The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (33 page)

“Bacon?”

This time, there was a definite note of interest.

“And eggs.”

“Damn you, woman,” Cian growled as he sat up and swung his feet to the ground. He held his head in his hands for a moment, then motioned for the coffee. Irene passed it to him. He took a sip, and then another, and then massaged his forehead. “God, this is not a bad way to start the day.”

Irene laughed. “Well don’t get used to it. I’m afraid I’m not that kind of woman.”

“What kind?” he said around a mouthful of toast and eggs.

“You’ll have to wait and see,” she said with a smile.

Then she returned to the kitchen, fixed herself a plate, and rejoined Cian. They ate in silence—out of compassion for the obvious effects of a hangover—but it was a comfortable silence. For the most part. There was still a bit of an edge to Cian. A defensiveness to the silence. A man standing on a castle wall, uncertain if he was seeing friend or foe.

“Are you all right?” Irene asked.

Cian laughed. “I’ve experienced this particular ailment plenty of times, Irene. I’ll be fine.”

“No,” she said with a laugh. “I meant everything else. I thought, last night, you might have—”

He probed his chest and ribs. Pain flickered on his face. Then he shrugged. “Hale as an ox.”

“What?” Irene asked.

“Hale as an ox,” Cian repeated. A trace of doubt entered his voice.

“I’ve never heard that expression.”

Cian shoved a piece of toast in his mouth.

“I’ve heard hale and whole,” Irene said.

Watching her, Cian chewed in silence.

“And I’ve heard healthy as an ox,” Irene continued.

Cian speared a piece of bacon.

“But I’ve never heard hale as an—”

“Good God, Irene,” Cian said. “What are you talking about?”

“I was just saying—”

“Are you angry at me or not? I am having a damned hard time figuring out what is going on.”

Irene picked at a piece of toast, scattering crumbs across the coffee table.

“Never mind,” Cian said. “Forget I asked.”

“I’m not angry with you,” Irene said. “I’m—I’m sorry, for what happened yesterday. At dinner. I should have . . .”

She trailed off, and after a moment, Cian sighed. “No. I’m sorry. I let myself get all fired up over nothing.”

“Forgiven?” Irene asked.

“Nothing to forgive,” Cian said. “Are we square?”

Irene fought a small grin and gave him a mock salute. “Yes, sir.” And then a giggle slipped out. “Square as an ox.”

Cian buried his head in his hands.

To his good fortune, that was when Harry emerged from the sitting room, helping Freddy to a chair. Freddy’s face was red, but his eyes were clear, and he looked more embarrassed than injured.

“All right?” Cian asked.

Freddy nodded. “Well enough, I suppose. I deserve worse than a bump on the head for letting a pup get the better of me.”

“Breakfast?” Irene asked the two men.

“Sounds wonderful,” Harry said as he sat on the sofa next to Cian.

Cian jumped to his feet. Harry raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll grab the food,” Cian said and hurried from the room.

“Thank you,” Harry said, but he was still eying the space Cian had left on the couch.

“Anything you can tell us about Sam?” Irene asked Freddy. “Where he might have gone?”

Freddy shook his head. “I turned around to get a drink, and the boy struck me. He must have slipped his cuffs when I wasn’t looking. Good riddance to him.”

Cian returned with the plates of food, and the four of them sat in silence for a few minutes as Harry and Freddy ate. Irene found herself studying Harry. There were new shadows under his eyes, and although he was as handsome as ever, there was an edge to him now.

“What’s wrong?” Irene asked.

“What?” Harry said.

“You. Something’s different. What’s wrong?”

“Just a bad night.”

Irene crossed her legs and leaned forward. Cian’s eyes moved to her legs. Harry’s didn’t, and she tucked that away.

“Harry Witte, don’t try that on me for a second,” she said.

Harry ate a bite of eggs and looked at Freddy.

“It will ruin this wonderful breakfast,” Freddy said.

“Better breakfast than the rest of the day,” Irene said. “Let’s hear it.”

“The mask,” Freddy said. “I came last night to tell Harry what I had learned. If it is the mask that I described earlier, then it poses a great threat.”

“Magic,” Cian said.

