Dead Iron aos-1

by Devon Monk

  Cedar braced against the pain, rolled his eyes, and pushed his feet. He could not move them. His muscles strained, but he could not feel them.

  And then he heard, very clearly, Wil howl in pain. He smelled the thick stink of fur and muscle and bone burning away.

  The prod.

  Wil howled and howled.

  Cedar pushed against the pain, moved a foot, struggled to lift himself, but only his front legs responded. He pushed up.

  In time to see Mr. Shunt, one arm full of the bloody, broken bits of the boy who was not a boy, his other hand stabbing Wil again and again with the jagged pike.

  Killing Wil, killing his brother, when he’d barely discovered he still breathed.

  Cedar snarled and dragged himself toward Mr. Shunt.

  Mr. Shunt glared at him, then shifted his gaze to Mae.

  Shotgun at her shoulder, there was no more humming. The glass vials fanned out like a half-dozen lanterns, throwing her face in blue light and grim shadow. The shotgun was charged. Ready to fire.

  Cedar smelled the fear roll off Mr. Shunt as he stared down the barrel of that gun.

  But before Mae could squeeze the trigger, Mr. Shunt turned and ran—not like a man runs, but on all fours, new hands sliding out of his coat to hold Wil and the bits of the boy who was not a boy tight against his chest. More hands, feet, limbs, sliding out from where his legs should be. And all those limbs, hands, feet, and gears made him fluid and as fast as rainwater rushing down a pipe.

  In less than a blink, Mr. Shunt was gone.

  Cedar dragged himself toward the spot where his brother had been. Alive. Cursed, but breathing. He could still smell his brother’s blood, his brother’s pain.

  Cedar tipped his head to the sky and keened out his sorrow. He had lost him, lost him so soon to finding him.

  And he didn’t know if Wil would live through the night. Didn’t know where the Strange had taken him.

  Branches snapped again, the sound of footsteps coming near. He snarled in warning, though that was all he could do.

  “Is there the mind of the man still left to you, Cedar Hunt?” Mae asked from close by. “It’s the moon that ties you to the wolf, and the moon will be setting soon. But I won’t stay out in this dark for a moment more.”

  Cedar was panting. He understood half the words she was saying, his mind falling into an exhausted fog. The pain still rolled through him, as if the pike had been covered in coals that bit and chewed, trying to burn a way out from under his skin. The wound Mr. Shunt had given him felt like it was getting worse fast.

  The witch stepped nearer.

  She pointed the shotgun at him. “I’ll tend you best I can, but the mule’s gone and run home, and I can’t carry you. Can you walk, Mr. Hunt?”

  Cedar understood “tend” and “walk.” More, he sensed in her a willingness to soothe, to mend and comfort.

  He wanted to run, to hunt and tear the flesh off the Strange who held his brother captive. To kill. But the urge to follow her was stronger, even though breathing was a chore and the only blood he could taste was his own.

  He pulled his feet beneath him and pushed up. His bones felt like they were stitched together with fire. But he could move. And he did. Following behind the beautiful widow, Mae Lindson, who carried the charging rifle in one hand and her revolver in the other.

  He didn’t know how long it took; it felt like miles, it felt like years. But they were finally at her doorstep.

  “Come into my home, Mr. Hunt, and welcome here. May these walls give ease to your pain.”

  Mae pushed open the back door and stepped inside.

  Instinct whispered: Run. But he was too exhausted. Thirsty. There was water in the house, clean water. And the walls would hold out the Strange as good as any hollow he could curl up into.

  Even now the moon was sliding down the edge of night, and the change would strike him. He would wear a man’s skin. The need to find shelter and safety before that happened was overwhelming. Stronger even than the wolf’s instinct to kill.

  Cedar stepped into the house and let the witch help him to a bed of blankets spread out by the fire, and water poured into a bowl. He rested his bones and drank his fill, then fell into a hard, unbroken sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Rose Small stood and stared long after the wolf had turned and run. She knew it was the bounty hunter, Cedar Hunt. Could tell from his eyes, could tell from the living things, trees and such, whispering to her that he was not the animal he seemed to be. That he was a man hidden in plain sight.

