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

aside, toward a door set in the back of the church.
    It would be locked, of course.
    They were as good as dead.
    Cian yanked on the door. It held.
    Irene turned to watch. The trench coat men kept coming at full speed, like runaway trains. Black shapes crawled along the walls of the church and on the rooftops across the street.
    She didn’t have a single bullet left. Irene flipped the revolver around, holding it by the barrel, and got ready to swing it like a club.
    And then Cian grabbed her arm, dragged her back a pace, and she fell inside the church. The door swung shut behind them.
    A moment later, the door vibrated as something crashed into it. A few splinters shook themselves loose and dusted Irene’s stockings.
    Another crash. A crack came from the wooden door.
    Cian helped Irene to her feet. They stumbled down the narrow service hall. Behind them, blows continued to rattle the door. It wouldn’t last long. A few more minutes. The trench-coat men were strong.
    Irene had a half-remembered vision of the man being pulled apart in Patrick’s.
    Ahead, another door opened onto the nave. The main altar was a bulk in the shadows to their right. Pews bivouacked along the length of the room. The delicate stonework, the sculptures and tiled floor, even the beautiful paintings, all were lost in the darkness. There was only a tight jacket of winter cold, and their breaths like the plumes of exotic birds, and the two of them scrambling across the stone.
    A crash made Irene look back, and while she was doing so, Cian skidded to a halt. He dragged Irene back half a step before she managed to turn around.
    Floating in front of them, a shade of a woman stretched out her hands and smiled.
     

 
    A ghost.
    Cian still carried his Colt in his free hand. Irene’s hand filled his other. He had three shots left.
    The world had collapsed down to those facts, and to one other, significant detail: a ghost.
    She was a round-faced woman, her hair covered with a kerchief, her features pleasant and middle-aged. She was as substantial as a piece of gauze—through the woman’s figure, Cian could make out the cathedral doors—and she was suffused with an icy radiance. The illumination shed no light on the rest of the nave. She was still smiling, and she floated towards them a pace, hands reaching out. She reminded Cian of his mother.
    Cian fired.
    The shot passed through the ghost without a ripple, but the floating woman paused.
    Behind him, Cian heard the heavy, sucking steps of the men in the trench coats. He squeezed Irene’s hand and said, “The altar. Keep your eyes on the back door.”
    Irene shuffled back, and Cian trailed after her, keeping his gaze on the ghost.
    The plump, translucent woman huffed, and her skirt puffed up and settled, and then she drifted to sit in one of the pews.
    “Is this better?” she asked. Her voice was rich and deep and had a foreign accent. Spanish, maybe. Or French. “I forget, sometimes. I was so happy to see you.”
    “Delighted to see you too,” Irene murmured. “Next time, bring your body.”
    The ghost threw her head back and laughed. The sound was full of life. “You,” the woman said to Irene, “you I have been waiting for. You, young man, are a surprise.”
    “If I stay much longer, you’ll realize I’m actually more of a disappointment,” Cian said. He nudged Irene, because she had stopped moving, and then another nudge.
    Irene stayed still.
    “Sorry to bother you,” Cian said. “We’re leaving.” Then, in a low voice, “Let’s go, Irene.”
    With a clap, the door behind them shut. The wet-mud steps of the men in trench coats faded. The ghost leaned forward, folding firefly hands on the back of a pew and studying Cian and Irene. Mostly, though, Irene.
    “Where will you go?” the ghost asked. “The Children surround this cathedral. Their golems already stalk the halls.”
    Cian had enough sense to feel the trap closing around his ankle. He gave Irene’s arm a shake. “We need