Cold Copper: The Age of Steam

by Devon Monk

  Margaret strode away and never looked back.

  What could the witches be shipping?

  The conductor yelled out a hearty “All aboard!” The train blew two hard whistles, signaling it was time to get moving.

  Rose ran up the steps into the train itself and then entered the car. It wasn’t much warmer in here than out in the weather, but with all the windows closed, it smelled of wet clothes, mud, and sweat. She’d been so late to get on, every seat in every aisle was full. But she wasn’t the last on the train. A boisterous group of young men dressed so fine their shoes shined crowded on behind her, talking loud enough to beat the band.

  She made her way down the narrow aisle, looking for an open spot, but every bench seemed filled with more people than it could hold.

  Then she spotted Captain Hink. He took up one full bench on his own, his arms draped across the whole back of it as he slouched there, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  He watched her come down the aisle. She searched for any other place, even for a spot on the floor, but there wasn’t any seating available.

  As she neared, Hink stood up into the aisle, leaving the seat he had just been in open.

  She took a deep breath and let it out. She’d managed his company before. Enjoyed it too, more often than not. And if she didn’t take the seat, that group of men behind her surely would.

  “Thank you,” she said stiffly.

  “Ma’am.” He tipped his hat.

  Rose sat, moving over close to the window so that he could take the spot next to her.

  He folded down with a grunt and stretched his long legs out as far as he could.

  The group of men glanced over, probably hoping for spare space, but Hink glowered at them and they moved on.

  Before Rose had settled herself with her luggage at her feet, the whistle blew out again. She sat a little straighter, excited for the sensation of being on the rails.

  With a hard lurch, the train started off. It was a strange sort of motion, like being atop a horse with a limp, but it was much smoother than she imagined it would be.

  She pulled the window curtain back enough to see the landscape go by. Rose couldn’t help it: she smiled. While she might prefer her travel high above the earth, rail travel was now her second favorite way to go.

  If only she’d had better company, this trip might have been thoroughly enjoyable.

  “Rose Small? Is that you?”

  She turned at the same moment Hink did.

  Hink swore.

  She grinned. “Hello!”

  Standing in the aisle, with a smile on his face and a book held open in one hand, was none other than Mr. Thomas Wicks.

  Cedar rose before the sun was up. He hadn’t slept, his mind too restless to keep. He paced the church quietly.

  Father Kyne wasn’t in any of the rooms Cedar walked through. The worship room was a small square the size of a schoolhouse at the front of the building, which was made with meticulous care. Old and worn, the walls were rubbed to a hickory shine, and dark pews kneeled in pious lines beneath the morning hush.

  A light coat of dust covered the corners and windowsills, either ash from the now-cool stove in the corner or a sign that people did not pass this way often.

  He didn’t sense the Strange here in the old echoes of the faithful.

  Cedar walked the aisle to the front door and stepped out into the fresh air.

  The sky was still lead heavy and dark as night. The wind had teeth, but at least it wasn’t snowing.

  He buttoned his coat up to his chin, turned his collar against the wind, and took a deep breath. There were Strange in the air. Not here, not near the church. Still, they were close enough he could taste the scent of them like blood on the tip of his tongue.

  Too intent on the scent and trail of Strange, Cedar did not hear the footsteps behind him until it was too late.

  Pain cracked the back of his skull, and the world slipped away as he fell.

  * * *

  He woke, too hot and too groggy, pain roaring in his head, tied to a chair. The room was dimly lit with lanterns and smelled of hot metal and other sharp chemicals. Glass jars and vials lined a shelf to his right, and at his left he glimpsed the edge of a table with sharp medical instruments across it.

  He tried to move, but his head, arms, wrists, chest, thighs, and ankles were all strapped tight. He was gagged, coatless, arms bare to the elbow.

