The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (48 page)

Pearl grabbed another piece of toast and shoved it towards Cian.

“Faster, Sam,” she said.

“Right,” Sam said. The boy was making a point of not looking at Harry. “Well. I was going to come back here. I promised, didn’t I? I told you I’d help you. But then I started thinking, maybe I’d just head over to the docks and see about a trip south.”

“Street rat,” Cian grumbled around another mouthful of toast.

“I was just going to look. And besides, I came back, didn’t I? Anyway, I was on my way over there, freezing my ass off, and I saw my buddy Larry. He was all bundled up, but it was Larry, and he had a pint of whiskey with him, and—”

Harry had finished his toast. The sudden silence, after his vicious chomping, made Sam lick his lips.

“Anyway,” Sam said, “to make a long story short—”

Cian snorted.

“—Larry told me he heard about a big deal going down tonight.”

A long pause filled the kitchen. The sun had slanted up, driving yellow nails into the edge of the table. From outside came the sound of morning traffic: automobiles, the shouts of paperboys, and the mingled voices of everyday people going about everyday lives. The smell of eggs had faded slightly, or perhaps Cian’s stomach had truly settled, because he eyed the pan and felt a grumble of hunger working its way through his gut.

“And?” Harry said.

“And what? That deal is going to be where we find the mask.”

“Why?”

“Larry told me Byrne’s going to be there. That’s how Larry knew about it—he works for Byrne, big stuff, important stuff, and so he knew all about the meeting. Oh, and he told me they’re still trying to kill you, Cian. Sorry.”

Cian shrugged and grabbed the pan of eggs. He eyed them. Considered his stomach.

“And that’s it?” Harry said. “Byrne is going to a meeting?”

“No. The Dane is supposed to be there too.”

“They could be meeting about a dozen different things,” Harry said. “Pass me some of the eggs, Cian.”

Cian started shoveling food onto two plates.

Pearl leaned forward. “Harry, they’re meeting with a third person, which I’m sure Sam would have told you at some point. What if it’s one of the Children? Or one of their representatives? It seems like it’s worth a shot.”

“But why both of them?” Harry asked. “Why wouldn’t whoever had the mask just sell it to the Children?”

“That’s the question,” Sam said with a smile. “Larry told me the three of them—the Dane, Byrne, and this out of town fellow, are there for an auction.” He paused. “Don’t you see? Someone else has the mask and they’re going to sell it.”

“Or it’s a load of Canadian beer, or firearms, or stolen textiles, or a hundred other things that they could be trying to unload illegally. It doesn’t have to be the mask.”

“Who’s the third person?” Cian asked over a forkful of egg. His stomach had, after serious thought, decided to collaborate.

Sam shrugged. “Some Hun. Ehm. Ehmk. Something like that.”

Harry set his fork down. “Friedrich von der Ehmke?”

“Yeah. Sounds right.”

The eggs were cold and sticky in Cian’s mouth. He looked at Pearl.

“Freddy,” she said.

Cian stood out like a sore thumb as he walked down the street in Kerry Patch. Part of it, of course, was the clothes. He was wearing one of those damned fine suits Irene had bought for him. Even with mick hair and a mick name, Cian might as well have worn a sign asking to be mugged.

But there were places he needed to go in the Patch. And the clothes were only part of the reason he felt out of place. The last few days and weeks seemed longer than all the rest of his life put together. He felt like he’d lived in a foreign country—a place with golems and giant spiders and ghosts and magic, a place better left to anyone else besides Cian Shea—and now, walking in the Patch, he couldn’t feel comfortable. As though he’d come home and was standing on the wrong side of a window, watching from the outside, unable to get back in. Not that anybody ever really wanted to be in the Patch.

It was a shit feeling and it matched a shit day. Cold, gray, wet. Not snow, but an icy drizzle that soaked him by inches, never hard enough to be called a storm but never letting up. In the Patch, and with the morning rush over, the only sound was the crystalline music of the run-off. Nobody walked the dirt roads that had turned to rivers of mud. Nobody except Cian Shea.

And he, of course, was an idiot.

They had agreed to go to the meeting that night. It was to be held at the Louisiana Grand at nine in the evening. After hearing Freddy’s name, Harry had disappeared into his study. Pearl had looked like a wet sheet. Cian had done the dishes—and twisted Sam’s arm until the boy helped—and then he had gone to find Irene.

It was no great surprise that she was not in her hotel room. Maybe she’d stepped out to run an errand. Maybe she was already on her way to Harry’s.

Then again, there was that damned, fool kiss to consider.

She was a woman, and Cian Shea had kissed her. If she were smart, she was probably entering a convent.

The sight of Cian’s destination dragged him from his thoughts. He pushed on the door to Patrick’s bar. The door was locked.

That seemed strange. True, it was still morning, but this was the Patch. There were plenty of mick bastards—Cian Shea among them—who started drinking in the morning and didn’t stop until they hit the floor. Patrick should have had his place open. Cian tried the door again and then knocked.

No answer.

He circled around back, but that door was locked too, and the windows were dark.

In part, he had hoped to apologize for the other night. Patrick couldn’t have known that Irene would dash off and risk her neck. And if the man liked Irene, Cian wished him the best—well, he wished him a solid punch in the jaw, and then he wished him the best. Irene had no interest in Cian, and Patrick seemed decent enough for a fellow mick from the Patch.

