The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (43 page)

“God, kid, calm down,” Cian said. He fumbled with the gag, pulling it free as gently as he could. Sam took ragged breaths, sobbing now. This time, when Cian reached forward, Sam shouted and pulled back.

“Calm down,” Cian said.

But calm didn’t seem to be in the cards. Sam’s eyes were wild, and he twisted and bucked, hollering for help as he tried to tear himself free from the ropes. There was something mad in the boy’s behavior, and it sent a chill through Cian. The Sam they’d caught on the train had been an annoying little shit and as trustworthy as a bag of snakes, but nothing like this. Cian grabbed the back of Sam’s head. The boy turned, snapping at Cian’s arm like a feral dog.

Cian gave him a shake.

“Stop it. Sam. Stop! I’m not going to hurt you.”

Sam continued to strain towards Cian’s arm, desperate to sink his teeth into Cian’s flesh.

Cian pulled back. He wiped sweaty palms on his trousers.

What the hell had Harry done to this kid?

Sam was still shouting, but the words were a jumble, completely meaningless. Cian stared at the boy for a moment longer. It reminded him, just a bit, of boys who had cracked during the war. When they couldn’t take the shelling anymore, or the trenches, or the rats.

He grabbed Sam’s hair, held the boy’s head straight, and landed an open-handed slap.

The crack of the blow swallowed every other sound. Sam stopped shouting. He went limp, like a dead man.

Cian let go of the boy’s hair. Sam’s head dropped forward.

After a moment, Sam gave a shake. He lifted his head, blinked, and worked his jaw.

“Cian?”

“That you, Sam?”

“I think you broke my fucking jaw.”

That, Cian had to admit, sounded like Sam.

“You settled down? I’m going to untie you.”

Sam nodded. Exhaustion had drawn lines on the boy’s face, and he looked ten years older. Cian loosed the ropes, and Sam pulled his arms forward. His movements were stiff as he rubbed at his wrists and elbows.

“God,” Sam said, wrinkling his nose. “Is that me?”

Cian nodded.

“What the hell, Shea?”

“That’s what I was going to ask you,” Cian said. “What the hell happened to you?”

Darkness settled over Sam’s blue eyes. A tremor ran through his jaw.

“Take a breath, Sam.”

The boy shivered, took a breath, and shivered again. “I don’t—” His voice was strangled. “I don’t—”

“All right, easy, Sam. Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

The tension in Sam’s body vanished. He sagged forward.

“If I tell you take a bath,” Cian said, “you’re not going to drown yourself, are you?”

“No.” Sam struggled for a grin. It was an obvious effort. “I might slit my wrists, though, if I ever have to be this close to you again.”

“I’ll start the water,” Cian said.

He went to the bathroom, started the bath, and—just in case—removed Harry’s razor. And, after a second thought, a bottle of sleeping powder.

Just in case.

Sam shuffled into the bathroom like an old man.

While Sam bathed, Cian did his best to clean up the back bedroom. The rug was stained with Sam’s piss, and the chair too. Cian dragged them both out to the rear balcony, and then he set to work scrubbing the floor. The smell of cleaner filled his nose, replacing the stench of fear and torture. It did nothing for his thoughts, though.

Harry had done something to that boy. Something awful.

“You’re going to scrub through the floor,” Sam said.

Cian dropped the brush and flexed his aching hand. Sam stood in the doorway, his hair combed and slicked back, some of the color back in his face. He wore a spare shirt and trousers borrowed from Harry, which were only too large for him, and he looked like a kid wearing his father’s clothes. A kid who wished he had a revolver and a fast way out of there.

“Now what?” Sam asked.

“You tell me.”

“What are my odds of getting a bullet in the back of the head if I try to leave?”

“From me?”

“Who else? You almost broke my nose—”

“When you were trying to escape,” Cian said.

“—and you knocked me around in that cellar—”

“After we rescued you and you tried being smart.”