  “I could kill you,” a man’s friendly voice said from behind him. “It would be the simplest of things. But instead I am going to change your fate. This, Mr. Cedar Hunt, is a gift. We have been looking for you. For the man who kills the Strange. We thought perhaps you’d been killed by the blizzard. But here you are. And you’ve made it so much easier for us, coming here. Thank you. Now, I will give you your gift.”

  Cedar’s heart was pounding. He might not be able to see the man, but he could smell the soap he bathed with and the oil he used in his hair. They were not uncommon scents, but mixed with the man’s sweat and the slightest tinge of hickory and cherry that clung to him, they became unique. A signature he could hunt.

  If he survived.

  “You see the Strange, you track them, kill them. Because of that curse you wear. We have the solution for you.”

  The man stepped closer. From the corner of his eye, Cedar saw a gloved hand pluck up a needle and vial from the table.

  “We are a curious people, Americans. We like to experiment. Sometimes when we discover something, we like to keep it quiet. My family has discovered some of the most interesting things that can be done. With man. With metal. And with the Strange.”

  The clink of glass and metal made Cedar twitch. Sweat ran a bead down his neck, stinging the nightmare bite there.

  “You won’t remember this, Mr. Hunt. Which is how I prefer it. This solution will make it so you will no longer see the Strange. A cure for your curse. Temporary, I’m afraid, but it should last long enough for my needs.”

  A needle stabbed into his arm and Cedar grunted from the pain.

  The man took care to stand just out of his line of vision so that all Cedar could see were his gloves and the sleeve of his overcoat. He pushed down the needle’s plunger.

  Whatever had been in that vial washed hot up his arm and burned across his chest, then his body. He felt as if he’d been dipped in flame. The scent of copper and taste of blood filled his mouth and burned his eyes. He yelled, but the gag muffled his cries.

  Then the man stepped behind the chair again and returned with another needle and vial.

  “And now. This solution will make sure you forget this meeting of ours. If I give you too much, it will kill you quickly. However, if I give you the correct dose”—he stabbed the needle into Cedar’s arm and ice-cold pain shattered across his nerves—“it will still kill you. Only slowly.

  “There is some chance you might find the antidote in time, but since you won’t even remember being poisoned, I doubt very much that you will survive a month.”

  He tugged the needle out of Cedar’s arm. “Just one last thing before I return you to your companions, Mr. Hunt: I am an old-fashioned man. And while I find new advancements in the scientific world fascinating, I find it best to rely on tried-and-true methods. I do hope you’ll humor me.”

  Cedar could barely think past the pain storming through his body. Too late, he realized the man was casting a spell.

  And then the world went dark.

  * * *

  The wind clattered against the frozen treetops, sifting snow down through the branches like sand through fingers.

  Cedar sat on the church porch stairs, his head resting against the rail. He glanced up at the sky. It had been dark just a moment ago. But the sky was bright with dawn. Had he been walking in his sleep? Dreaming? He remembered being restless and pacing through the church, then finally stepping outside.

  He rubbed at his face and at the tender pain at the side of his neck from his nightmare. His arm hurt, but
then, he hurt everywhere from nicks and bruises gotten on the trail.

  The cold could do strange things to a man’s mind. Hallucinations. Madness. And he had been far too cold for far too long in that snowstorm.

  It must have rattled his mind more than he realized.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hunt,” Father Kyne said quietly as he walked up from the barn, a bucket of water in his hand. In the muffle of snow, even his soft voice carried.

  “Good morning,” Cedar said. “Need any help with the animals?”

  “There is no need. I gave them hay and water. They’ll be fine until tonight. Is there something else that brought you out so early?”

  He remembered he’d come out to look for the Strange. To find the one who had found a way into the room and bit him. To discover whether it had been real or a dream.

  Most people didn’t believe in the Strange. Thought them to be ghosts and stories and things to frighten children into doing their chores.

  “There’s a restless wind in this town,” Cedar said. “Restless souls ride it.”

  Father Kyne nodded as he walked up the back steps to the church. “It has been so for many years. Some people say it is the rail that brings unrest. Some say it is the people rushing to build this city into a road for civilization. Others…” He paused and opened the back door to the kitchen. “Others say it is the earth shivering beneath the tread of strange devils.”

