The River Throne

By Gregory Ashe

Cian Shea and Irene Lovell have battled sorcerers, snakes, lizard-men, and lost gods. Until now, they have managed to avert disaster for St. Louis and for the rest of the world. When they come face to face with prophecy, though, they face a threat beyond anything they have seen before. Especially this prophecy, for it speaks of a child: the unborn child that Irene carries.

Now, with Harry, Sam, Pearl, and Freddy, they must do their best to save Irene and her child, but they find themselves facing more than supernatural threats. Anarchists, corrupt police, and old enemies: everyone has a stake in the River Throne, and time is running out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gregory Ashe
• Release date: Jan 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370066148

Book preview

Chapter 1

In summer, the city lay on her side, her belly sweaty and turned towards the river. She was a lazy thing, this city. Her cheeks were stained with ash. Her legs parted for whoever happened by. She could have afforded Acqua di Parma. She liked her own stink instead. She was St. Louis and she wasn’t going to change.

For Irene Lovell, that city was home and it was a fistful of amber against the dead west night.

Those amber lights meant Irene was heading in the wrong direction. She turned away from the flop-house city. She listened and she had her revolver in hand.

The man she was hunting was smoke and plenty of it.

Night held her breath, a woman waiting for the end of a bad gag, as Irene took her bearings. A rabbit, a big cotton-tail, sat silent in the green and black. Its tail twitched. Its nose twitched. Its fur was alive with muscle as it watched Irene. When Irene wiped the sweat from her neck, the cotton-tail hopped away, rustling a scraggly bush and vanishing into the night. The smell of the river was strong here: a rotting harbor that lacked the vigor of the sea. It turned Irene’s stomach.

And she had quite the stomach to turn. Eight months pregnant, sweating worse than a Frenchman in July, and with a stomach that could have doubled as a serving tray. Irene wiped the sweat from her neck.

Hot. Heavens, it was hot. Sticky August heat. Rubber-cement heat on every inch of her.

And where in God’s good name was she?

Illinois, for starters. Not too far from the city. At the old Indian burial mounds. One of Harry’s sources had tipped them off that Balagan Jones had come here for refuge. Not a bad choice for a Southern boy who’d dipped his nose in magic one time too many. Not a bad choice for a Southern boy with a five hundred dollar bounty on his head, payable in cash by the esteemed George Washington Truss, plantation owner and part-time arcanist.

Not a bad choice, then, for Balagan Jones, but perhaps not the best spot for a woman with an unborn child, eighteen aches in her back, and an uncanny desire for a bath.

There. The henge. She saw the lines of the structure against the sky and made her way towards it. Behind her, the sleeping mounds ran elbow to elbow, blocking her view of the city, and then the river, and then the west. On this August night the sky was clear and even the stars were sweating. The river smell faded, replaced by wild rose and a trampled patch of chives and fresh-turned earth. The last was a graveyard smell. It pulled goosebumps from her skin, in spite of the heat.

A bath, that was the right thing. A bath and something to put her feet up. They’d swelled two sizes and—

Balagan Jones burst out of a clump of bushes. He was a portly man with a wide-brimmed hat and he ran faster than any cotton-tail.

Irene fired.

Without a backward glance, Balagan Jones became smoke, and a moment later he vanished into another clump of bushes.

Smoke and plenty of it. Jones’s hat alone could have shaded two-thirds of Tennessee.

Irene, Cian called.

Here.

The big Irish lout parted a willow’s curtain and clomped towards her. That was the way of Cian Shea. The man was St. Patrick’s own portion of muscle and red hair and the irritating ability to put Irene off guard. He wore a suit of good English wool and a linen shirt, the collar damp and wilting, and he wore them well and without a clue that he did so. Cian Shea would have been just as comfortable naked.

Come to think of it, Irene wouldn’t have minded that too much either.

He was at her side in a moment, his hand on her arm as he scanned the area. What was it? Are you hurt? Did you see him?

I’m fine. He went towards the henge. I got off a shot, but he did his same trick again.

Cian nodded. He was looking at her. He hadn’t heard a word she’d said because he had a bee in his ear and that bee was buzzing right then.

And, Irene added, if you say one word about my going back to the car, I’ll shoot you, Cian Shea, and you can’t turn into smoke.

