Dead Iron

by Devon Monk

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Dunken,” Mae said. “No, I’m afraid not. I’ll be bringing it to town next I come, though.”

  “I heard your man is gone looking for work,” Mrs. Dunken went on. “Pity the rail man wouldn’t take his kind. Employs all sorts. Even the savages. At more than a fair dollar. I can’t imagine how you’ll survive until spring.”

  Mae’s shoulders drew back straight and hard. She’d heard worse, been through worse than four women’s scathing stares and bitter barbs. She’d likely endure more before the day ended, what with the death she was contemplating. “We’ll manage, thank you kindly,” Mae said. “And thank you, Miss Small, for your time,” she said to Rose.

  “Been a pleasure,” Rose said. “I’ll let Mrs. Haverty know we’ll have that lace in plenty of time before the wedding.”

  As soon as the word “wedding” left Rose’s mouth, the women started up again like a flock of hens tattling over scraps of seed.

  “We’ll settle this nonsense for good,” Mrs. Dunken said to one of her hangers-on—the long-faced, sad-eyed Mrs. Bristle. “Rose, fetch us the newspapers immediately.”

  The women bustled into the store, taking themselves back a ways toward the pharmaceutical counter, where glass bottles and waxes cluttered the shelves.

  And before Mae could step out the door, a man was blocking her way. Tall, and wearing the newest style from New York, Henry Dunken, the baker’s son, took his hat off his head and stepped inside. His eyes were green as river rocks, his jaw square as a sawed-off railroad tie, the rest of his features just as rough-hewn. He’d always had a meanness about him, and today was no different. He ignored Mae’s presence and scanned the store like a surveyor judging the yield of his claim.

  He pushed past Mae without a decent pardon-me and leaned an elbow on the counter. Then he helped himself to a handful of candy out of the jar and stared at his mother and her women, obviously waiting for something.

  Rose came from the back of the room with a booklet of papers. “Here’s all we have from the last year or so, Mrs. Dunken.” She looked up and caught sight of Henry. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth took on a stubborn line.

  “Where are your manners, Miss Small?” Mrs. Dunken snatched the papers from her. “You have a fine gentleman waiting for you. See to your customer.” She waved a hand at Henry, and in the same motion dismissed Rose from her service.

  Mae caught Rose’s gaze, and Rose gave her a bored look. She didn’t seem concerned about Henry. She stomped across the wood floor and stood behind the counter.

  “Good day, Mr. Dunken.” No honey in those words. Luckily, Henry’s mother was too busy arguing about sleeve lengths to hear her tone.

  Rose pulled out a ledger book and flipped through the pages. “I’ll add that candy to your father’s tab. Is there anything else your father will be buying for you today?”

  “Now, now, Rose,” Henry said. “Once I’m mayor of this town, a bit of free candy every once in a while might sugar my feelings toward your interests.” He glanced down at her bosom, then gave her a wide smile.

  “Miss Small,” Rose said coolly. “I’d be obliged if you used my proper name, Mr. Dunken.” She leaned a little closer to Henry and lowered her voice. “But I think you may want to reconsider your offer.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?” he asked, warming to her presence.

  “Because my interests all require you to cross lots off the short end of the earth.”

  Henry stood up tall and glowered down at her. Rose met his gaze with a bland expression. He glanced over at his mother, but she had heard none of it, then scowled at Rose again.

  “And I’d be obliged if you treated me with the respect due my station,” Henry said.

  Rose put her hand over her mouth and coughed to cover her laughter. “Of course, Mr. Dunken. Anything more I can get for you? We have a fresh batch of pride carted in from the East, if yours has gone and gotten bruised.”

  Mae hid an approving smile and walked outside. Rose could take care of herself. And it’d take more of a man than the troublemaker Henry to match her.

  After the warmth of the shop, the cool air felt like she had plunged into clean water. Her mule stood, head lowered, dozing in the afternoon sun.

  The wind stirred, bringing with it the voices of the coven sisters calling her home.

