The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) by Gregory Ashe

path in his wake. Within moments, they emerged from the bar. Dark and cold clamped down around them like a vise. The sudden silence left Irene lightheaded.
    Cian turned around, keeping his arms raised slightly, like an ungainly bird about to take flight. There wasn’t any fear in his face. Something about him—his eyes, Irene thought—made her angry. It was the emptiness behind those blue-green flecks. His offered a small, quiet smile that eased the roughness of his face.
    “Are you going to keep that on me the whole way? Your hand will freeze.”
    “I’ll keep it on you until you’re locked up.”
    “Mind telling me why?”
    “What?”
    “Why all this? You’re pretty enough that I don’t think you need a gun to get men to follow you around.”
    “You think you’re funny.”
    “I think a pretty woman has a gun on me and I don’t even know her name. I’m Cian.”
    “You killed her. You killed her, and you stole, and you stand there making jokes and smiling.” Irene shook her head. The cold had settled into her hand, and she wanted to stretch frozen fingers, work warmth back into them. The temptation to flex one finger, to feel the give of the trigger, settled over her like a heavy coat.
    He had killed Sally.
    Cian’s smile faded. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told you that before.”
    “We’ll see what the police think,” Irene said. But she wasn’t thinking about the police. She was thinking about Papa. “I don’t understand. Was the delivery all just a ruse? A way to get inside the house? If not, why deliver the box at all? Why not just keep it?”
    “Wait. The box. Someone took it?”
    “Enough games. Let’s go.”
    But he didn’t move. He was staring at her, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. In the weak light of the lamp, Irene was suddenly aware of how much bigger than her he truly was, and she fought the urge to take a step back. The voices from the bar seemed far away, as though she and Cian stood in a tiny island of light, adrift on an unknown sea.
    And then she heard the steps. Slurping, dragging steps, like a man hauling himself through thick mud.
    Cian turned towards the sound, and then back to her. “Who else did you bring with you?”
    “No one,” Irene said. The foolishness of her answer struck her a moment later, but it was too late.
    Cian scarcely seemed to hear her. He searched the darkness. A second sound of steps joined the first. Cian propelled her towards the door and said, “Get inside. Now.”
    Irene swatted his hand away. “No more tricks. This is—”
    He shoved her towards the door as the first man came into view. “Now,” he shouted. He pulled a pistol from under his coat.
    Nervous laughter swelled in Irene’s mouth. She bit it back.
    He was defending her.
    The first man was nothing more than a shambling shadow: a dark trench coat with the collar pulled up, a wide-brimmed hat tilted low over his face, and gloved hands. A second, wearing identical clothes, emerged from the street, and then a third. They formed a loose arc, closing on Cian and Irene.
    “Stop right there,” Cian said. The gun was steadier than his voice. “I’ll shoot.”
    No sound from the men except the squelch of their boots in the mud. Something was tickling the back of Irene’s brain, something desperate for her attention, but she was too busy with the men in front of her. They were big, bigger even than Cian. The one in the lead had almost reached Cian.
    “Not another foot,” Cian said.
    One heavy hand came up and latched onto Cian’s shirt. Cian fired. The sound of the shot ricocheted through the darkness. The force of the bullet rocked the trench-coat man back on his heels. Then, as though undisturbed by the bullet lodged in his gut, the man lifted Cian into the air.
    From somewhere else in the world, a thousand miles away, Irene heard screams.
    Irene fired without thinking. The revolver snapped in her hand like a dragon. Over the crash of the gun shot, she