“And then, on top of it all, you leave me tied up here with a lunatic.” Sam paused for breath. “Yeah. I think I’ve got a good reason to ask. Can I leave? Or should I just go ahead, let you tie me up, and plan on shitting myself in a few hours?”

“The last part of the plan doesn’t sound too strong.”

Sam’s lip curled. “Now you’re all jokes, huh?”

Cian stood. His knees ached. He stretched his back and crossed the room.

Sam took a step back and bumped into the wall.

“Listen, kid.”

“I’m not a—”

“Just listen. Ok, I got a little rough. I’m sorry. There, that’s your apology. Don’t act like you’re new to this kind of game. You had a knife to Irene and you would have used it, if you needed to. You’ve been trying to run an angle on us since we saved your skinny ass. We’ve been protecting you and all we’ve gotten for it is a shit-load of trouble.” Cian poked Sam in the chest, where the bruises and cuts still lingered, and Sam flinched and knocked his hand away. “And don’t forget, kid. You looked like a side of beef when we pulled you out of that house. Aside from your nose, nobody’s put a finger on you here.”

“Harry—”

“Yeah? What did Harry do to you?”

Sam flushed, and his eyes went to the floor.

“Yeah, I figured. Nothing.”

“Just cause I don’t remember doesn’t mean nothing happened. Maybe he gave me some dope or something. I don’t know.”

“Any good at arithmetic, Sam?”

“What?”

“Arithmetic. Did you even go to school?”

Sam told him—in a particularly explicit phrase—what he thought of that question.

“Then start adding up the times I’ve saved your life, in spite of the fact that you’ve caused nothing but trouble. And then tell me if you want to call things square or not. Hell, I’ll even forget you had a knife on Irene.”

Cian waited a minute. Sam locked gazes with him.

“Cian,” Pearl shouted from the other room.

“Stay here,” Cian said.

He ran down the hall. Sam was a step behind him, and Cian gritted his teeth, but he didn’t stop. Pearl stood outside Harry’s door, twisting the handle.

“I went to get more snow,” Pearl said, “and when I came back, he was out of bed. He slammed the door and won’t let me in.” She hammered on the door. “Harry!”

“Harry, open the damn door,” Cian said. He twisted the handle. It turned easily, but when Cian tried to open the door, it wouldn’t budge. “What the hell did he do?”

Pearl didn’t answer.

“What in God’s name is that?” Sam asked. He was pointing at the bottom of the door, where a shimmer of light was visible. Not the muted glow of gaslight, but a wavering illumination like sunlight off of water.

“Pearl?” Cian said.

She shook her head and stepped away from the door.

Cian moved back a pace and charged. He hit the door hard.

His shoulder popped and Cian grunted. It felt like slamming into a brick wall.

Sam let out something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, but when Cian looked at him, the kid had his hands over his mouth and was pretending to cough.

“What the hell did he do?” Cian repeated, rubbing his shoulder.

“He needs help,” Pearl said. “I’m calling Freddy.”

“Pearl, stop. You can’t trust him.”

“Well what am I supposed to do, Cian? Watch him die? Leave him locked in there, doing God knows what?”

A sudden flash came from underneath the door. Then darkness.

Pearl raised one trembling hand to the door. Cian tried to move in front of her, but she pushed him out of the way and opened the door.

The first thing Cian noticed was the smell. The air had the heavy, salty taste of the sea. It rolled over Cian and vanished. His clothes felt damp, as though he’d spent the day in the humid sea air. The room itself was dark, but Pearl didn’t slow. Cian raised the gaslights.

Harry lay on the floor, bare chested. A shard of glass lay on the floor next to him. The mirror had been broken, and more glass strewed the floor. Cian picked his way across the room and knelt next to Harry.

The furnace heat that had poured off of Harry was gone. The man’s breathing was easier. He was asleep. Pearl struggled to turn Harry onto his side, and Cian helped her.

He couldn’t help his quick intake of breath.

The corroded flesh was smooth. The skin on Harry’s back unbroken. No sign of the dark streamers of venom that had slid underneath the surface of his skin.

Pearl pulled her hands back as though she had been burned. She closed her eyes.