  She’d never seen anything like it, and didn’t deny it rattled her to her bones. She knew she should go home, sneak back into her room beneath the notice of her pa and ma, as she had so many restless nights in the past. They ought to be asleep by now. Rose turned and took no more than three steps down the street when she saw a group of six men, rowdy and drunk, rambling her way.

  And at the head of them all, swigging off a bottle of whiskey he’d likely annexed, was Henry Dunken.

  Rose slipped into the shadows, pressing her back against the blacksmith’s shop. The smell of ash and metal calmed her, the feel of the familiar shop soothing. She carefully, quietly dropped into her apron the bits of metal—springs, nails, bolts—she’d been gathering. Rose Small put her hand around her gun instead.

  The men were yelling now—arguing. Rose winced at their language. They were arguing over which woman who worked the brothel did her job the best.

  Rose held her breath as they drew nearer. If she was quiet, they might just walk past her. But something, maybe just plain bad luck, turned Henry Dunken’s gaze her way. He stopped cold in the middle of the street, then started over toward her, his pack of friends following behind him.

  “Well, well, well,” he said, each word slurring into the other. “Look who’s out wandering the night without an escort. Little Rose Small.”

  Rose pushed off the wall and started walking. The gun had one shot only. She couldn’t take them all down. The kind of men Henry Dunken ran with wouldn’t let one gunshot stop them. From doing most anything.

  Rose went through her options methodically, but with amazing speed. Fear did that to her—slowed down the outside world, and gave her plenty of time to sort options, discard, and choose. Not the blacksmith’s shop. Even though she could turn herself around and get in there before they caught her, and even though almost every inch of the shop was covered in something that would make a good weapon, it was still one against six. They’d pin her, beat her, and then they’d do things she’d only heard whispered in the lowest tones, by people like Sheriff Wilke.

  Yelling for help wouldn’t do anything. The sheriff and any other decent soul wouldn’t hear her, tucked up in houses, far off on farms.

  Not running. It was too far to run to her house—or the mercantile. They’d outpace her. She had no horse. No chance reasoning with them.

  That meant she’d have to bluff.

  Rose turned quick on her heel and headed for the blacksmith’s back door. She knew it was locked. Knew Mr. and Mrs. Gregor must be sleeping. But she doubted either of them was sleeping deeply since the disappearance of Elbert. There was a chance they might hear her.

  The men behind her laughed and picked up their pace, boots thumping the hard-packed dirt like a ragged army on the march, aiming to run her down.

  Rose’s hands shook and her pulse quickened. She reached the blacksmith’s door and knocked and knocked. She was already doubting her decision. Tucked up this tight against the house, Henry Dunken would hold her down and do anything he could think of to her.

  She’d grown up with him. She knew what kind of mean he got when drunk.

  Well, she knew where she’d be aiming her gun first. She turned.

  “I’ll say good night to you now, Henry Dunken,” she said firmly, with no hint of fear in her voice. “And you and your friends will be on your way.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Rosie, posie, crazy Rosie.” His voice was singsong s
weet. “I think you and I are going to dance off the night.”

  Rose pulled the derringer out of her apron and pointed it straight at his head. “You think wrong.”

  One thing she could say about the men. Even drunk, they recognized a gun when it was pointed at them.

  “That little pepperbox ain’t gonna do you no good, little Rosie,” Henry Dunken said. “Only got yourself one bullet there. And there’s six of us.”

  “Then I suppose I’ll need to prioritize who, exactly, I despise the most.” Rose held the gun level with Henry Dunken’s head. “Why, I do believe that is you, Mr. Dunken. And once this shot goes off, Mr. Gregor will be out here faster than your boys can run.”

  “Think that old mule can get here faster than the boys can shoot?” Henry asked.

  The door behind Rose clacked with the heavy slide of a bolt being unfastened and a key turning.

  “Don’t think we need to find that out, now, do we?” she said.

  The door opened and the big form of Mr. Gregor loomed up behind her.

