by Gregory Ashe
Which suited Cian just fine.
“Merry Christmas Eve,” Pearl murmured to both of them. “A strange night for what we have planned.”
“Peace on earth,” Harry said. His eyes glinted in the hotel lights. “Good will toward men.”
They both paused and looked at Cian.
“Merry Christmas Eve,” he said. “I didn’t have a chance to pick up any presents.”
Pearl laughed and squeezed his arm.
“Let’s just get the mask,” Harry said. “That’s present enough for me.”
“Of course,” Cian said. “Just let me get a drink.”
Cian snagged a drink from one of the waiters as they crossed the lobby. It was a cocktail, more bitter than he had expected, and it left him wanting a good whiskey. Or, for that matter, a bucket of moonshine he could stick his head in. But one cocktail would have to be enough, and he set the glass down as they started up the stairs. Harry led them to the second floor. Opposite the stairs, a massive ballroom opened up, revealing men and women dancing to the music of a band. Broad hallways led to the left and right.
“Sam said they’re supposed to use one of these meeting rooms,” Harry said. “Let’s hope he’s right. And that he can do his job.”
“He’ll do it,” Cian said. “He’s not that bad, once you get past—well, once you get past just about everything.”
“We’ll see. Now we need to find where they’re going to be. We’ll split up and meet here in an hour. Stay near crowds. And don’t make a scene.”
“Why are you looking at me?”
Harry stared at him a moment longer.
“Fine,” Cian said with a sigh. “I wish we knew where Irene was.”
“At least I don’t have to worry about the two of you bickering. Remember. One hour.”
And then he was gone, disappearing into the ballroom. Half the heads in the room turned to watch Harry Witte enter. That was the kind of man he was. Which explained, in part, why Cian still had the lingering desire to knock out some of his teeth.
Pearl watched Harry go for a moment. Her eyes were still bright. A flush had climbed her cheeks and throat, and she looked happy.
“You look beautiful, by the way,” Cian said. The words popped out.
A smile grew on Pearl’s face. “Thank you, Cian.” She paused. “You know, you might try saying something like that to Irene next time you see her. Women like that sort of thing.”
“Not Irene. Somehow she’d twist it all around and the next thing I knew, I’d be apologizing for trampling on the rights of suffragettes everywhere, or something like that.”
Pearl laughed, shook her head, and said, “Of course you would. But that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t like it all the same.” Then she disappeared back down the stairs into the lobby.
Cian looked around for a waiter. He needed another drink. Now.
It seemed that here, at least, the waiters were confined to the tables that lined the edges of the ballroom. Harry had already worked his way into a crowd near the edge of the dance floor, and a pair of women were laughing at something he had said. Cian turned and followed the hall that led to the right. From behind several of the doors came the sounds of laughter, the clink of glasses, and the irregular swell of men’s voices. The sound of men who were pleased with themselves and, more importantly, pleased with their companions. Men, Cian assumed, who had rented out these larger rooms in the hotel in order to take advantage of the festivities while also having the opportunity for private indiscretions.
A few of the rooms were silent. Cian checked these. Two of the rooms had their gas lamps turned up, with food arranged on sideboards and bottles of champagne cooling in ice, but no sign of their intended guests. One room had the food and the champagne and, in addition, an old, overweight man pinned to his chair by a much younger woman’s tongue. Cian shut the door as quickly—and as quietly—as he could, and then wondered if he could find a bit of soap to scrub his eyes.
What he didn’t find, though, was any sign of an incipient meeting of the most nefarious men in St. Louis. None of the rooms were draped in black, or guarded by thugs, or marked with a sign proclaiming the nine o’clock auction of a cultic mask.
By the time Cian returned to the main stairs, the clock read half past eight, and he had nothing to show for his search. And, worse, his throat was dry.
He edged towards the ballroom. And the drinks.
