The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (27 page)

Bobby Flynn.

Cian darted back. Bobby Flynn moved like a puppet on strings—fast and jerky. The dead man’s mouth hung open, revealing a blackened tongue. Rotting fissures split his lips and cheeks. One of the dead man’s hands came up and swiped at Cian’s face. Cian dodged. He fumbled for the Colt. His fingers were stiff and frozen from the cold. The gun felt like a block of ice.

The light from the candle rocked with Cian’s steps. It pooled across Bobby’s forehead, his chin, his throat. It left dark wells around his eyes.

It was the eyes that made Cian want to scream.

He choked the sound back.

Bobby lunged again. His fingers caught Cian’s coat. With surprising strength, the dead man jerked Cian forward, throwing Cian off balance. The candle tumbled to the ground. Light tilted across Bobby’s face.

Dead, withered eyes bore the fullness of the light.

Bobby caught Cian with a punch to the side of the head. The blow knocked holes in Cian’s sight. His knees went out, and the only thing holding him up was the dead man’s strength. A second punch landed. It sounded like the sea: a crashing, pounding white punctuated by pain.

Cian fired.

He kept firing until he realized he was on his knees. Until he realized he was breathing, and the roar in his head was quieting. Until he realized something heavy was on top of him.

Cian pushed the now twice-dead Bobby Flynn to the ground. This time he watched.

Bobby Flynn didn’t get up.

The dead man’s face was shattered from three lucky shots. Nobody would recognize Bobby Flynn now. Nobody would mistake this mess of bone and cartilage for the man at Seamus’s.

Cian knelt there until the Colt had cooled. He got up and staggered out of the sausage shop. The sun was at the edge of the sky, and the sky had the pallid bruising of a corpse. Cian patted snow on his cheeks, his lips, his neck.

He thought of Molly Doyle’s face, and Jocasta’s, and the universe.

The snow only helped a little.

When Irene arrived home, she followed the long drive around to the back of the house. Smoke chugged from one chimney, which meant that her father had decided to indulge a fire, and the scent of wood-smoke made Irene think of childhood winters. Candied apples, her father adding an extra splash of rum to the eggnog when Mother wasn’t looking, and the nights of sharing a bed with her grandmother’s cold feet. The memories were good ones, but they sat in her stomach like curdled milk.

They know everything, Sam had said.

Irene went around back because she was thinking about Sally, who had died because of the mask. At least Sally had died quickly. What would the Children do if they came back looking for Irene? Or her parents?

It wouldn’t be quick. Irene knew that much.

When Irene reached the back of the house, she paused. One of the cellar doors was ajar. Irene’s skin pimpled. Nothing to worry about, she told herself. The coal was delivered to the cellar. The house had an old furnace and it went through coal like an old woman through a bag of peanuts.

Perhaps the man who brought the coal had forgotten to shut the cellar.

Perhaps he was still down there.

Irene waited another minute in the freezing afternoon. The sky had darkened steadily to steel.

The man—if there was a man—didn’t emerge.

Irene shut the cellar door.

The kitchen door was unlocked, and Irene let herself into the house. Warmth, the smell of nutmeg and dried rosemary, and shadow. The pots winked in the afternoon light that slipped through the windows. Irene wondered if her parents had already found another housekeeper. They probably had—Mother would be helpless, and Father would want dinner on the table when he got home. The thought felt sacrilegious. This was Sally’s place.

Irene found a bar of chocolate in the pantry, in Sally’s usual hiding spot, behind a jug of vinegar. She broke off a piece and chewed it slowly.

The house was quiet.

Irene set off deeper into the house. The chocolate was waxy and clung to her teeth and throat. She regretted eating it. The lamps were off, and the afternoon light pale and gray, giving everything the sterilized, ethereal air of a museum. Mirrors caught the image of a slender woman buried in a fur coat, her cheeks bright, her eyes shadowed, her hair a wreck. Irene gave the woman a smile and got a smile in return.

From under the door to Father’s study came the warm glow of the gaslights. Irene tapped and opened the door.

Father sat in an armchair near the fireplace. A stack of documents sat on the hearth in front of him, and he was feeding the paper to the blaze. On the table next to him lay an overturned pipe, an empty glass, and a bottle of Scotch. The smell of wood-smoke and pipe-smoke was warm as a wool coat.

“Irene,” Father said. He stood, dislodging a sheaf of papers to the floor, and stumbled towards her. “God be good, Irene.”

“Father,” Irene said.

Everything forgotten. Everything forgiven.

She ran towards him.

He stopped her, though, grabbing her arms before she could embrace him. His fingers pinched her, even through the heavy fur coat. When he spoke, the Scotch on his breath was thick and peaty.

“Where is it, Irene? Tell me you’ve brought it with you.”

“What?”

He shook her. “No games, Irene. I was wrong. I admit it. There was a box. Tell me you’ve found it. Tell me, and I’ll take it all back.”

“Father, I don’t—”

“I know you have it. I know you and your new friends have it, Irene. I’m not blind. I’m not deaf. I’m not stupid. Where is it?”

“Father, you’re hurting me.” Irene twisted, trying to pull free. “Mother. Where’s Mother?”

For a moment, she wasn’t sure her father had heard her. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, his breathing like frayed velvet. “Your mother is gone, girl. I sent her away. Somewhere safe.” He squeezed his eyes shut. His hands tightened. “Fucking Jesus, Mary, and Martha, Irene. Where is the fucking box?”