Beyond the apology, though, Cian had wanted to ask about the night’s meeting. Sam had all the energy of a puppy and just as much brains, and Cian wanted to know as much as he could about the meeting before he showed up. Patrick seemed a likely source.

But likely source or not, Patrick wasn’t going to tell Cian anything if Cian couldn’t find him.

After one last knock, Cian left the bar and started walking again. There was someone else he could ask. Someone who had information as well.

Eileen.

Granted, the last time he had asked for information—about the Dane’s brothel—Eileen had turned around and sold that information to Byrne. Byrne’s men had shown up, either trying to find Cian or, perhaps, trying to find the mask. Talking to Eileen was a risk, but Cian didn’t have any other options.

He thought, briefly, that maybe he should sleep with Eileen. As a way of gaining her silence. Purely for necessity’s sake.

Cian knew what Irene would say about that idea. And, for that matter, what Eileen would say. His cheeks were hot as he tried to forget the idea.

The clouds hunkered lower, and thunder rumbled, as though God were chafing his hands for warmth. After a minute, the icy drizzle turned to a sheet of freezing rain. It fell across the street, iron gray and twisting the flickering gas lamps into halos. Cian picked up his pace.

The dirt paths of Kerry Patch were a maze of mud, bridged in a few places by boards that flexed under Cian’s weight, but for the most part threatening to suck off his shoes with every step. As he went deeper into the Patch, the buildings devolved. The stout brick-and-timber constructions that were closer to the edge of the Patch dwindled, and the buildings that took their place had a starved, angry look about them. Tails of smoke curled up from a few of the houses and were slashed by the rain.

By the time Cian reached the cramped cloister where Eileen lived, he was soaked to the skin and shivering. Around him, the buildings were dark. They shouldered together, blocking out what little light was left like bullies on a back street. The hiss of the rain, like steam escaping, trampled any other noise. Cian didn’t like the sound. He didn’t like the dark, shuttered windows. His breathed on numb fingers and knocked.

There was no answer.

Damn and double damn. It was bad enough Patrick had been gone. Now—wetter than a cat dropped in the river and frozen to the bone—he’d wasted half the morning for nothing.

He knocked again.

A crack made Cian spin about. He grabbed the Colt and looked for the source of the sound. A gunshot, he was certain.

Then he saw the loose shutter flapping overhead. Another breeze stole into the tiny square of buildings and slapped the shutter against the wall. Crack. Crack.

A bead of ice rolled down Cian’s throat. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like any of it.

He turned to exit the muddy yard and stopped. A pair of men walked down the alley toward him. Cian threw a quick look around the yard. No other exit appeared. The buildings offered no escape. They were old hands at this sort of thing: muggings, murders. They were, in their way, accomplices. After all—this was Kerry Patch.

Cian turned back to Eileen’s door. He drove his heel into the door, near the lock, and the rotted wood split. The door flew in. Shouts came from the men in the alley, and Cian plunged into the dark room. In the weak light from outside, the outline of a bed was visible, and a pale arm, hand open and turned up, spread across the quilt. The rest of Eileen was in shadow.

Cian didn’t need to see her. He knew she was dead. The slaughterhouse smell told him that much.

He crossed the room, barked his shin on a chest hidden by the darkness, and ran his hands across the wall. He didn’t remember seeing a door, but then, he hadn’t spent much time here. Behind him, the hiss of the rain masked any other sound. The wood was rough. Splinters caught the tips of his fingers, and then the dry, crumbling brush of paper, and the smell of the wet wood mixed with Eileen’s death in the air.

They had killed her.

Byrne. It had to be. Because Byrne’s men had died, burned to ash when Harry had unleashed that magical fire in the brothel. Had Byrne killed Eileen as punishment for sending his men to their deaths? Or had he killed her beforehand, to ensure that she didn’t warn Cian?

Or had she died like so many others—men and women and children—in Kerry Patch? Died because she was a mick and she was poor and she’d picked up the wrong man on the wrong night.

His fingers caught the sill. Cian fumbled with the shutters and lifted the latch. A burst of stormy air hit his face like wet linen. The street outside was almost as dark as Eileen’s room. Cian didn’t care. He dragged himself through the window and glanced back.

One of the men had reached the doorway. His hand was raised. In the rain, the gunshot might as well have been the sound of Moses parting the Red Sea. Cian threw himself from the window.

He landed on his back in the mud and squirmed to his feet. Behind him, a chunk of the window frame had vanished. Splinters poked out of the shoulder of Cian’s coat like a porcupine’s quills.

Without looking back, Cian ran.

At seven, they arrived at the Louisiana Grand.

Cian was bathed, shaved, and changed. Pearl, in a surprising fit of insistence, had forced him to run a comb through his hair with a bit of pomade, and now he looked as dapper as a red-haired eel. Harry wore a suit that might have cost more than the car. He looked completely recovered: handsome and charming and well-bred as ever. Pearl had varied from her conservative skirt and blouse and wore an elegant, cream-colored dress and a strand of pearls. Her hair was up, her eyes bright, and Cian wondered if she were excited about the night’s activities.

Or if, like most women, she simply enjoyed dressing up.

As they pulled up to the hotel, Cian found himself checking the Colt again. Harry had surprised him with a shoulder holster. It was a bit strange, but decidedly more comfortable than carrying the Colt at the back of his trousers.

Pearl smiled and tapped Cian’s arm. He released the Colt and clasped his big hands in his lap. Pearl laid her hand over his and her smile faded.

“Are you sure you’re ok?”