The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (21 page)

Harry had a faint smile on his face. “Freddy, I think it’s safe to say that you know more about the mask than I.”

Freddy blinked. “Oh. Well.”

“How the hell did he know all that?” Cian asked.

“Mind yourself, sir,” the old Hun said. “There are ladies present. I know the history of mask because I specialize in ancient worship. Anyone in my field would have heard of the mask, the way any self-respecting artist would know about the Mona Lisa.”

“Right. The Mona Lisa.”

“We’re getting off track,” Harry said. “Freddy, you say the mask is powerful. How powerful?”

“Powerful enough to make the Winter Bride’s heart look like a street magician’s trick,” Freddy said. “The mask allows the wearer to commune with Dagon, even though he sleeps. Louis XIV claimed that the mask would raise Dagon from the depths and wake him, if used properly, but such a claim is uncertain. The French are creatures of fancy.”

Harry had gone pale. He gripped the arms of his chair with white-knuckled hands.

“Harry,” Pearl said. She turned to Freddy. “Why did you bring that up? The Winter Bride—”

With a start, like a clockwork toy springing to life, Harry leaned forward and waved one hand. “No, Pearl. It’s fine. I just—I was surprised.” Some of the strain in his face eased, but he didn’t let go of the chair. “If this thing is as powerful as Freddy believes, then we have to find it. No more mistakes.”

Pearl nodded, but unhappiness was written with a bold brush on her face.

“I don’t suppose there’s any way of convincing you to leave this alone?” Cian said to Irene.

The flush had faded from her neck and shoulders, leaving skin white as cream. Her thinness didn’t bother Cian quite as much as it had. The lines of her neck, the muscles in her shoulders—he realized, too late, that she was speaking and that he had missed the first part.

“—and if I don’t at least find the mask, I break my deal with Marie-Thérèse, and you’ll die.”

“I don’t want you to—”

“It was my choice,” Irene said. “And I’ve already made it.”

“Then wait here,” Cian said. “We’ll go find this damn mask without you, and you can tell her that you found it”

Irritation was bright in Irene’s eyes. Cian didn’t care.

Harry laughed, let go of the chair, and rubbed his hands together. “Sorry, friend. An impressive bit of chivalry, but I’m afraid Miss Lovell will be going with us.”

“Why?” Cian said. “Because you say so? I know your type and I’m not scared of you.”

The laughter left Harry’s face. He stood up, but this time there was no threat in the movement. Instead, it was a gesture of dismissal. Harry headed down the hall towards the bedrooms, and over his shoulder he called back, “Irene is going with us because she’s the only one who has an idea of where to look.”

Cian looked at Irene and saw the confirmation in her eyes. His stomach dropped.

The woman was determined to get herself killed.

“Stay close to me,” Cian said as they bounced along in the car. He kept his voice low and hoped that only Irene could hear him. They had crowded all five of them into Harry’s Model T, which skimmed along the road and rocked like a bad wagon at every bump and turn. Pearl sat next to Irene and kept her face forward and expressionless, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t hear them.

Irene smiled.

“I’m serious,” Cian said. “And keep clear of Harry. If anything goes wrong, I want to be able to get you out of there.”

“My knight in shining armor,” Irene said.

“You’re mocking me.”

She didn’t answer.

“At least I have some fucking manners, unlike him and every other fellow like him.”

With an arched eyebrow, Irene said, “I’ve never heard of fucking manners. They sound like a scream.”

“Forget it. Do what you want. You will anyway.”

Cian settled back against the seat, cursing her and feeling like a sardine stuffed in a can. On the one side, the window showed dark fields buried under snow like carded wool. On the other, Irene’s slender frame, her hip pressed against Cian in a way that tied his throat in a knot. Never mind that he had half a mind to pull her out of the car and drag her back to the city on foot. He sighed, his breath fogging the glass, and tried not to think about Irene, or Harry Witte, or where they were headed.