He nodded again. I just think—

Irene sighed. Good gravy, Cian. Then she pushed past him and stomped—as well as her swollen, pregnancy-feet allowed—towards the henge and, she hoped, towards Balagan Jones. She was quickly becoming irritated with Balagan Jones. He was keeping her in these shoes, keeping her in this heat, and keeping her from her bath. The last, as far as Irene was concerned, was a hanging offense.

Harry and Oliver are coming from the north. Sam and I have this side covered. You could put—

Don’t say it.

—your feet up—

Irene thumbed the revolver.

—and make sure he doesn’t escape. At her look, Cian smiled. It was an encouraging smile. Encouraging her to rip his teeth out.

He went this way, Irene said, pushing her way through the brush.

I just think—

She let a branch whip back. She heard a muffled yelp. And that was the end of that.

The ground rose in a steady slope. The bushes leaned outwards, precarious victims of topography, considering their chances against gravity. Brambles plucked at Irene’s dress, and the only good thing about that was that the dress was nothing more than a cotton sack into which she had stuffed herself, head to heels, as a concession to her expanding waistline. Life over the last months had become a series of concessions. Ugly shoes. Uglier dresses. Swollen hands and feet.

God help the man that tried to take her revolver. Even if that man were the father of her child.

On the other side of the embankment, the ground dropped to a wide oval clearing, on which had been raised a ring of wooden posts. Irene paused on the embankment. Something was wrong. There was something tied to the posts. Something tied to each post.

Something moving.

Christ, Cian said. Irene—

They’re still alive. She started down the slope. Hurry up, Cian. Give me a hand.

He helped her down the hill. They moved across the clearing towards the woodhenge. Shadows hid the details, but the shapes of men tied to the posts were visible. The smell of excrement was in the air. Deeper in the henge, behind one of the posts, something moved. Irene tapped Cian’s arm and pointed. They stopped and watched.

A moment later, Balagan Jones edged out from behind the post. His smoky features became solid, and he had one hand pressed to his shoulder. As he moved into the henge, he threw backward glances. He was injured and hunted and he was slippery as a snake. Irene would have shot him then, but he was too far off.

Now where the hell is Harry? Cian said.

Go that way, Irene said. Make sure he doesn’t slip out of the henge.

Without waiting for a response, she went the other direction, keeping to the outer ring of the posts. The men who hung from the posts faced inward. They couldn’t see her, but as she moved around the edge of the structure, the men began to stir. They took deep breaths, as though waking, and thrashed against their bonds. None called out, though. None cried for help.

Irene wiped the sweat from the back of her neck again. This time, it had nothing to do with the heat.

She looked back. Cian, after a moment’s hesitation, followed the henge in the other direction. He threw glances in her direction, though. He was a man who had a yearly subscription to jealousy, but this wasn’t jealousy. This was fear. And Irene wished she had a penny’s worth of confidence to shrug it off, because she was fairly certain she’d made a mistake.

The men on the posts seemed to agree. They thrashed more violently now. They twisted against their bonds. Some of them cried out. They were voices ragged from thirst and pain. Voices that had already called death a cab.

Those voices put ice on Irene’s spine. She walked faster.

Balagan Jones, in the center of the henge, seemed to share her concern. Still moving with one hand over his shoulder, Jones stared at the men on the posts. Under the broad-brimmed hat, it was hard to make out Jones’s features, but he looked like a cat who had just realized he was running with hounds.

A gunshot made Irene start. From the north end of the henge, a figure appeared, and then another to the east. Even in the dark, she knew the casual grace of Harry Witte. He ran, lean and long-legged, between the posts, ignoring the dying men. Balagan Jones must have recognized him too because Jones turned towards Irene, oblivious to her presence, and broke into a staggering run. Irene waited for Jones to flash to smoke again. He’d drift right past her.

She aimed the revolver.

But hopefully he wouldn’t get past without an extra piece of lead.

Jones kept coming closer, though, and he was just as solid as ever. More than two-hundred pounds of Alabama thieving barreled towards Irene. He hadn’t noticed her. He was looking back at Harry. He was swearing, too, good Southern swearing that was prettier than anything a Northerner could dream up. Irene readied herself. She aimed for Jones’s chest. The bounty was good dead or alive, and Jones was a killer.