Overhead, chandeliers threw elongated diamonds of light across the room, overlapping folds like good tulle brushed by the shadows of the party-goers. The air was warmer here, with the scent of women’s perfume and men’s perspiration. A round woman with a rounder face swam past Cian, her arms parting the air as though it were water, and she wore an aquamarine waterfall. As she passed Cian, she goosed him, laughed a nickel-bright laugh, and plunged into the tide of bodies.
Cian fixed his sights on the bar. It sat halfway across the rooms. The bottles gleamed. Volstead Act or no, St. Louis’s finest were going to enjoy their Christmas Eve the way they always had. He started towards the bar.
And then he stopped. Halfway across the room, engaged in a quiet conversation, was a man Cian remembered quite clearly.
The man had, after all, tried to kill Cian twice. It had left an impression.
He was thin as a rail and looked like the kind of man with a taste for barbed wire and razor blades. Cian had first seen him at Seamus’s place. The man had shot Seamus in the head and then tried to put a couple rounds in Cian. The second time, he had shown up at the hospital and tried to kill Cian and Irene both.
Because of that man, Seamus’s boys had tried to run Cian down, thinking he had killed their boss.
The thin man broke off his conversation and started towards the hall. Cian spun and saw Harry talking to a pair of generously endowed women who looked like sisters. Rich, young sisters. Cian pushed his way through the crowd towards Harry. Squawks and grumbles followed him, but Cian didn’t care. A wave of aquamarine crashed in front of him, and a round, rouged faced crested, but Cian kept going.
He felt another pinch—a rather aggressive pinch—as he dodged the woman.
Thank God Irene wasn’t here.
“Cian,” Harry said. “I was just talking to—”
“Later,” Cian said. He grabbed Harry and dragged him towards the hall.
“What is it?” Harry said.
“Him,” Cian said, pointing at the thin man, who had almost reached the hall. “He killed Seamus, and I think he’s working with Byrne. Or maybe with the Dane. I don’t know. But he’s tied up in all of this.”
“Well, let’s find out how what he knows,” Harry said. He brushed the wrinkles from his suit and smiled.
As they followed the thin man into the hall, Pearl came rushing up the stairs, dress clutched in one hand. A few interested eyes followed her, but for the most part, the other party guests were absorbed in their own conversations and, to a greater extent, in their drinks.
“He’s here,” Pearl said when she reached them. “Freddy’s here.”
“Where?” Harry said.
“I don’t know. I was following him through the lobby and I lost him.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Harry said. “He’ll show up. He won’t let the mask get away from him again.”
“For now, we need to follow our lead,” Cian said. He nudged them both after the thin man, who had continued down the hall. “Since he’s all we’ve got.”
As they started after the man, though, a knot of revelers burst from the ballroom, and Cian found himself cut off from Harry and Pearl. Swearing and pushing, Cian struggled through the group of party-goers, considering whether a few good punches might not do the world a service, when a hand closed over his shoulder. Then the muzzle of a gun pressed against Cian’s back.
“Don’t move, Shea,” Irving Harper said.
Harry cast a backwards glance, concern in his eyes.
Cian shook his head. Keep going, he mouthed.
With a nod, H
arry took Pearl by the arm and they hurried down the hall.
“You going to be smart about this, Shea?” Harper said. With the hand on Cian’s shoulder, Harper steered him towards the stairs.
“I haven’t been smart about anything so far. Why start now?”
No response came from Harper. Cian cast a glance back. The cut to the side of Harper’s face was scabbed over, and the man still looked pale, as though he weren’t ready to be back on his feet. When Harper noticed Cian’s look, he gave Cian another shove, and Cian turned his gaze forward to keep from falling.
“Should have killed me, Shea. That was a big mistake. Those boys you killed, they had families. They were just doing their jobs. I’m going to make sure you get what’s coming, though.”
“I didn’t kill them,” Cian said. “What did you think that big, old nasty lizard was that I left in your lap?”
