The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (23 page)

“And you were fool enough to bring them the box?” Freddy asked. “You just assumed they would hand over the money.”

“Matters like this are delicate. It was a gentleman’s agreement. For ten thousand dollars in cash, I would have taken the box to Timbuktu.”

Freddy ground out his cigarette on the stone. The disgust in his face was evident.

“Irene?” Harry said.

“Yes?”

“Where is the box?”

“Harry, I don’t think—”

“Just tell me.”

“It should be right here.”

“Well it isn’t,” Sam said. “Any chance of another one of these?” he asked, holding up the cigarette. When no answer came, he rolled his shoulders. “The bastards took it.”

“Why keep you?” Cian asked. “Maybe they don’t pay you, but why not just kill you?”

“On account of my charm, I suppose.”

Cian took a step forward, but Harry waved him off. “The Children don’t kill for nothing. They would have kept him here until they needed someone for a ritual.”

“You mean a sacrifice,” Cian said.

Freddy spoke next. “We are now in the same position, I’m afraid.”

“What’s that mean?” Sam asked.

“We are trapped,” Freddy said.

Sam swore. He tossed his cigarette to the floor. It sizzled once as it drowned in the moldering straw. His eyes were wide and wet, and he rubbed his mouth once, and took a step towards the stairs. Suddenly he just looked like a kid who had gotten himself in far too deep. Cian had seen a lot of kids like that. Boys in France who had barely known which way was up.

Damn. Cian walked towards the blond man. Sam flinched and pulled back, but Cian held out the bottle. “I think you need this more than I do. Sit down on the steps. Let me see how bad those cuts are. Pearl, I need some light. Irene, give me that fancy handkerchief of yours.”

The women joined him at the steps while Freddy and Harry conversed near the cell. Irene handed him her handkerchief. She locked eyes with him for a moment. Her expression was unreadable to Cian, and it made him feel like someone had shoved him down a hill in a barrel. He didn’t like it, so he looked away and wet the handkerchief with some wine and started cleaning the cuts on Sam’s face and body.

“Ow, God damn it,” Sam protested, twisting away until Cian grabbed him by the hair. “Just leave it alone.”

“Most of them aren’t too bad,” Cian said. “Though a few need stitching.”

“I have needle and thread,” Pearl said, patting her clutch.

Cian fought a smile at the sudden panic in Sam’s face. “Hm,” he said. “I suppose it can wait for now, although if we’re here much longer, I’ll go ahead and sew him up.”

Sam finally managed to pull free and scoot up a pair of steps, cradling the bottle against his chest. He looked a damn sight better, but he just shook his head at Cian. “You? With those big hands? What kind of a seamstress would you be? You’ll make me look like the raggedy man.”

“It’ll be good for you,” Cian said.

Sam swore again and drank from the bottle.

Cian straightened and raised the bloody handkerchief. “I’d give this back to you, but I imagine you don’t want it anymore.”

Irene smiled, and it was like he was seeing her smile for the first time. A tremulous smile, like a spring morning that wasn’t quite sure if winter was past. She shook her head. “Keep it,” she said, and her smile slipped back into the playful look he was more familiar with. “As a token of my affections.”

“A bloody handkerchief,” Cian said. “I’m practically swooning.”

Pearl covered a smile with one hand.

Sam took another drink and glowered at Cian.

All in all, as far as Cian was concerned, that seemed just about right.

Then, from the other side of the dungeon, Harry shouted, “What do you mean you have it?”

Cian, Pearl, and Irene moved towards the men. Freddy was pale but stood erect, his shoulders back, his lined face hard. The old Hun reached into his coat and withdrew an amber disc, its diameter the size of man’s hand. Carvings covered the amber, but in the weak light, Cian couldn’t make them out.

Harry reached out to grab the disc. Then he slammed his hand into the wall. “God damn it, Freddy. You told me it had been destroyed.”

“I—” Freddy began.

Harry spun, took a step in the other direction, and then swung around towards Freddy. Freddy didn’t move. For a moment, Cian was sure Harry would hit the old man. Then Harry dropped his arms and stalked off to the far side of the cellar.

The Hun’s face had lost its color.

“What was that all about?” Irene said.

Pearl, however, was staring at the disc. “Oh, Freddy,” she said.