“Yes, if one were skilled enough, it might be used to power cultic rituals.” Freddy paused and nibbled on a piece of bacon. “But I believe there is more in play here. Over the last few months, Harry and I have attempted to intercept or retrieve a number of cultic artifacts. Every time, we were frustrated in our efforts.”

“So you had a few rough jobs,” Cian said. “Big deal.”

“That’s what we thought at first,” Harry said. “No big deal. I mean, it would have been nice to keep these artifacts out of the Children’s hands, but none of them were major pieces. Not like the mask. At least, that’s what I believed.”

“Last night,” Freddy picked up the story, “I was working through Tilton’s
The Sacred Breast: Fertility Rituals in the Levant
, hoping—”

Cian coughed, covered his mouth, and said, “I’m sorry. The sacred what?”

“Breast,” Freddy said. “And I was—”

After a muffled noise that sounded like a giggle, Cian managed to say, “No, I’m sorry. The full title.”

With a flicker of irritation, Freddy said, “Tilton’s
The Sacred Breast: Fertility Rituals in the Levant
. Now. If I may proceed?”

Cian made a gesture to proceed, but he was obviously dying of laughter inside.

Harry met Irene’s gaze and rolled his eyes.

She smiled in spite of herself.

“Tilton,” Freddy was saying,” describes an ancient ritual to wake Dagon and call him back to his servants. He lists a number of implements needed to rouse the sleeping god. The names he uses are not any that I recognize, but the descriptions match several of the artifacts that have been stolen over the last few months. The most important item, though, without which the ritual cannot proceed, is the mask.”

“I thought the mask allowed a priest to communicate with Dagon,” Irene said. “Or perhaps to perform more powerful magic.”

“As I said,” Harry said with a tired smile, “it was a bad night. After Freddy told me this, I went out and did a bit of digging on my own. In this case, the digging was a bit more literal than I liked. I knew there had been a shrine to Dagon in the clay mines, but it had been closed for a long time. Before I even came to the city. I went to check it out.”

“And?” Cian asked.

“And there were signs of fresh offerings. Only grain and wine, so far, but you can bet that they’ll start with the victims soon enough. Once a cultic god gets his hooks into you, you’ll only want more. The Children make opium-addicts look like models of restraint.” He paused. “At this point, we have to believe that the Children are intent on raising Dagon. To do so, they will have a powerful magician or sorcerer aiding them. I’m afraid things have gotten much, much more serious.”

Cian had a dark look on his face and he was staring at Freddy.

“Harry,” Cian said.

“Yes?”

“What about the piece that we found last night?”

Harry set his fork down and wiped his mouth with the handkerchief. He nodded.

Cian pulled out his Colt and aimed it at Freddy.

“What in the world is going on?” Irene asked.

“What is this, Harry?” Freddy said. The old Hun hadn’t moved an inch.

Harry pulled out the jade trinket that Cian had found last night. He held it up for Freddy to see. “Cian found this in your pockets last night,” Harry said. “Do you want to explain?”

“That is not mine.”

“But you recognize it?”

There was a moment of struggle in Freddy’s face. “Yes. I’ve read about it and seen a drawing. Florent de Saint Olivier called it
la clef bleue
. But it isn’t mine.”

“And what does it do?”

Another pause, frustration filling Freddy’s expression. “It is a key, if the stories are true.”

“To?”

“To a Dagon shrine. To the true shrine, where Dagon might manifest himself. It was purportedly carried only by the high priest of the cult.” Freddy leaned forward, and Cian made a cautioning noise. Freddy froze and slumped in his chair. “This is madness, Harry. I have no interest in the Dagon cult. That does not belong to me. Sam must have left it there, to incriminate me. Or—” Freddy glanced at Cian. “Or he did it. What do we even know about them, Harry? They showed up when everything started to go wrong. Do you trust his word over mine?”

Harry paused. He looked at Cian, and then at Irene.

“I was with Cian,” Irene said. “He didn’t plant anything on Freddy. I can’t speak for Sam.”

“Harry—” Freddy began.

“I want to believe you, Freddy,” Harry said. “Truly. But you kept the disc, and—”

“The disc? This is still about the disc? It was a mistake, Harry. A damned big mistake, but a mistake. Not this—not this betrayal. I would never do such a thing.”

