The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (24 page)

“That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen,” she snapped.

Her face told Cian otherwise.

Sam reached across Irene and handed Cian the wine.

Cian took the bottle, tilted it in thanks, and took a long drink. And then another.

Irene was still looking at him.

Not a bad night.

Not a bad night at all.

The next morning, Irene woke in Harry’s bed. It smelled like him: a slight masculine musk that wasn’t unpleasant but was distinctly Harry. She lay there for a moment. She wanted a bath and a coffee and to slap Cian Shea’s face, and perhaps not in that order. The night before, the men had insisted that they all stay at Harry’s apartment, and Harry had ceded his bed to Irene and Pearl. The other woman must have already woken, for Irene was alone.

Alone in Harry Witte’s bed, the smell of him clinging to her skin. Harry Witte, who was brave and charming and heart-stoppingly handsome.

So why in God’s name was she thinking about slapping Cian Shea?

Irene got out of bed, pulled on her dress—in need of a good cleaning after the last two days—and tried to do something with her hair. She checked her stockings for holes, found several, and put them on because she had nothing else. Then she sat for a minute and tried to figure out why she was such a fool.

In the end, she decided that she wasn’t a fool at all. Cian Shea meant nothing to her, even after last night. Not his bravery—or idiocy—when he charged out of the cellar. Not the way he had helped Sam. Certainly not his smile.

She marched out of the bedroom. Pearl was in the kitchen. A pot of coffee sat on the table. Irene helped herself to a cup and glanced out into the living room. Freddy’s hands and legs were visible, jutting out from behind a screen of newspaper, and Cian—all shoulders and arms—sprawled across the sofa, snoring. He looked like an overgrown child. Irene fought a smile, and when she saw Pearl watching her, Irene took a sip of coffee to hide the expression.

“How did you sleep?” Pearl asked.

“Not well.” Irene sipped at the coffee again.

“Nightmares?”

Irene nodded.

“I had them too. For weeks and months. I still do, I suppose, only not as often.”

“It’s so much to take in. Monsters and magic and crazed cultists. Sitting here, with coffee and sunshine, it’s hard to believe. But when I think about last night.” Irene shivered. “How did you meet Harry?”

Pearl didn’t answer. She toyed with the rim of her cup. She looked up at Irene. The saucer slid a half-inch across the table.

“I’m sorry,” Irene said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Please don’t apologize. Another time, perhaps?”

“Of course.” Then Irene grinned. “Unless Harry decides to separate us for plotting against him. He’s rather touchy about that sort of thing, isn’t he?”

Pearl laughed, a rich, full sound that Irene hadn’t heard before. “Sometimes I don’t think Harry Witte would know what to do with a woman on his best day.”

“Well, I see you two are awake,” Harry said from the doorway. “And getting along it sounds like. What are you talking about?”

Pearl looked at Irene. They both burst into fresh laughs.

Harry flushed, but his smile never faltered. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He disappeared into the vacated bedroom.

“God in heaven,” Cian groaned. The sound of tortured springs came from the living room and then footsteps, and Cian appeared in the kitchen. His shaggy red hair stood on end and his clothing was rumpled, exposing a line of skin along his chest that made Irene’s eyes wander. In general, he looked like a bear hauled from his den.

“Sleep well?” Irene asked.

He took a chair, poured himself coffee, and glared at her. “If you think it’s funny, it’s not. I might as well have been sleeping on Procrustes’ bed. And yes, before you say something smart, I know who Procrustes is.”

Irene had to fight back another giggle. “Something smart? I wouldn’t dream of it. Not around you.”

“Give him a break,” Pearl said. “Do you want toast, Cian? I’m afraid Harry’s cupboard is bare.”

Cian watched Irene suspiciously, but he nodded. “Yes, thank you.” And then, still watching Irene, “Heavens, Irene, what is it?”

And then Irene couldn’t hold it back any longer. “Procrustes,” she burst out, her laughter threatening to topple her from her chair.

Shaking his head, Cian poured himself more coffee. “Any whiskey for this coffee, Pearl?”

An hour later, they had all breakfasted—toast and coffee, all that Harry had on hand—and so Irene grabbed her coat and moved to the door.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Cian asked.

“What does it matter to you?” She pulled the coat on.

“It’s dangerous right now. After last night, you shouldn’t be out there, wandering around alone.”

“I’m a grown woman, Cian.”

“Not grown enough to have a lick of sense. You—”

“Don’t you dare tell me—”

“Children, enough,” Harry said. “Where are you going, Irene?”

“To my rooms at the Louisiana Grand for a change of clothes and a bath.”

“You can bathe here,” Cian said.

She smiled. “Is that an invitation?”

Cian turned so red that she thought he might burst a vein. He stared at her, mumbled something incoherent, and stomped to the back of the apartment.

Harry shook his head.

Pearl was focused on her knitting, a shadow of a smile on her mouth.

“Do you want someone to go with you?” Harry asked.

“Now you want to take a bath with me?” Irene said. “What’s a girl to do?”

“Fine,” Harry said. “Go.” Then he added, “Wait. Irene, do you have any sense of where the mask might be?”

She paused at the door. Shook her head. “Not since we reached that cellar. What does that mean?”

“It means Marie-Thérèse set us up. Or perhaps someone else did. We’re going to have a talk with her. Go have your bath.” He smiled wickedly. “Alone. We’ll meet you at your rooms.”

“Noon?”

He nodded. “She’ll be weaker then.”

