The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (25 page)

“What do we do now?” Irene said.

“We get out of town,” Cian said. “As fast as we can. All of us. The Children already have the mask. Let them deal with this new person. And Marie-Thérèse too. They can slit each other’s throats for all I care.”

“You want to run away?” Irene said.

“Running away is the only smart choice sometimes. This is one of those times.”

“I’m not going to let them have the mask. I need it. And I need you.” Irene flushed when she heard the words out loud. “To prove my father wrong, I mean.”

“The first train out of here,” Cian said. “That’s the only smart choice.”

“Let’s talk to Sam first,” Harry said. “There’s more going on than we realized, and maybe he knows something.”

Cian gave a grim nod.

“Fine,” Irene said with a sigh. “But can we please eat first?”

It took longer than Irene had hoped to find somewhere to eat. They passed a half-dozen places—a pair of respectable restaurants that even her parents would have enjoyed, then a pharmacy lunch counter, and a few smaller restaurants—and every time Irene suggested one, Harry would nod approval, but Cian would put on a face like a sick horse and shake his head. Finally Irene threw up her hands and said, “Fine, then. You choose.”

Cian did choose. Irene regretted her words.

It was a dump of a place. Dust and dirt clung to sticky spots on the tables. The floor was a battlefield of spills and crumbs. Instead of menus, their waitress—a middle-aged woman whose stomach was taking a running dive over the strings of her apron—read them a list of three options. Cian had a hot sandwich. Irene had the soup. Not a specific soup. Just the soup. Harry hesitated and ended up with eggs and potatoes.

Irene watched the hem of her coat to make sure it didn’t touch the floor. She wished she could say the same for her shoes.

“Charming,” Irene said.

“You could have eaten somewhere else,” Cian said. “There’s no rule we all have to eat together.”

“Really? I thought I had to report my every move to you. I was certain that when I tried to leave this morning, you all but jumped down my throat, telling me where I could and couldn’t go.”

Harry sighed and sat up, as though looking for someone—anyone—he might recognize.

The handful of other patrons were old men, their beards trailing in cups of soup.

The soup. No other identifier.

“You think I care what you do?” Cian said. “Let me set you straight. You can do whatever you please, Irene. You can spend your time with the Man in the Moon for all I care. I say one thing this morning—a solid piece of advice—and you can’t even hear that without putting your back up. God be good, I’ve never met someone as headstrong.”

“No,” Irene said, giving him her sweetest smile. “I imagine the women you meet are normally much . . . easier. To get along with, I mean.”

“Enough,” Harry said. “You two can go after each other with daggers when we get back to the apartment. Until then, I’d like to have a civil meal.” He stared at their waitress, who was coming back with their food. “Or whatever might pass for one.”

The woman served their food. Up close, she looked like she was starting a beard of her own, and it was an impressive start. After the plates were settled, the woman stood rooted to the floor. Irene was confused until she saw Cian dig money out of his pockets.

“Here,” Harry said, pulling out a leather billfold. “I’ve got it—”

“I can pay for my own damn food,” Cian said. He counted out a paltry amount of change, dithering so long that Irene began to tap her spoon against the bowl in impatience, until she realized what was wrong.

He really didn’t have any money.

Face as red as his hair, Cian dumped the coins into the woman’s hand. She started to count them, but Harry passed her a bill. “For myself and the lady,” he said. “You can keep the rest.”

There was no expression on the woman’s face. She pocketed coins and bills alike and disappeared into the kitchen. Cian set to work on the sandwich. Harry picked at his potatoes and eggs, his expression mistrusting. Irene disturbed the thin layer of grease that had settled across the top of her soup.

She felt an inch tall and had no appetite. She made herself eat the soup anyway.

Afterward, she still didn’t know what the soup had been—vegetable? Beef? But it was only in part due to the bland dishwater they had served. Mostly, it was due to the sudden, suffocating realization of how she had acted. That morning, she had prided herself on being so much worldlier than the other patrons of the Louisiana Grand. She had thought how she had known fear and danger and cold and hunger.

