The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (31 page)

The creature had scented him. It had known to ask about Sam.

Cian started for the Louisiana Grand.

Nothing had changed at the hotel. That was the thing about rich people, Cian figured. The world might be burning to ash around them, but as long as the wine and the veal and the music kept coming, they wouldn’t bat an eye. Nero. He’d heard something like that, about Nero. A Roman something. Emperor.

In the lobby of the hotel, the green slime from the dead monster was more obvious. It dried to a crusty green-brown, staining the new suit. Irene would be furious. It would be another fight he would lose.

If she were alive, if she were all right, he’d lose that fight gladly.

The elevator crawled up the building. When the doors opened on Irene’s floor, Cian sprinted for her room, dodging a dark-haired maid with an armful of towels and a tuxedoed waiter rolling an empty cart.

Maid and waiter both stared at him. Cian realized he already had the Colt out.

He didn’t care. When he reached Irene’s door, he pounded on it.

“Irene, open up. You’re in danger.” Another staccato of pounding. “Irene!”

The door swung open, and Cian pushed into the room.

And then he realized Patrick Hannafy was standing in the doorway. In his shirtsleeves.

Irene appeared in the sitting room. She was flushed, a smile on her face, looking alive and beautiful and happy. When she saw Cian, the smile went out like a cheap light.

“What the hell is this?” Cian asked, looking from her to Patrick.

“What are you doing here?” Irene said.

A sound came from the hallway. Cian glanced back the way he had come.

Two men in trench coats marched down the hall. They were huge men. With their collars turned up and their hats pulled low, their features were hidden from sight. One saw Cian, and the two broke into a run. The floor trembled under their weight.

“Golems,” Cian said, shoving Patrick into the room.

He shut and locked the door. Patrick was already trying to lift the sideboard, and together the two of them hauled it into place in front of the door. A moment later there was a crash, and cracks rippled through the door. Cian motioned Patrick and Irene back into the bedroom. Another blow shook the door. Shards of wood fell into the room, exposing the bulk of one of the golems. Its hat had slipped back, exposing the lumpy, misshapen face.

Irene swore.

“That’s about right,” Cian said.

They shut the bedroom door and hauled the dresser into place. From the sitting room came a series of loud crashes.

“This won’t hold them,” Patrick said.

“I know that,” Cian said. He moved to the window. Threw it open. Winter air rushed into the room. Below, the amber light of the city lay like a bed of broken glass. The street was a long way down. Long enough for a good scream and a quick death.

A blow shook the bedroom door.

“Irene, grab your coat,” Cian said. “And mine too. Patrick, get over here.” When Patrick joined him at the window, Cian gestured outside and said, “There.”

“You’re insane.”

“Do you want to try killing those things?”

“It can be done.”

“Do you know how?” Cian asked.

After a moment, Patrick shook his head.

“Then out we go.”

“Out there?” Irene asked, joining them at the window. She was already bundled in her heavy fur coat and she handed Cian his coat. He slipped it on.

Behind them, broken wood sprayed the carpet.

“Out there,” Cian asked. He glanced out again. The Louisiana Grand was a relatively new building, with the clean, straight lines that everyone favored. Rather than a single, straight column though, the building had three distinct tiers that dropped away as the building rose. Perhaps twenty feet below Irene’s window was the upper-most tier. It was nothing but a patch of cement and darkness.

“It’s wider than it looks,” Irene said, her voice bright. “Perspective, you know. It’s all about perspective.”

“Perspective,” Patrick breathed. It sounded like a prayer.

To Cian, the slat of cement didn’t look much wider than a game of hopscotch, but he kept his opinion to himself.

“I’ll need help up onto the window, of course,” Irene said.

“Don’t be stupid,” Cian said. “Patrick, go.”

With a nod and a last look at the splintered door, Patrick crawled out the window and began lowering himself down the face of the building.

The sudden silence between Cian and Irene made every hair on Cian’s body stand straight up. He tried to tell himself it was just the cold.

He didn’t believe it one bit.

She wouldn’t look at him.

He helped her onto the window sill and stood next to her. The wind whipped between their legs. Her perfume filled Cian’s nose. He held her hand a moment longer than he needed to and hoped she didn’t notice.

A massive blow split the bedroom door. The dresser began to slide across the floor.

“Hold onto me tight,” Cian said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “It’s not far. We’ll be down quick as lightning.”

“What a terrible image,” Irene murmured.

She was right, so Cian didn’t respond.

With Irene clinging to him, Cian lowered himself, gripping the sill and then wedging his fingers between the stone face of the building. When he lowered himself again, Irene gave a gasp, and he felt her arms slip. Cian dug his fingers into the freezing stone. The cold sank sharp teeth into his hands, gnawing at his grip, threatening to send them tumbling.

“All right?” he managed to choke out.

Irene tightened her grip. He felt her nod into his shoulder.

She was shaking.

Damn, he was shaking himself.

There was another window, perhaps ten feet down, and those were the longest ten feet of Cian’s life. When Cian got his footing on the sill, he heard Patrick say, “I’ve got you, Irene. You can let go.”

Cian looked over his shoulder and watched as Patrick caught Irene. He cradled her in his arms. She was staring up at Patrick, relief flooding her features.