Irene caught a cab and was back at the Louisiana Grand faster than she had imagined. Walking through the high-ceilinged rooms of gilt and marble and Turkish rugs, watching men and women in elegant clothes trailed by bellboys and stacks of luggage, Irene felt as though she were in a world apart. A blond woman with an elaborate coif harangued a servant. A trio of men in expensive suits smoked cigars, laughing and passing around sections of the newspaper. At the desk, an elderly couple held out a map to the concierge. Men and women of substance and means, living the kind of life Irene had lived until so recently. Men and women who knew how the world worked, who had climbed to the top, who were powerful.

And all of them ignorant of the real world. Not just the monsters and the magic and the madness that Irene had seen over the last week. Not the terror, the violence, the kick of the revolver. The other things—the poverty, the hunger, the cold.

It was like stepping through the looking glass. It turned Irene’s stomach.

Was this how Cian saw her? Pretty and delicate and useless?

Her cheeks were hot as she took the elevator to her floor.

She bathed and put on a navy blue dress. It had a coral sash at her waist and more coral lining the folds that fell just at the knee. She removed the rest of her jewelry and hid it in her suitcase. She felt strange wearing it. As though it belonged to someone else now.

And then she was thinking about Cian again. She glanced at the clock. Not even eleven. That gave her plenty of time. She pulled on her coat and hurried back downstairs.

She had errands to run.

By the time she made it back, it was almost noon. Irene checked her hair one last time, made a quick study of the revolver, which needed cleaning, and then there was a knock at the door. When she opened it, Harry stood there, freshly washed and wearing another expensive suit. Cian had bathed too, it seemed, for his hair looked better—a haystack instead of a haystack after a windstorm—but he wore the same clothes. Irene felt a glimmer of satisfaction.

“Well,” she said, hurrying out before they had a chance to enter her room. “What are we waiting for? Do we have time for lunch? I’m starved.”

“Maybe after,” Harry said. “Business first.”

As they took the elevator down, Cian studied the stylized lines of the elevator, done in brass and mahogany with a maroon carpet.

“Ritzy place,” he said.

An overweight woman, sweating in the confines of the elevator, gave a sniff and stared at Cian. It took a moment before Cian noticed, and then his cheeks reddened, and he stared at the floor.

Irene worked moisture into her mouth. Then she said, “Oh, not that ritzy, I don’t think. After all, they let all kinds stay here.” Cian looked up, and Irene threw a long, cold glance at the woman.

The woman gave an incredulous sniff and fanned herself with one hand.

Cian grinned at Irene.

It was like setting a spark to tinder. She was warm all the way to the Old Cathedral.

In the early afternoon light, the verdigris steeple showed glimmers of copper, and the letters above the door of the church caught fire. To Irene’s surprise, a sizable crowd waited outside the doors. She wasn’t Catholic herself, but it seemed strange for so many people to be standing around outside on a weekday, especially in the winter. Perhaps a Mass had just let out. Harry guided them through the thicket of people. Towards the doors, the crowd grew dense. Cian tapped Harry’s shoulder, cocked his head, and took Harry’s spot. With slow, implacable steps, Cian forced a path open, using his size—and its effect on the men and women who might otherwise have protested—to clear the way.

When they reached the front of the church, Irene saw what had drawn the crowd. The massive double doors of the cathedral were splintered. One had fallen inside the building, while the other hung from a single hinge, stirring as a breeze moved it. Through the doors, police were visible, studying the wreckage of pews, examining overturned stands of votary candles, searching through the rubble of broken statues.

“Looks like someone else got here first,” Cian said.

“Who would do this?” Irene asked, staring through the ruined doors of the Old Cathedral. The police continued their examination of the damage to the nave and the chapels. Farther back, near the altar, Irene thought she saw a foot. Before she could be certain, though, a police officer stepped into her line of sight, frowning at her and waving for her to move along.

Harry motioned for them to follow, and they left the Old Cathedral and its crowd. As they walked, Harry led them south, following the snow-choked sidewalks away from the river. “The question isn’t who would do it,” he said after a pair of blocks. “The question is who could do it.”

“Maybe Seamus’s boys,” Cian said. “Or I guess I should say Byrne’s. Maybe they heard we’d been to the Old Cathedral.”

“Or those things that were following us,” Irene said. “The Children and their golems. Maybe they knew Marie-Thérèse sent us and they were angry with her.”

Harry shook his head. “Impossible.”

“It’s not impossible,” Cian said. “Byrne’s men have been looking for us, and Irene’s right about—”

“I’m telling you, it’s impossible. You don’t understand. Marie-Thérèse isn’t just some ghost clinging to the world like a bad echo. As much as I hate to admit it, she was right about that much. Marie-Thérèse is a power in this city. She’s strong and clever and dangerous.”

“How strong?” Cian said.

“Strong enough that I haven’t gotten rid of her,” Harry said drily. “And certainly strong enough to get rid of any two-bit thugs from Kerry Patch. Strong enough that the Children are careful not to antagonize her. Those people at the party last night would give their right hand to have the mask, and I don’t doubt that a fair number of them are lost in cultic madness. But most of them couldn’t do enough magic to give you a boil. Whatever hit the Old Cathedral was powerful enough to take out Marie-Thérèse where she’s strongest, and that’s after it crossed over onto consecrated ground.” He drew a line around his mouth with his fingers. “What I’m saying is that someone new has entered the game. Someone very, very powerful.”