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

by Gregory Ashe

  Instead of moving towards her, though, the spider seemed completely oblivious. It picked its way across the body of the dead girl, who still lay under the quilt that Irene had fetched. It moved another few paces down the hallway, its hairy legs trembling and twitching. As though searching for something.

  And then she saw it.

  The box.

  The damned box that had started it all. It lay a few paces beyond the dead girl, where Cian must have dropped it when he had gone to rescue Harry. The spider stopped in front of the box. It traced the wood with one leg.

  Irene took two steps back up towards the hall. She couldn’t leave without the box. There were ancient, evil gods and terrifying cultists who wanted the box. Harry and Cian had risked their lives to retrieve it. But at the bottom of it all, Irene wanted that damn box because of her father. Because she wanted to see his face when she broke it into a thousand pieces.

  A second spider slunk into the hall, and then a third. The creatures moved straight towards the box, crawling over each other in their efforts to reach the box. Irene ground her teeth. She had enough rounds to shoot them.

  But did she have enough time?

  A fourth spider emerged from farther down the hall. And then a fifth.

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

  Irene took a step down the stairs. And then another.

  The box was hidden under the writhing mass of spiders. Between their tangled legs and bodies, Irene saw the dull gray filaments of a spiderweb being woven.

  Irene shoved the revolver in her pocket and ran down the rest of the steps. At the bottom, the smoke was so dense that only luck and good reflexes kept her from pitching into the hole that had been burned through the building. Irene gripped the banister, felt her shoes skid across the remaining stretch of wood floor, and her heart flopped into her mouth. She stared down at the drop before her and eased back onto firmer footing.

  Anna and Kate had vanished into the smoke. Irene turned, feeling her way along the hall until she reached a swinging door. On the other side, the air was much clearer, and she made out a large room dominated by chairs and sofas and a bar. The front door stood open, and fresh air cut through the dwindling smoke. Irene poked her head outside.

  Anna and Kate held each other up as they slid and slipped down the icy walk.

  “Wait,” Irene said. She hurried out after them. Her shoes had no grip on the ice, but she ran as best she could. “Wait!” Neither woman turned back.

  When Irene reached them, she grabbed Anna’s arm. The girl flinched and went rigid.

  “Here now,” Kate said, slapping Irene’s hand. “I don’t know you and I don’t know what you want, but get lost. You and your friends—” She stopped and swallowed. Her eyes were red. She slapped Irene’s hand again. “Go!”

  “Stop hitting me,” Irene said. She pulled at Anna, dragging the girl towards her. “Let her go. She doesn’t belong to you.”

  “Damn me if she doesn’t!” Kate grabbed Anna’s other arm and hauled the girl in the other direction. “If you have a problem with my business, you can speak to the Dane. He’ll set you straight.”

  “The Dane’s men are soot stains,” Irene snapped. “Charcoal scraps in that ruin of a whorehouse. You cross me again and I’ll burn you to ash too!”

  The words came out in a ragged shout.

  Kate’s eyes widened. She let go of Anna, stumbled back, and fell on her bottom.

  Then she started to cry. She turned onto hands and knees and dragged herself towards the frozen walk.

  Anna might as well have been an ice sculpture. She didn’t blink. She didn’t shiver.

  Irene wanted to empty her stomach. She pulled Anna after her, down the street, towards a cab. She glanced back once.

  Kate was nowhere in sight.

  When they were in the cab, headed towards the Patch, Irene leaned her head against the door. The chill metal and glass felt like the first substantial thing in years. From the weak reflection in the window, Kate’s terrified gaze stared back at Irene.

  Irene breathed on the glass, and for a few moments, the fog covered her own fear.

  “In here,” Pearl said. She turned up the gaslights in Harry’s bedroom and pulled back the bedding.

  Cian grunted and lowered Harry to the bed. Harry’s eyes flashed open for a heartbeat and then began to drift shut again. Harry’s wound looked worse. The blistered, corroded patch of skin had spread, covering half of his back, and although the inky venom had attenuated, it spread long, lacy whorls under Harry’s skin. Harry burned like a furnace.

