The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (52 page)

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

“Merry Christmas. You look better.”

“Pearl dug the bullet out. It wasn’t as bad as I’d thought.”

“It was bad enough,” Pearl said. She gave Irene a hug and then went back to a steaming pan of yams. “He should be resting but he insisted.”

“He insisted on making bread?” Irene said.

“Rolls,” Cian said. “How are you?”

“I feel fine. No after-effects, if that’s what you mean. I suppose my deal with Marie-Thérèse is over.”

From the stove, Pearl threw them a worried look, and Irene tried for a smile. It felt like hauling a bag of sand.

“Sam?” Irene asked.

“He’s fine,” Pearl said. “A bit shook up, but fine.”

“More than fine,” Cian said. “He’d pick the bird clean if I let him. I had to throw him out of here.”

“And Harry? Freddy?”

This time, the silence was longer. “They’re fine,” Pearl said. “Harry didn’t sleep. He hasn’t let the mask out of his sight. He and Freddy spoke for a long time. They’ve patched things up, I supposed, but it will take time.”

“It always does,” Irene said, staring at Cian in his flowered apron.

He began to blush, tried to meet her gaze, and then turned his attention to the dough.

Yes, Irene thought. He looked just fine in that apron.

As they cooked, they began to piece together the story of the last few weeks. Patrick’s role in bringing in cultic artifacts had made him an ideal agent for Marie-Thérèse, but it also shed light on the connection between the smuggled artifacts and the bootlegging.

“The artifacts weren’t an afterthought,” Pearl said. “They were the payment. Somehow, Evander had a hold over the head of the Prohibition agents here. In return for keeping the booze flowing, Evander wanted artifacts. Seamus and the Dane and even the Children began to pay. The mask was supposed to give Seamus a monopoly on the city’s liquor. When the Dane heard, he wanted to get the mask first. After all, Evander didn’t care who got the mask for him, and a stranglehold on the city’s booze would have made either Seamus or the Dane a rich man. But then your father realized what the box contained and the Children wanted the mask for themselves.”

“Booze,” Irene said. “It’s hard to believe.”

“It won’t be an issue for long.” Pearl pointed to the morning newspaper, which sat on a chair.

Irene picked it up and glanced at it. The front story was about the gang warfare that had claimed dozens of lives at the Louisiana Grand the night before. Listed among the dead was the head of the local Prohibition enforcement agency. A small picture accompanied the story.

“Recognize him?” Cian said.

“He tried to kill us at the hospital,” Irene said.

“And he killed Seamus because Seamus was starting to crack,” Cian said. “Seamus had gotten too deep into those cultic relics. He was pretty much gone by the time I met him. It doesn’t matter, I suppose. They’ve already named a new head for the area. Some hotshot from back east. I imagine it’s going to be a bit harder to get a drink over the next few months.”

Irene folded the newspaper and kept it in her lap. “And Evander?”

Pearl shrugged. “We’ll have to start looking for him. He’s powerful and dangerous and now he has a reason to want to be rid of us. Between Freddy and Harry, they should be able to throw off the worst of anything Evander can work up.”

Before Irene could ask about Marie-Thérèse, or the rest of the Children, or her father—any of the dozen questions that floated around in her head—Sam came in and tried to pinch some of the bread dough, while Cian tried to brain the young man with a rolling pin. Pearl passed a large wooden spoon to Irene as she tried to intervene.

And, just like that, Irene found herself in charge of the potatoes.

Dinner started off quiet. It wasn’t like any Christmas dinner Irene had eaten before. It was a gathering of wounded soldiers, finding an unexpected respite in the midst of a war. They ate in silence at first. By degrees, though, the good food warmed them, along with several bottles of red wine that Harry had produced, and the quiet began to crack like Mississippi ice. At some point during the meal, Irene discovered that Cian was holding her hand under the table. She also discovered that she didn’t mind.