  Cedar followed him into the house. “Strange devils?”

  Father Kyne set the bucket of water in the sink and caught Cedar with his sober gaze. “There are ghosts who walk this town. They come in at night and flood the streets. So many, the mayor must send men to walk the streets with copper guns. Guns that sweep the ghosts away.”

  “Have you seen this?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you believe in ghosts? In spirits?”

  Father Kyne smiled briefly and Cedar realized he was not as old a man as his serious eyes made him out to be.

  “Why would I ignore that which is in front of my eyes? Do you think the ghosts are to blame for the children disappearing?”

  “I don’t know. But I plan to find out.”

  “You have my gratitude. The Madders do not seem as deeply concerned for the children’s welfare. Why do you travel with the Madder brothers, Mr. Hunt?” He turned and began gathering eggs and small potatoes for breakfast, and set them beside the stove.

  “They did me a great good. Helped me find my brother,” he said.

  “Your brother?”

  “The wolf. He is beneath a curse. A curse we both bear.”

  Kyne was silent for a bit. “Do you know why I am a minister, Mr. Hunt?” He scooped water from the bucket to the pot on top of the woodstove, then reached for the jar of oats on the shelf and dropped handfuls of the grain into the water.

  “Followed in your father’s footsteps?” Cedar said.

  “He wanted it so. I was taken in young enough the people, the tribe, refuse me as their own. I am a man between worlds. But God accepts all His children. I had always thought the people of this church had accepted me. But when my father died…” He shrugged. “I was mistaken.”

  “Do you have a congregation?”

  “A few remained, for a while. Now they no longer come. I believe we must all find God at our own pace. Do you pray, Mr. Hunt?”

  “I used to.”

  “And now?”

  Cedar didn’t say anything.

  Kyne waited, then quietly said, “The curse?”

  “Prayed to any god who would hear me for months,” Cedar said. “Not even the devil lent me his ear.”

  “Have you tried breaking the curse? Gone back to the one who put it upon you?”

  “I don’t remember much after the curse. By the time I had…reasoning back, he was gone.”

  “Was he a man?”

  “He didn’t seem to think so. Seemed to think he was a native god. Pawnee.”

  “I do not know those people. Have you looked for him?”

  Cedar heard the approach of hooves in snow. He walked over to the window near the door and peered out. “Not sure I know how to track a god, Father Kyne.”

  Riders were approaching: four men on horses in front of a towering black and green three-wheeled steam carriage. The carriage itself was suspended between two wheels taller than a man, with a driver sitting right atop a single front wheel. Gray plumes of smoke poured out of the single chimney pipe sticking up at the back of the coach.

  The first horseman wore a bright silver star on the breast of his sheepskin coat. He had a long, mulelike face, narrow at the chin, with a forehead full of wrinkles beneath a flat-topped hat. He was clean shaven except for thick sideburns; his eyes brown and cold as grave dirt.

  The sheriff.

  The riders stopped in front of the church stairs. The carriage rolled to a stop farthest from the church, turning enough to show the footman who stood on the backboard. Painted in gold on the doors were two gilded letters: V and B.

  Father Kyne moved the oatmeal to a cooler burner, but kept stirring. “How many men?” he asked.

  “Four riders, two with the carriage. Lawmen on horses. Probably the sheriff.”

  Kyne nodded. “Is the coach green and gold?”

  “Yes.”

  “You may want to make sure your companions are awake. That’s the mayor’s coach.”

  “Why send the law? We barely hit town ten hours ago. Is there something I should know, Father Kyne?”

  “The mayor is much beloved by many in this town. By most,” he added. “I do not trust him. He has lied to my family far too often. Lied to the people of my church. Hidden things.”

  The lawmen tied their mounts to the snow-covered hitching post, then stomped up the stairs to the short porch. The sheriff knocked on the door.

  “Go,” Father Kyne said. “I will invite them in.”