  “What’s all the racket about?” Mr. Gregor stepped forward. Rose moved to one side to let the big man pass her. Mr. Gregor’s hair was stuck up at odd angles. He had on his trousers over his long johns, suspenders snapped in place, and his boots untied, but no shirt or coat. They must have gotten him out of bed.

  Mr. Gregor carried a shotgun. He quickly assessed the situation, noting with a grimace the gun that Rose hastily stowed back in her apron.

  “Henry Dunken,” Mr. Gregor said. “I don’t care what fire you’re full of tonight, but you and your boys will take your shenanigans away from my doorstep and my property, or I will bring Sheriff Wilke into this.”

  “Why, of course, Mr. Gregor,” Henry said with a smile. “Didn’t mean to rouse you. I was just seeing Miss Small back to her home, like her folks told me to. Miss Small?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Dunken,” Rose said to his outright lie. “I’ll find my own way home.”

  “Can’t have a lady like you out wandering.” Henry Dunken gave Mr. Gregor a tolerant look. “You know how she gets sometimes.” He tapped his forehead. “Poor thing.”

  Rose clenched her teeth to keep from telling Henry Dunken just what he could do with his false pity. But Mr. Gregor saw right through Henry’s words.

  “Go on your way,” Mr. Gregor said. “I’ll see that Miss Small gets home.”

  Henry’s smile disappeared. He looked from Mr. Gregor to Rose Small, back to Mr. Gregor. Rose kept her hand on her gun, and her chin high.

  One of Henry’s boys slapped him on the shoulder, breaking the tension. “Come on, now, Henry. She’s gonna be fine.”

  Henry wiped his face with one hand and positioned his smile back into place. “I reckon that’s true, now, isn’t it? Good night, Mr. Gregor. Good night, Miss Small.”

  He turned about and sauntered off, the ruffians crowding around him like dogs in a pack. Rose forced her fingers to let go of the gun, her knuckles stiff and sore from holding on to it so tightly.

  “Mr. Gregor, I’m so sorry,” she began.

  “Rose Small,” he rumbled. “If I were your daddy, I’d give you a proper talking-to. What in the devil got into you to be out on the street this late at night?”

  Rose normally wouldn’t stand that kind of talk from anyone. But she reckoned Mr. Gregor was more of a father to her than her own father had been. So she told him the truth. “I was restless. Needed some fresh air. I went to stand on the porch, is all. Then I noticed a bit of metal in the street.” She dug in her apron for the proof of it, fished out a nail. “I didn’t want to leave it to waste.”

  Mr. Gregor took a deep enough breath, his chest rose up a good six inches. When he let it out, his words were worn down, soft. “I don’t know what gets into that head of yours, Rose.” He started walking and Rose followed along.

  “You’re old enough to be a man’s wife now, and yet you still do these things.” He shook his head. “Just because people in this town think you’re wild, doesn’t mean you should give them more reason to talk.”

  “But—”

  “Listen to me, Rose Small. You’re too old for this now. It’s time you pull your eyes down out of the stars and start thinking about getting married, raising a family of your own. And it’s time you stop walking out at night alone. These streets aren’t safe. Not for a lady. Not for anyone.” He glanced down to see if she understood.

  “What if I don’t want to raise a family? Don’t want to be married?”

  They were halfway to her house now, the moon slipping behind clouds, darkness growing thicker.

  “What else would a woman want for?”

  “To make things. Devise things. Maybe fly an airship to China and back.” She paused, then, “I have dreams, Mr. Gregor. Of making a difference in this world. I can’t think of living any other way.”

  Mr. Gregor was silent for the rest of the walk. Rose didn’t know what he was thinking, and didn’t have the courage to ask.

  Once they made it to her doorstep, he finally spoke. “Dreams can be dangerous things, Rose Small.”

  “Reckon the whole world is filled with dangerous things, Mr. Gregor,” she replied. “Can’t imagine dreams should be any different. But thank you for your kind words. They haven’t fallen on deaf ears.”

  He nodded and nodded, looking relieved she’d admitted as much.

  Then Rose Small let herself into her parents’ home, locking the door, and the night, behind her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Shard LeFel gazed down at his floor at the pile of wood and bones and gears that had just hours before been a creature most strange and divine. Mr. Shunt lingered in the shadow of LeFel’s living quarters, but held just inside the railroad car’s exit, LeFel noted.