Irene laughed at something Pearl had said, and the sound sent a fresh wave of irritation through Cian.

In the front seat, Harry drove while holding a quiet conversation with the Hun. Freddy leaned forward, his face almost pressed to the windshield, body taut with excitement. The man had been wound tight as a fiddle since learning about the mask. He looked like a soldier who had just learned that his girl from home was waiting in the next town. The kind of look that made men do stupid things.

Harry, on the other hand, had the same easy manner as always. More than once, Cian had caught the man’s eyes wandering towards him, and more than once Cian had felt his suspicions grow. Harry Witte was, to judge by Irene’s reactions, handsome and charming. Pearl was in love with him—that much was obvious even to Cian. None of which explained the strange encounter with Harry in the bedroom, or the man’s sidelong glances.

The Ford hit another rough patch, knocking Cian into the air. His head hit the roof. He bit his tongue. Landed hard on his ass.

Cian wished they had walked.

Outside, the fenced fields of farmers began to separate, like patches of a quilt tearing at the seams, broken by lengths of woodlands and fallow clearings. This far from the city, with the land buried in winter, made Cian think of France.

France made him think of Corinne, with her dark eyes, with her smile that he had thought was just for him.

France made him think of Harley Dunn, who was handsome and charming like Harry Witte.

Cian stared out the window. The sound of the bullet splitting bone and brain.

Irene was laughing again.

What could be so God-damned funny?

When he looked over, though, Irene and Pearl were both staring at him, and the women burst into fresh laughter. Cian turned his gaze back to the window.

Not a bit of sense to either of them.

Harry Witte was every inch the same as Harley Dunn. The kind of men that women loved. The kind of men that other men wanted to be. The kind of men that other men would follow into battle, would trust with their lives, with their fears, with the dark nights far from home in a foreign land.

And that was why Cian was going to save a bullet for Harry Witte. Because it was only a matter of time before Witte betrayed them, just like Harley Dunn.

In the middle of breathless laugh, Irene sat up straight and leaned over the front seat. She pointed with a finger. “Here,” she said. “Here.”

“Where?” Harry said. “I don’t see—well. There it is.”

The automobile slowed, and Harry turned onto a well-kept, unmarked road. Irene leaned back, her face intent now as she followed some sort of internal compass. Cian didn’t like it one bit. She’d made a deal with Marie-Thérèse to save Cian’s life, and that rankled in him like a barbed fishhook. What was worse was that the old ghost, or whatever she was, had done something to Irene. Put something in her head that would lead her to the mask. It sounded like witchcraft to Cian. It sounded dangerous. But most of all, it sounded like a trap for Irene.

And that was the part he liked least.

The road carried them through a dense stand of trees, their branches forming lattices against the night. A few lonely evergreens wore needled coats, still and silent observers of winter’s desolation. Something darted ahead of them, at the edge of the automobile’s lights. A very small wolf, perhaps. Or a very large fox.

When they cleared the trees, the house was visible. House was a poor word for it—the kind of word that someone like Cian would use. Irene, on the other hand, probably had a dozen words for it. Manor. Country estate. Villa. Cian stared at up the monstrosity. Even in the darkness, its massive size was obvious, filled out by dozens of lighted windows. Against the vast dome of stars, the house looked built perfectly to scale, as though it could fill all that emptiness itself.

In the glimmer of the Ford’s headlights, rows of parked cars were visible. There had to be at least a dozen of them. Most were expensive models—Cadillac and Packard, a pair of gleaming Rolls Royce, Duesenberg, more. Only a few came from the more humble lines of Henry Ford’s factories. That meant rich people. And rich people, in Cian’s experience, were trouble.

Harry pulled the Model T to the right, between a pair of overgrown, snow-dusted shrubs. Branches scraped the windows like fingers. When they reached a small clearing, Harry stopped, and the car settled like a dog shaking itself before it went to sleep.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Cian asked. “That place is practically a castle. What are we going to do? Knock and ask if we can look around?”