  East. She needed to be walking, needed to be packing, needed to be riding east. Mae could hear their voices as clear as the rattle and thump of the matic on the rail, as clear as the clatter and jingle of horses and gear making their way between the shops of the town, as clear as the laughter rising up from somewhere off by the butcher’s shop. A pain in her chest flared out as the bind between her and the coven tightened like a string being pulled.

  No. She swallowed hard and held tight to the porch rail until her mind cleared and the sisters’ call eased.

  She knew the sisters’ call would only grow stronger. And each day she held off returning to her own soil, the more time and effort it would take for her to resist.

  Mae took a few deep breaths, then rubbed Prudence’s nose to wake her. She untied the reins and hitched back up into the saddle.

  She looked up the street. More people walked between the wagons that were loading and unloading crates and barrels and bushels, people scurrying from wagon to storehouse. Winter was coming. The whole town knew it. Like ants desperate to get the last bit of food beneath the ground before the frost hit, the folk of Hallelujah were working to stock up against the coming storms. But farther off north, cool as the heart of a sapphire, stood the Blue Mountains. And at their feet was the Madder brothers’ mine.

  The sun shifted from behind a cloud, a dark shadow skittering down the street as the wind on high blew the clouds across the fields, tearing them apart until they were gone.

  Sunlight poured down, strong as summer ever was, lighting the way north. As good an omen as she’d likely receive. With the sunlight on her back, Mae headed down the road toward the shadow of the mountains.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Shard LeFel knew Mr. Shunt lingered, a dark shadow among shadows, inside the doorway at the far end of the railroad car that served as LeFel’s living room. LeFel was always aware of the Strange, as one is aware of a draft that lets in the frigid breeze.

  But it was not the Strange that held his interest most today. It was the two other creatures in the room—one a wolf and the other a boy.

  The wolf was a mottle of black and gray, its underbelly and legs white, the tips of its ears and the top of its head pure black. It was chained and shackled, its neck caught so high and tight in the collar that it panted to breathe. Even so, it strained to reach LeFel, hungry for his blood, and would likely break its bonds if not for the brass collar with clockwork gears that let out a pitch only the beast could hear and clouded its mind.

  The boy lay upon a simple cot, wrapped in a striped wool blanket as if tucked tight against a fever. His eyes were glossy; his red hair stuck up in unruly curls that were darkened by the sweat on his brow. He was staring at LeFel as if he could see right through him.

  It took no collar or geis to keep the child quiet. No, LeFel had found that all it took to keep the boy complacent was the correct mixture of drugs.

  “Mr. Shunt,” LeFel said, more to get rid of the Strange than out of any sense of compassion, “bring the beast a crust of bread and water, and for the whelp, a bit of porridge.”

  Mr. Shunt bowed, one spindly hand rigored against the brim of his stovepipe hat. He turned, his long coat whispering at his ankles as he exited to the kitchen car.

  The rail matics outside huffed low and steady like lumbermen heaving a two-man saw through a sequoia. Off rhythm at first, the spike mauls hit rails, drove spikes, dropped wooden sleepers to carry the track, creating a second and third rhythm—the beating pulse of LeFel’s conquest of this land, and his promise to the Strange.

  Still, it would take more than the Strange’s door and the Holder to buy LeFel’s escape from this mortal fl
esh. It would take a key. And that key was made of three things: the lifeblood of a dreaming mortal, the life of a man cursed by the gods, and the life filled with the magic of this earth.

  Of all the devices he had commissioned over hundreds of years, of all the jewels and precious metals that had been broken down to dust to make way for this ticker or that, the most elusive thing of all had been finding each part of the key: three lives to sacrifice to open the door to the Strange realm.

  He had never once concerned himself with finding a mortal dreamer—children often still saw the world through dreaming eyes, even through the most difficult of circumstances. No, finding a child to kill was easy.

  But a man who was truly cursed by gods was a more difficult rat to corner. He had investigated hundreds of claims of mortals stricken by curse, and all were fakers, charlatans, or simply unfortunate beings living unfortunate lives. He had nearly despaired of finding a single man cursed by the gods.

