The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (51 page)

“Move,” Pearl said. “Move, Cian!”

Cian shook his head.

“Irene,” Cian said. “I know you can hear me. Irene, you have to stop her. You can’t let her do this.”

Marie-Thérèse’s eyes snapped to Cian. Amusement twisted her features.

Run, Cian’s gut said. Run. Run the way he ran in France. Run, and leave Irene, and leave Harry, and live another day.

Run.

Corinne’s face pressed against the stone.

The wet, split-melon sound of Dunn’s head.

And that night, a wet, French night, his breath fogging Corinne’s window. She had screamed for help and he had run.

And never stopped running.

Right then, the ground was firm under Cian’s feet, as though the earth had stopped spinning. He stared at Irene. Not at Marie-Thérèse. Not at the thing that hid behind Irene’s face. He stared at Irene, all the way at the back, where she hid behind barbed comments and clever jabs. The brave, bold, smart, beautiful woman, with whom he had fallen completely in love.

For a moment, a look of total shock filled Marie-Thérèse’s features. And then Marie-Thérèse was gone, and Cian was looking into Irene’s eyes.

The sound of Pearl’s shot broke the world in half. Half on instinct, Cian moved right. The round struck Cian in the back and knocked him forward. He hit the carpet on his knees and fell forward. The fibers tickled his chin. His back felt like a mule had practiced clogging on it.

Through blurred vision, it took him a moment to realize the blue-white light was gone. The gas lamps spread amber warmth through the room.

And then Irene’s voice.

“Cian, you’re bleeding all over the rug.”

One moment, Irene had been trapped behind thick glass. The world had shrunk to pinpoint figures. And then, the next moment, Cian’s sea-green eyes had stared right at her, and the glass was no thicker than cobwebs.

Irene felt her feet hit the carpet. The gas lamps fluttered overhead. Her head throbbed—not painful, but like a drum skin. The furniture in the room had been overturned. Blood covered the walls. The scent of death was in the air, blood and fear. Harry lay against the far wall, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged. Pearl held a derringer and stared at Irene as though seeing a ghost.

Cian lay on the floor. A bullet hole marked the back of his jacket. Red stained his shirt. Irene’s heart climbed into her mouth.

In what was perhaps not her finest moment, she said the first thing that came to mind.

“Cian, you’re bleeding all over the rug.”

She dropped to her knees. Cian groaned, and Irene lifted his head. His eyes were bright with pain. Pain and relief and a transparent vulnerability that dragged Irene out to sea. She didn’t care. She didn’t care at all.

“What in the world do you care about the damn rug?” he said. “I’ve been shot and all you can think about is the rug?”

“It’s not that bad,” Irene said, inspecting the wound. “It’s the fatty part of the shoulder. I think I can see it—”

“Not that bad?” Cian said. “What do you—”

Irene hooked her nail around the bullet.

Cian roared and tried to pull away.

“God, woman, leave it be!”

With a sniff of disapproval, Irene wiped her hands on Cian’s ruined jacket. And then, all at once, she started crying.

Cian struggled to get up, cradling his right arm. Through her tears, Irene tried to help him. Cian mumbled something, patting her arm, and then the sobs tore through Irene with full force. She let herself fall against his shoulder—the uninjured one.

She was a suffragette. She was an independent woman. She most certainly did not need a man to comfort her.

But right then, Cian’s muscular arm around her felt very nice.

After a few minutes, she pulled back, wiped her eyes, and dug through her clutch for a handkerchief. She blew her nose and said, “Cian, are you all right?”

“What do you mean am I all right? Are you all right?”

She dropped the handkerchief back in the clutch, stepped back, and said, “Of course I’m all right. Don’t be silly.” She paused and studied him. “That jacket is hopeless, you know.”

The confusion in his eyes, as he got to his feet, was worth almost everything.

Irene’s amusement faded, though, when she turned around. Pearl knelt by Harry, who still lay at the base of the wall, his face slack and his eyes closed. The discarded derringer sat on the carpet, its single shot expended. When Pearl looked up, her eyes were red.

“I’m so sorry, Cian.”

He shook his head.

Pearl nodded and turned her attention back to Harry.

“Will he be all right?” Irene asked. “I didn’t—Pearl, I couldn’t have known.”

Pearl didn’t answer.

“I swear, Marie-Thérèse didn’t tell me,” Irene said. If I—”

Cian’s hand closed over hers. Irene swallowed the rest of the words. She felt like she’d spent the day chewing poison oak.

“Pearl?” Cian said. “We need to go.”

“Yes,” Pearl said. She nodded and stood. “You won’t be able to carry him, of course. Not like that. Let me think. A sled, perhaps. Even a blanket. We’ll have to drag him.”

They set to work, digging through the ruined furniture. Irene found a thick quilt in an attached bedroom, which she carried back to Pearl. When she returned, Cian held a familiar box under his arm. He had flipped over the coffee table and now, with a few well-placed kicks, snapped off the legs. When Pearl lifted one of Harry’s arms, though, he gave a groan and his eyes slid open.

“Good God,” Harry said. “What did she hit me with? An elephant?”

Pearl looked a like a woman lost at sea who had sighted land. Her smile, disbelieving at first, grew and grew. Irene wiped at her eyes and slapped Cian’s arm when she saw him grinning at her.

“Harry, we need to leave,” Pearl said. “We have the mask, but we have to go now.”

With a lopsided smile, Harry stroked the edge of Pearl’s face. Then he pushed himself to his feet. Then he swore.

Irene turned to see a man standing in the opening that had been knocked in the wall. He was tall and handsome in a patrician sort of way: a high forehead, dark, swept-back hair, and cheekbones to cut glass. He looked just short of middle-age, and his face might have come off the statue of some forgotten Roman emperor. Cold, hard, and dead.