For a grand total of what? One day? Two?

Opposite her sat Cian Shea, devouring his hot sandwich, a goopy string of cheese brushing his chin, his eyes on his plate. Cian Shea, who was wearing the clothes that Harry had given him for the second day in a row. Cian Shea, who barely had enough change in his pocket for a place like this, let alone new clothes, or a room at the Louisiana Grand.

And he had saved her life more than once. And he shouted and was rude and ignored reasonable suggestions. And he looked like a bear in winter, with that mass of fiery hair that refused to stay settled. And when he laughed, it made Irene forget about everything out else.

Her spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl.

The sound set the world in motion again.

She realized Harry was devouring his food. Somehow, the slender man made eating a plate of eggs and potatoes look more appealing than a tray of caviar. Harry glanced up at Cian.

“These are excellent. Good choice.”

Cian grunted.

Irene fought the urge to pick the string of cheese from his chin.

“Military?” Harry said.

Cian wiped his face. “What?”

“You. I don’t know a thing about you.”

“And why the hell would you care to know a thing about me?” Cian said. The words were as rude as ever, but there was an extra layer of suspicion behind them, something Irene hadn’t heard before. The way Cian looked at Harry—

“Because I like to know something about a man if he’s watching my back. Or if I’m watching his.”

“I can watch my own back.”

“For God’s sake, Cian,” Irene said. “Can you act decently for once? It’s just a question. You’d think Harry was trying to get state secrets out of you.”

To her surprise, Cian flushed. “Sorry. Yes. I was in the war. You?”

Harry shook his head. Irene waited for an explanation, but Harry remained silent.

The silence seemed to confirm something, and Cian gave a half-nod.

“What is going on?” Irene asked. “The two of you are impossible.”

“Now, you know how I feel when you and Pearl get going,” Harry said with a smile. He polished off the last few bites of his meal and stood. “Shall we?”

As they headed back to the apartment, Cian stirred from his usual silence. “What kind of work are you in?”

“And why the hell would you care to know a thing about me?” Harry said, his tone light, and with a smile to cut the tension.

Cian laughed. Not the full laugh, not the one Irene liked. This one still had plenty of tension behind it. But it was laugh. “Fair enough,” he said. “I deserve that. Square?” He held out his hand.

Harry shook it.

“To answer your question,” Harry said, “I’m a private investigator. Pearl works with me. We do all sorts of work. Infidelity, of course, because that’s where the steady money is, but all kinds of things. And people know that we handle the weird ones. The ones they can’t take to the police or anyone else.”

“And you make money?”

“Sometimes,” Harry said with a smile. “Never enough, though. Ask Pearl. She’ll tell you all about it.”

“She keeps your books, then?”

“She does, but don’t say it to her like that. She does her own bit of investigating too. Pearl sees a lot that most folks miss.”

“Is it dangerous?” Irene asked.

Harry laughed. “Not unless the cheating spouse is working magic and trying to steal an ancient cultic relic. Nothing like the last few days.” He paused and looked at Cian. “What do you do?”

“Try to stay out of trouble,” Cian said. He glanced at Irene. “I’m not doing so well at that, though.”

Harry laughed. “Lucky for us. I’d be happy to have a man like you, Cian. If you want a job, say the word.”

The desire in Cian’s face, the hope, was so painful it hit Irene like a hammer. But he tried to sound casual when he said, “That might work. Let me think about it.”

Harry nodded, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. That was when Irene realized that Harry had seen it all too.

She suddenly liked Harry Witte quite a bit more.

“And what about me?” Irene said. “I haven’t heard a word about where I fit into this picture.”

“My apologies,” Harry said with a grin. “I simply assumed that a woman with your means, staying at the Louisiana Grand, would have no interest in mucking about with the likes of us.”