  “You have failed me, Mr. Shunt. Twice,” LeFel said to the skeletal shadow of a man. “What a pity you are. I shall not offer you another chance to bring the witch to me.”

  He picked up his cane and prodded the pile of flesh and wires with it. Nothing in there, not a spark of living left to give the Strange another chance to occupy that body, to walk whole and solid in this world.

  It was a waste of gears, a waste of gravewood, a waste of blood, bone, and steam.

  And it had all been a waste of time. The witch’s life, and her magic, were no closer to his possession.

  He had gears, he had matics, and he had steam. But he did not have time left to waste.

  “If you cannot secure me the witch, then I shall call upon her own kind to place her in my hands. Mortals have their uses.”

  LeFel turned. The wolf, barely breathing and bleeding heavily from Mr. Shunt’s disciplinary administrations, didn’t even have enough air to whimper. It would be dead soon, but not before the moon rose to open the doorway home. LeFel would make sure it lived that long. One day. And no longer.

  LeFel picked up the bits of wood, bone, and metal, heavy in his hands, and warm even through the black leather gloves that he wore.

  He threw the mess at Mr. Shunt, who did not flinch as limbs and coils struck his coat and slid to the floor at his feet, leaving a slime of oil and blood behind.

  “Stitch that back into breathing. Set a tick in its heart. And be sure that it exactly resembles the blacksmith’s child. Exactly.”

  Mr. Shunt did not smile. His gaze was hard and dead as iron.

  “And do it before the sun burns to noon.”

  Still Mr. Shunt did not move.

  The Strange was showing far too much of its own resolve. Any other day in his near three hundred years on this land, he would have reminded the Strange exactly of its place. And who, exactly, was its lord. But so long as Mr. Shunt did as he was told for one day longer, LeFel didn’t care what notions or hard hungers the Strange hid from him.

  “Leave me, Mr. Shunt, and see that you do as I bid,” LeFel commanded.

  Mr. Shunt bent, just so much as a degree, his gaze locked on LeFel. He swept out his arm, and his coat followed, the hem lifting and
brushing over the pile of bones and bits, wiping the expensive rug clean of the shattered creature.

  And then he was gone, through the door that let a breath of air into the room, stirring the lace and silk curtains, with the clean, fae light of stars promising a new day rising.

  The door latched tight and the shadows of the room returned.

  The mortal boy, the true blacksmith’s child, shifted in restless dreams on his cot. “Not much longer, my child,” LeFel cooed. “Before the next dawn, I will slough off this world as nothing more than a bad dream, and all your pain, your fear, your dreams, will be gone, forever.”

  The child did not open his eyes, but LeFel knew he was listening, knew his dreams were filled tight with his words.

  “There can be no steam without fire,” he said as he pulled his gloves off one finger at a time, then poured fine brandy from a crystal decanter. “Just as there can be no justice without bloodshed.”

  He drank from the glass, and drew the curtain aside, waiting patiently to watch his last sunrise break over this mortal world.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Mae Lindson pumped a bucket of water in the sink and first washed her hands and arms. She was scratched and torn even though she’d been wearing gloves and long sleeves. Her neck stung with sweat; so did her chest and face. Her back hurt whenever she moved her shoulders too quickly. Every inch of her felt hot and stiff.

  Elbert . . . no, not Elbert. That Strange, that changeling child, had turned on her like a wildcat.

  She splashed water over her face and held her hands there, cold and shaking. That changeling child had tried to kill her. It had tried to tear her apart.

  Ever since the rails, ever since the dead iron had stretched out like poison in a vein across this land, the Strange had become stronger, hungrier. She’d never known a Strange to be more than a spirit, a nightmare, a wisp. At the most, they could slap, bruise, tangle a knot, and lead astray.

  But this thing, this Strange child, had seemed alive as any mortal man, so much so, she had thought it really was Elbert and held it and soothed it as if it were a babe. Mae exhaled through her palms and pulled another handful of cold water to her face, then down to her neck.