Read Online The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) by Gregory Ashe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gregory Ashe
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stood out along this curve of land and water. As they grew closer, Irene began to pick out things that looked more familiar. Shopfronts put on brick and glass and rose to two and three stories. The river air cleared the worst of the smoke, and overhead the stars had taken on depth and brilliance. Irene felt a surge of energy. She was almost out of this mess.
The whine of motors came from the next street.
Without speaking, Irene and Cian moved into the deeper shadows that clung to the storefronts. A pair of cars pulled out into the street and stopped. Men emerged from the cars. Eight men. Half of them carried guns.
The other four were very big and wearing dark trench coats.
Cian took her hand.
It didn’t seem wise to protest, so Irene kept silent.
With a nudge, Cian started Irene moving, keeping their backs pressed to the brick as they walked.
“They said they were coming this way,” one of the men with the guns said.
“Bugs. You can’t trust bugs. We shouldn’t have waited so long.”
“You can tell him that, then. For now, get your mangy hide down that street and keep an eye out. They’re coming this way, believe it or not.”
By now Cian and Irene were almost even with the men and the cars. Irene’s heart had climbed up her throat. Her fingers were sweaty in Cian’s. She studied the men in front of her as they split up. The darkness made it difficult, but she was fairly sure they weren’t the men from Patrick’s. They also were most certainly not federal agents.
So who were they?
She met Cian’s eyes and mouthed, Seamus?
He shook his head.
The church towered over them now, and it sat on the next block. From here, there was no doubt. The Old Cathedral. Night hid the tarnished copper steeple, but the stone pillars and the classical façade were unmistakable. Irene had a vision of herself hammering on the massive door, crying, “Sanctuary,” but this time she didn’t have to fight any giggles. Nervous energy had run its course. Now she only felt tired, her eyes sandy from the cold.
While the men with the guns separated to cover both ends of the street, the four men in trench coats remained motionless near the cars. Although the wind set their coats flapping, the men didn’t seem bothered by the cold. They stood erect, shoulders wide, staring out at the night. Irene remembered the horrible face—burned, she told herself—and wondered what they saw.
Nothing good, she imagined.
And then her toe caught a rock. It skipped across the sidewalk, cracked against the brick paving, and slid into a pool of starlight.
“Shit,” Cian said. He shoved her into a run.
The men in the trench coats started moving too, but they weren’t as fast. The sound of sloshing footsteps filled the street, and Irene swore she felt tremors through the paving stones, but the big men were still a good dozen yards behind Irene and Cian. Cian steered her towards the back of the church, away from the main street.
“The river—” Irene managed to gasp. “We’ll be trapped.”
Gunshot chipped one of the stone walls of the church. Cian said, “Better trapped than dead.”
Perhaps it was the sudden burst of wind off the river, like a grandmother’s slap to Irene’s face. Or perhaps it was her own exhaustion, making her stumble, fraying her pace. All Irene saw, though, was a coiled black ball launch itself toward her from the roof of a cooper’s shop to her left. It missed her, landing in a spray of eight thin legs as it came upright on a patch of grass and turned towards Irene. Glistening pincers snapped.
Irene fired. The bulbous black body collapsed, and drops of something dark and viscous spattered grass and stone. Irene felt something brush her coat, and then the smell of burning fur filled the air.
Another spider jumped from the wall of the church.
Cian fired, catching the thing in mid-air.
They kept running. The men in the trench coats were closing on them now.
Frustration filled Cian’s face. He turned
The whine of motors came from the next street.
Without speaking, Irene and Cian moved into the deeper shadows that clung to the storefronts. A pair of cars pulled out into the street and stopped. Men emerged from the cars. Eight men. Half of them carried guns.
The other four were very big and wearing dark trench coats.
Cian took her hand.
It didn’t seem wise to protest, so Irene kept silent.
With a nudge, Cian started Irene moving, keeping their backs pressed to the brick as they walked.
“They said they were coming this way,” one of the men with the guns said.
“Bugs. You can’t trust bugs. We shouldn’t have waited so long.”
“You can tell him that, then. For now, get your mangy hide down that street and keep an eye out. They’re coming this way, believe it or not.”
By now Cian and Irene were almost even with the men and the cars. Irene’s heart had climbed up her throat. Her fingers were sweaty in Cian’s. She studied the men in front of her as they split up. The darkness made it difficult, but she was fairly sure they weren’t the men from Patrick’s. They also were most certainly not federal agents.
So who were they?
She met Cian’s eyes and mouthed, Seamus?
He shook his head.
The church towered over them now, and it sat on the next block. From here, there was no doubt. The Old Cathedral. Night hid the tarnished copper steeple, but the stone pillars and the classical façade were unmistakable. Irene had a vision of herself hammering on the massive door, crying, “Sanctuary,” but this time she didn’t have to fight any giggles. Nervous energy had run its course. Now she only felt tired, her eyes sandy from the cold.
While the men with the guns separated to cover both ends of the street, the four men in trench coats remained motionless near the cars. Although the wind set their coats flapping, the men didn’t seem bothered by the cold. They stood erect, shoulders wide, staring out at the night. Irene remembered the horrible face—burned, she told herself—and wondered what they saw.
Nothing good, she imagined.
And then her toe caught a rock. It skipped across the sidewalk, cracked against the brick paving, and slid into a pool of starlight.
“Shit,” Cian said. He shoved her into a run.
The men in the trench coats started moving too, but they weren’t as fast. The sound of sloshing footsteps filled the street, and Irene swore she felt tremors through the paving stones, but the big men were still a good dozen yards behind Irene and Cian. Cian steered her towards the back of the church, away from the main street.
“The river—” Irene managed to gasp. “We’ll be trapped.”
Gunshot chipped one of the stone walls of the church. Cian said, “Better trapped than dead.”
Perhaps it was the sudden burst of wind off the river, like a grandmother’s slap to Irene’s face. Or perhaps it was her own exhaustion, making her stumble, fraying her pace. All Irene saw, though, was a coiled black ball launch itself toward her from the roof of a cooper’s shop to her left. It missed her, landing in a spray of eight thin legs as it came upright on a patch of grass and turned towards Irene. Glistening pincers snapped.
Irene fired. The bulbous black body collapsed, and drops of something dark and viscous spattered grass and stone. Irene felt something brush her coat, and then the smell of burning fur filled the air.
Another spider jumped from the wall of the church.
Cian fired, catching the thing in mid-air.
They kept running. The men in the trench coats were closing on them now.
Frustration filled Cian’s face. He turned
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