When she pulled the trigger, she felt the baby kick.

Surprise threw off her aim. The round struck Jones. The portly man howled, fell face forward, and planted himself in the Illinois grass. He rolled onto his back, both hands clasped around one meaty thigh, howling. His hat had fallen off and revealed a head of stringy hair shiny with tonic.

Irene barely heard him. She had her free hand against her belly. She was waiting for the second kick. For anything.

Well done, Irene, Harry said as he trotted up to Jones. He kicked a gun away from Jones’s hand. Although I would have killed him. This one’s dangerous.

Sh, Irene said.

Harry blinked. He had good looks imported from England, fine-boned and aristocratic and begging for a kiss or two. He had a smile that made women forget anything below their knees. He had, in other words, the kind of face that didn’t get shushed. This must have been the first time, and it didn’t look like he cared for it.

But Irene was listening, feeling, for the child. And she didn’t give a hoot about Harry Witte right then.

Oliver Dupont arrived a moment later, his strawberry curls plastered to his forehead. He was all muscle, like Cian. Unlike Cian, though, Oliver had the kind of muscle that came from hitting hard, hitting first, and hitting often. He was violence and he kept a dark fire burning just out of sight. As far as Irene was concerned, he was poison, no matter how kindly he spoke or acted.

He was also Harry Witte’s true love, which made things complicated.

Well, he said as he stopped next to Jones. Five hundred dollars.

Gentlemen, Jones said in his deep Southern drawl. I’m injured, gentlemen. This fine lady has seen fit to shoot me in the leg and in the shoulder, God bless her and keep her, and I’m afraid I’ve lost a fair bit of blood.

Didn’t Truss say the bounty was good dead or alive? Harry said.

We should probably finish Irene’s work, then, Oliver said, drawing his gun.

Mr. Witte, don’t let your friend be hasty, Jones said. Five hundred dollars, why, is that all old Truss is offering for me? Mr. Witte, I can beat that offer in my sleep. Let me make you an offer.

Irene half-heard the conversation. Still nothing else from the babe. She pulled her hand away in disappointment and returned her revolver to the holster at her waist.

But she had felt it. She had.

Irene? Cian said as he came into view. At his side trotted Sam Turner, one-time thief and perpetual trouble. I heard the shot.

Fine, Irene said. Although Mr. Jones might not say the same.

Sam whistled. He was grinning, his tongue stuck in the gap where he was missing a tooth. He should have looked boyish. Something was missing, though. Sam Turner had lost a lot in the last year. They all had, but Sam had come through in pieces.

Well, Irene, I suppose I owe Freddy a dollar. He was certain you’d find a way to get off a shot.

Irene blew Sam a kiss.

Somehow I doubt Freddy will get that dollar, Oliver said.

Harry grinned. Nobody else did.

It was that way with Oliver. It had to be that way, after everything.

Mr. Witte, Jones said. Blood slipped through his fingers. I can pay you one thousand dollars if you’ll see that I receive proper medical attention and get me on a boat downriver. But, in my current condition, your aid would be appreciated sooner rather than later. On account of all this bleeding I’m doing, you see.

Cian, see to his wound, will you? Harry said. A thousand dollars, Jones.

One thousand, Mr. Witte. I can have the funds wired to you as soon as I arrive at a city of any size. There’s no need to involve Truss in any of this. This can be business between gentlemen.

As soon as you get to a city downriver, Oliver said.

You have my word. I— Jones cut off with a yelp as Cian yanked an improvised bandage tight around his leg. I swear it as an honest Christian.

You’d do better to swear it as a pig-thieving Alabaman, Harry said. No deal, Jones. You’ll have to deal with Truss. He’s not too bad of a fellow. I imagine he’ll let you live, provided you deliver up whatever it was you stole from him. To Cian and Sam, Harry added, Take him to the car, please.

Five hundred dollars, Sam said as he and Cian hauled Balagan Jones to his feet. What’re you going to do with your share?

Not breathe a word of it to you, that’s first, Cian said.

Sam laughed. I’m going to buy a new suit, a real good one, like that piece you’ve got on. Then I’m going to find the best steak in town—

As Sam talked, Cian looked back over his shoulder at Irene. You’re fine?

