The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (15 page)

“Rough day, Harry?” Cian asked.

Harry let out a sigh. “You have no idea.”

“The box,” Irene said, holding out her hands. “Now.”

“Let’s—” Harry began.

Before he could finish, something struck the building. The brick structure shivered as though it were made of mud. Fissures ran through plaster, throwing chips of wood across the room. The floor bucked and split. Cian latched onto the doorway with one hand. Irene tumbled backwards, and he caught her with his other arm.

For a moment, everything tilted and slid to the left as the building dropped and began to fall. Cian scrabbled for purchase with his feet. He caught the lip of a broken board and hung there, Irene’s arms wrapped around him.

And then the trembling stopped. The building had fallen at an angle, so that everything sloped to the left. Strips of lathe and plaster hung from the walls. The floor had broken into staggered sections. The gas lamps had gone out, leaving the apartment mostly in darkness. From somewhere nearby came a quiet hissing.

In the shadows, Cian stared down at Irene. She was pale, and her arms as tight as a vise around his waist, but she hadn’t screamed.

“All right?” he asked.

“Like a dream,” she answered, her voice breezy.

Cian grinned in spite of himself.

Further down the hall, Pearl and Harry had landed against the wall. The old Hun had vanished.

“Pearl?” Harry said.

“Fine.”

“Freddy?”

The silver-headed German poked his head through the front door of the apartment. Dust clung to his cheeks and close-trimmed beard. He waved his cane at Harry and struggled to pull himself into the doorway.

“What was that?” Cian asked. “An earthquake?”

Harry and Freddy traded a glance. Harry shook his head.

“Then what?” Irene asked. “Don’t tell me it was shoddy workmanship.”

A long grinding noise came from the structure beneath them, and then, with a series of pops, the hallway split in half and the left side of the building began to fall. Through the dust and debris, Cian watched the wall drop away from behind Pearl and Harry. The two threw themselves forward, gripping the floor, but as the building continued to fall the floorboards began to separate. Freddy reached down, clasped Pearl’s hand, and pulled her up into the safety of the doorway.

Harry clung to his board, searching for handholds as the floor came apart beneath him.

“Stay put,” Cian said to Irene, boosting her into the relative safety of the bedroom.

She looked like she was about to say something, but then she changed her mind and braced herself against the slanted wall.

Pulling himself hand over hand, Cian moved down the hallway, using the studs and frame of the ruined plaster wall to move closer to Harry. Harry hadn’t seen him yet. The other man had managed to catch a splintered joist with the toe of his boot and had stopped his fall. The far side of the building was now open to the night, and the rush of air stirred the dust, exposing patches of night. From below came the crash of bricks hitting the ground.

Screams came from nearby. The residents of the building, Cian realized, as he dragged himself closer to Harry. How many had died when the building collapsed? Over the screams came the steady hiss of the ruptured gas lines. How many more would die when the gas caught? With a grunt, Cian leaned forward, across a jagged gap in the wall and floor, and reached for an anchor of broken brick and mortar.

The joist on which Harry was supporting himself creaked and bent. Harry scratched at a length of polished flooring with bloody fingers.

Offering a silent prayer, Cian grabbed the broken bricks and pulled himself across the gap. Mortar crumbled under his weight, but the brick held. Cian latched onto the next doorway, reached down, and gripped Harry’s wrist.

The joist under Harry gave way.

The man’s weight transferred to Cian’s arm. Cian swore and struggled to keep his grip. Surprise and terror mingled in Harry’s face, but the man didn’t need any prompting. Using Cian’s arm as a support, Harry dragged himself up an inch, and then another, and finally joined Cian in the doorway. Cian shook his aching arm when Harry let go.

There was no smile on Harry’s face this time. No too-smooth, too-confident grin. The man was pale, dust clinging to his sweat face. When Harry met Cian’s gaze, he gave a nod.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Harry,” Freddy called from the doorway. “They’re coming up the stairs.”

“How many?” Harry asked.

“Five,” Pearl said. “No. Six.”

“They’ve set a barrier,” Freddy said.

Harry swore.

“Cian,” Irene shouted.

Cian glanced back, then followed Irene’s gesture. Sam, the sandy-haired thief, had crawled out along a piece of ruined flooring and was at the edge of the still-standing portion of the building. The thief lay down on his stomach, stretched out full length, reaching as far as he could.

And then Cian saw it.

The box.

It had fallen in a crook formed by a broken joist and a several splintered floorboards.

“He’s going to get it,” Irene cried.

Cian grabbed the crumbly knob of brick and swung himself back across the broken divide. Brick and mortal pulled free, and Cian began to fall, but the momentum from his swing carried him to the other side of the gap. He landed, slid a pair of inches, and caught hold of the wooden framing of the wall.

His feet dangled over empty air.

Shit and double shit.

Cian threw a glance over his shoulder. Harry and Freddy had disappeared through the doorway. From the outer hall of the building came the crack of gunfire, shouts, and then a sizzling white glare, brighter than any electric or gas light that Cian had ever seen. He waited for the gas lines to catch.

Nothing.

The shouts and gunfire continued, though, which meant that there would be no help from that direction. Irene let out a small cry, and when Cian turned his attention back her way, she had begun to lower herself from the doorway and onto the slanting flooring, towards Sam.

“Go back, Irene,” Cian shouted. “Get back up there.”

She shook her head, testing her footing, throwing quick looks at Sam. The thief had his fingers under the edge of the box and was dragging it towards him. His attention was fixed on his job.

Irene dropped onto the expanse of flooring that was still standing. The joists groaned, and the floor fell another inch. Cian swung himself forward, using the studs and the framing again.

Sam gave a hoot of triumph as he closed one hand over the box. He rolled onto his back and pulled the box up with him.

