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

Pearl Morecott had her hair brushed, a fresh pair of stockings, and the two derringers in her purse. She was out for a typical Friday night. Bundled in her heavy fur coat, hood pulled up, Pearl shivered and waited—but mostly shivered—in the alley. This close to the Mississippi, the wet river smell hung in the air, mixing with the trampled garbage of the alley. Her silvery breath played hide and seek with coal and wood smoke. A footstep sounded at the mouth of the street.

With a grin and a tip of his hat, Harry Witte moved into the alley. He smiled, a smile that hit the back of Pearl’s knees like a runaway horse, chafed his hands, and said, “Looking lovely, Pearl.”

“It’s freezing out, Harry. You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. Freddy?”

At the sound of his name, a second man stepped into the alley. Where Harry Witte was young and slender and heart-stoppingly handsome, Professor Friedrich von der Ehmke was old and short and vibrated like a cold, angry wire. He held a walking cane with a silver head in one hand. The dark wood and metal matched the salt and pepper in his hair and beard. With a gesture of the cane, he motioned Harry forward.

Harry slipped his hand into Pearl’s.

It meant nothing, of course, but a flush climbed Pearl’s cheeks, and for a moment she forgot the wind that snapped at the corner of the alley. He led her to down the cramped lane, cutting through a passage choked with the sooty remains of a garbage fire, and helping her over—strong hands around her waist, another flare of heat—a pool of slush. On the far side, Pearl removed Harry’s hands and buried her own hands in the pockets of her coat.

Harry flashed her the same sliver of a grin.

Behind them, Freddy splashed and swore, and that was enough to get them both moving again.

The alley joined a narrow street that ran along a three-story building. The city smoke had left a patina on the brick and darkened the windows. Behind the smeared glass, no light showed. The Breckenridge Institute was a small, privately funded anthropological society, and tonight, Pearl Morecott was a thief.

Freddy swallowed a cough, and buried under the sound, Pearl heard footsteps. She snagged Harry’s coat and flicked a finger at the street ahead. Harry pulled back into the shadows next to her. His breath smelled of mint and thyme and was warm on her cheek.

Freddy, close behind her, smelled of cabbage and onion and wet wool.

A minute later, a watchman trundled past the mouth of the alley. His hooded lantern swept light across the snow and slush. And then he was past, the cone of light narrowing like a train moving into the night, and then gone.

“Eyes sharp, my dear,” Harry whispered. He trotted towards the wall, moving swift and sure across the ice, and with a leap he closed his hands over the lip of the wall and pulled himself up and over. Freddy followed more slowly, tossing his walking cane over the wall and then dragging himself up the frost-rimed brick. And then both men were gone.

Darkness and cold settled in, and for a moment Pearl entertained herself with the image of Harry’s legs and backside as he ran, and then she huddled into the fur and wished for mulled wine and a fire.

Minutes ticked by slowly. Pearl eased her freezing feet in the soiled snow, trying to work warmth into her toes. Then she heard the sound. A wet, slobbery sound. She eased one hand into her purse, closed her fingers around the first derringer, and put her back to the wall of the alley.

Silence again, filled with the rush of blood in her ears.

Then, the slobber.

Pearl pulled the derringer from her purse.

St. Louis was a city like any other. It had its share of beggars and thieves, cutthroats and rapists. Pearl Morecott had spent most of her life with eyes closed to that side of the city. Now, though, the work she did with Harry and Freddy brought her into frequent contact with tramps and trash. Normally, Harry and Freddy were there to help. When they weren’t, she had the derringers.

A dog padded by in the snow, its feet making only the slightest crunch, and then disappeared. Then a burst of voices came from a nearby street, loud and bright with liquor, in spite of the laws that the bluenoses had cooked up. Pearl tried to relax, flexing her fingers on the derringer, taking slow breaths that eddied in trails of white. The voices faded down the street, stealing the last scraps of warmth and cheer from the air, and then Pearl was alone.

Pearl Morecott was a woman with a sensible head, a good eye, and a pair of derringers. She didn’t need to be afraid of a drunk or even a city thug.

But she’d learned with Harry Witte that there were worse things than drunks or thugs wandering the streets of St. Louis.

Especially at night.

Especially for silly women, foolish enough to be waiting alone in dark alleys.