She nodded and smiled.

Balagan Jones, as Sam and Cian supported his weight and led him towards the car, looked back at Harry.

Mr. Witte, Jones said, and his deep voice sounded weaker. I don’t suppose you asked Mr. Truss what it was that I am purported to have stolen from him?

Harry didn’t answer. Jones nodded, wiped greasy hair from his forehead, and let Sam and Cian take him towards the car.

I’ll go with him, Oliver said. Harry squeezed Oliver’s arm, and Oliver trailed after Jones.

That was good work, Irene said. She put a hand to her back, right at the base, where one of the aches had settled. Keeping him from pulling his vanishing trick.

It was Oliver, Harry said, making a face. He insisted. Then he held out his arm. Irene took it. The winter before, she’d been shot in the leg, and although the wound had healed well, she still had a bit of a limp when fatigued. At eight months pregnant, that was just about all the time. Harry helped her across the oval clearing, between the posts, and then stopped to look up at the man who had been tied there.

Although the darkness hid some of the man’s features, Irene saw more than she wanted. There were no visible wounds, but the man’s face was twisted with pain and discomfort. It was a face like scrap sheet metal, corrugated and pounded thin, all the life turned to gray and rust.

Did Jones bring them here? Irene asked. She studied the henge. There were at least a dozen of the posts, and a man tied to every one.

No, wait. Not quite. One post, at the center of the henge, had been left empty.

I don’t know. It seems likely. He came here for a reason.

Is he dead? I heard him breathing.

Harry’s smile caught the edge of the moonlight. You must have imagined it. I’d wager he’s been dead a day or so. We’ll have to let the police know.

I did not imagine it, Harry. They were breathing. All of them. She shivered in spite of the sticky heat. They sounded . . . excited. Or anxious. I don’t know.

He nodded.

Let’s go, Irene said. I don’t like seeing them.

Harry patted her hand, and they turned to go.

As they did, the man on the post drew in a gasping breath. So did every other man in the clearing. They thrashed against their bonds. In the moonlight, their gray faces were translucent and gelatinous, as though they weren’t men at all. As though they had been cast in a mold and not quite set. With precipitate cloudiness, the moonlight fogged their skin.

The child, the one closest to them screamed. The child.

The others began to pick up the chant.

Harry moved fast. He put Irene behind him and had his revolver out in a heartbeat. Irene grabbed for her gun too, fumbled for it in the voluminous grocery sack of a dress that she wore, felt her heart double and triple.

Felt the child inside her move.

As suddenly as the dead men had begun to scream, they stopped. A moment passed. Irene heard only her heartbeat, and the rustle of her dress against Harry’s jacket, and the wind folding grass.

His hour has come, the closest dead man said.

After that, they were silent.

Chapter 2

Samuel David Turner had a job. That was something of a miracle for Sam, who had never in his admittedly short life held anything close to a job. There had been a lot of things he called jobs—breaking into houses, picking pockets (although he’d never been too good at that), running a grift or two—but all of those things had been on the easy side of the law.

This new job had its shady patches too, and Sam didn’t mind that, but it was, for the most part, a straight gig. Witte & Co. Investigations. Harry Witte, when he wasn’t crackers and trying to kill everyone, was, for the most part, a fair boss. He paid by the job. He had plenty of work to go around. And he’d never tried to stiff Sam or short him. And any job that let Sam do a fair bit of shooting—and the occasional bit of thieving—and still paid square was fine by him.

Beyond all that, for the first time, and he could tell himself the truth even if he wouldn’t to anyone else, he had friends. He had a place of his own, a room he rented from Freddy in a swanky building. He had clothes without patches and boots that kept out cold and water. Put it all down on paper and Samuel David Turner, in spite of his disreputable past, looked like a fellow who was doing well for himself.

None of which explained why he felt like he was walking around with a hole in his chest.

He leaned up against the Model T, one eye on the sweating Alabaman named Balagan Jones, one eye on the henge. Cian stood next to him, a cigarette between his lips, the end bright as Cian took furious drags.