Cian threw another look back. Harper was paler. He jabbed the muzzle into Cian’s back as though he wished it were a knife. The stains on Harper’s suit and tie had more life in them than Harper did right then.
“I’m telling you,” Cian said. “You’re making a mistake. I didn’t—”
He paused because they had gotten to the stairs. Coming up the steps was a cluster of three massive men in trench coats, wearing hats pulled low over their faces. They looked about as festive as a pile of dog turds, and Cian was fairly sure that they hadn’t come tonight to celebrate the birth of their Lord and Savior.
The golems hadn’t noticed him yet. Once they did, Cian figured that things were going to get more interesting.
“Go on,” Harper said, digging the gun into Cian’s back again. “Say it. Tell me how you didn’t do anything wrong.” They started down the steps. Harper’s breath was hot against Cian’s ear. The man smelled like canned gravy. “Tell me you didn’t leave Harley Dunn with half a face.”
“It’s half more than that bastard deserved.”
On the next step down, Cian threw himself forward. Harper shouted as Cian pulled free of his grip. Cian fell to the left, crashing into the closest of the golems. It felt like throwing himself against a kiln—hard and hot and not a good idea. The golem shifted a fraction of an inch. Cian bounced off, hit the next step, and rolled.
A drunken woman screeched.
Because Cian held in his hands the golem’s hat. Its slag-heap of a face turned slowly, taking in the people on the steps and landing, studying the room anew.
More screams rose, and men and women raced to get clear of the bare-headed golem. Harper pivoted, gun rising, like a man dipped in molasses. The golem gave him a shove and kept walking.
Harper stumbled back. He fired. The gunshot rang through the crowded hall, an exclamation mark that interrupted the rising sounds of panic. Then Harper hit the banister and fell.
Shit.
Cian threw a glance after the golems and then sprinted down the steps. Harper lay on the stairs like a broken doll, but by the time Cian reached the other man, Harper had lifted his head and was blinking.
“Hey there, Harper,” Cian said, kneeling next to the man. “How you feeling?”
“Shea, God-damn it.”
That was all. Then Harper raised his gun like the American flag at dawn.
“You’re going to be right as rain,” Cian said. He plucked the gun from Harper and said, “I’ll just hold onto this, though, until then.”
Harper gave a confused nod and half-shake of his head.
Above them, screams escalated.
“I think they’ve reached the ballroom,” Cian said.
Harper didn’t seem to think much of the idea. He was staring up at the gold-leaf ceiling and groaning.
“Let’s get you somewhere safe.”
To Cian’s surprise, Harper could stand, and nothing seemed broken. Together, they made their way to a service door in the lobby. Harper shook his head again as Cian lowered him to the floor.
“Why?” he croaked.
Cian shrugged. “You’re just doing your job.” Then he grabbed the handcuffs from Harper’s belt, snapped one end around Harper’s wrist, and fitted the other around an exposed length of pipe. He dug out the key from Harper’s pocket. “You should stay here,” Cian said. “You’ll be safer.”
“Shea, God damn it,” Harper said.
Cian fought a smile. “Glad you approve. I’ll see you soon, Harper. Don’t arrest anyone else until then.”
Cian dropped the Harper’s gun near the door, where Harper could retrieve it—after he’d been released from the cuffs, of course. Then Cian drew the Colt. As he pushed open the door to the lobby, a tremendous crash came from front of the building.
A rain of glass fell across the lobby, sprinkling the tufted imitation snow and spearing the Christmas trees like icicles. The front of the lobby—the wide glass doors and windows—had been blown in. As Cian watched, a pair of lizard-men—sauria, Irene had called them—pulled themselves through the broken windows.
Unlike the golems, the sauria made no pretense at disguise. They were huge, topping Cian by at least a foot, and built like a Mack AB. They came across the lobby in a sinuous race.
The first woman who died was old, with a wobbly double-chin and a puffy white hat. She stood as though hypnotized, watching the sauria race towards her. When the closest sauria reached her, it tore out her sagging throat and kept moving. The puffy white hat floated to the ground like an overweight snowflake.
