The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (50 page)

“Shea, God damn it,” Harper said.

Cian fought a smile. “Glad you approve. I’ll see you soon, Harper. Don’t arrest anyone else until then.”

Cian dropped the Harper’s gun near the door, where Harper could retrieve it—after he’d been released from the cuffs, of course. Then Cian drew the Colt. As he pushed open the door to the lobby, a tremendous crash came from front of the building.

A rain of glass fell across the lobby, sprinkling the tufted imitation snow and spearing the Christmas trees like icicles. The front of the lobby—the wide glass doors and windows—had been blown in. As Cian watched, a pair of lizard-men—sauria, Irene had called them—pulled themselves through the broken windows.

Unlike the golems, the sauria made no pretense at disguise. They were huge, topping Cian by at least a foot, and built like a Mack AB. They came across the lobby in a sinuous race.

The first woman who died was old, with a wobbly double-chin and a puffy white hat. She stood as though hypnotized, watching the sauria race towards her. When the closest sauria reached her, it tore out her sagging throat and kept moving. The puffy white hat floated to the ground like an overweight snowflake.

After that, the slaughter began in earnest, with the sauria tearing through the fleeing people. The escaping party-goers dropped like wheat beneath a thresher. Blood sprayed across the walls. Gold-leaf and terracotta vanished under the dark drops.

Cian watched, a fist around his throat, and remembered the trenches in France.

Somehow, he came back to himself, like a man hearing a bell from a great distance. His legs moved before his brain, and he found himself trotting up the stairs, Colt in hand, with the sounds of the dying a half-step behind. The flood of people from the ballroom continued to press past him, rushing towards the abattoir that had opened in the lobby. Cian fought against the current. When he reached the landing, a surge of gibbering aquamarine passed him, and he felt a swell of cold, trapped pity, like a man listening to a radio broadcast.

Then he continued up the stairs. There was nothing he could do for them.

At the top of the hall, the crush of people dwindled. Through the doors to the ballroom, Cian spotted a few revelers who had taken refuge under the tables. Trampled streamers littered the floor. A tablecloth had been dragged halfway to the door, spilling broken crystal and red wine across the parquet. At least, Cian hoped it was wine. A gold-lettered banner dangled from its remaining ties, fluttering slightly, as though a divine hand were trying to shake off the words. Peace on earth, the banner read.

Cian bit back a sharp laugh and ran down the hall.

It wasn’t hard to spot the room where Harry and Pearl had gone. An entire length of wall had been blasted open, spilling plaster and laths and stone across the carpeted floor. Dust and smoke drifted between the gaslights, taking on a sunset radiance. A gunshot rang out a moment later, and the acrid smell of the powder stung Cian’s nose.

“Harry,” he called.

“In here,” Pearl answered.

Cian came up to the edge of the ruined wall and peeked around. On the other side, he saw the remains of what must have once been an impressive sitting room. Sofas and chairs had been overturned to form impromptu barricades, and even a small, upright piano had been put into service as part of one wall.

Near the opening in the destroyed wall, Pearl and Harry crouched behind a sideboard. On top of the sideboard, a crystal decanter of brandy and a pair of tumblers sat undisturbed. As Cian moved to join them, a white-haired man rose from behind the piano and fired a shot. Cian pulled back. Another crack of gunshot came from within the room, and then a shout.

“Would you mind trying that again, Cian?” Harry asked.

Cian peered around the wall.

Harry was grinning.

Cian dove for the sideboard. From the corner of his eye, Cian saw another man rise from behind the sofa. Harry leaned around the edge of the barricade and fired again. The man fell back, cracked his head against the hearth and dropped out of sight.

“What the hell is going on?” Cian asked as he wormed his way up to Harry and Pearl.

“They were taking too long,” Pearl said. “Harry decided to speed things up by knocking out their wall.”

“Who has the mask?” Cian asked.

From across the room, between the hearth and a chaise longue that lay on its side, came a familiar voice.

“Hi, Cian.” Patrick poked his head above the edge of the chaise and then ducked back down. “Kind of a mess, right?”