Oliver Dupont, big and brawny and, in Sam’s humble opinion, as trustworthy as a wooden penny, stood a few yards away. Cian had the air of a man who’d like to do some shooting. Oliver had the air of a tin can on a fencepost. Sam had the air of a man who’d like to put his feet up and have a drink and maybe pass Cian a few extra shells. Between the three of them, there wasn’t much air left for breathing.

You can go, Cian said to Oliver.

That’s all right, Oliver said. We’ll all be headed back to the city soon enough.

That’s not what he meant, Sam said.

The tip of Cian’s cigarette was hot enough to put out an eye. That’s not what I meant.

Oliver sighed and looked away. I know.

But he didn’t leave.

You could shoot him, Sam said.

Cian nodded. I could.

In the leg or something. Say Balagan tried to escape.

Cian threw a quick look back into the car. He does look restless.

Balagan Jones did not look restless. He looked like a sack of wet rags—wet rags that had been used to clean up hair tonic—that were meant for a trash burning.

Sam nodded anyway, though. For moral support.

With a shake of his head, Oliver glared at both of them. Cian put one hand on the heavy pistol he wore in a shoulder holster. Just like that, Oliver went tense.

Cian. It was Harry, calling to them as he and Irene came towards the car.

After another long look, Cian took his hand from the pistol and walked towards Harry and Irene. He managed to steer a course that led him right towards Oliver. At the last moment, with a muffled swear, Oliver stepped out of Cian’s way. Cian sailed past him into the darkness, and his shoulders had all a cat’s smugness. A moment later came the soft sound of Cian, Harry, and Irene conversing.

You don’t need to encourage him, Oliver said.

I don’t? I kind of liked it.

Harry wants us to work together, and I’m not going anywhere.

All right.

All right, you’ll cut me a break?

Sam grinned. Nah.

Oliver stared at him, shook his head, and swore again.

And Harry kisses that mouth? Sam said, and this time his grin was splitting at the edges.

Oliver paced to the other side of the car. As he went, he slammed his fist into the hood. Once. Twice. On the third time, Sam thought he heard the metal fold.

Not a bad night, Sam thought as he looked at the five hundred dollars known as Balagan Jones. Not a bad night at all.

When Cian, Irene, and Harry reached the car, they all looked like they’d been sucking on a broken thermometer. None of them would answer Sam’s questions. By the time Oliver got into the car, wearing a huff like it was the newest style, everyone except Balagan Jones had a sour face. Jones had the face of a man who’d like to see a doctor, but then, Sam didn’t care too much about that.

The bounty would be paid either way.

At the offices of Witte & Co., Oliver and Cian carried Balagan Jones up the stairs and into the cramped front room. They laid him out on a bench, and Cian added a pair of handcuffs to keep Jones from wandering too far.

Run over to Truss’s hotel, Sam, would you? Harry said as he dug through his desk. And after that, get Freddy. I don’t care if you have to wake him up. Get him and bring him back here.

What for?

Harry slammed a drawer shut, but his voice and face didn’t lose an ounce of composure. That was Harry Witte. Two-hundred percent class right up until he tried to shoot you in the head. Please do what I ask.

Two-hundred percent class, that’s right.

Sam turned, opened the door, and stopped.

The man on the walkway had his hand raised to knock. He was older, but not quite old: silver in his hair, but hale and built strong. He wore a gray suit and a gray hat and he smelled like money. Turn him over, give him a shake, and you could get halfway to New York on the loose change that fell out. He was the kind of fellow Sam liked to see from behind.

Excuse me, the man said, looking over Sam’s shoulder at the handcuffed and bleeding Balagan Jones. I’m looking for Mr. Witte. Is this a bad time?

Yes, Harry said, still going through his desk.

No, Sam said. Not at all. Come in.

Sam thought he heard the soft flutter of dollars landing in his pocket as the man stepped into the office.

Right this way, Mr.—

Hearne. Edmund Hearne.

Right this way, Mr. Hearne. Sam led him towards the bench where Jones was still lying. Cian, Oliver, don’t you think Mr. Jones would be more comfortable in the back?

Cian didn’t answer. Oliver looked at Harry. Harry waved his hand, nodded, and continued his search of the desk.

In the back, then, Oliver said, and together he and Cian unshackled Jones and took him into the backroom.

