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

heard a crack. And then the man’s hand parted at the wrist, and Cian landed hard on the ground. A black-gloved hand still clung to the front of his shirt.
    In the weak light of the lantern, Irene caught sight of the face hidden by the hat. It was a featureless mass, shiny like wet clay. Her first thought was that the man had been terribly burned, and she felt a moment of pity.
    And then the back of her brain perked up and told her that this section of the street was brick, and that there was no mud to make the squelching noise she had thought came from booted feet.
    Cian was staring at the men in the trench coats. Irene knew the look on his face, because it was the same thing she was feeling. Terror that was one step short of madness.
    She grabbed his arm and pulled him into Patrick’s.
    The bar had turned to chaos at the sound of gunfire. Many of the patrons were jammed together in frantic queues for the back door. A few, more enterprising souls had started climbing through windows.
    At least a dozen men still sat at tables, drinking, and trying to look undisturbed by the mess. One of them glanced up at Cian and Irene, and recognition lit up his face.
    He drew and fired.
    Irene had already shoved Cian to the right. It felt like shoving a mountain. He stumbled, teetered, and then went over like Babel. They hit the ground together, a tangle of arms and legs, one of Cian’s arms encircling Irene as he rolled to put himself between her and the gunmen. Cian shook one leg free of her, kicked, and overturned one of the heavy tables. It crashed against the floor.
    Bullets whimpered and cracked against the wood.
    “All right?” Cian asked.
    Irene shoved him off. “I saved you, you fool. Now do something useful.”
    “Cian Shea, you’ve got piss-ant brains. What are you doing in Kerry Patch? You’re a dead man.”
    The voice was almost friendly, but it was followed by another storm of gunfire. Irene’s ears rang like the bells on St. Patrick’s Day.
    Cian had put his back to one of the wooden pillars, and he kept an eye on the open door. Irene could practically hear his thoughts. Would those men—she had to think of them as men, no matter how deformed, because to do otherwise was to risk madness—would they come into Patrick’s?
    So far, the answered seemed to be no.
    Patrick’s voice cut through the silence. “Boys, I don’t want trouble indoors. Take it outside.”
    “Shut your mouth, Patty,” one of their attackers said.
    “He killed Seamus. This is justice,” another said.
    From what Irene could see, the bar had almost finished emptying. The windows along the closest wall were open, and the back door revealed a glimpse of darkened alley. If they could get outside, into the warren of the Patch, they might have a chance.
    And if she abandoned Cian, would the other men let her leave?
    It didn’t matter. She needed Cian. Needed him to make Papa face the truth.
    Besides, Cian had tried to protect her.
    She crushed that last thought and checked her revolver. Three rounds left. Firing blindly wouldn’t do anyone any good. Irene risked a look at Cian. He had his eyes on the door still. He’d knocked the black-gloved hand from his shirt, and now it lay a few feet away, the fingers frozen in their grip.
    It wasn’t bleeding.
    Irene pushed that detail away too.
    “We already sent one of the boys out the back, Cian,” the first man said. “Another ten minutes and you’ll have half of Kerry Patch trying to put a piece of lead in you. Might want to think about making a run for it. You could even have a chance.”
    “Bobby Floyd’s dead,” Cian shouted back. “He died bad. Begging. I took my time with him. I’ll do the same with you boys, unless you clear on out fast.”
    “You piece of—” one of the men shouted.
    Cian spun, fired, and pulled back to his position.
    The thud of the falling body was the only sound. Then another series of shots, tearing through the flimsy barrier in front of Irene and Cian. A