Read Online The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) by Gregory Ashe - Free Book Online
Authors: Gregory Ashe
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folded the handkerchief and put it away. She wouldn’t need it again. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. The cold was settling into her, as though she’d drunk from Lethe. The only problem was the shivers.
Cian had one arm around her again, and he led her down the alley.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Irene said through chattering teeth. “Just a case of the jitters.”
“Of course,” Cian murmured, helping her into the street beyond. “You won’t mind if I stay close, though. Just for warmth.”
Another flash of the smile that didn’t touch his eyes.
“Just for warmth,” she agreed.
And then her brain said good night, and dimmed the lights, and Irene let herself stumble along through the slush and snow, worrying about the stains to her shoes.
Irene blinked winter-dry eyes. Ahead of them, for the third time tonight, the street began to widen. Street lamps made firefly lights a few blocks ahead, marking the end of Kerry Patch and the beginning of civilization. Cian paused, though, stopping her at the edge of another alley as he studied the street. He had been true to his word, sticking to her side, helping her keep her feet as he guided her through the nightmare twists of the Patch. For what seemed like a long time, Irene’s thoughts had been a fuzzy patchwork. Now the night seemed clear again. More than anything, she was aware of Cian’s presence. Irene liked the feel of him next to her, warm and solid, and she didn’t like that she liked it.
“What are we waiting for?” she asked. “We’ve been wandering forever.”
“We’ve been wandering, as you call it, for a little over an hour,” Cian said. “And only that long because Seamus’s men have ringed Kerry Patch and I can’t find a way out.”
“My feet are freezing. This street looks clear enough. Let’s go, before they find us.”
“Look over there,” Cian said. He reached over her shoulder to point, and she caught of a whiff of his scent, masculine and the slight heat of whiskey. Irritating and pleasant at the same time. Rather like man himself.
A thought that needed to be trampled.
Irene focused on Cian’s gesture. He indicated a rooftop on the next block. The building sagged towards the street, outlined only by the wavering streetlights, and its roof had the sagging lumps of an old quilt. No different, really, from any of the other shanties that comprised the Patch, and Irene couldn’t understand why Cian was being so insistent—
One of the roof’s lumps skittered forward, forming a black bulk against the sky.
It wasn’t a person.
“What is that?”
“God knows,” Cian said. He had the pistol in his hand again. “We’ll find a different route.” He motioned her back into Kerry Patch.
As Irene turned around, though, lights appeared at the far end of the alley. Men began to move into the alley, carrying flashlights and guns, and Irene took a step back.
“Seamus’s men,” she said.
Cian shook his head.
“Hold right there,” a voice called from the end of the alley. “Federal agents. Stop where you are.”
“Federal agents,” Irene said. She laughed and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Cian, I’ve been drinking.”
“I don’t think they’re worried about a bit of whiskey,” he said.
He grabbed her arm and pulled her into the street. A stiff breeze pushed away coal-smoke and cut through Irene’s coat, carrying the smell of mud and water from the river. Her thin shoes slipped and turned in the slush, and more than once Cian’s grip kept her upright. As they ran, Cian traded glances between the street and the rooftops. Irene pulled the revolver from her clutch.
Two shots left.
Behind her, she heard another shout, “Federal agents of the Bureau of Prohibition. Stop!”
She was laughing. The wind stole the sound from her lips, filled her mouth with ice, but she didn’t care. She laughed. The revolver weighed a hundred pounds, and her legs were mint jelly, but she laughed at that too.
When the
Cian had one arm around her again, and he led her down the alley.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Irene said through chattering teeth. “Just a case of the jitters.”
“Of course,” Cian murmured, helping her into the street beyond. “You won’t mind if I stay close, though. Just for warmth.”
Another flash of the smile that didn’t touch his eyes.
“Just for warmth,” she agreed.
And then her brain said good night, and dimmed the lights, and Irene let herself stumble along through the slush and snow, worrying about the stains to her shoes.
Irene blinked winter-dry eyes. Ahead of them, for the third time tonight, the street began to widen. Street lamps made firefly lights a few blocks ahead, marking the end of Kerry Patch and the beginning of civilization. Cian paused, though, stopping her at the edge of another alley as he studied the street. He had been true to his word, sticking to her side, helping her keep her feet as he guided her through the nightmare twists of the Patch. For what seemed like a long time, Irene’s thoughts had been a fuzzy patchwork. Now the night seemed clear again. More than anything, she was aware of Cian’s presence. Irene liked the feel of him next to her, warm and solid, and she didn’t like that she liked it.
“What are we waiting for?” she asked. “We’ve been wandering forever.”
“We’ve been wandering, as you call it, for a little over an hour,” Cian said. “And only that long because Seamus’s men have ringed Kerry Patch and I can’t find a way out.”
“My feet are freezing. This street looks clear enough. Let’s go, before they find us.”
“Look over there,” Cian said. He reached over her shoulder to point, and she caught of a whiff of his scent, masculine and the slight heat of whiskey. Irritating and pleasant at the same time. Rather like man himself.
A thought that needed to be trampled.
Irene focused on Cian’s gesture. He indicated a rooftop on the next block. The building sagged towards the street, outlined only by the wavering streetlights, and its roof had the sagging lumps of an old quilt. No different, really, from any of the other shanties that comprised the Patch, and Irene couldn’t understand why Cian was being so insistent—
One of the roof’s lumps skittered forward, forming a black bulk against the sky.
It wasn’t a person.
“What is that?”
“God knows,” Cian said. He had the pistol in his hand again. “We’ll find a different route.” He motioned her back into Kerry Patch.
As Irene turned around, though, lights appeared at the far end of the alley. Men began to move into the alley, carrying flashlights and guns, and Irene took a step back.
“Seamus’s men,” she said.
Cian shook his head.
“Hold right there,” a voice called from the end of the alley. “Federal agents. Stop where you are.”
“Federal agents,” Irene said. She laughed and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Cian, I’ve been drinking.”
“I don’t think they’re worried about a bit of whiskey,” he said.
He grabbed her arm and pulled her into the street. A stiff breeze pushed away coal-smoke and cut through Irene’s coat, carrying the smell of mud and water from the river. Her thin shoes slipped and turned in the slush, and more than once Cian’s grip kept her upright. As they ran, Cian traded glances between the street and the rooftops. Irene pulled the revolver from her clutch.
Two shots left.
Behind her, she heard another shout, “Federal agents of the Bureau of Prohibition. Stop!”
She was laughing. The wind stole the sound from her lips, filled her mouth with ice, but she didn’t care. She laughed. The revolver weighed a hundred pounds, and her legs were mint jelly, but she laughed at that too.
When the
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