That seemed to affect him more than anything Harry had said. He held the disc out towards Pearl like a supplicant. Pearl shook her head and joined Harry. Her voice was a murmur punctured by the occasional loud oath by Harry.

Irene cocked an eyebrow at Cian.

Cian shrugged. He reached out and took the disc. Freddy made a sound of protest, but it was halfhearted, and Cian ignored him. The disc was cool and dry to the touch. Its shape was uneven—thicker in some places and thinner in others. Up close, the carving seemed to represent a sun, with rays of light streaming from the center of the disc. Cian flipped and caught it. Freddy gasped. The old Hun snatched it back and cradled it against his chest.

“Valuable, huh?” Cian said.

“You have no idea what you’re playing with,” Freddy said. “This comes from the Egypt’s early dynastic period. Its worth is incalculable.”

“I bet I could calculate it,” Cian said.

Irene smothered another laugh as Freddy’s cheeks reddened.

“So why were you supposed to destroy it?” Cian asked.

“Because it’s damn dangerous,” Harry said, Pearl at his side as he rejoined them. “Because we took it from a two-bit sorcerer who probably couldn’t have lit a candle on his own, but who turned four square miles of forest to ash with this little thing. And most of all because Freddy told me that he was going to destroy it. How many others have you held onto, Freddy? How many have you kept hidden away that you promised you had destroyed?”

Harry’s hand was resting on a fat revolver at his side.

Freddy shook his head. Despair made his voice flat. “None, Harry. It was only this one. I brought it tonight because I thought we might need it. It looks like I was right.”

Harry snorted. “You brought it because you’re obsessed with it and you’ve been aching for a chance to use it. Hand it over, Freddy.” When the old Hun hesitated, Harry pulled the revolver from hits holster. “Now.”

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Freddy said. “Truly. It was a mistake.”

Harry took the disc and headed for the stairs. He holstered the revolver, motioned Sam out of his way, and said, “Stay down here.” Then he glanced back and added, “And this time, I mean stay.”

“Why is he looking at me?” Cian asked.

“Your reputation proceeds you,” Irene said. Then she looked at Freddy and asked, “What did he mean, you wanted to use it?”

Freddy shook his head.

When Irene glanced at Pearl, Pearl sighed. “I’m sorry, Freddy. They need to know all of it.”

With a stiff nod, Freddy moved to the corner of the cellar, his face to the wall. The little Hun looked ready to fold in on himself and disappear. Pearl watched him for a moment. Then she said, “Freddy has a history.”

“Everyone’s done things he’s not proud of,” Cian said. Irene threw him a quick glance that he ignored. “No need to go dredging it up.”

“In most cases, that might be true. Here, it’s not. Freddy is a professor and a scholar, as we told you. He knows a great deal about cultic ritual. What most people call magic. That’s how Harry met him. Harry was hunting a magician, or a sorcerer, or whatever you want to call him. When Harry tracked the man down, though, he was dead.”

“Saved Harry a few minutes work,” Cian said.

“Freddy was standing over the dead man,” Pearl said. “He’d been struck by a lightning bolt. On a clear day. Inside a room on the third floor of a hotel.”

Cian paused. “Damn,” he said.

Pearl nodded. “Freddy insisted it was self-defense, and Harry believed him. But Harry also warned Freddy about cultic magic. See, we can’t track down everyone who uses magic. There are too many folk rituals, too many things passed down family to family, too many covens and secret societies. We take care of the ones who are hurting people. Usually, they’re also the ones who have gone mad.

“That’s what cultic worship does, in the end. Exposing yourself to the chaos of the universe, to the old gods, to the Devil—whatever you want to call it, whatever you believe—it’s like a photographic plate. Even if the light only touches it for a fraction of a second, it changes it. The more magic you use, the more you change, until you’re mad. Or worse.”

“What’s worse?” Cian said.

Irene slapped his arm. “I don’t want to hear about that. Not now. Not here.” She shivered, and her eyes went to the dungeon’s corner. “And Freddy?”

“Freddy was more than a professor, it turned out. He was a sorcerer too. Harry . . . Harry had to stop him. I don’t know all the details. I don’t know, to be honest, why Harry left Freddy alive. But I know the one condition that Harry made absolutely clear: Freddy had to stop using magic. We all believed he had. Freddy still knows a great deal about magic and about the artifacts, and so Harry entrusted Freddy with destroying them. But now—”

Freddy walked past them. His eyes were rimmed in red, but his head was up, and his back was straight. “I have not betrayed my promise, Pearl. It was one mistake.”

