that either Freddy opened the door or—”

  “Or what?” Irene asked, shuffling along as fast as she could.

  “Sam’s gone.”

  “You don’t think—”

  Cian’s face said that he did think. Very much. And his expression made Irene hope Sam was running very hard and very fast.

  Freddy lay on the floor of the sitting room. His hair and beard were mussed, and he looked frail, instead of his normal vigorous self. The chair in which Sam had been bound was on its side, the ropes in a tangled coil at its base. The rest of the room seemed undisturbed. Irene turned her attention back to the wounded man. Freddy’s face had good color, and his breathing was strong, and Irene felt the tightness in her chest ease. Cian knelt next to the old man, probing his skull and checking for any other wounds. Then he went through Freddy’s pockets.

  “This isn’t Kerry Patch,” she said.

  Cian ignored her. He placed Freddy’s silver cigarette case and lighter on the floor, a billfold, a crumpled handkerchief, a set of keys. Then he paused, studying something in his hands before holding it out towards Irene.

  It was a small carving done in turquoise. Irene took it from Cian and brought it closer. The piece was no larger than her thumb, but the detail was exquisite: it was a man’s face, his eyes closed in sleep, cheeks hollow with sickness or hunger. It felt heavier than it should have been. Cold too. She set it on the rug and wiped her hands.

  “That’s everything?” she asked.

  “I thought this wasn’t Kerry Patch.”

  “Don’t be a child.”

  “Patrick,” Cian said, “I appreciate your help tonight, but you’d be smart to leave now. Before you get dragged into this any further.”

  Irene stiffened. “Don’t listen to him, Patrick. You saved my life tonight. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

  Cian’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Are you all right here?” Patrick asked. “I could help you get somewhere else. Somewhere safer.”

  “I’m staying here,” Cian said. “I don’t know about Irene.”

  “I’m going to stay as well,” Irene said. “For a bit longer, at least.”

  “I should go then. I need to get back to the bar. You won’t forget, Irene? What we talked about?”

  “No, of course not.”

  He gave her his best smile, and Irene tried to smile back. If Patrick noticed the effort, though, he didn’t show it. He said goodnight, and Cian let him out the front door.

  While they were gone, Irene lowered herself into one of the chairs. She looked at Freddy, who was so peaceful he might have only been sleeping, and she tried to ignore the sick wobble in her stomach.

  Her father.

  “What was that about?” Cian asked when he returned.

  “What?”

  Cian got to his knees, lifted Freddy, and moved him to the sofa. Then he dragged a blanket over the old man. When he turned to Irene, Cian’s eyes were sea-green glass.

  “Why do you look like you’ve just bitten into a lemon?”

  “I do not—”

  Cian sighed. His shoulders slumped, and Irene suddenly realized that he held himself strangely, as though his chest hurt him. “Forget it,” he said. “Do you want help getting to Harry’s bed? I’m going to stay up with Freddy in case he takes a turn for the worse.”

  There were a hundred things she should have said. She should have asked if he was hurt. She should have said thank you, or sorry, or something clever that would have made him laugh and forget her awful behavior from that night. Instead, she said, “I can walk on my own, thank you.”

  She got out of the chair, trying to mask her winces, and managed to stay straight on her feet until she left the sitting room. Then she slumped against the wall as she made her way to Harry’s room. She crawled into bed, too tired and hurting even to pull off her coat.

  She lay awake a long time, crying into the pillow.

  In the silence of the apartment, Cian thought, for a moment, that he heard Irene crying from the other room. It was just a moment, though, and then silence. He stood up, ribs aching, to go check on her. At the door to the living room, he stopped.

  She’d only bite his head off again.

  Not that he didn’t deserve some of it.

  So he took one of the chairs and watched the old Hun. Freddy seemed like he would be all right, although it was hard to tell with head wounds. If he hadn’t woken by morning, they’d have to take him to the hospital.

  But his mind wouldn’t stay focused on Freddy. It drifted down the hall, through the doors, towards Irene. Irene laughing with him over breakfast. Irene curled up next to him on her bed. Irene, brave and beautiful and stronger than anyone Cian had met, even after that vicious beating.

