The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (40 page)

Perspective was a burden Irene would be willing to share.

The first girl, Lucy, poked her head back into the kitchen and waved for Irene.

“Bye,” Irene said to Jess.

“Thank you,” Jess said.

Irene didn’t know what the girl meant. Instead, Irene smiled in response. She felt like she was sweeping broken crockery under the stove.

“Anna’s alone upstairs,” Lucy said. “She just finished.” As they started up the stairs, Lucy eyed Irene. “You really know her brother?”

Irene nodded.

“She talks about him a lot, but I’ve never seen him come by. Some families are like that. Ashamed. Disappointed.”

“I don’t think he feels that way,” Irene said.

“It’s ok if he does. My folks do.”

“Do they live here in the city?”

“No, out in the country. Dad grows corn. It’s a quiet place, but I thought it was too quiet.” Lucy laughed, her eyes bright. “It’s never quiet here.”

“Are you happy?”

“I have shoes and food and a bed,” Lucy said. She laughed again. “And it’s never quiet. Here’s Anna’s room. Nice to meet you.”

“You too. And thank you.”

Lucy smiled again, showing her ragged teeth, and then trotted down the stairs. Irene wiped her palms on her skirt. She knocked.

“Come in,” a voice said.

The room was spare, if Irene were generous. If she were blunt, it was Spartan. A bed with a flowered quilt and lace-edged pillows was the only gesture at decoration. The gingham sheets were in disarray. So was the blond girl on the bed. She wore a camisole that clung to her skin. Her eyes were wide and heavy, so that she looked as though she were either waking or falling asleep. Her legs were spread, and she made no effort to sit up when Irene stepped into the room.

This was the kind of woman Irene had imagined during all those Sunday sermons.

“Anna?”

The girl turned listless eyes to Irene.

“Anna, Patrick sent me. You need to get up and get dressed. Right now.”

Still no response.

Irene sat on the edge of the bed and took the girl’s hand. Anna’s grip was limp.

“I know it’s been terrible, sweetheart,” Irene said. “We’re leaving. Tonight. Now. Hurry, though. We have to hurry.”

“No,” Anna said.

“What do you mean? Patrick sent me. He told me, Anna. He wanted to come himself, but they’d kill him on sight.” Irene stood and made a circuit of the bed. “I’ll pack you a change of clothes and we’ll leave right now. We just need to get to a cab. Drat. I should have hailed one before I came inside. Oh well.” She glanced over at Anna. “Please, Anna. We can’t linger.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

Tears welled in Anna’s eyes. She lay there as though dead. The tears spilling down her cheeks were the only signs of life. Fountains in a dead city.

“He said—” Anna began. She cleared her throat and closed her eyes. “He said if I left . . .”

“Who? The Dane?”

Anna nodded. “He’d bring Lydia here instead. He said there are men that like—men that like that.”

Irene’s knees went weak. “She’s only a child.”

Anna didn’t respond. With her eyes closed, her breathing soft, she might have been asleep.

Or dead.

“No,” Irene said. She grabbed Anna’s hand and pulled her upright. “Come on, Anna. We’re leaving. We’ll protect Lydia. We’ll protect all of them. We can send them away, or hide them—” Irene’s eyes were burning. She dragged at Anna. It was like trying to lift one of those massive rugs, which were always bending and folding in inconvenient ways and far too heavy to pick up all at once.

Irene let Anna drop back onto the bed. She wiped her eyes.

She’d never met the Dane. She thought about putting a bullet in the back of his head.

“Anna, get up right now, or I’ll walk downstairs and tell Kate I caught you trying to go out the back.”

Anna’s eyes flashed open. “She won’t believe you.”

“She will. I bribed Lucy and Jess to get me up here. You think they won’t take a little bit extra to sing a new song?”

“You wouldn’t.” Anna’s breath came faster. “You don’t dare.”

Irene moved towards the door.