  Cedar left the kitchen and met Wil in the hallway.

  He heard the kitchen door open, and Kyne’s greeting. He couldn’t catch any of their words before he was in the bedroom.

  Everyone was already awake. Mae and Miss Dupuis were dressed, coifed, and folding blankets into neat squares atop the chest of drawers. The Madders were awake too, caught up in some kind of dice game where the stakes appeared to be who would go outside in the cold to take inventory of the supplies in the wagon.

  “We have company,” Cedar said.

  They all looked up sharply, and Cedar was reminded how quietly he often walked. “The sheriff, his men, and a carriage are here. Kyne says they do the mayor’s bidding. He thinks they want to see us.”

  “Mayor?” Alun said. “Isn’t that an interesting turn? He’s getting slow. Thought he’d be by last night.”

  “Wonder what that devil wants.” Bryn pocketed the dice and pushed up from a crouch.

  “We don’t have to wonder,” Cadoc said. “Killian Vosbrough wants what he has always wanted.”

  “So you do know him?” Mae asked.

  “There’s a reason we should have avoided this city.” Alun settled his coat around his shoulders with a dramatic flair. “It wasn’t just because of our promise owed to the Kyne family. But you wouldn’t stand for it, would you, Mr. Hunt? Insisted we stop at this town. And now, see where you’ve landed us? Summons. From that snake of a man.”

  “Why are you worried,” Cedar asked. “Do you owe him a favor too?”

  “No,” Alun said. “Quite the opposite. We’ve been asking him for a favor for years.” Alun ambled out of the room.

  “What favor?” Cedar asked the other two brothers.

  “To lay down and die,” Bryn said. “He seems reluctant to grant our request, but I am looking forward to the day we collect on that.”

  “As am I,” Cadoc said with a sharp grin.

  Cadoc and Bryn sauntered out of the room after their brother.

  Mae raised her eyebrows and Cedar shook his head. He had no idea what their issue with the mayor might be. The Madders were given to m
oments of drama and foolery, and moments of sobering truth. He didn’t know which of those this was.

  “Do you know anything about the mayor?” Cedar asked Miss Dupuis.

  She finished placing the last blanket on the dresser and smoothed it while she considered her answer. “I know the Madders have made a great many friends in their efforts to keep this land safe. I know they have made a great many more enemies. Vosbrough is an old family, rooted in the beginnings of the country, in the money and influence that holds it together.”

  “Are they famous?” Mae asked.

  “Powerful, which buys them fame if they so wish. Some even say it will buy them the country.”

  “The New York Vosbrough?” Cedar knew he’d heard that name before.

  He’d guess there almost wasn’t a man in these United States who hadn’t heard of them. They were millionaires, thriving on glim trade between the states and into England, France, and Spain. The elder patriarch Vosbrough had died more than thirty years ago, leaving the running of his thriving glim empire to his three children.

  “Are there any others?” Miss Dupuis asked with a faint smile. She adjusted the pearl hatpin in her hat, then walked across the room, smoothing her skirt. She had chosen to put on her coat and kidskin gloves, ready to face the storm.

  “I’ll see what, exactly, the sheriff wants,” she said.

  Cedar turned to Mae. “You could stay here.”

  Mae shrugged into her coat and shook her head. “I have nothing to fear from a rich man, mayor or not. It is possible he wants to have words with the Madder brothers and we will be left behind. Or perhaps Mayor Vosbrough doesn’t want to speak to any of us. Perhaps he wants to talk to Father Kyne.”

  “And so he sends the sheriff to fetch him?” Cedar asked. “And four other men?”

  She gave him a quick smile. “Well, whatever the case, I can’t imagine it would be a bad idea to have a witch at hand, do you?”

  “No,” Cedar said, catching her hand and walking with her, “I don’t.”

  The kitchen was empty. Father Kyne leaned in the open door looking outside, and glanced back at them. “The mayor has asked for your company,” he said. “Breakfast at the manor.”