He smiled, and Irene’s skin crawled.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Bullshit,” Cian said. He held the Colt awkwardly in his left hand.

The man raised an eyebrow, and his smile widened. “We haven’t been introduced. My name is Evander Lisle. That box belongs to me.”

“Bullshit,” Cian repeated.

Irene rolled her eyes.

“Your father was supposed to deliver it to me,” Evander said to Irene. “We had a deal. I carried out my part. Your father failed to fulfill his end.”

“My father—” Irene began.

“The box,” Evander said. “Now.”

“Go to hell,” Harry said.

Evander stepped into the room. He carried a sleek black walking stick, which he lifted and pointed in their direction. “I’d heard better about you, Harry Witte. Look at you—beaten by a dead woman, barely able to stand, and fumbling in the dark with things beyond your comprehension. Let me assure you, Harry, you’re no match for me.”

“Too many people have been telling me that lately,” Harry said. “Shoot him, Cian.”

“Gladly.” Cian raised the gun and fired.

Instead of striking Evander, though, the bullet struck an invisible barrier. With a flash of light, the shell spun off to the side and buried itself in the wall. A deep note, like a rung bell, lingered in the air.

“Before you try that again,” Evander said, “let me offer you a reason to be more prudent.” He grinned and stepped to one side, like a performer revealing the main act.

The dust in the hall had settled, and the gas lamps burned brightly now, and the only sound was a set of shuffling steps. Irene rubbed her arms, wishing she had her coat and her revolver, feeling chills from head to toe. A moment later, a man rounded the corner of the hall and came into view.

Sam.

The boy’s sandy hair was mussed, and his face was drained of color. His eyes were wide. The eyes of a trapped animal. Each step seemed labored as he dragged his feet across the rug. In one shaking hand, he held a knife to his own throat.

“What did you do to this one, Harry?” Evander asked. “You left him cracked like an egg. All I had to do was pull—” Evander made a motion with one hand, and Sam went up onto his toes. A muffled scream came from between clenched teeth. “—and he was mine. A poor choice for a rear guard, Harry. A very poor choice.”

Irene looked from Sam to Harry. Harry was pale but composed. Cian flicked a glance at Harry, though, and on Cian’s face, Irene saw something that dug iron claws into her stomach. Cian knew something.

He knew Evander was telling the truth. Harry had done something to Sam.

“Now,” Evander said. “The box.”

Cian took a step forward.

“No,” Harry said. His voice cracked. “No. Cian, don’t give it to him.”

“Harry, he’s got Sam.”

“Who the fuck cares about Sam?” Harry’s voice rose. “You give him that mask and he’ll drag Dagon from the sea kicking and screaming.”

Evander’s eyes widened, and then he threw back his head and started laughing. He laughed for almost a full minute, one hand over his stomach, and when he stopped he pressed his fingers to his lips.

“God’s blood, Harry,” Evander said with another chuckle. “You don’t think I’m mad, do you? Let Dagon and the rest of the
endormie
stay where they are, dead and dreaming. If that’s all you care about, set your mind at ease. I will not raise Dagon.”

“You don’t want to wake him?” Irene asked. “Then what has this all been about? What do you care about the mask?”

Evander smiled again. “The mask is for my own use. It is, after all, still an object of power. But all this,” he paused and gestured at the corpses littering the room, “your father and the Dane and Seamus. All this is about exactly what you’d expect from thugs and gangsters.”

“And what is that?”

“Why, alcohol, of course. The mask was merely payment for services I had promised.” Evander straightened his suit and lifted the walking stick again. “I’m afraid I’m out of time. It has been most interesting to meet you. A bit of a disappointment. I had expected more of the man who brought down von der Ehmke.” He pointed the walking stick at Cian, and the tip began to glow like a coal plucked from the fire. “Pity you tossed him aside.”

“You are mistaken,” a familiar voice said from the hallway. A firm voice with the clipped, precise tones of a Hun accent. Freddy stepped into view. A gash marked his cheek, and blood stained his beard. He leaned on his silver-handled cane like a man of eighty years.

“He did not defeat me,” Freddy said. “And no one tosses me aside.”

Evander swung around to face Freddy, bringing the walking stick to bear on the old Hun. Freddy didn’t move. He didn’t raise a hand or shake his cane. He spoke two words. To Irene, they sounded like stone snapping under a terrible weight, or perhaps like lightning felling an ancient oak. Evander stumbled back. The light at the end of his walking stick died. He wavered on his feet for a moment, like a man who had received a swift kick between the legs.

Freddy’s face had lost its remaining color.

And then a shot rang out. The bullet struck Evander’s belly, and a tiny red circle spread across his white shirt. Confusion and rage mixed on Evander’s face. Darkness folded over him like raven’s wings, and when the air cleared, Evander was gone.

Irene turned to stare at Pearl. She held a second derringer in a steady hand, but her voice was trembling when she met Irene’s eyes.

“I like to be prepared,” Pearl said.

Harry started to laugh.

Christmas Day was quiet. Irene spent most of the day sleeping. Whatever Marie-Thérèse had done to Irene, it had left her wrung out like a newborn kitten. When she woke that afternoon, the smell of roast turkey and rising dough met her, and Irene made her way to the kitchen to find Pearl and Cian at work. Cian was turning out a bowlful of dough onto the floured table. He wore a baby-blue apron stitched with daisies, and he had a smile on his face that was somewhere between embarrassed and content. It was the kind of smile that warmed Irene from top to toes. The kind of smile that made her want to spend the rest of her life in this kitchen, with Cian, and with that apron.