The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (44 page)

No elevator. Another good sign.

He knocked at Irene’s door. She opened it a moment later, wearing a robe that clung to her hips and breasts. The robe probably had a color. Blue? Gray? Cian would never be able to tell.

He wasn’t looking at the robe.

“Cian?”

Cian pulled his eyes up to her face. Her short hair was messy. Her eyes were bright.

“Evening, Irene.”

“I think it’s past evening,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Come in?”

He followed her into the set of rooms. As she had at the Grand, Irene had rented a suite, with a sitting room complete with an elaborate, gilt-framed sofa and a pair of chairs. A diamond-patterned paper covered the walls, and a painting dominated one side of the room. It showed a woman in a dressing gown, staring over her shoulder. Staring, it seemed, right at Cian.

Saying,
I’m already half-naked. Let’s finish the job
.

Cian told the painting to mind her own business.

Irene sank into one of the chairs. Cian dropped onto the sofa, and the springs creaked under his weight. For a moment, neither spoke. One of Irene’s eyebrows climbed, and she was fighting a smile. Her robe had slipped, exposing her collarbone and a hint of shoulder.

The woman in the painting wouldn’t shut her damn mouth.

“Well?” Irene said.

At the same time, Cian said, “What were you doing at that whorehouse, Irene?”

She blinked. Her voice had dropped ten degrees when she said, “What were you doing there?”

Cian blinked. “It’s—I was—”

“Really?”

Cian stood up. “Damn it, Irene. You know that’s not why I was there. That kid. The thief. He told Harry that’s where he hid the mask.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I saw the box.”

“Did you get it?”

Irene shook her head.

“Damn. It’s not your fault, but damn.”

“Those spiders. They were all over it.” She paused. “How’s Harry?”

“I don’t know. The bite was bad. You saw. Pearl and I got him home. He wasn’t getting better, Irene.”

“What do you mean, wasn’t? What’s happened?”

Cian told her. When he’d finished, Irene leaned her head on her hand, staring at the wallpaper.

“But he’s well?”

“He hadn’t woken up when I left, but the wounds were gone.”

She stared at the wall, as though the pattern held the key to a puzzle.

Cian let a minute or two drag by and then said, “Don’t think you’re going to get out of answering my question, Irene. What were you doing tonight?”

“Looking for company,” she said distractedly.

Company.

Irene looked over and laughed. “Cian, you should see your face. I was kidding.”

“I know.” Cian shifted on the sofa. “I knew that.”

“Of course.”

“No jokes, Irene. What were you doing?”

“I was doing something for Patrick.”

“He can’t get a girl himself?”

“Now who’s making jokes? That wasn’t it at all. It was his sister. She was in that awful place.”

“Was she—”

“Yes, she was working, Cian. And God, try not to sound so judgmental.”

“I wasn’t—”

“She didn’t want to be there, Cian. It wasn’t by choice.”

“All I meant—”

“And if you have to know, I was helping her leave. Although heaven knows she made it more difficult than it should have been. The situation was more complicated than I knew, and I had to adjust.”

Cian’s throat felt like it had been lined with wool. Tight and scratchy. “Which part do you mean?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Which part was more complicated? The shootout between Byrne’s men and the Dane’s thugs? Or the Children’s spiders? Or something else?”

“I don’t know why you’re taking that tone with me.”

Cian waited.

“It was something else,” she said. “Something with Anna.”

“So you mean to tell me that Patrick sent you into that place, where you could have been shot or bitten by one of those monsters or only God knows what, and that was fine with you? Just one minor hiccup with Anna, and the rest was fine.”

“You make it sound as if Patrick knew—”

“Of course he knew!” Cian stood up too fast. His leg caught the coffee table. The flash of pain in his shin turned to rage, and he kicked the table out of the way. “He knew and he didn’t give one damn, Irene. And neither did you.” Cian stepped towards Irene. Her eyes were wide. Wide and dark, and he knew he was scaring her, but he was too frightened and upset himself to care. “God, Irene. You could have been hurt. You could have been killed. And you know what the worst part was?”