  Pearl returned with a bowl of snow and a rag. She sat on the side of the bed, rubbing the slush across Harry’s forehead, dabbing drops of the snow onto the wound.

  “He needs a doctor,” Cian said.

  Pearl didn’t answer.

  “Pearl—”

  She nodded. She was crying. Silent, but crying nonetheless.

  “I’ll call for one,” Cian said.

  “No.” It was a weak sound, barely audible, but then Harry repeated himself. “No. No doctor.”

  “Harry,” Pearl said. She cupped his cheek. “Harry, you’re ok. It’s going to be ok.”

  He blinked, tried to wet his lips, and sighed. “Ollie?”

  Pearl looked at Cian. He shrugged.

  “Is Ollie here?”

  “Harry, I don’t know who Ollie is,” Pearl said.

  “Tell him I’m sorry,” Harry said. He blinked again, so slowly that for a moment, Cian thought Harry had lost consciousness again. When his eyes opened, though, they were fogged. “I won’t let them take you, Ollie.”

  Pearl’s hands were shaking as she wet the rag in the snowmelt.

  Cian moved into the hall, shutting the door behind him. He walked to the back of the apartment, as far from Harry’s bedroom as he could get, and he made a circle. Then he paused, leaned his head against the wall. He felt hot and sick.

  He slammed his fist into the wall. Once. Twice. On the third blow, the plaster shattered, and his hand drove through the laths. The splintered wood cut at his hand. The pain was sharp and nauseating. Cian pulled his hand from the wall.

  He shouldn’t have done that, but it felt damn good.

  In the kitchen, Cian washed the broken plaster and blood from his hand. He tied a kitchen towel over the lacerations. He pulled the knot tight, still riding the bright line of pain from the fresh cuts.

  It was his fault Harry had been bitten.

  If Cian had done what Harry asked—distracted the men at the bottom of the stairs—he would have been standing at Harry’s side when the spider emerged from the hall. He could have shot the damn thing before it got close to Harry.

  And where would that have left Irene? That massive spider had gone straight for her.

  The pain made it easier to think. Cian’s head was clear. It had been an impossible choice. The kind of choice that made anyone feel like shit.

  When he left the kitchen, Pearl came out of Harry’s room.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  He told her in as few words as possible. She nodded. Her face was pale. She looked at his bandaged hand and said nothing.

  “I’ll get a doctor,” Cian said.

  “No, Cian. Harry was right. A doctor won’t be able to help him. Those spiders were controlled by the Children. They’re not natural.”

  “Pearl, he’s—” Cian bit back the last word. He wanted to punch the wall again. He figured Harry wouldn’t appreciate that.

  “He’s dying.”

  “I’m sorry, Pearl, but he needs help.”

  “There isn’t anyone to help him. The only person who might have been able to help him is Freddy, and we can’t trust him. For all we know, he was the one who sent those spiders.”

  “Maybe,” Cian said. “Stay here.”

  He pushed past Pearl and went for the room at the back of the apartment. The door was shut but not locked. He threw it open and turned up the lights. The room was a spare bedroom, but the bed had been
pushed into the corner. A latrine reek filled the air. In the center sat a straight-backed chair. Sam was bound to the chair, his sandy head drooping forward. Cian crossed the room, grabbed Sam by the hair, and tilted his head up. The boy stared up at him, his eyes wide, struggling to breathe through a thick gag.

  “I want some answers,” Cian said.

  The boy started to cry.

  Cian stood for a moment. Speechless. He stared at Sam, still bound and gagged in the chair, and his mouth tasted like he’d been chewing cotton all day. Sam didn’t struggle. He didn’t pull back. He stared up at Cian, his eyes terrified and helpless, and cried like a baby.

  “God, kid, calm down,” Cian said. He fumbled with the gag, pulling it free as gently as he could. Sam took ragged breaths, sobbing now. This time, when Cian reached forward, Sam shouted and pulled back.

  “Calm down,” Cian said.