“You’re kidding,” Cian said to Harry.

Harry shook his head.

“You’re a dead man,” a deeper voice said from behind the piano. “My men are crawling all over this place. They’ll be here in minutes.”

“That’s Byrne,” Harry said. “He’s upset.”

“I can imagine,” Cian said.

“Make sure your buddy doesn’t run off with the mask,” Harry said. “I want to talk to him after this is over.”

“It’s not what you think, Cian,” Patrick said. “Listen, I’m going to come out. We can talk about this, right? Is Irene with you?”

“Shut your mouth, Patrick.”

But Patrick inched up from behind the chaise. As soon as he was clear of the chair, a pair of men rose from behind the piano. Patrick squeaked and dropped.

Cian got up on his knees and fired. The bullet caught an overweight man in the throat. The man’s head snapped back, and he dropped behind the piano like a man in a bad vaudeville act.

The other man was tall and broad-shouldered and had long, matted dark hair. He fired at Patrick, and a puff of stuffing from the chaise floated into the air. Then a bullet caught him in the shoulder and knocked him back against the hotel wall.

Harry got to his feet, still holding his revolver on the other man. “That should be all of them.”

“The Dane?” Cian asked.

“Over here,” Patrick said.

“Watch him,” Harry said with a jerk of his head. Then he picked his way through the furniture. The dark-haired man glared at Harry. He stood with one hand pressed over his shoulder. In his other hand, he still held his pistol. He looked like a mick, and not the good kind, if there were such a thing.

“Who were you supposed to meet here?”

“My sweet ma,” the man said. “I’m going to take my time killing you, once my men get here. I want to know how you found us. How you knew about all of this.”

The sound of a frantic scramble came from behind the chaise. Cian crossed the room, hopped over the chaise, and kicked the pistol out of Patrick’s hand.

Patrick yelped and shook his hand. “God, Cian, I—”

“I said, shut up, Patrick.”

Patrick swallowed.

Cian could almost hear Pearl’s silent disapproval. He put the tip of the Colt at the base of Patrick’s neck and motioned for the other man to stand up. Patrick did so. His eyes kept flicking to the long-haired man.

“That’s Byrne?” Cian asked.

Patrick nodded.

“You told them?” Byrne said, glaring at Patrick. “I knew I should have just cut your damn throat when I had a chance. Look at you, stupid little mick, thinking you’re a big shit. I would have paid you for the damn mask.”

“Aren’t you a mick?” Harry asked. He threw a quick look at Cian. “Shouldn’t he not be using that word like that?”

“There are micks and then there are micks,” Cian said with a shrug. He grinned. “Right, Patrick?”

Harry was still looking at Cian when Byrne began to move. The long-haired man’s arm came up, pistol moving towards Harry. Cian started to cry out, but everything happened too fast. A crack of gunfire ricocheted through the room.

Byrne slid down the wall. A line of blood from the back of his head stained the paper.

“Damn,” Harry said as he lowered his revolver. “Do you really think he has other men here?”

“If he does, they’re dead or running,” Cian said. “The lobby is filled with sauria, and I saw golems on the stairs. We need to get out of here now.”

Pearl spun and stared at the broken wall. At the same time, every hair on Cian’s body stood straight up, as though he had crawled inside a thundercloud. His breath caught. Overhead, the flames in the gas lamps bent sideways. The smell of hot glass mixed with the lingering scent of gunfire.

“Something is coming,” Harry said.

The gas lamps shrank to blue dots, like match tips on the edge of catching. Cian felt a shiver run through Patrick. Then the other man broke like a frightened deer, pushing past Cian and making for the door. Cian brought the Colt across the back of Patrick’s head, and he dropped like a sack of bad potatoes.

But the fear was contagious, riding up Cian’s spine on a white horse.

And then she floated into view, set against a backdrop of blue-white light, like the Virgin Mary in a child’s prayerbook.

“Irene,” Cian breathed.