  Until he saw the wolf. Uncanny human intelligence in those old copper eyes. LeFel had been curious enough he’d told Mr. Shunt to catch him up so he could better see him.

  And when the moon went dark, the wolf revealed himself to be a man. A very cursed man indeed.

  It had taken until just a few months ago for LeFel to find the last life—that filled with magic—that had so eluded him. To his surprise, he had found that magic lying heavy as a perfume on the colored man when he had come asking to work the rail. And he had tracked it back to the colored man’s wife, the witch Mae Lindson.

  But the dark man had stood in his way. LeFel had been unable to steal her away, kept as she was, safe under the colored man’s devices and protections. Killing the man, three final times, should have finally broken his protections, and the ties of magic between the pair.

  Now all that was left was to pluck the witch, like a ripe plum, and bleed her life away.

  “On the waning moon, the door will be opened, and blood shall oil its gears,” LeFel murmured.

  The wolf flattened his ears and growled.

  “You, dog,” LeFel said, “have been more useful than I hoped. Tracking the witch, the child, the Strange. But in the end, it is only your death that interests me.”

  LeFel stood with the grace of a dancer, despite the catch in his knees, and crossed the car, the sound of his bootheels smothered by the layers of Oriental carpets. He paused in front of the glass and iron corner cabinet that shone in the candlelight like melted diamonds. Within the beveled depths was an assortment of treasures and oddities.

  He drew a golden key from within his vest and let the chain fall over his high lace collar.

  LeFel slid the key to the lock and opened the door to the cabinet. He brushed fingertips across the jewels, books, gears, springs, charms, boxes, and talismans that clicked and chirped and shivered beneath his touch.

  He settled upon a finely made hourglass as thick as his thumb and long as his palm. Within one bulb of the hourglass were tiny golden gears, and hanging down the neck between the bulbs was a thin wire pendulum with a blue sapphire at its end. He folded his fingers around the tiny matic and closed the glass cabinet, locking it again.

  He turned to the wolf, hourglass pinched between thumb and finger.

  The wolf growled so low, the sound was lost to the huff and thump of the rail work outside.

  “Ah, you do remember what this small trinket can do.” LeFel turned the hourglass on end, tipped it back again, winding the spring. Three times. The tiny gears ticked, and the pendulum made its narrow swing, clicking softly against the glass.

  The wolf growled again.

  LeFel paced to the high-backed chair. Made of fine leather, goose down, and rare woods, the chair suited more than a railroad tycoon. It suited a king.

  “This small matic holds very special properties,” he said. “With the correct word, it is quite a remarkable device, tuned as it is to the collar you wear.” He folded down into the chair.

  “Shall I give you a taste of what you once were?” LeFel drew the hourglass tight against his palm. He leaned his lips in close and spoke a single word against his thumb.

  The wolf growled, howled, and twisted shoulders and haunches, trying to break free of its shackles. The howls were not anger but pain. Pure sweet agony.

  LeFel smiled. “Such a difficult change from one flesh to another without the aid of the moon. The gods of this land have given you their favor, and pain is your only song of praise. What cruel gods walk your mortal world.”

  The wolf whined, growled, and then its howls were replaced by a man’s scream.

  LeFel sat back, tipping his head down to watch as the beast became the man. It was a fascinating process, a curse, viewed scientifically, that should destroy human flesh. And yet, here before his eyes, the wolf stretched, spasmed, and melted into the form of a man. That aspect of the curse alone, the ability to shift forms, made the wolf worth keeping, worth experimenting on, and experimenting with. But for the passage it would pay him, the beast was invaluable.

  Naked, sweating, and breathing hard, the man curled into himself, knees tucked up against his muscular chest, arms draped around them. He rested his head on his knees, brown hair catching at the beard across his jaw, and falling in a tangle to his shoulders. When his breathing quieted, he looked up at LeFel. His eyes were brown, the color of old copper.

  “Let me free.” The words were short, as if the shape of them was unfamiliar to his mouth, his tongue.

  LeFel laughed. “You demand? I have nursed you from your wounds, fed you, kept you. Even now, you speak with the words of a man, think with the mind of a man—because of my favor. Without me, you are a mindless animal. I am your freedom.”