Harry tucked the blue carving into his pocket. “Let’s take a break, Freddy. Before anyone does or says anything stupid. You go home, rest, take care of yourself. Let me see what happens with this. We’ll track down that boy. If he admits to planting the artifact on you, then we go back to the way things were. No hurt feelings.”

Freddy nodded. “I do not blame you, Harry, for not believing me. I know how this looks. But I swear to you, I would not betray you.” Freddy stood shakily. He looked old and battered, as though he’d aged ten years since he came into the room. He gathered his coat and cane and left without another word.

After Freddy had shut the front door, Cian said, “I can’t believe you let him go. I don’t trust a Hun any farther than I can throw them.”

“He seemed sincere,” Irene said. “I believe him.”

Cian flashed her a glare.

Harry gathered up the empty plates. “It’s hard to say. Freddy has saved my life any number of times. If I hadn’t caught him with the disc, I would never have believed him capable of something like this. But someone under the sway of a cultic god can seem perfectly normal and rational right up to the minute he snaps. I hope, for Freddy’s sake—” He stopped, shrugged, and carried the plates into the kitchen. A moment later the sound of running water reached them.

Irene sat next to Cian on the sofa, close enough to feel the heat radiating off of him, close enough to smell his hair and the bacon on his breath. He shifted, as though he might put an arm around her, but then settled back into place.

“I suppose I should go back to the hotel and get my belongings,” Irene said.

“You can’t stay there,” Cian said. “It isn’t safe.”

“I know. That’s why I said I needed to get my things.”

“Then I’m going with you.”

“My noble protector.”

Cian snorted. “Protector? I need those clothes too. I’m afraid I’m going to start sounding like you, but I could use a bath and a change of clothes.”

Irene wrinkled her nose. “Yes,” she said. “You could.”

The hotel room was a disaster. The staff—including a man built like a small automobile, who glided into the room and announced that he was the hotel’s manager—apologized profusely and explained that a number of rooms had been broken into.

“We’ve hired additional help to ensure the security of the hotel,” the manager said, puffing and wheezing and wiping his forehead. “You can rest assured in the safety and comfort of the Louisiana Grand.”

In spite of these formidable promises, though, Irene gathered her belongings, and Cian gathered up his boxes of new clothes, and they took a cab back to Harry’s. After a bath and a change of clothes—into a simple gray dress with lavender accents—Irene felt a new woman. When Cian emerged from the bathroom a bit later, dressed in a new suit and with his hair combed, Irene laughed and said, “I’m sorry. Have we met?”

Cian shook his head. “I’m sure I would have remembered meeting someone so beautiful.”

From the hall, Harry gave an approving whistle, and Cian’s face heated. Irene turned in a circle, showing off her dress.

“You look lovely,” Harry said as he took her hand. “And you clean up rather nice, Cian.”

Cian looked at Irene, but he spoke to Harry. “There’s something else, Harry. I forgot to mention it earlier.”

“Yes?”

“Last night, I was attacked by another of those things. The big kind that Irene and I saw in the alley.”

“A sauria?” Irene said. “One of those lizard things?”

Cian nodded.

“Well why didn’t you say anything?”

“I came back to the hotel to tell you,” Cian said, “but you were too busy playing kiss and tickle with Patrick Hannafy.”

“I was not—”

“And then the golems showed up, and I had to lead them on a chase while you two canoodled in a cab.”

“Cian Shea, I—”

“Stop shouting,” Harry said. “Both of you.”

Cheeks hot, Irene blinked. She was not going to cry in front of this beast of a man. Not now. Not ever.

“You’re telling me you were attacked by a sauria and golems last night?” Harry said.

Cian nodded. “The sauria, if that’s what you call them, spoke to me. It was looking for someone. A man. I thought it meant Sam but—”

“But now you think it was Freddy.”

Cian nodded.

“Well, all the more reason to find the thief and see what he can tell us. Pearl stopped in while you two were gone, and I’ve sent her to start looking for our reluctant guest. If you two are ready, I’m due to meet her and see what she’s found.”

“I’m ready,” Cian said.

Irene tried to clear her throat, but she didn’t want to risk speaking. She blinked her eyes clear and nodded.

Harry squeezed her hand and smiled. A very small, very sad smile. But all he said was, “Then bring your gun, my dear.”