  And then the other memories: the look in Irene’s eyes at dinner; the way Patrick had held her; the fact that, every time Cian took a step forward, she found some reason to snap at him.

  Some of it, of course, was his fault. He’d be the first to admit that.

  Cian made his way to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey. For his ribs. He carried the glass back to the chair and sipped at the drink. Some of it was his fault. At dinner, for example. He shouldn’t have let the waiter bother him. He shouldn’t have gotten so worked up about a damn fork. And, at the bottom of it, he shouldn’t have been so afraid.

  That’s what it was, in the end. Fear. Fear of those dark, beautiful eyes. Fear that Irene would be Corinne all over again.

  He poured himself another whiskey. And then another.

  By midnight, he was drunk.

  It helped, a little. Like digging a hole in the back of his head, a place to throw all those memories. Corinne, lithe and laughing. Lying with him in one of those impossibly green French fields, with nothing to cover her but starlight. And then—

  And then Harley Dunn.

  Irene in Patrick’s arms, staring up at him with a smile.

  There wasn’t enough drink in the world to bury all those memories, but at least the booze helped.

  Some time past two, Cian heard a key in the lock. He got up from the chair—it took two tries—and pulled out the Colt. He made his way to the hall just as the door opened.

  Harry came into the house stomping mud from a pair of heavy boots. He wore work clothes and he was covered in clay. He shut the door, locked it, and when he turned around, he saw Cian.

  Cian still had the Colt out. His hand shook.

  “Are you going to shoot me?” Harry asked with a smile. He pulled off his hat and coat.

  Cian blinked. “Sam’s gone,” he said.

  Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Put that away,” he said and pushed past Cian.

  Cian fumbled with the Colt, trying to slide it back behind his trousers, and settled for putting the gun on the coffee table. Then he joined Harry in the sitting room. Harry stood over Freddy, examining the old man, and in his hand Harry held the turquoise carving.

  “Is he all right?” Harry asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Where did this come from?” Harry asked, holding up the carving.

  “Freddy had it on him.”

&
nbsp; “What do you mean—” Harry stopped himself. His face was white. “Stay here.”

  He disappeared into the back rooms. After a few minutes, he came back. Some of his color had returned. “Did you find anything else?”

  Cian gestured to Freddy’s possessions spread out on the rug.

  Harry shook his head. “I mean did you search the apartment. We know Sam’s a thief. Did you notice anything missing?”

  “No. Did you?”

  “A pair of shoes, plus the clothes I’d loaned him.”

  “What is that thing?” Cian asked. “That carving.”

  “Something cultic, obviously,” Harry said. “And something Freddy should not have.” He looked tired, and he rubbed his face. Flakes of drying clay fell to the floor. “God, things don’t get any better, do they?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Harry hesitated. He poured himself a whiskey and then motioned for Cian to follow him out to the front room. Then he shut the door, and they sat down. Harry downed the whiskey in one movement. He wiped his mouth. His eyes were dark and hollow.

  Cian had seen eyes like that before. A French soldier who had come back from the front lines without his legs. The man had screamed about the gas, about the dead, about the rats. His eyes had looked like Harry’s did now. Eyes that had seen too much.

  “That’s twice now that Freddy’s had something cultic. Something that he shouldn’t have. Sam told us that the Children know everything about us. Add the two together and . . .”

  “Is he a traitor?” Cian asked. “You know him better than I do.”

  “I’m afraid that might be blinding my judgment.”

  “If it looks like a rat and smells like a rat.”

  Harry let out a breath. Then he looked at Cian. “You’re drunk.”

  “A little.”

  “A lot.”

  Cian shrugged.

  “Why?”

  Cian grinned. It felt wobbly, like a plate on its edge, ready to fall and crack.

  “Women?” Harry asked with a soft laugh.

  “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” Cian said. The words popped out before he could stop them.

  For a moment, Harry said nothing. Then, “Good night, Cian.”