“No,” Anna cried. She tumbled off the bed, her legs folding under her, and latched her arms around Irene’s waist.

The two women fell to the floor. Irene pulled at Anna’s hands. Her elbow cracked against the washstand, and tingles ran up Irene’s arm. She heard a thump as they landed.

It took Irene a moment to wiggle free. She flexed her arm. Not broken, which was something, but it still ached. Then she saw Anna.

The fair-haired girl lay on her side at the base of the washstand.

Irene dropped to her knees. Anna was still breathing, but she’d knocked herself out cold.

Perfect. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

Perfect.

Irene opened the door. She had half a mind to call for Lucy and ask for the girl’s help. There was no way Irene could carry Anna on her own.

But when she looked out into the hall, Irene stared Harry Witte in the face as he came up the stairs, his hands moving down the waist of a red-haired woman.

Moving very far down her waist, to be precise.

Shock flashed across Harry’s face.

Irene blinked.

“Irene,” Harry said. His eyes moved past her.

“Anna,” the red-haired woman said.

“Harry,” Irene said. It felt somewhere between a swear and a call for help.

The red-haired woman pushed past Irene, and Harry moved to join Irene at the door. He glanced down at the half-dressed girl and then back at Irene, and one of his eyebrows went up.

“What are you doing here?”

Irene fumbled for an answer. Her cheeks might as well have been molten steel.

And then, from further down the hall, she heard the thump of a falling body.

Thank God, she thought.

Cian tasted carpet. His head felt like a broken egg. He groaned, opened his eyes, and immediately regretted it. The gas lamps overhead drove spears through Cian’s aching brain.

The bearded man looked down at him. He raised his pistol and shook his head.

In life or death situations, Cian discovered he was remarkably intuitive. He got the message almost immediately.

Don’t move.

That was fine with Cian. He was pretty sure his brain would slip out his ear if he tried to get up.

Voices came from further down the hallway, and the bearded man turned to look. Then he called, “Ian. Joe. You get your asses up here now.”

“You find him?” a second voice answered. “Eileen said he’d be here.”

“Just get up here.”

The sound of steps on the stairs. Cian rubbed his eyes. Eileen, God damn her. She’d sent Byrne’s men after him. The realization made Cian tired. The Colt was an uncomfortable wedge of metal against his back, and he thought about shooting the bearded man. Then he thought about how loud that shot would be.

His head ached too much.

The steps on the stairs were closer now.

“Excuse me,” a new voice said. A familiar voice. “If you could just—”

There was a surprised shout and then the sound of someone falling down the stairs. Hard.

Cian’s eyes flicked open.

Harry Witte stood at the top of the steps.

Cian groaned.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the bearded man said. He took a pair of steps towards Harry. “I’m going to break your fucking neck.”

“I hope you don’t,” Harry said. “I rather like my neck the way it is.”

The bearded man shoved the gun into his trousers. “You came down here the wrong night, buddy.”

Harry sighed. “It’s always the wrong night for me, I’m afraid.”

Cian got to his knees. For a moment, he was certain that he had been right, and that his brain was about to fall right out of his head. Then the world put itself back together. He pulled out the Colt. Everything was still slightly out of focus, and Cian figured he’d be lucky if he could hit the floor.

“Hey,” he shouted.

The bearded man glanced back.

Before the bearded man could turn back, Harry pulled out his revolver and fired. The round knocked the bearded man onto his backside. He was still twisted about, staring at Cian. He blinked once and fell.

Screams rose throughout the brothel.

“Hey?” Harry said.

“It was the best I could come up with.”

Harry opened his mouth to say something else, but a bullet slammed into the wall next to him, dislodging a chunk of wood. Harry turned and fired. A sharp cry came from below.

“You brought friends,” Harry said.

Cian got to his feet. The world rocked, and he grabbed onto the door frame. He closed his eyes for a minute. Another gunshot came from nearby.