  The man glared at LeFel as if contemplating his murder. Mortals never ceased to intrigue LeFel. Foolish, clumsy creatures, yes, certainly. Yet they carried a fire within them, living as if they were immortal, fighting for their short, meaningless lives, as if each day was precious as rain.

  Even though he was more wolf than man, the mortal still carried pride and anger. A fire burned in him. LeFel enjoyed seeing that fire had not been broken. Yet.

  “Can you feel your death approaching?” LeFel asked conversationally. “Every day spent as an animal steals from you a little more of your human intellect. Do you remember your name?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. Finally, “Wil. Wiliam Hunt.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hunt. And do you remember why you are here?”

  “To search.” He frowned. Lifted a hand and rubbed his face, fingers digging at his forehead. “You told me you would cure me if I would hunt. Help you hunt. A woman?”

  “Yes, a woman. The witch. And the child.” LeFel pointed toward the boy.

  Wil dropped his hand, and looked over, the chain and collar hampering his movement. He frowned.

  LeFel waited. Waited as Wil Hunt realized he had helped LeFel imprison a slip of a child. LeFel had pulled the man out of wolf form more than once in the last three years. Not too often. No, that would blunt the blade of the game. But every time he had brought Wil Hunt respite from his wolf form, and shown him what he had done—the dead, the broken, and, of course, now the child—it had left the man raging and reminded him of his power.

  LeFel never tired of it.

  This time was different. Disturbingly so. The man clenched his jaw and fist, pulling his heavy shoulders back as if accepting a weight. He turned a smoldering glare on LeFel.

  “Let the boy go.”

  “You think you can issue me orders?” LeFel threw the hourglass into the air.

  Wil’s eyes widened, then narrowed, his body instinctively bunching and reaching to catch the fragile clockwork glass.

  “No!” Wil pushed against his shackles, arms snapping chains to their length, far short of reaching LeFel or the hourglass.

  LeFel snatched the hourglass out of the air and smiled at Wil’s fear, his anger, his desperation. “Never forget, cur,” LeFel said through bared teeth. “I am your master. If you speak to me in
such a manner again, I will kill that boy and feed him to you.”

  The French door clacked open and Mr. Shunt filled the gap. He tapped one needle-pointed nail against the silver tray he carried, announcing his presence, then ducked the doorway.

  “Lord LeFel?” he murmured.

  LeFel placed the hourglass on the arm of the chair, where it tipped precariously to one side. A tremble, a breath, and it would fall to the floor again.

  Wil Hunt leaned his head against the wall, staring at the hourglass as if his gaze alone could hold it steady.

  The shackle at his neck shifted, biting against his collarbone, but he did not shrug away from the pain, did not say any more, did not glance at the boy.

  Much better.

  Mr. Shunt glided into the room, looking neither left nor right at the man or boy. His overly long, strangely jointed fingers wrapped thumb and forefinger over the edges of the tray, the rest of his fingers splayed like skeletal wings. His eyes glowed yellow beneath the brim of his stovepipe hat, though the rest of his features were lost in the lacy shadows and scarves piled high around his neck.

  LeFel glanced at the tray the Strange carried. “That will do. Feed them.”

  “Yes, lord.” Mr. Shunt smiled, his teeth a row of points beneath the shadow of hat and scarves.

  He moved to stand next to the man, offering him a tin cup that sloshed with water. Wil took the cup and waited. Mr. Shunt pulled a fistful of bread that smelled of oats and rye from the pocket of his coat and offered it on a flat hand like a treat to an animal. Wil took the bread without comment or question but did not eat or drink.

  Mr. Shunt glanced back at LeFel, who nodded once.

  Mr. Shunt pivoted toward the boy, his approach slower, more careful, as if he were stalking skittish prey. He shifted so he did not stand in Mr. LeFel’s line of sight to him, then held a wooden bowl of cooked oats with a spoon stuck inside it out to the child.

  The boy did not look away from LeFel, but his breathing hitched up faster the closer Mr. Shunt folded down nearer his side.