Was he handcuffed? Hearne said. He sat on the bench, leaned to the side, and produced a handkerchief. He gave the wood a vigorous scrub and held up the crimson-stained kerchief. Was he bleeding?

No, Sam said.

Yes, Harry said. He slammed a drawer shut. Mr. Hearne, I’m sorry, whatever it is—

We’ll be happy to help, Sam said. Absolutely delighted. Can I get you some tea? Or coffee? Harry, do we have tea?

Harry didn’t answer. He was buried in the desk up to his ankles.

I’m not sure if we have tea, Sam said.

Mr. Hearne was looking around the office. It wasn’t much to look at. The walls were bare wood and scratched to high heaven. The floor scuffed and ten years past due for waxing. If there was a spot of grace in the room, it was the ceiling, which bore a watermark shaped like a bird. Or, looked at from another angle, like a watermark. Mr. Hearne kept a tight grip on his handkerchief. He was ready to wipe every surface clean from here to kingdom come. Sam wished him luck.

I would like to hire you, Mr. Hearne said. I’m willing to pay you well.

There’s an hourly fee, Sam said. On top of a standard service charge.

From underneath the desk, there was the clank of Harry’s head striking wood, and then muttered words that sounded like service charge.

Hearne just waved his handkerchief. The money isn’t an issue. I expect you’ll submit a tally of your expenses at the end. Is that how it works?

Correct. Although the service charge is paid in advance.

Another head-thudding clank from underneath the desk.

Hearne pulled out his pocketbook the way most men pulled out a gun. He aimed the leather at Sam. He had his finger on the trigger, ready to fire.

How much?

A hundred dollars to have us on retainer.

Hearne hesitated. The pocketbook sagged.

At that moment, Harry emerged from the desk. He wasn’t red-faced. He wasn’t swearing. He was, after all, Harry Witte, and he could teach ice a thing or two. But Sam had a good sense for Harry, and that sense was telling him that Harry Witte was two degrees short of a full boil.

We’re the best, Sam said.

Whipping the pocketbook back and forth, Hearne gave a decisive nod. One hundred, then.

Mr. Hearne, I’m afraid there’s been— Harry started to say.

An emergency, Sam said. Mr. Witte has to take care of that unfortunate business you saw earlier. Isn’t that right, Mr. Witte?

One degree from a boil. One little degree.

I’ll be handling your investigation, Mr. Hearne, Sam added. Under Mr. Witte’s supervision.

One degree and the mercury was trembling.

Mr. Witte? Hearne said.

For half a heartbeat Harry didn’t answer. Then he nodded. My apologies, Mr. Hearne. An emergency, as Mr. Turner said. Then, calling into the back room, Cian, you’re with me. Irene too. Oliver stays with Jones.

Cian and Irene joined them in the front office. They were quiet and wound up like stopped clocks. Harry ushered them out the door, and as they passed Sam, he thought Irene’s eyes were red. Before following them outside, Harry paused.

Sam.

Everything’s under control, Mr. Witte.

The mercury hadn’t subsided. Not at all. But Harry only nodded again and left.

My apologies, Mr. Hearne, Sam said.

He shook his head and extended a crisp check. Paper thick enough to bake into a pie. Sam took it, saw the hundred written out in black ink, and tucked it into his jacket.

That fellow who was out here, Mr. Hearne said, unfolding his handkerchief and spreading it across his knees. He rubbed his thumb across the patch of dried blood. What was the matter there?

Just business, Mr. Hearne. Always business.

And you don’t discuss business.

Not with clients, sir. No.

Was he shot? Hearne jabbed his thumb into the stained handkerchief.

Sam tried for a grin. It’s dangerous work, Mr. Hearne, but don’t you worry about him. He only got what was coming to him.

Good, Mr. Hearne said. Good. I like that. He had a curdled-milk smile as he balled the handkerchief up and wrapped his hand around it. I like it quite a lot.

And what kind of work did you have in mind? Sam asked. We’re not muscle, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ll give this check right back, sir, and you can find someone else.

Nothing like that. Nothing like that. I like to know that you can handle yourselves. And I like— again that smile that had gone sour, —I like to know that you can be rough. Sometimes a man needs rough. Sometimes a man needs rough for a lesson to go home.

His smile, though, said rough didn’t stop at broken bones.