  But calm didn’t seem to be in the cards. Sam’s eyes were wild, and he twisted and bucked, hollering for help as he tried to tear himself free from the ropes. There was something mad in the boy’s behavior, and it sent a chill through Cian. The Sam they’d caught on the train had been an annoying little shit and as trustworthy as a bag of snakes, but nothing like this. Cian grabbed the back of Sam’s head. The boy turned, snapping at Cian’s arm like a feral dog.

  Cian gave him a shake.

  “Stop it. Sam. Stop! I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Sam continued to strain towards Cian’s arm, desperate to sink his teeth into Cian’s flesh.

  Cian pulled back. He wiped sweaty palms on his trousers.

  What the hell had Harry done to this kid?

  Sam was still shouting, but the words were a jumble, completely meaningless. Cian stared at the boy for a moment longer. It reminded him, just a bit, of boys who had cracked during the war. When they couldn’t take the shelling anymore, or the trenches, or the rats.

  He grabbed Sam’s hair, held the boy’s head straight, and landed an open-handed slap.

  The crack of the blow swallowed every other sound. Sam stopped shouting. He went limp, like a dead man.

  Cian let go of the boy’s hair. Sam’s head dropped forward.

  After a moment, Sam gave a shake. He lifted his head, blinked, and worked his jaw.

  “Cian?”

  “That you, Sam?”

  “I think you broke my fucking jaw.”

  That, Cian had to admit, sounded like Sam.

  “You settled down? I’m going to untie you.”

  Sam nodded. Exhaustion had drawn lines on the boy’s face, and he looked ten years older. Cian loosed the ropes, and Sam pulled his arms forward. His movements were stiff as he rubbed at his wrists and elbows.

  “God,” Sam said, wrinkling his nose. “Is that me?”

  Cian nodded.

  “What the hell, Shea?”

  “That’s what I was going to ask you,” Cian said. “What the hell happened to you?”

  Darkness settled over Sam’s blue eyes. A tremor ran through his jaw.

  “Take a breath, Sam.”

  The boy shivered, took a breath, and shivered again. “I don’t—” His voice was strangled. “I don’t—”

  “All right, easy, Sam. Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  The tension in Sam’s body vanished. He sagged forward.

  “If I tell you take a bath,” Cian said, “you’re not going to drown yourself, are you?”

  “No.” Sam struggled for a grin. It was an obvious effort. “I might slit my wrists, though, if I ever have to be this close to you again.”

  “I’ll start the water,” Cian said.

  He went to the bathroom, started the bath, and—just in case—removed Harry’s razor. And, after a second thought, a bottle of sleeping powder.

  Just in case.

  Sam shuffled into the bathroom like an old man.

  While Sam bathed, Cian did his best to clean up the back bedroom. The rug was stained with Sam’s piss, and the chair too. Cian dragged them both out to the rear balcony, and then he set to work scrubbing the floor. The smell of cleaner filled his nose, replacing the stench of fear and torture. It did nothing for his thoughts, though.

  Harry had done something to that boy. Something awful.

  “You’re going to scrub through the floor,” Sam said.

  Cian dropped the brush and flexed his aching hand. Sam stood in the doorway, his hair combed and slicked back, some of the color back in his face. He wore a spare shirt and trousers borrowed from Harry, which were only too large for him, and he looked like a kid wearing his father’s clothes. A kid who wished he had a revolver and a fast way out of there.

  “Now what?” Sam asked.

  “You tell me.”

  “What are my odds of getting a bullet in the back of the head if I try to leave?”

  “From me?”

  “Who else? You almost broke my nose—”

  “When you were trying to escape,” Cian said.

  “—and you knocked me around in that cellar—”

  “After we rescued you and you tried being smart.”

  “And then, on top of it all, you leave me tied up here with a lunatic.” Sam paused for breath. “Yeah. I think I’ve got a good reason to ask. Can I leave? Or should I just go ahead, let you tie me up, and plan on shitting myself in a few hours?”

  “The last part of the plan doesn’t sound too strong.”

  Sam’s lip curled. “Now you’re all jokes, huh?”

  Cian stood. His knees ached. He stretched his back and crossed the room.

  Sam took a step back and bumped into the wall.

  “Listen, kid.”