Biting her lip, she shook her head.

“I did it. I did what I told you I didn’t ever want to do. I left you there. Alone.”

“I’m fine—”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not fine, Irene.” His hands were shaking, so he shoved them in his pockets, but then the pockets felt too tight. Cian yanked his hands out. He grabbed at the coffee table, trying to right it, and then gave up and tossed it back to the floor. Cian turned back to Irene. “I’m not fine, do you understand?”

Irene sat up straight in her chair. Her eyes were liquid. She took a breath and folded her hands. “You should leave.”

“Patrick put your life in danger, Irene. He doesn’t give a damn about you.”

Color rushed into her cheeks, and Irene stood. “Enough, Cian. You don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about. I want you to leave.”

“Fine,” Cian said. His hands were still shaking. He smoothed his trousers, ran a hand through his hair, and wished his mouth didn’t taste like dry fear.

Then he put his hands on Irene’s arms, bent down, and kissed her. It was a hard, angry, desperate kiss, and he hoped she didn’t sense the desperation.

When he pulled back, Irene shrugged his hands off, but she didn’t move. She looked up at him. Silent. She smelled good. Like bath soap and clean skin.

“Fine,” Cian repeated. He grabbed his coat and left.

She didn’t call after him.

Cian’s injured hand ached. His pride ached more. He wanted a drink and to punch Patrick Hannafy in the face.

And he knew where he could do both at the same time.

By the time Cian reached Patrick’s bar, he wished he’d remembered a hat. He wore a helmet of ice and snow instead, his ears had fallen off two miles back, and his breath had lost any semblance of life. He rapped on the door.

It was late. Late enough that the lights were off. Late enough that the last of Patrick’s customers had left. But Patrick would be here. He slept here, in case anyone had the bright idea of helping themselves to a free drink.

Cian pulled out the Colt and checked it.

Plenty of bullets to kill one man.

He hammered on the door again.

“Who is it?” Patrick’s voice was muffled by the thick wood.

“Open the door, Patrick.”

“Cian?”

“Yeah.”

A moment later, the door opened. Cian shoved his way into the bar. He kicked the door shut, grabbed Patrick by the undershirt, and slammed the dark-haired man onto a table. The smell of cleaner and spilled beer filled the room. Patrick struggled to sit up. Cian knocked him back and jammed the Colt in Patrick’s face.

Patrick froze.

“You stupid, selfish coward,” Cian said. “You sent her there alone. Alone, Patrick? What were you thinking?”

“What are you talking about?”

Cian shook his head. “Don’t.”

“I—”

“What if she’d gotten hurt? What if they’d killed her? Did you know Byrne sent a group of men? They had it out with some of the Dane’s boys. And then—” Cian forced himself to stop. Take a breath. His finger was steady on the trigger, but it was the only part of him that was.

“Irene,” Patrick said. “Holy God, you’re talking about Irene. What happened? Did someone—”

“She’s fine, no thanks to you.”

The anger drained out of Cian. He shoved the Colt into his trousers and rubbed his eyes. Then he held out a hand and helped Patrick up.

Patrick stared at him the way people stared at a sick dog. A big, redheaded, stupid-as-shit, sick dog.

“You got something to drink?” Cian said.

With a nod, Patrick led him back to the bar. He poured them each a whiskey.

Cian drained his glass. Without asking, Patrick poured more. Cian drank it down again, and then waved his hand when Patrick lifted the bottle. The whiskey was curling up like a cat in Cian’s brain.

God, he’d been a fool.

That kiss. That damned kiss.