Framed by the jagged edges of the ruined wall, Irene hung in the air a foot above the ground. Her short hair was disheveled, her eyes shadowed, as though she had been ill for a long time, and the color washed from her face by the sourceless blue-white light. At the sound of her name, Irene’s eyes closed once, but when they opened there was no recognition in them.

“The third party,” Harry said. He holstered his revolver and laughed. “Well played, Marie-Thérèse. Very well played. And all this time, I thought you were on the run. Tell me—what did you offer the girl?”

The corners of Irene’s mouth twitched into a ghost of a smile. “Very little, as it turns out, Henry. Love, and desperation, makes fools of us all.” Her eyes drifted towards Cian, and her smile broadened. “What have you done to Patrick?”

“Nothing permanent, I’m afraid,” Harry answered.

“That’s a pity. He deserves some sort of punishment for his behavior.”

“Come now, Marie-Thérèse, you can’t believe I’ll let you have the mask. What do you hope to gain from this display?”

Irene’s lips curled up, baring lovely white teeth and turning her smile into a snarl. “Had you faced me before, Henry, we might have been more evenly matched. But now,” she gestured down at her body, “like this, I am restored to my former strength. Leave now, Henry, and for old time’s sake I will give you a day or two to start running.”

Harry crossed his arms and studied Irene—or Marie-Thérèse. Something had changed in Harry’s face. Cian’s stomach flopped like a sick dog.

“You can’t be serious,” Cian said, his gaze moving from Harry to Marie-Thérèse and then back again. “Look what she’s done to Irene. You have to stop her. You have to help Irene.”

When Harry answered, his voice was low. “Cian, what Irene did—she had to do it willingly. She made a deal with Marie-Thérèse.”

Marie-Thérèse, or Irene, laughed and drifted into the room. Pearl moved backward with calm, careful steps. Her hand dipped into her clutch. Marie-Thérèse ignored her.

“Henry’s right,” Marie-Thérèse said to Cian. “He’s quite well-versed in this type of thing. He knows more than most about the weeping lore. Do you know how much he knows? Have you ever wondered?”

“Enough, Marie-Thérèse,” Harry said.

“Henry, have you been keeping secrets from your friends?” Marie-Thérèse made a tsking noise. “Would you rather that I told them? Henry Witte is—”

Harry threw one hand forward and shouted a word that Cian couldn’t hear. It sounded like a massive wave striking land. An invisible force hit Marie-Thérèse and hurled her back through the ruined wall. She struck the far wall. Plaster crumbled. For a moment, the lights overhead began to warm.

And then Marie-Thérèse laughed. She shrugged her way free of the slabs of plaster. The gaslights dwindled to blue specks. She floated forward, trailing crumbs of dust. The backdrop of blue-white light hardened until it looked like the slabs of ice floating on the Mississippi. At the threshold to the room, Marie-Thérèse paused. A look of confusion trailed across Irene’s features for a moment.

Harry held his hand out. He was speaking, and sweat dripped down his face. Cian’s ears felt like they were full of water, as though he’d swum to the bottom of a lake and the pressure was building.

Then, with a pop, the feeling vanished. Marie-Thérèse glided into the room. Cian raised the Colt and then paused.

Because she was still Irene. Somewhere in there was Irene, the girl with dark eyes. The girl who had cut past five years of Cian’s self-pity and self-doubt.

Marie-Thérèse flipped one hand out and called out a word. Harry was flung into the air and pinned against the wall. The gas lamps trembled.

And then Harry began to scream.

Pearl pulled her hand from her clutch. She held a small derringer. She aimed it at Irene. There was no hesitation in her face. She might as well have been Annie Oakley and Artemis and Diane rolled into one.

“No,” Cian said. His throat was raw, as though he’d been screaming. He stumbled forward, putting himself between Pearl and Marie-Thérèse.

No. That wasn’t true.

He put himself between Pearl and Irene. He set his back to Pearl and stared into Irene’s dark eyes. Marie-Thérèse didn’t acknowledge him. She stared at Harry. Harry’s scream had risen to new pitch. The sound scraped Cian’s bones like an icepick.

His eyes stung. That seemed stupid. Stupid as shit.