When the plates had been cleared—and washed by Sam—Harry carried a familiar looking wooden box to the table. He might as well have brought a bomb to the dinner. When he set the box down, Irene realized she was gripping Cian’s hand and that she didn’t want to let go. Everyone fell silent.

“Would you like to open it?” Harry said to Cian. “You were the one who had it first.”

Cian disentangled his hand from Irene’s. He nodded, stood, and fumbled with the edges of the box. A piece of the frame slid away, and one of the side panels opened. Cian dragged a velvet pad out of the box and laid it on the table.

On top of the velvet lay a mask. It was worked in clay, the edges rough, the surface of the mask dimpled. An amateur’s work. The handicraft of some ancient, mad cultist. There was nothing beautiful about the piece, and certainly nothing to suggest its power, but Irene’s breath had turned to a stream of ice as she stared at the mask.

“Doesn’t look like much,” Sam said.

“It looks old,” Cian said. “Like its ready to crumble.”

Harry smiled and caught Irene’s gaze. “Let’s help it along the way.” He held out a hammer.

Irene took it. It was heavy. The handle smooth. She adjusted her grip until the balance felt right.

Before her lay the mask. The mask that so many people had died for. The mask that her father had been willing to sacrifice everything—his daughter included—to have. The mask she could use to wring a confession from her father, to force him to tell the truth, to admit that she was right.

To make him see her, really see her, for the first time in her life.

She brought the hammer down, slightly off-center, below one of the eye-holes. The mask cracked with the sound of a broken dinner plate. She lifted the hammer again. Her heart felt like it was made of the same clay. Heavy and wet and aching. The next blow crushed the center of the mask, splitting the clay in two.

Irene lowered the hammer again and again until Cian caught her wrist. He pulled her next to him, but not too close, not smothering her, and he let the hammer fall to the floor. Irene wiped tears from her eyes. Her hand and wrist ached. Everything ached, an ache that had run too deep for too long.

On the table, the mask had been reduced to reddish-brown dust.

“Remind me not to make her angry,” Sam muttered.

Pearl threw him a glance, and Sam flushed.

Without a word, Harry picked up the piece of velvet by the corners, careful not to lose any of the dust, and carried it to the fireplace. He folded the velvet over once and tossed it into the flames. There was a slight puff of air as the cloth caught, and then the fire swallowed velvet and dust together.

“Done,” Harry said. He let out a breath. Relief was visible in his eyes. “Done.”

The solemn moment passed. Irene lifted her wineglass, but her hand was shaking so that she could barely set the glass to her lips. Cian took the glass and returned it to the table.

“Would you like to go back to your rooms?” he asked.

Irene nodded. She gathered her coat and clutch. She kissed Pearl goodbye, and then she kissed Harry and Sam goodbye, because it felt like she was getting ready to leave on a long voyage, and she wasn’t sure when she’d see them again. Cian shook the men’s hands. Pearl stretched up on tiptoes to kiss is cheek, and she whispered something that made his face turn as red as his hair.

Wild hair. Hair that desperately needed a comb.

Inside, Irene felt some of the ache easing.

They took a cab to the Majestic and, miracle of miracles, somehow Cian pulled out a crisp bill and paid for the ride. At Irene’s curious look, he shrugged, looking like a boy with his hand in the cookie jar, and said, “Harry slipped me a bit of cash. Just in case.”

“In case of what?” Irene asked.

Cian just grinned and helped her out of the cab.

They made their way to Irene’s room. After the chaos and bloodshed in the Louisiana Grand, the lobby of the Majestic—with its pristine marble and gold-leaf, with its enormous Christmas tree glittering in the light of a chandelier, with the smell of pine and leather hanging in the air like dollar signs—no longer felt as safe as it had. Before, Irene had envisioned this world of money and wealth and privilege, the world where she had been raised, as somehow separate. Disconnected from the madness and terror and pain of the new world she had uncovered.

All of that had been a lie, though. The two worlds overran each other all the time. It didn’t end well.