And the work, then? Sam asked. He ran his thumb across the paper of the check. Good paper. Thick paper. Paper that could soak up a lot of blood, if it came to that, and leave Hearne’s hands clean. Just like that damn handkerchief. What is it you want?

Mr. Turner, I want you to find my wife.

Chapter 3

More than a decade in this city—hell, close to two decades—and Harry Witte still hadn’t gotten used to the summers. It was a wet, choking heat. The hand of a drowned woman tight around his throat. That hand closed swollen fingers as he stepped out of the offices and into the night. He had misgivings about leaving Sam with the client. Not about the money—Sam could pull out of a miser’s gold tooth, and the miser would thank him. About the client. Edmund Hearne was a man who wore gloves because he worked dirty. Harry could tell that much on the first look.

He joined Cian and Irene at the Model T. They drove across town. Overhead, the stars shone in a sky that was more purple than black. Those stars had an aquatic brilliance, a wavy illumination as though he were looking up at them from the bottom of the sea. On the humid heat came the scent of roast chicken and potatoes and a whiff of bathtub gin, all mixed with the gritty black smoke. St. Louis was a lady who wore smoke like sackcloth. She had one of God’s own cigars in her mouth and she puffed like a champion. At night, the smoke took its time on the streets, parading long legs for men to see.

Harry watched those long, smoky legs. It was easier than looking at Irene. Or, for that matter, at Cian.

We still don’t know anything, he said. It might be nothing.

Twelve dead men isn’t nothing, Cian said. Twelve dead men who talk at the same time isn’t nothing.

But it could mean something else. We were only there by chance. If we hadn’t been following Jones, we never would have gone to the mounds. Maybe this is a new group of children. We hadn’t heard anything about sacrifices. We haven’t heard anything in months.

No response.

Maybe it’s nothing, Harry added.

Maybe, Cian said. He was holding Irene’s hand tight, as though she might fly away. She looked like she might. The window was down. The wind pulled her hair back. She looked beautiful and lost and if the Devil were fishing, she looked ready to take the right bait.

Freddy will have some ideas too, Harry said. Don’t worry, Irene.

She nodded. It was the kind of nod that said yes, that’s right, I’ll have the Waldorf salad, please don’t speak again. It was the kind of nod that made Harry Witte tighten his trap.

They didn’t speak again in the car.

When they got to Freddy’s building, they all went inside. It was a new building. A modern building. Limestone on the outside, pores already clogged with St. Louis’s perpetual smoke, and inside clean, geometric designs of brass under electric lights. It was a bright, shining place. The kind of place where you wiped your feet and touched as little as possible. They rode the elevator to Freddy’s floor. The brass showed warped reflections. Grinning reflections. As though Harry Witte had missed one of the universe’s great jokes.

He didn’t like the building. And he didn’t like the sense that he’d missed something.

But what he really didn’t like was when he knocked on the door and Pearl answered.

Pearl Morecott was beautiful. She had been beautiful at thirty, when he’d met her, and she was beautiful now, past forty. She was beautiful the way a good painting was beautiful. The cracks and the wrinkles only added. She had a robe on, and her hair was up and damp, and she was hiding behind her own eyes when she saw Harry. He thought she hated him. He didn’t blame her.

Harry.

Pearl, I was looking for— He stopped. Tried not to look at Cian or Irene. There was a guilty look on Cian’s face. A tired, knowing look, like he’d let a good secret go flat. That look put the brakes on Harry’s words. He tried again. What are you doing here?

I don’t think that’s any of your business.

No. I suppose not, but—hell, Pearl, what is this? What’s going on?

Drop it, Harry. That was Cian. That was a growl and that was a warning.

This time he did look at Cian. The same guilty, tired look. But something else too. Anger. Hot anger. And the green grass of defiance smoking on those coals.

Irene didn’t meet his gaze, but she was looking at something else anyway. One hand was across her belly. The other was in the pocket of her enormous cotton dress. On the revolver, Harry guessed.

Freddy’s not here, Pearl said. If that’s why you’ve come. Unless— She looked at Cian.

Cian shook his head. He’s fine. Handling a new client back at the office.

She nodded. Then, for the first time, she seemed to see Irene. Pearl stepped forward, pulling