Irene went still.

Father’s eyes flashed open. “You won’t tell me.”

“I don’t know, Father. So much has happened, I was worried, I came back to—”

“Worried. You stupid bitch. You stupid, pathetic cunt.” He shook her. Irene’s teeth clacked together. “The thief then. Where is he? We know you took him from the house. Tell me, right now, and maybe I can pull this wreckage from the fire.”

“You were at the house,” Irene said. Her eyes felt hot and huge. She said each word slowly, as though saying them would delay the truth. “You and Mother. You knew. All this time. And you lied to me. You made me think I—”

“Where is he, Irene?”

She shook her head.

His slap knocked her to the ground. Irene lay there a moment. The study had turned on its side. The fire hung above her, ready to race down and lick the heat from her face.

She stared up. Her father stood over her, his belt in one hand.

And just like that, Irene was a child again. She got onto hands and knees and tried to scramble away.

The first blow caught her at a diagonal, across one shoulder and running down her back. In spite of the padding of the coat, the blow raised a line of fire, and Irene cried out. The next blow was wild, crossing her hips, and then another that caught the back of her head. She pitched forward onto the carpet as the blows continued to rain down, a storm of pain. Her father shrieked and swore.

It lasted a long time. It lasted forever.

But eventually it was over. Irene sobbed into the rug. The crackle of the fire, her father’s heavy breathing, and then the dull clank of the belt buckle striking the floor. Her father’s steps rustled the papers, then quieted against the carpet, and then he was gone.

Cian sat in the lobby of the Louisiana Grand. He was certain people were looking at him. The bellboys, for example, studied him as they rolled the carts of luggage. They knew a man without a dime in his pockets when they saw one. The officious little man at the front desk, in a neat black suit, stared over at Cian from time to time. How long before they asked him to move on? They couldn’t have vagrants filling up the lobby of the Louisiana Grand.

And unfortunately, vagrant was painfully close to the truth.

It was easier to think about empty pockets and bellboys, easier to look at the arrow-straight lines of brass and dark wood and gold-filigree, than think about what he had seen in the Patch. So Cian rubbed his thumb across the embroidered upholster of the sofa, studied the wrought-iron curves of the heating registers, and thought about money.

And about Irene.

His head ached. It was only half from the dead man’s punch.

Four o’clock dragged itself around the lobby and finally disappeared into the street. Five o’clock came in like a man with a pocketful of cash. Cian sat up straight, wishing he’d had a chance to wash up, running fingers through his hair, and generally feeling like a total fool.

Five-fifteen and still no sign of Irene.

At five-thirty, he was picking the embroidery from the sofa with his thumbnail and ignoring the nasty look of the concierge.

The man, though, wasn’t dissuaded. He crossed the hall towards Cian, his heels ringing on the marble floor, and planted himself in front of the sofa. He had a speck of lint on one lapel and looked as strong as an old tire.

“Excuse me,” he said.

Cian glanced up and gave the loose embroidery a vicious yank.

The man’s mouth puckered. “May I help you? Are you waiting for someone?”

“Yeah.”

“A guest? May I have his name? I will be sure to tell him you came.”

Cian gave him a smile and stood up. He had at least a foot on the man, and the concierge blinked up at him. His sundial-nose didn’t drop.

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell her myself,” Cian said. He pushed past the man, sending him stumbling. Petty. Satisfying.

Instead of leaving the hotel, though, Cian headed for the elevators. He took it to Irene’s floor and marched to her door.

Maybe she was napping.

If she weren’t here, he’d go to her house.

Cian stopped. Blinked.

Now where in the hell had that idea come from?

He knocked on her door.

No response. He knocked again, rattling the door in its frame.

Cian waited. A minute, then two. As he was about to leave, he heard the rustle of cloth from inside the room. Then silence. The silence dragged out.

“Irene, open the damn door. I know you’re in there.”

The silence was a held breath. That was when he was certain she was in there.

He pounded again.

“Irene. You can sleep later. We need to get back to Harry’s.”

Still silence.

Cian let out an explosive breath and started hammering on the door. “If I break this thing, I’m going to have them put it on your tab, Irene Lovell. Now open this door before I—”

The door opened a crack.

“Well. That’s better.”

“Cian, I’m not feeling well,” Irene said. He couldn’t see her through the crack in the door, but her voice was dead, like smoke from a cold fire. “Just go by yourself. I’ll see you in a day or two. When I’m better.”

“What’s wrong?” Cian pushed the door open, ignoring Irene’s protests.

The room was dark, with the gaslights turned down and the drapes drawn. Cian raised the lights and started swearing.

Irene stood in front of him, wearing nothing more than a camisole, bloomers, and stockings rolled to her knees. Part of his brain swallowed every detail and stored it for later: her shoulders, her breasts, her legs. The other part noticed the important details.

A red mark in the shape of a hand darkening on her cheek. Bruises marking her arms and collarbone. Red eyes and nose.

And the way she stood. Arms loose around herself, as though she hurt too much even to touch herself.

“Who did this to you?”

“Cian, I’m not dressed. You need to—”

He stepped towards her, and she stepped back, until he pinned her against one of the walls. She flinched as she bumped into it. Then she stood there, staring up at Cian, her breath like a windstorm.

“Who did this to you? I’m going to tear him apart.”

She shook her head. It took him a minute to realize she was crying.