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

silver-handled cane and had his hat under one arm, and he passed Cian without a second glance. A dark-haired woman stood at Irene’s side, her body turned so that she could stand between Irene and Marie-Thérèse while still keeping an eye on the cathedral doors.
    Irene met Cian’s gaze and shrugged. She had her revolver out.
    Good girl.
    “They’ll be alright,” the woman said, looking towards the altar. The old man cracked his cane across the back of a golem and danced back, more spry than he looked, and the golem turned away from the man called Harry. Harry was back on his feet in a moment, and another quick slice-and-shove sent the golem to the ground in a hundred pieces. “Between them, Freddy and Harry can handle just about anything,” the woman added.
    “Just about,” Marie-Thérèse said.
    The woman gave the ghost a pointed look and patted her clutch. This time, the look on Marie-Thérèse’s face had nothing to do with cats and cream. There was murder in those winter-lightning eyes. She didn’t move against the dark-haired woman, though.
    “I’m Pearl,” the woman said to Irene, holding out one hand.
    “Irene.”
    “Nice to meet you.”
    Another crash shook the nave as the last golem hit the floor. The Hun—Freddy, Pearl had called him—was brushing dirt from his suit. Harry sheathed a long-bladed hunting knife in his boot and then started poking through the rubble that remained from the golems. Freddy moved to join Pearl. He gave Marie-Thérèse an iron glance, turned to Irene, and kissed her hand with all the grace of an automaton.
    “Friedrich von der Ehmke,” he announced. “Professor of comparative anthropology, at your service.”
    “Professor?” Cian said.
    “Yes, sir. And you are?”
    “Cian Shea.”
    Cian didn’t offer to shake hands. Neither did Freddy. Up close, Cian had an instant dislike for the man. Beady eyes, his hair in a stiff part, a close-trimmed graying beard, the man looked like a pest, never mind the fact that he was a Hun too. The accent was unmistakable.
    “Nice to meet you, Cian,” Pearl offered.
    Cian gave her a bare nod. Before he had to say anything, though, Harry had reached them. He held four metal plates, each no longer than Cian’s thumb, hanging from individual wires. Freddy’s eyes brightened, and he took the plates when Harry offered them and moved a few paces away to study them. Cian watched him carefully.
    He didn’t like the Hun. Not one bit.
    “I see you’ve met Freddy,” Harry said, as though reading the expression on Cian’s face. Harry laughed, clapped Cian on the shoulder, and said, “Don’t worry. He grows on you.” Then Harry turned to Irene, gave a huge smile, and held out his hand. “Henry Witte, although everyone calls me Harry.”
    “Irene Lovell.”
    It took Cian a moment to realize Irene was smiling. Smiling. And she hadn’t let go of Harry’s hand.
    Cian was fairly sure she wouldn’t have objected to having Harry Witte kiss her hand the way the Hun had. He snorted and caught Pearl looking at him. There was something in her face, hidden as soon as he looked at her. Wistfulness? Loss?
    Cian didn’t care.
    “Thank you for your help,” Cian said.
    Harry finally let go of Irene’s hand, although his smile hadn’t faded. “Happy to help. Golems aren’t so bad once you know the trick. Those little plates are hidden in the back of the neck. You have to cut them free. Piece of cake.”
    “So he says,” Pearl said. “Did that one break any ribs when it got you? Or will you just be bruised for the next pair of weeks?”
    Harry probed his chest and side, winced, and his smile slipped. “My own fault. I was careless.”
    “You’re hurt,” Irene exclaimed. She stepped forward, closer to Harry, and held out one hand. “I didn’t—oh, this is all our fault.”
    “Of course he’s hurt,” Cian said. “Pearl just pointed it out.”
    Harry laughed, closed one hand over Irene’s, and then let go. “I’m fine, honestly.