Read Online The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) by Gregory Ashe - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gregory Ashe
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first shadow leaped from overhead, Irene fired.
The kick of the revolver surprised her, and she slid on a patch of ice. Cian kept a hold of her. Overhead, there was a splat, and then the clatter of twigs. Something the size of a hound hit the ground.
The street was dark. Fear made Irene doubt her eyes.
But she saw eight legs curl up in agony as the thing writhed in the shadows.
Behind Irene, shouts filled the night. She risked a look. Men were settling into defensive positions, training guns on Irene and Cian.
“It was a spider,” she shouted back to them, still laughing. “Just a spider!”
Cian’s grip tightened on her hand as he yanked her down a side street.
They went two more blocks, twisting and turning through the madness of Kerry Patch, Irene limping on bruised and frozen feet. Her cheeks were flushed, her skin tight and tingling, and laughter lurked just below the surface. The laughter rode on top of something else, like an oil slick, and Irene didn’t want to know what was waiting below. Something that wanted to sink cold teeth into her.
At last they came to a wedge between two log dwellings. The smell of wood-smoke and roast chicken lingered on the air. Irene’s stomach rumbled. Cian moved to stand in front of her, tilting her face up to his. They were only inches apart, and heat poured off him like a furnace. Irene felt an epileptic smile teasing her face as she stared at him.
She thought Cian might be worried.
“It was a spider,” she said, feeling another storm of giggles on the horizon. “The size of a dog. Papa never let me have a dog.” A spatter of giggles. “Maybe he’ll let me have a spider.”
Yes, that was definitely worry on Cian’s face.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“You’re in shock,” he said. “Or you’re cracked.”
“You saw it too,” Irene said. “Don’t lie. You saw it. You know I’m telling the truth.”
“Sh,” Cian said. “Fine. I saw something. I don’t know what. Don’t shout.”
“Don’t you dare say I’m making it up. Don’t you dare.”
Irene pushed him away and went to stand at the edge of their hiding spot. The sudden flare of anger had burned off the spate of crazed energy, clearing her thoughts, dragging her back to the cold, squatting night. Her mouth tasted like blood. She had bit the inside of her cheek.
Irene tried to focus on where they were. She wanted home and dinner and bed and enough sleeping powder to keep her there for a week. If she could figure out where she was, she could still force Cian to go back home with her. He could confirm the delivery of the wooden box. Then Papa would have to admit she was telling the truth, that she wasn’t making it all up.
She hadn’t been making it up about Francis Derby either.
Ahead, several blocks distant, Irene saw the sparkle of moonlight on the river. The buildings here were more of the same: scabrous wood and leper-plaster, ready for a common grave. Something darted across the street, and Irene’s hand tightened on the revolver’s grip, but it was only a speckled tabby that disappeared between a pair of homes. Further down the street, to the right, a mass of folded shadows broke the sky. From its size and shape, Irene guessed it was a church—more solid than anything else in the area. If she could figure out which church it was, she’d be able to get home.
With Cian, whether he liked it or not.
“Let’s go this way,” Irene said. “It looks clear.”
Cian joined her. He watched the street for a minute and then nodded.
They picked their way down the frozen ruts. Once Cian helped Irene over a pool of frozen waste, but she pulled her hand free as soon as she was clear. He didn’t respond except to shove his hands deep into his pockets, hunch his shoulders against the wind, and stay at her side.
Everything about him was a dozen times more irritating than it should have been.
The church grew by inches. The river swept an arm out, hugging a point of land, and the church
The kick of the revolver surprised her, and she slid on a patch of ice. Cian kept a hold of her. Overhead, there was a splat, and then the clatter of twigs. Something the size of a hound hit the ground.
The street was dark. Fear made Irene doubt her eyes.
But she saw eight legs curl up in agony as the thing writhed in the shadows.
Behind Irene, shouts filled the night. She risked a look. Men were settling into defensive positions, training guns on Irene and Cian.
“It was a spider,” she shouted back to them, still laughing. “Just a spider!”
Cian’s grip tightened on her hand as he yanked her down a side street.
They went two more blocks, twisting and turning through the madness of Kerry Patch, Irene limping on bruised and frozen feet. Her cheeks were flushed, her skin tight and tingling, and laughter lurked just below the surface. The laughter rode on top of something else, like an oil slick, and Irene didn’t want to know what was waiting below. Something that wanted to sink cold teeth into her.
At last they came to a wedge between two log dwellings. The smell of wood-smoke and roast chicken lingered on the air. Irene’s stomach rumbled. Cian moved to stand in front of her, tilting her face up to his. They were only inches apart, and heat poured off him like a furnace. Irene felt an epileptic smile teasing her face as she stared at him.
She thought Cian might be worried.
“It was a spider,” she said, feeling another storm of giggles on the horizon. “The size of a dog. Papa never let me have a dog.” A spatter of giggles. “Maybe he’ll let me have a spider.”
Yes, that was definitely worry on Cian’s face.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“You’re in shock,” he said. “Or you’re cracked.”
“You saw it too,” Irene said. “Don’t lie. You saw it. You know I’m telling the truth.”
“Sh,” Cian said. “Fine. I saw something. I don’t know what. Don’t shout.”
“Don’t you dare say I’m making it up. Don’t you dare.”
Irene pushed him away and went to stand at the edge of their hiding spot. The sudden flare of anger had burned off the spate of crazed energy, clearing her thoughts, dragging her back to the cold, squatting night. Her mouth tasted like blood. She had bit the inside of her cheek.
Irene tried to focus on where they were. She wanted home and dinner and bed and enough sleeping powder to keep her there for a week. If she could figure out where she was, she could still force Cian to go back home with her. He could confirm the delivery of the wooden box. Then Papa would have to admit she was telling the truth, that she wasn’t making it all up.
She hadn’t been making it up about Francis Derby either.
Ahead, several blocks distant, Irene saw the sparkle of moonlight on the river. The buildings here were more of the same: scabrous wood and leper-plaster, ready for a common grave. Something darted across the street, and Irene’s hand tightened on the revolver’s grip, but it was only a speckled tabby that disappeared between a pair of homes. Further down the street, to the right, a mass of folded shadows broke the sky. From its size and shape, Irene guessed it was a church—more solid than anything else in the area. If she could figure out which church it was, she’d be able to get home.
With Cian, whether he liked it or not.
“Let’s go this way,” Irene said. “It looks clear.”
Cian joined her. He watched the street for a minute and then nodded.
They picked their way down the frozen ruts. Once Cian helped Irene over a pool of frozen waste, but she pulled her hand free as soon as she was clear. He didn’t respond except to shove his hands deep into his pockets, hunch his shoulders against the wind, and stay at her side.
Everything about him was a dozen times more irritating than it should have been.
The church grew by inches. The river swept an arm out, hugging a point of land, and the church
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