“Mr. Witte,” Irene said, “that simply shows that you know nothing about me, or about women, or, more generally, about hotels.”

Harry’s grin fell into the snow.

This time, Cian’s laugh followed them all the way back to the apartment.

By the time they got back to Harry’s apartment, Cian had to admit to himself—if no one else—that he might have misjudged Harry Witte. Just a bit. The thought flew out his head, though, when they walked inside. Freddy sat glowering in the living room. The newspaper was folded at his side. His hat was on his knee, his cane at his side, and an empty tumbler on the table. When Cian and the others walked into the apartment, he surged out of his seat, grabbed his cane, and stalked towards the door.

“About time,” he said. “You said an hour, Harry. I do not have time to spend all day watching this cut-purse.”

An outraged, “Hey,” came from the next room.

“Everything alright, Freddy?” Harry asked.

“He tried to escape twice. Once through the door. Once out the window. He’s secure for now.” Freddy jammed on his hat, brushed past Irene, and was out the door.

“Warm as a summer day,” Cian said.

“That’s just Freddy. You get used to him.”

“Like a bad rash,” Cian said.

Irene swatted his arm.

“Is that old Hun gone?” Sam’s voice came from the next room. “A little help?”

“Shall we?” Harry said.

In the next room, they found Sam handcuffed and tied to a chair. A fresh bruise colored his cheek, standing out against the cuts and bruises from his imprisonment. He wore a borrowed shirt from Harry. He squirmed in his bonds when he saw them.

“Thank God,” he said. “He’s had me like this for a pair of hours.”

“You shouldn’t have tried to leave.”

“Let me out, would you? I have to—” Sam cut off and looked at Irene. “You know.”

Harry undid the cuffs and ropes. As Sam stood up, Cian laid one hand on the thief’s shoulder.

Sam froze.

“Sam, I kind of like you,” Cian said. “So I hope you’re not going to do anything stupid. Just a quick trip to the bathroom, right?”

“I got rights,” Sam said. “You can’t just hold me like this. I’m a free man.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Cian said. He gave Sam’s shoulder a light squeeze, and Sam’s face whitened. “See how smart you are?”

Sam mumbled something.

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Harry said.

Cian marched Sam towards the room, glanced back at Harry and Irene, and grinned.

Harry rolled his eyes.

Irene grinned right back.

Perhaps because the bathroom window was too small, or perhaps because Sam had gotten smarter over the last few minutes, he didn’t try anything. When he’d finished, Cian led Sam back to the impromptu prison, which had formerly been the sitting room.

“Got anything to eat? I’m starving,” Sam said.

“I’ll check,” Irene said. “Toast alright?”

Before Sam could answer, she had left.

“Have a seat, Sam,” Cian said.

Sam looked like he didn’t particularly want to sit, but when he saw Cian’s face, he took a chair. Cian felt a flicker of sympathy. The boy—and he was a boy, barely old enough to be out of the house—was in far over his head. That much was obvious. But sympathy wasn’t going to keep Cian from breaking the boy’s legs if he tried to escape.

“I got rights,” Sam muttered.

“Anything you want to tell us?” Harry asked.

“Like what?”

“Don’t start that,” Cian said. “You won’t like how it ends up.”

“Know what I think?” Sam said. “I think you’re a lot of talk.”

Cian took a step. Sam flattened himself against the chair.

Right then, Irene walked in with a plate of toast and a glass of milk. She looked at Sam. She looked at Cian.

She sighed.

Cian tried to meet her gaze. He couldn’t. He looked away.

“Ha,” Sam said. “Knew it.”

Cian slapped him across the back of the head. Sam howled.

Irene shushed him, handed him the toast and milk, and gave Cian a hidden smile.

“Children,” Harry said. “I’m surrounded by children.”

Like a whipped dog, Sam hunched over his meal, eating in the ravenous bursts that only truly young men can manage. Harry’s face revealed pure dismay as he watched crumbs spray across the leather upholstery of the chair. Cian fought a grin.