  “I’m not a—”

  “Just listen. Ok, I got a little rough. I’m sorry. There, that’s your apology. Don’t act like you’re new to this kind of game. You had a knife to Irene and you would have used it, if you needed to. You’ve been trying to run an angle on us since we saved your skinny ass. We’ve been protecting you and all we’ve gotten for it is a shit-load of trouble.” Cian poked Sam in the chest, where the bruises and cuts still lingered, and Sam flinched and knocked his hand away. “And don’t forget, kid. You looked like a side of beef when we pulled you out of that house. Aside from your nose, nobody’s put a finger on you here.”

  “Harry—”

  “Yeah? What did Harry do to you?”

  Sam flushed, and his eyes went to the floor.

  “Yeah, I figured. Nothing.”

  “Just cause I don’t remember doesn’t mean nothing happened. Maybe he gave me some dope or something. I don’t know.”

  “Any good at arithmetic, Sam?”

  “What?”

  “Arithmetic. Did you even go to school?”

  Sam told him—in a particularly explicit phrase—what he thought of that question.

  “Then start adding up the times I’ve saved your life, in spite of the fact that you’ve caused nothing but trouble. And then tell me if you want to call things square or not. Hell, I’ll even forget you had a knife on Irene.”

  Cian waited a minute. Sam locked gazes with him.

  “Cian,” Pearl shouted from the other room.

  “Stay here,” Cian said.

  He ran down the hall. Sam was a step behind him, and Cian gritted his teeth, but he didn’t stop. Pearl stood outside Harry’s door, twisting the handle.

  “I went to get more snow,” Pearl said, “and when I came back, he was out of bed. He slammed the door and won’t let me in.” She hammered on the door. “Harry!”

  “Harry, open the damn door,” Cian said. He twisted the handle. It turned easily, but when Cian tried to open the door, it wouldn’t budge. “What the hell did he do?”

  Pearl didn’t answer.

  “What in God’s name is that?” Sam asked. He was pointing at the bottom of the door, where a shimmer of light was visible. Not the muted glow of gaslight, but a wavering illumination like sunlight off of water.

  “Pearl?” Cian said.

  She shook
her head and stepped away from the door.

  Cian moved back a pace and charged. He hit the door hard.

  His shoulder popped and Cian grunted. It felt like slamming into a brick wall.

  Sam let out something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, but when Cian looked at him, the kid had his hands over his mouth and was pretending to cough.

  “What the hell did he do?” Cian repeated, rubbing his shoulder.

  “He needs help,” Pearl said. “I’m calling Freddy.”

  “Pearl, stop. You can’t trust him.”

  “Well what am I supposed to do, Cian? Watch him die? Leave him locked in there, doing God knows what?”

  A sudden flash came from underneath the door. Then darkness.

  Pearl raised one trembling hand to the door. Cian tried to move in front of her, but she pushed him out of the way and opened the door.

  The first thing Cian noticed was the smell. The air had the heavy, salty taste of the sea. It rolled over Cian and vanished. His clothes felt damp, as though he’d spent the day in the humid sea air. The room itself was dark, but Pearl didn’t slow. Cian raised the gaslights.

  Harry lay on the floor, bare chested. A shard of glass lay on the floor next to him. The mirror had been broken, and more glass strewed the floor. Cian picked his way across the room and knelt next to Harry.

  The furnace heat that had poured off of Harry was gone. The man’s breathing was easier. He was asleep. Pearl struggled to turn Harry onto his side, and Cian helped her.

  He couldn’t help his quick intake of breath.

  The corroded flesh was smooth. The skin on Harry’s back unbroken. No sign of the dark streamers of venom that had slid underneath the surface of his skin.

  Pearl pulled her hands back as though she had been burned. She closed her eyes.

  Cian picked Harry up and put him in bed. When he turned around, Pearl was on her feet. She looked like a woman who had stepped onto thin air and was just realizing that she was starting to fall.

  “What is this?” Cian asked.

  Pearl shook her head.

  “Pearl, he doesn’t have a scratch on him,” Cian said.

  “I’d be happy to give him a few,” Sam said from the door.

  Cian and Pearl both glared at him.

  Sam quailed and said, “Well, only if it would help.”