“It’s not a joke,” Irene said. “And if you had half a brain, you’d know that.”

“Half a brain? Listen here, Irene, I—”

“God, enough,” Harry said. “Both of you. Irene, you’re sure it’s there?”

She nodded.

“Fine. That’s good enough for me. Pearl, Irene, wait here. Cian, you—”

“I don’t take orders from you,” Cian said.

Harry’s face was expressionless. “I was going to say, you can do what you wish.”

Cian snorted.

“If you think I’m going to sit out here and freeze my toes off,” Irene said, “you are sadly mistaken, Harry Witte. Besides, you’ll have no idea where to look once you get inside that house. I’m going with you.”

Harry looked at Pearl.

She turned to look out the window at the house, then at Harry again. “We need everyone we have, Harry. You and Freddy haven’t been enough on the last few jobs—the Children have always gotten to the artifacts first. I think we should go.”

“Two women,” Harry said, rubbing his chin. “Two women were a mistake.”

“You’re about to make an even bigger one,” Irene said with a sweet smile.

Cian smothered a chuckle. The sound died when Irene and Pearl turned to stare at him.

He held up both hands. “Let’s go before Harry has another brilliant idea.”

They climbed out of the car. Pearl and Irene had their heads together, and Cian was certain he heard the words, “Men,” and “children,” and then Irene’s muffled laughter.

“We’ll go around back and look for a servant’s entrance,” Harry said. “A place this big is bound to have one or two. Once inside, we’ll see if Irene can get us any closer to the mask.” Then he added, “Any questions?” Harry turned to look at Cian.

“Would you mind waiting in the car?” Cian asked.

Harry turned and started up the hill without a response.

“You needn’t antagonize him,” Irene said as they walked after him.

“One of us should keep both eyes open,” Cian said. “That man could sneeze and you’d fall over out of pure delight. He can’t be trusted. I know his type.”

Irene glared at him and then quickened her pace, moving to walk with Pearl. The two women put their heads together again.

The rest of the way, Cian walked with Freddy. The old Hun was small and thin, and his hair and beard looked like they’d never been mussed in his entire life. His breath came in energetic puffs as he used the silver-handled cane to help himself up the hill. This close, Cian couldn’t help but notice the odor of cabbage that clung to Freddy.

The Hun’s eyes flicked over to Cian. “What?” he asked.

“You’re a professor, right? What are you doing in all this?”

“I study these religions. It’s only natural for me to participate in field work.”

“Studying them is one thing. Searching for a mask as old as Babylon, though, because you’re afraid it will wake a god—that seems like you’re taking your work home.”

Freddy bared his teeth. It didn’t really look like a smile. It made Cian’s skin crawl.

“And why are you here?” the old Hun asked.

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

At the top of the hill, the house seemed even larger. Gardens lay in icy winding cloths, sprinkled with empty fountains and snow-covered benches. The house itself was stone, the waterspouts and chimneys decorated with carvings of distorted faces that were only half-visible in the weak light. This close to the house, the sound of music was audible, as well as the aroma of roasting meat. Overhead something scrawny and black flapped across the sky, and Irene jumped. When no one else moved, she laughed into her sleeve, her eyes bright. She looked radiant. Cian wanted to kiss her.

They moved around the house like a forgotten embassy, trudging down gravel paths that wandered through the gardens. On the back of the house, the gardens opened to form a wide lawn that, in summer, might have played host to morning teas and evening fetes, but now was lit only by canvases of light that came from wide French doors. Through the doors, Cian glimpsed a large room and men and women in evening dress.

“Here,” Harry whispered. He opened a narrow, recessed door and went inside. They followed him and entered a small room cluttered with coats and hats and scarves and muddy boots. A second door led further into the house, and a band of yellow light showed underneath it.