When he opened his eyes, Irene was standing in the hall.

Cian groaned again. “This is a bad dream, right?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Harry said. He had taken a position near the stairs, out of sight of the shooters below. “Irene, would you like to explain what you were doing alone in a room with an unconscious prostitute?”

With a blink, Cian said, “Yes. Please explain.”

Irene looked like she’d baked in the sun. “It’s a long story. How do we get out of here?”

One of the doors along the hall opened. A balding, heavy-set man stumbled out of the room, naked except for a pillow held in front of his privates. His eyes were wide. Behind him, a naked woman stared at Cian and then slammed the door.

The balding man took one look at the hall and turned to pound on the door, begging to be let back in.

Harry shook his head in disgust, poked around the corner, and fired down the stairs.

“Cian, your head,” Irene said. “Can you walk?”

“Of course I can walk.” Cian did not, however, let go of the wall. Walking was one thing. Standing upright was completely different.

“Check the rooms,” Harry said. “Find the damn mask.”

Irene looked at Cian.

“Go,” he said. “I’m fine.”

She darted back to the room she had come from. Cian turned to the next door and tried the handle.

Locked.

Taking hold of the frame, Cian drove his heel into the handle. The frame snapped, and the door flew inwards. A half-dressed girl knelt on the bed, holding a Bible like a weapon. She screamed.

“Stop that,” Cian said, waving with the Colt. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The girl continued to scream.

“Fine. Have it your way.” He paused again. He hated himself for taking a second look, but then again, she was only half-dressed, and Cian was only a man. And she was—

Cian shook his head. “Pull your dress up,” he said, more for the benefit of his conscience than anything else. Than he got onto his knees and crawled under the bed.

Nothing.

As he scooted out from under the bed, he felt something heavy collide with the back of his head, plastering Cian’s nose to the floor.

Overhead, with something approaching seraphic triumph, the girl shouted, “The Lord is my shepherd.”

Cian probed his nose. Not broken, thank God. Then he got to his knees.

The girl brandished the Bible.

“Damn it,” Cian said, looking focusing on the black book instead of the girl’s more noticeable traits. “I told you to pull your dress up.”

As he got to his feet, though, Cian paused.

The girl raised the Bible in warning.

“There’s a boy who comes here,” Cian said. “Blond. Annoying. The kind that would rob a priest. Goes by Sam. You know him?”

After a pause, the girl nodded.

“Who’d he visit, last time he came here?”

“He always goes to Nell.”

“Always?”

The girl nodded.

“Which room is hers?”

“Two doors down.”

“Good. Now, get under your bed and stay there until things quiet down. And for God’s sake, don’t hit anyone with that thing again.”

“You shall not take the Lord’s name in vain,” the girl quoted.

“Get under the God-damned bed!”

With a yelp, the girl dropped out of sight.

As Cian staggered back into the hallway, he saw Irene dragging a semi-conscious girl out of a room.

“What did you do now?” he asked.

“Nothing. Honestly, Cian, you act as though I make a habit of beating up these girls.”

Harry was still near the stairs, chambering shells in his revolver. “The mask?”

“I’ll get it,” Cian said. “Keep your trousers on.”

A pair of shots came from below, followed by a scream. Harry paused in reloading the revolver and raised an eyebrow.

“They’re shooting at each other?” Irene said.

Another volley of gunfire came from below.

Cian felt his stomach drop. “No. That means that the Dane’s men are here.”

“Perfect,” Harry said. “Now we only have to get past two groups of armed men, both intent on killing us.”

“And killing each other,” Cian reminded him. “That’s something.”

“Just get the mask.”

Cian made his way two doors down and knocked.

No answer.

He opened the door, keeping an eye out for girls who might be caught up in the type of religious frenzy that would end with Cian’s nose being broken. The room was dark, though, and empty. He got onto his belly and crawled under the bed.

And there it was. A small, sealed box.