The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) by Gregory Ashe
Authors: Gregory Ashe
Ads: Link
book.
Cian’s skin prickled, and he caught himself glancing up and down the terminal. A red-headed lady was speaking to a messenger boy, and the boy looked once at Cian. Something wasn’t right. Cian turned his attention back to the woman who had been helping him. On the far side of the partition, the woman was speaking to a stout, balding man in a cheap suit, who was studying Cian openly.
Cian dropped his head, turned around, and started back towards the Great Hall.
He needed to get lost in a crowd.
“Sir,” the woman called behind him. “Your ticket, sir.”
Cian didn’t look back.
Run or stay, he thought as he slipped back out onto the street, hoping the crowd would put a screen between him and the station. Running was the smart choice. The right choice.
But someone knew he was trying to run. It was only a feeling, but Cian trusted his gut. Someone had paid off the staff at the terminal.
Someone was trying to stop him from leaving.
And that made Cian want to run all the more.
As Cian made his way to the docks, he kept his eye open for anyone who might be following him. This deep in the city, the streets were packed with men and women, rich and poor, working and idle, mick and American and black. Cars and trucks and even a few horse-drawn wagons turned the roads stagnant, and twice Cian slid through the stalled traffic, hoping to lose any pursuers in the maze of automobiles.
He never saw anyone. Cian wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
The muddy stain of the Mississippi grew, spreading until the far side was a glimpse of green and brown in the distance. The waters were choppy today, and chunks of ice bobbed and flopped as they were torn free by the warmer weather. River smells filled the air, dead fish and tar, and the wind off the water sliced through Cian’s coat. He didn’t like rivers. They were untrustworthy things.
But untrustworthy or not, the river was the fastest way out of town now that he knew the station was being watched. There was something wrong about it. It was too big a job. It was too much money. Seamus’s gang might want Cian dead, but they didn’t have that kind of influence.
So who did?
He should have left town last night. He should have left the girl, hit the road, and never looked back.
But, as history proved time and again, Cian Shea was as stupid as they came.
If men from Seamus’s gang—or whoever it was—had locked down Union Station, then it was a safe bet that the main wharf would be watched as well. Cian slowed as he drew closer to the wharf, walking at the rear of a horse-drawn wagon. He studied the port. At first, the wharf seemed no different from any other day. Plenty of men and boys hard at work, loading and unloading the boats, engaged in loud conversations, shouting for traffic to clear.
But for a winter day—even a relatively warm one, like today—there were at least half a dozen extra boys sitting on pilings and lounging on stacks of crates. Boys that seemed to be in no particular hurry to find a bit of work.
Boys who were watching the wharf.
Right then, Cian stepped into a pile of horse droppings and cursed. He paused long enough to wipe his boot clean on the curb, and when he looked up, the wagon had moved on without him. One of the boys—a rat-faced, wiry thing with a mop of blond hair—was staring at Cian.
The boy whistled.
Cian sprinted back up the wharf, away from the docks and the river. A patch of icy straw gave out from under his boot, but Cian kept his footing, launched himself up the steps and away from the river. Shouts followed him as he shoved his way through the crowds, and then he hit an empty side street, turned down it, and sped into the network of alleys that curled behind the main streets of St. Louis.
When he could no longer hear the shouts, when the only sound was the clap of his boots on the brick pavement, Cian slowed to a walk. His heart pounded, sweat stung his face, and his breath came in gasps. He took in his
Cian’s skin prickled, and he caught himself glancing up and down the terminal. A red-headed lady was speaking to a messenger boy, and the boy looked once at Cian. Something wasn’t right. Cian turned his attention back to the woman who had been helping him. On the far side of the partition, the woman was speaking to a stout, balding man in a cheap suit, who was studying Cian openly.
Cian dropped his head, turned around, and started back towards the Great Hall.
He needed to get lost in a crowd.
“Sir,” the woman called behind him. “Your ticket, sir.”
Cian didn’t look back.
Run or stay, he thought as he slipped back out onto the street, hoping the crowd would put a screen between him and the station. Running was the smart choice. The right choice.
But someone knew he was trying to run. It was only a feeling, but Cian trusted his gut. Someone had paid off the staff at the terminal.
Someone was trying to stop him from leaving.
And that made Cian want to run all the more.
As Cian made his way to the docks, he kept his eye open for anyone who might be following him. This deep in the city, the streets were packed with men and women, rich and poor, working and idle, mick and American and black. Cars and trucks and even a few horse-drawn wagons turned the roads stagnant, and twice Cian slid through the stalled traffic, hoping to lose any pursuers in the maze of automobiles.
He never saw anyone. Cian wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
The muddy stain of the Mississippi grew, spreading until the far side was a glimpse of green and brown in the distance. The waters were choppy today, and chunks of ice bobbed and flopped as they were torn free by the warmer weather. River smells filled the air, dead fish and tar, and the wind off the water sliced through Cian’s coat. He didn’t like rivers. They were untrustworthy things.
But untrustworthy or not, the river was the fastest way out of town now that he knew the station was being watched. There was something wrong about it. It was too big a job. It was too much money. Seamus’s gang might want Cian dead, but they didn’t have that kind of influence.
So who did?
He should have left town last night. He should have left the girl, hit the road, and never looked back.
But, as history proved time and again, Cian Shea was as stupid as they came.
If men from Seamus’s gang—or whoever it was—had locked down Union Station, then it was a safe bet that the main wharf would be watched as well. Cian slowed as he drew closer to the wharf, walking at the rear of a horse-drawn wagon. He studied the port. At first, the wharf seemed no different from any other day. Plenty of men and boys hard at work, loading and unloading the boats, engaged in loud conversations, shouting for traffic to clear.
But for a winter day—even a relatively warm one, like today—there were at least half a dozen extra boys sitting on pilings and lounging on stacks of crates. Boys that seemed to be in no particular hurry to find a bit of work.
Boys who were watching the wharf.
Right then, Cian stepped into a pile of horse droppings and cursed. He paused long enough to wipe his boot clean on the curb, and when he looked up, the wagon had moved on without him. One of the boys—a rat-faced, wiry thing with a mop of blond hair—was staring at Cian.
The boy whistled.
Cian sprinted back up the wharf, away from the docks and the river. A patch of icy straw gave out from under his boot, but Cian kept his footing, launched himself up the steps and away from the river. Shouts followed him as he shoved his way through the crowds, and then he hit an empty side street, turned down it, and sped into the network of alleys that curled behind the main streets of St. Louis.
When he could no longer hear the shouts, when the only sound was the clap of his boots on the brick pavement, Cian slowed to a walk. His heart pounded, sweat stung his face, and his breath came in gasps. He took in his
Similar Books