Cian picked Harry up and put him in bed. When he turned around, Pearl was on her feet. She looked like a woman who had stepped onto thin air and was just realizing that she was starting to fall.

“What is this?” Cian asked.

Pearl shook her head.

“Pearl, he doesn’t have a scratch on him,” Cian said.

“I’d be happy to give him a few,” Sam said from the door.

Cian and Pearl both glared at him.

Sam quailed and said, “Well, only if it would help.”

They continued to stare.

“I’ll wait in the kitchen,” Sam said.

“Smart,” Cian said. Then he looked at Pearl. “Magic or sorcery or whatever you call it.”

She didn’t answer.

“Pearl, talk to me,” Cian said.

“Yes. Yes, that’s what it is.” Her voice was as broken as the mirror.

“So what now?”

“Now?” She pulled herself together and pushed her hair back. “Now, I’m going to clean up this glass.”

Cian watched her a moment longer. Pearl ignored him. She knelt and began picking up the largest pieces of the broken mirror.

“Are you going to be ok with him?” Cian said. “I’m going to find Irene.”

Pearl nodded without looking up.

Cian went to the kitchen, where he found Sam halfway into making an impressive sandwich, layered with cold roast beef and slabs of cheddar cheese. Cian grabbed Sam by the arm and hauled him towards the door.

“Come on, Sammy boy.”

“Wait,” Sam said, swiping at the retreating sandwich. “Hold on.”

At the front door, Cian stopped and released Sam. “Now. This is when you make your choice.”

“I choose the sandwich.”

Cian tried not to grind his teeth.

He tried very hard.

“If you want to leave, you leave now.” Sam opened his mouth, and Cian shook his head. “No sandwich.” Sam’s mouth snapped shut, and a crestfallen look came onto his face. “You want out, Sam, you go. Now. But listen to me before you do. The Children know who you are. The Dane and Byrne aren’t going to forget any time soon. If you leave, one of them will find you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know they found you on that damn train before you’d even left the station.”

“I won’t—”

“Just listen, ok? Maybe you make it out of town. Maybe you make it out to California, or Alaska, or you drop off the edge of the earth. But here’s the thing. Once you start running, you can’t stop. Ever. Every day, you’re still running, even if you sleep in the same bed. It turns into part of who you are. So if you run now, you’re going to be running the rest of your life, whether or not the Children find you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that. I’ve been running for five years.”

Sam ran a hand through his hair, disrupting the neat part and sending it back into its normal, disheveled state. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Now, I want you to stay. I need your help. I need someone here for Pearl. In case. Well, in case of anything. And if you stay, you’ll have us at your back. We’re not going to let the Children have you.”

“What about Harry?”

“Let me deal with Harry Witte.”

“You promise? You won’t let him—”

“Promise.”

“Hell, I can’t remember anyway.” Sam held out his hand. “Let’s say we’re square, and I’ll stay. I’ll help you. On one more condition.”

Cian raised an eyebrow.

“The sandwich.”

As Cian walked through the doors to the Majestic, he decided he liked it quite a bit more than the Louisiana Grand. The Majestic shared many elements with the Grand: the modern design, the geometric patterns, the chandeliers and the gold leaf and the marble floor. But unlike the Grand, the Majestic wasn’t a soaring monstrosity of a building. It was a decent size, several respectable stories. The kind of building a man could walk into without feeling overwhelmed.

And, more importantly, the kind of building from which a man could escape through the window without almost certain death.

Cian’s type of building

An inquiry at the front desk, after a protracted argument, led the clerk to send a bellhop to Irene’s room—to make sure, as the clerk put it, that her guest was expected.

In other words, to make sure Cian wasn’t the riffraff that he seemed like. Suit or no suit, the clerk, and the bellhop, for that matter, both sensed it within seconds. Cian wasn’t money. Cian was Kerry Patch, through and through.

It didn’t bother him the way it used to.

When the bellhop returned with Irene’s answer, the clerk gave Cian the room number, and Cian hurried upstairs.