After that, the slaughter began in earnest, with the sauria tearing through the fleeing people. The escaping party-goers dropped like wheat beneath a thresher. Blood sprayed across the walls. Gold-leaf and terracotta vanished under the dark drops.
Cian watched, a fist around his throat, and remembered the trenches in France.
Somehow, he came back to himself, like a man hearing a bell from a great distance. His legs moved before his brain, and he found himself trotting up the stairs, Colt in hand, with the sounds of the dying a half-step behind. The flood of people from the ballroom continued to press past him, rushing towards the abattoir that had opened in the lobby. Cian fought against the current. When he reached the landing, a surge of gibbering aquamarine passed him, and he felt a swell of cold, trapped pity, like a man listening to a radio broadcast.
Then he continued up the stairs. There was nothing he could do for them.
At the top of the hall, the crush of people dwindled. Through the doors to the ballroom, Cian spotted a few revelers who had taken refuge under the tables. Trampled streamers littered the floor. A tablecloth had been dragged halfway to the door, spilling broken crystal and red wine across the parquet. At least, Cian hoped it was wine. A gold-lettered banner dangled from its remaining ties, fluttering slightly, as though a divine hand were trying to shake off the words. Peace on earth, the banner read.
Cian bit back a sharp laugh and ran down the hall.
It wasn’t hard to spot the room where Harry and Pearl had gone. An entire length of wall had been blasted open, spilling plaster and laths and stone across the carpeted floor. Dust and smoke drifted between the gaslights, taking on a sunset radiance. A gunshot rang out a moment later, and the acrid smell of the powder stung Cian’s nose.
“Harry,” he called.
“In here,” Pearl answered.
Cian came up to the edge of the ruined wall and peeked around. On the other side, he saw the remains of what must have once been an impressive sitting room. Sofas and chairs had been overturned to form impromptu barricades, and even a small, upright piano had been put into service as part of one wall.
Near the opening in the destroyed wall, Pearl and Harry crouched behind a sideboard. On top of the sideboard, a crystal decanter of brandy and a pair of tumblers sat undisturbed. As Cian moved to join them, a white-haired man rose from behind the piano and fired a shot. Cian pulled back. Another crack of gunshot came from within the room, and then a shout.
“Would you mind trying that again, Cian?” Harry asked.
Cian peered around the wall.
Harry was grinning.
Cian dove for the sideboard. From the corner of his eye, Cian saw another man rise from behind the sofa. Harry leaned around the edge of the barricade and fired again. The man fell back, cracked his head against the hearth and dropped out of sight.
“What the hell is going on?” Cian asked as he wormed his way up to Harry and Pearl.
“They were taking too long,” Pearl said. “Harry decided to speed things up by knocking out their wall.”
“Who has the mask?” Cian asked.
From across the room, between the hearth and a chaise longue that lay on its side, came a familiar voice.
“Hi, Cian.” Patrick poked his head above the edge of the chaise and then ducked back down. “Kind of a mess, right?”
“You’re kidding,” Cian said to Harry.
Harry shook his head.
“You’re a dead man,” a deeper voice said from behind the piano. “My men are crawling all over this place. They’ll be here in minutes.”
“That’s Byrne,” Harry said. “He’s upset.”
“I can imagine,” Cian said.
“Make sure your buddy doesn’t run off with the mask,” Harry said. “I want to talk to him after this is over.”
“It’s not what you think, Cian,” Patrick said. “Listen, I’m going to come out. We can talk about this, right? Is Irene with you?”
“Shut your mouth, Patrick.”
But Patrick inched up from behind the chaise. As soon as he was clear of the chair, a pair of men rose from behind the piano. Patrick squeaked and dropped.
Cian got up on his knees and fired. The bullet caught an overweight man in the throat. The man’s head snapped back, and he dropped behind the piano like a man in a bad vaudeville act.