“She went herself, didn’t she?” Patrick said, interrupting Cian’s thoughts. “I didn’t know, Cian. I should have realized but I was so . . . so grateful. She told me she’d spoken to her father. That the raid was going to be tonight. She told me she’d have Anna back tonight, she just needed the name of the brothel. I told her. I swear to you, if I had even suspected—”

“It doesn’t matter, Patrick. It’s over. She’ll do whatever she wants. She’ll be with whomever she wants. She’s got her own mind to make up.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means congratulations, my friend.” Cian slid the glass across the bar. Patrick caught it. Cian stood and walked away from the bar. When he reached the door, he stopped and looked back and gestured at the table. “Sorry.”

Patrick leaned on the bar, swirled his glass of whiskey, and didn’t answer.

“Right,” Cian said. He let himself back out into the cold.

By the time Cian reached Harry’s apartment, he was frozen head to toe. Even the whiskey had frozen, forming a hard lump at the back of his head, stopping his thoughts like a clogged drain. It was better that way. Easier not to think about Irene, or Patrick, or that damned, fool kiss. Pearl answered the door at the first knock.

“Irene?” she asked.

“Fine.”

He stumbled past her and dropped onto the sofa. Pearl shut the door and stood there. She was still dressed, although she had shed her shoes. Exhaustion rubbed shadows under her eyes.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“No.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Not enough.”

“You sound like Harry.”

There wasn’t much to say to that. After a moment, Pearl walked towards the hall.

“How is he?” Cian asked.

“Still sleeping,” Pearl said.

“Sam?”

“Sleeping too, I think. I’ve been with Harry.”

“Pearl?”

She paused.

“Get some sleep. I’ll sit up with Harry. Make sure nothing happens.”

Hesitation was obvious in Pearl’s face.

“You need sleep,” Cian said.

“So do you.”

“Trust me,” Cian said. “I’m not going to sleep any time soon. Get some rest.”

The struggle in her face was obvious. Love and concern against fatigue. Cian felt something splitting open inside him as he watched her.

Had anyone ever felt that way about him?

It was a tiny, selfish thought, and he crushed it under his heel like a spent cigarette.

Fatigue must have won, because Pearl nodded. “Thank you. Just an hour or two, and then I’ll let you rest.”

“No need, Pearl. Take care of yourself tonight. You’re always taking care of others.”

Cian thought she might say something else. There was surprise in her face, and a shocking loneliness, as though he had pulled back the curtain and caught her unawares. But she turned and disappeared down the hallway without another word.

That made two women who didn’t to talk to him.

When Cian entered Harry’s room, the smell of the sea was gone. The room was dark, with only the glimmer of the gas lamps overhead by which to see. Harry’s steady breathing seemed magnified by the solitude. Cian settled into a chair near the bed. He kicked off his shoes and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling.

The warmth had thawed the whiskey. It rolled over him like summer fog, clinging to the inside of his mouth, and Cian felt himself dropping off to sleep.

He wasn’t sure what woke him, but he noticed the change in Harry’s breathing almost immediately. Cian sat up and looked at the bed.

Harry had propped himself up against the headboard. He was watching Cian, his expression unreadable. In the deep shadows, the distance between them dwindled to nothing, and the whiskey still rumbled through Cian’s brain like a summer thunderstorm. The rest of the apartment was silent. Outside, a cat yowled, and the sound pressed itself against the window like a vagrant thing.

“I’m sorry,” Cian said. “I should have done what you asked. If I had—” He stopped and shrugged.

Harry was silent so long that Cian wondered if the man had heard him.

“Irene?” Harry asked.

“She’s fine.”

“What happened?”

“I saw one of those spiders going for her. I lost my head. I should have—”

Harry shook his head. “What happened between you and her? You sound like a boy with his first broken heart.”

“It’s nothing,” Cian said. He forced a chuckle. “I’m fine. Women, you know? Hell, maybe you have the right idea.”

Then he froze and realized what he had just said.

The darkness made it difficult to read anything on Harry’s face. The other man’s voice was even, though, when he said, “How long have you known?”

“Harry, I didn’t—listen, I mean—”