Pearl nodded. She looked miserable.

“Mad as a hatter,” Cian said. “That explains a lot.”

Freddy glared at him.

A wash of red light tumbled down the steps, outlining Sam and Freddy and growing brighter until Cian had to close his eyes. Heat poured into the dungeon. The smell of hot metal filled the air.

The light and heat vanished as quickly as they had come.

“Come on up,” Harry called.

At the top of the stairs, the iron grille had melted into a pool across the narrow hall. It was already cooling as the cellar floor and air sapped its heat. Cracks spread over the dull surface of the metal. Here, the air was dry and dusty, scratching Cian’s throat. Harry skirted the pool and Cian helped Pearl and Irene to the far side of the hallway. When he glanced back, Freddy was staring at the molten metal like a man who had just seen his wife in another man’s bed.

Harry led them through the wine racks, up the stairs, to the wooden door. He tested the handle.

“Give me half a minute,” he said.

“Half a minute,” Sam said. He had taken another bottle of wine from a rack and was trying to open it. He pushed the bottle into Cian’s chest and nudged Harry out of the way. The lock clicked open a moment later. Sam pushed the door open, turned, and said, “That’s how—”

A bullet cracked against the door frame. Harry pushed Sam down the stairs. Cian caught him, returned the bottle of wine, and then drew the Colt. Cian took the stairs two at a time until he reached Harry.

“On three,” Harry whispered.

“Fuck three,” Cian said and kicked the door open.

A massive man stood at the top of the stairs, half of his body hidden by the wall. He started at the sound of the door. Cian aimed and fired. The blast of the shot was deafening in the cellar, but the bullet caught the man in the face and he hit the ground screaming.

Cian sprinted up the stairs. Another big fellow was coming around the corner. Cian squeeze off two more shots. One caught the big fellow in the shoulder. The other struck his arm. The man was built like a moose, and somehow he kept coming.

The bullets bought Cian enough time. He slammed into the big man, driving his shoulder into his gut and carrying both of them to the ground. Cian drove his fist into the man’s side. He felt a punch land under his ribs, felt the sickening wave of pain, but Cian landed a blow on the side of the man’s head. The man’s head snapped to the side and he went still.

Cian got to his feet. The hall spun for a moment. He clenched his teeth. Cian Shea didn’t empty his stomach over one lousy punch. He did, however, shake the ache from his hand.

Over the ringing in his ears from the gunshot, Cian heard screams.

Harry had reached the top of the stairs and was watching the paneled room. He fired once, and the screams escalated.

“Hurry,” Harry shouted.

The rest of their group sprinted past Cian and Harry, heading back to the servants’ door. A bullet chipped plaster from the wall, and Harry shoved Cian back a step.

“You can walk?” Harry shouted.

“I’m standing, aren’t I?” Cian said.

He started after the others, taking up a position at the next intersection while Harry made a slow retreat. Once a man darted into view, firing wildly, and the bullets ate a line across the floor. Cian offered a return shot. The screams had stopped by that time. They continued their retreat in stages, until they reached the servants’ door and plunged into the cold. Wind had risen, shattering the frozen cap of the snow and stirring long clouds into the air. The spume of snow glistened in the weak moonlight. It felt like a caress on the back of Cian’s neck and cleared his head from the throbbing in his side.

As they skidded down the icy slope, lights bloomed in the house, and more gunshots came from behind them. Cian twisted around to see, felt the pain in his side latch onto him like a hound, and started to fall.

Harry caught him, grunted, and said, “Damn you’re big.”

Then Cian recovered his footing, and he shoved Harry off, and they reached the bottom of the hill.

A moment later, the Model T spun out from a cluster of shrubs, its lights like mourning yellow eyes. Harry and Cian climbed in. Pearl, in the driver’s seat, set off again, the tires churning the snow until they reached the relative clear of the drive.

The gunshots, the screams, the lights from the houses disappeared as soon as they had passed the stretch of woods. It was like dropping a blanket over a lamp. Cian fell back to rest against the seat. His side hurt like hell, as did his hand, and his ears were ringing like Christmas. When he looked over, Irene was flushed, her eyes bright, and she was staring at him.