Damn Harry Witte for this plan. And damn Tommy Morecott for dragging her into this mad world and then abandoning her.

A shadow had grown thicker along the wall of the Institute. A trick of the light? One of the Children? Pearl pulled the derringer from her purse. The wet, slapping sound of flesh on stone came again, louder now. Pearl stayed where she was. The dark bulk pressed against the wall, moving slowly down the street, still far enough from the light that Pearl could only guess at its form.

A bullet might kill it. Or it might not. The Children were tricky like that. If it tried to go over the wall, though, Pearl would have to stop it. Keeping her back to the bricks, Pearl edged down the alley. Freezing water slid into her shoe. The smell of offal and something rotting exploded when she broke an icy casing. The shadow that pressed itself against the wall of the Institute, suckling at the brick, seemed oblivious to her.

The shape bent, gathering itself like folds of velvet. Pearl brought up the derringer.

Her hand was steady. Tommy would have been proud.

Harry would be proud.

Then a silver-handled walking stick flew over the wall and landed with a clatter on the pavement. The shadow rippled and fled, and with a shaky breath, Pearl moved into the street. Freddy’s face, flushed and sweating, inched above the bricks.

Yellow light dusted the bricks beneath Pearl’s feet, and she turned. The watchman raised his lantern.

“Officer,” Pearl shouted, waving a hand and shuffling towards him. “Officer, thank goodness.”

A little sob in her voice. That was what it needed.

“Officer, thank heavens.”

Yes, that was better.

The man lowered his lantern as she drew closer. She caught enough of his face to see lines from cold and sun, a bushy beard, and eyes that were red and watery. When Pearl scented the whiskey on his breath, she smiled a little wider. Even watchmen needed help with the cold.

“Not an officer, ma’am,” the man said.

Pearl stumbled on purpose, arms going wide. The man reacted. The lantern dropped, the flame waved wildly, and he caught her before she hit the ground. Behind her, Pearl heard the sound of boots striking the pavement.

“Thank you, Officer. I’ve been wandering these streets for hours, lost and dying of the cold.”

“Not an officer, ma’am,” the man said again. He helped her to her feet, led her around to the front of the institute, and settled her in a chair. After a small glass of whiskey—“For the cold,” the man assured her, and Pearl agreed heartily—he flagged down a cab, and less than half an hour later, Pearl was stripping off wet shoes and stockings in her apartment, basking in the warmth of the room, and thinking of her bed. A rap at the door made her pause, pull on a pair of slippers, and draw her coat around her more tightly.

When she saw Harry Witte smiling at her, Pearl undid the chain and opened the door. Harry swept into the room, arms wide, and let out a laugh.

“Well done, Pearl. As always.”

She smiled in spite of herself.

Freddy came through the door next, stamping his feet and shaking slush across her rug. He coughed, radiating a steady aura of cabbage and onion and wet wool through the room.

Pearl shut the door and leaned against it.

“Did you get it?”

Darkness settled over Harry’s face. Then, in the light of the gas lamps, she noticed the purpling bruise across his cheek.

“What happened?”

“Some of the Children were there before us,” Harry said.

“Freddy?”

Distaste crossed the Hun’s face at his pet name, but some of the tension left him as he shook his head. “Fine, Pearl. Thank you for asking. I had gone into the Institute’s archives while Harry searched the exhibit. I thought I saw something—”

“A shadow,” Pearl said.

“Yes. How did you know?”

She told them about the alley and asked, “What about you, Harry?”

“Not a shadow,” Harry said. “The fellow who gave me this shiner was flesh and blood, sure enough. I only caught a glimpse of him.”

“And the book?”

“Gone. The glass all smashed in. By the time I was back on my feet, the fellow had cleared out.”

Freddy’s hands tightened on the walking stick. “This is the third time, Harry. Whoever they are, they are faster than us. We can’t allow this to keep happening.”

“I know,” Harry sighed. For a moment, he looked young and tired, and then his face smoothed. “We’ll do better. We have to do better. These things are too dangerous to be in the hands of the Children.”

Pearl let them out. Harry squeezed her arm through her coat, gave a weary smile, and disappeared down the stairs. When she had shut the door, Pearl said goodbye to Harry Witte for a second time, tasting his name on her lips, and shrugged out of her coat, and went to fix herself a drink.

She kept the gaslights on until dawn broke the horizon. She thought of shadows.