Irene trained her revolver on him.

The floor dropped another inch, and then there was a snap. The floor began to fall. Cian launched himself forward. He caught Irene by the arm. He felt the kick of her revolver as she fired. The sound of the shot hammered against his ears. Cian wrapped one hand around the door frame as the floor gave way. Sam dropped with it, letting out a shout as he fell.

Cian and Irene hung in the air for a moment. Then they heard the crash from below, as the boards and joists joined the rubble. Cian risked a glance.

A long, long way to fall.

Then he saw something that made his jaw drop. On a ledge of broken flooring in the ruined apartment below, Sam had managed to find a handhold. He pulled himself up onto the length of wood and dragged himself through a broken window.

In one hand, he still held the box.

From the fire escape, Sam turned, gave a wave, and then disappeared.

Irene swore.

Arms shaking and burning, Cian somehow managed to pull himself up into the bedroom, and then Irene after him. He dropped into the nook formed by the wall and the floor, feeling as though he’d worked a week in the clay mines. Irene slid down next to him on her knees. Curls of damp hair stuck to her cheeks. She stared at the ruined wall, eyes half-closed, taking shaky breaths.

Cian thought she might be crying.

After a moment, though, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, blinked, and saw Cian looking at her. She tried for a smile. It dropped like a sack of bricks, but she tried again, and this time she managed to get it into place.

It was bright and breezy and it broke Cian’s heart, and he thought he hadn’t had much left to break.

“I suppose being big as an ox comes in helpful sometimes,” she said, giving his arm a squeeze. Cian groaned and pulled his arm away.

“Is that your way of saying thank you?”

Irene stood, held out her hand, and Cian got up with a grumble. He did, however, take her hand.

“Thank you,” Irene said, when they were both standing. Cian stared down at her, realizing how small she was, how frail and slender.

“Maybe next time, you’ll think twice about sticking a gun in my back,” Cian said.

“Maybe,” Irene said. “Maybe.”

The floor of the sagging room gave another groan. From the outer hall came more gunshots, and a cry that sounded like Pearl, and another distant flare of light.

“We can’t go that way,” Cian said.

Irene was already at the window. The shifting of the walls had fixed the window in place, so she broke the glass with the grip of the revolver and cleared the shards from the frame. She stuck her head out the window.

“He’s gone.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Cian said. “Let’s go.” He helped her through the window and said, “We’ll find him. We’ll find that damn box.”

Irene looked at him for a minute, her face smudged with plaster and dirt, her eyes dark and full of life.

Like Corinne’s.

Irene nodded and crawled out the window. As Cian pulled himself onto the fire escape, he heard her gasp, but it wasn’t until he stood that he saw what had caused her reaction.

Free from the thick clouds of grit and plaster inside the building, the night was surprisingly clear. The clouds had parted. The winter sky was full of stars.

But stretched around the collapsing apartment building, like a wispy curtain, was a wall of shifting gray fog.

Staring at the wall of haze that had drifted around the apartment building, Irene said, “What is that?”

Cian was about to respond when a tremor shook the collapsing building. “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

They hurried down the fire escape. Black paint flaked under their hands and feet, lacing their skin with the smell of rust. The last length of ladder was stuck—either rusted or frozen shut—so Cian dropped the six feet to the ground. When he landed, the jolt ran up through his heels.

“Now you,” he said to Irene.

From the fire escape, she eyed him, then turned a considering glance back up at the ruined apartments.

“Now,” Cian said.

Irene sighed, climbed over the edge of the fire escape. “You’re not going to drop me?”

“For God’s sake, Irene.”

She flashed him the same effortless smile, threw her arms wide, and fell.

Cian swore, stumbled a few feet in one direction, no, back, too slow—

She landed in his arms. Cian’s knees ached with the sudden weight. Irene looked up at him, still smiling, and patted his cheek.

“Very nicely done, Cian.”

“I’m not sure my back agrees.”

She laughed, let him help her to her feet, and adjusted her hat. Cian caught a glimpse of her neck between the heavy fur coat and the hat. A rather fine, slender white neck. He realized she was looking at him, her smug little smile tied in a bow, and flushed.

“What now?” she asked.

“We need to get out of here.”

“So wise,” she murmured, still fighting the smile.

Cian’s cheeks only got hotter. He gestured towards the mouth of the alley, and Irene nodded. She stifled another bout of laughter and slid her arm through his as they started walking.

“You’re not going to go bonkers on me again, are you?” Cian asked.

“Cian, you have the sweetest tongue. How do you keep the women away?”

“I’m serious.”

“No, I’m not going to go bonkers again, as you so charmingly put it.”

“Then why are you laughing?”

Irene looked him in the face. The corners of her mouth twitched. “Put it down to nerves. I’m just a silly woman, after all.”

Cian grunted. The soil of this particular conversation was getting sandy, and he was fairly sure there were sinkholes underfoot. A grunt seemed the safest response.

Irene burst into peals of laughter.

In spite of himself, Cian felt a smile stealing onto his face.

Mad. The woman was totally mad.

But pretty.

And why in the hell had he thought that?

They came around a bend in the alley. Dust hung in the air, mixing with the scent of garbage and diffusing the starlight into pale clouds. A breeze stirred the settling dust, bringing with it a carrion stench. Irene’s laughter faded. She covered her mouth and nose with her sleeve. Cian pulled the Colt from the waistband of his trousers. The alley suddenly seemed very still and isolated. The only sound was the scrape of Cian’s boots and the occasional swish of Irene’s heavy fur coat. Ahead, the shifting wall of mist drifted along the middle of the next street, hiding whatever remained beyond.

A scraping noise came from behind Cian. He spun, brought up the Colt, and saw nothing.