So. That was how it was.

Cian lowered himself down the last length of stone and dropped onto the empty terrace. He didn’t even feel the cold anymore.

Overhead, the open window was a square of bright light.

“They haven’t even come near the window,” Patrick said. “I guess strong doesn’t mean smart.”

“Good. Let’s go.” Cian started down the length of the terrace. Away from Irene. Away from Patrick.

Ahead, a narrow service door opened into the building. Cian jiggled the handle.

“Cian,” Patrick said. He still had Irene in his arms.

Cian kept his gaze fixed on the door. “What?”

“I think—”

A thud shook the terrace. Cian looked back the way they had come.

One of the golems had landed on the terrace, standing stiff as a board. If the fall bothered it, though, there was no sign. The second golem landed a moment later, dropping with all the grace of a stone. The two golems marched towards Cian.

Cian threw his weight into the service door. The frame snapped, the bolt popped loose, and the door flew open.

“Go,” Cian said, gesturing down the darkened hall.

Patrick broke into a staggered run, holding Irene to his chest, disappearing into the hotel. Cian pulled the Colt and fired a shot. It caught one of the golems in the shoulder. A man would have been knocked on his ass. The golem didn’t even flinch. It kept coming. A landslide wrapped in a cheap coat.

After a second shot, Cian pulled back into the hotel. He didn’t bother with the door. A glance down the hall showed no sign of Patrick or Irene, and Cian hoped that meant they were a safe distance away. To Cian’s right, a narrow flight of service stairs ran through the hotel.

He waited until the golems made it to the service door. He fired again.

The bullet cracked against one golem’s head.

“Come on,” Cian said. “Come on!”

Moving at their unchanging, lumbering pace, the golems came.

Cian took the stairs down. The golems followed, shaking the cement steps with their weight. They moved faster now, propelled by gravity, and Cian sprinted to stay ahead. Behind him, the golems began to close the distance, crashing into the stairwell with unbelievable force and ricocheting after him. At the third landing, a massive hand brushed the back of Cian’s coat, and he threw himself forward by instinct.

Plaster exploded behind Cian as the golems slammed into the wall. They kept moving, though, unhindered by their reckless passage. Cian gave up running; they were too fast now. Cian’s chest felt like he’d swallowed swords. Part was the running. Part was the damage down by the monster in the police van.

He crawled over the railing and dropped to the next floor. The jolt shook him to the teeth. He dropped again, keeping to the outside of the rails.

The golems were fast, but not this fast.

Sweat prickled on Cian’s face and chest as though he’d rolled in nettles. Someone had been sharpening his ribs, and they stabbed him with every movement. But after what felt like an eternity, his heels hit cement, and Cian realized he was on the ground floor.

A bent, old woman with a broom stared at Cian. The broom was motionless.

Overhead, the golems came down like rain in a barrel.

“Get out of here,” Cian shouted, hustling the woman to the door. “Now.”

She dragged the broom with her.

They emerged into the lobby of the Louisiana Grand. Marble and gold leaf and rich people. Cian gave the old woman a push away from the door and sprinted for the front of the building.

A moment later, the door to the service stairs exploded like a case of firecrackers. Screams rang through the lobby as well-coiffed women and well-dressed men scattered. The golems, still moving like twin landslides, came after Cian.

Cian didn’t give them a second look. He charged through the doors and skidded out onto the frosty sidewalk. As he turned to run south, a voice stopped him.

“Cian!”

Patrick waved from a cab and popped open the door.

Cian threw himself into the back seat.

“Drive,” Patrick shouted.

The cabbie put the car into gear.

Everything else seemed to happen at once. The doors of hotel burst outward in hail of glass and metal and wood. The golems hit the snow-slick sidewalk. One of the golems went down with a crash like a mountain falling. The second, however, kept coming.

The taxi inched forward.

With the groan and screech of metal, the golem hit the back of the cab. Rough fingers scrabbled at the back of the car. The cab slid sideways. Its tires caught a clean patch of pavement.

The golem slipped.

And the taxi pulled out into the street and into the night.

Irene’s shoe broke the ice. Water slipped over her foot.

“Damn it all,” she muttered.

“What?” Cian asked, glancing back as he led them down the sidewalk.

“Nothing.”

“Are you—”

“I said nothing.”

He turned forward and kept walking.

Irene stomped after him, her stocking squishing between frozen toes.

The cab had dropped them after three blocks. Dropped them was not quite the best way to say it. The cabbie had thrown them out, screaming about damage to his automobile, demanding payment. Cian had shouted back, until Irene reminded him that they needed to keep moving.

He’d looked just as sullen then as he did now.

Patrick walked at her side, helping her along, half-carrying her at times. Irene refused to let him heave her over his shoulder like a sack of meal. Better this slow, sodden crawl.

It was the principle of the thing, after all. Women didn’t need men to save them. They didn’t need men to carry them out of burning buildings. Irene was quite capable of escaping a burning building herself.

The barb under her skin, of course, was tonight.

Tonight had proved that wasn’t always the case.

By the time Harry’s apartment came into view, Irene’s feet had turned to ice.

“One more night in Harry Witte’s bed and I might as well marry the man,” Irene said.

“I don’t imagine that would bother you much,” Cian said.