Cian was silent as he helped her up the stairs. He was silent as they followed the hall to Irene’s room. He was silent as she unlocked the door.

Silent the way a mule is silent. Stubborn and none too bright.

Irene shrugged off her coat and stood in the doorway, wondering if she would have to knock him over the head before he got the idea.

At her look, Cian gave a start, as though coming out of deep thought. He stepped closer. This time, Irene didn’t move back. She held her ground, although a shiver had started in her legs and she was half-afraid she’d fall. One of Cian’s hands found her cheek, tilted her head up. He was smiling. His face was open, vulnerable, and Irene thought he looked a bit like a bride on her wedding night, although she doubted Cian would appreciate the comparison.

And he was taking too damn long, so she raised up and kissed him.

This time, there was no shock, no hesitation. He kissed her back. A strong, warm kiss that curled Irene’s toes and might have curled her hair. When he pulled back, Irene tested her footing. The ground was gone. She was sky-high and walking on clouds.

Cian’s other hand found her waist and slipped up, until the heel of his hand brushed the side of her breast, his fingers tight against her back. Passion fluttered like a candle in a strong wind. Memory struck Irene.

The grass tickling the back of her neck. Her skirt forced up. Francis’s fingers—hard and painful—on her breasts.

Irene stepped away from Cian. Her breath was a tangled, tortured thing. She blinked, gasping for air, and knocked his hands away.

Cian didn’t move. He didn’t even seem to register her behavior. He took deep breaths. His hands fell to his sides. He might have been a portrait:
Irishman. Irritatingly patient. 1925
.

“I’m sorry,” Irene said.

With a shake of his head, Cian said, “You have no reason.”

“No, truly, Cian. I’m just—give me just a moment, I promise. I—” She could do this. She had to do this. He would expect it, after how she’d led him on.

She’d take him inside. She’d undress. She’d lie on the bed.

Maybe she’d close her eyes.

He’d be more gentle than Francis, wouldn’t he?

Cian interrupted her with a soft, quick kiss on the cheek, and then he pulled back. “Irene Lovell, I have not been a gentleman about a single thing since we’ve met. Let me be a gentleman about this.” Then his lips quirked up into a small smile. “I’ll come see you in the morning. Breakfast?”

She tried for a smile and found it there, warm and waiting and curled up. “Breakfast sounds lovely.”

“Goodnight, Irene.”

“Goodnight, Cian.”

And then she stepped inside, shut the door, and wondered if she could have acted like a greater fool.

Cian made his way down the main stairs of the Majestic with a new spring in his step. There was, to be certain, a part of him that was disappointed by the way the night had ended. Disappointed, in fact, might have been a mild term. Frustrated to the point of agony.

But that point began somewhere around the equator. The rest of him felt—well, warm. And happy. And at ease, for the first time in what felt like a hundred years.

Or, to be more precise, since that rainy night in France.

At the bottom of the steps, Cian gave the boy at the front desk a mock-salute and a cheery whistle. The boy frowned, looking twenty years older than he was, and Cian fought back a grin.

It was a good night. A very good night.

Outside, the air was cold, but the sky was clear and bright. A good night for walking. And thinking.

“Got a smoke, buddy?”

Cian turned around, a
no
already on his lips, and froze.

Irving Harper stood there. He wore the same stained suit. He had the same bulldog face, the same heavy jowls. He had the same hat that looked like it been trampled by every horse west of the Mississippi. But his eyes were different. The settled, almost contented look that Harper had worn before was gone. Now he had the look of a man face to face with a wolf. The revolver in his hand trembled slightly.

The kind of tremor that could end up with Cian getting shot.

Cian put his hands up slowly. “I’m not going to cause you any trouble, Harper.”

Harper licked his lips. The canned gravy smell was stronger, as though he’d been indulging himself in a special treat to soothe his nerves. The revolver didn’t steady, though. He tossed Cian a pair of cuffs.