by Devon Monk
He curled his fingers around the reins, to keep from reaching out to her, to keep from touching her. A fine woman like her didn’t need a man encroaching on her grief. Not just yet.
“What thoughts are you keeping, Mr. Hunt?” Rose Small asked.
“It’s a strange path life leads a person down. Never know how it will all turn round. For bad or good.”
Rose thought on that a moment. “I suppose you’re right. I’m looking forward to where the path will take me. Aren’t you looking forward to your path, Mr. Hunt?”
Cedar made a point to stare at the horizon ahead, instead of where his gaze wanted to linger: on the beautiful Mae Lindson.
“Not so long ago, I didn’t think I was,” he said.
“And now?”
“Now I think I’ve changed my mind. Might be a thing or two I can look forward to.”
“Finding the Holder?” she asked.
“I suppose.”
Rose looked over at Mae, then turned an innocent look to Cedar, though there was a wicked sparkle in her eye. “Is there something else you’re looking forward to?”
“I suppose.”
“Don’t reckon you’d tell me what?” she pressed.
“Nope. Don’t reckon I would.” He nudged his horse into a trot, then a slow lope, and began down the road to the east, and all the promise this fine land could hold.
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EPILOGUE
Mr. Shunt sat cross-legged in the shadows by the shattered and burned train car, the last bits of him hooked, stretched, and sewn into place. It had been a slow and grueling process to piece himself back together, and he had used spare parts from the other Strangeworks to fill the holes Jeb Lindson and that cursed man Cedar Hunt had left in him.
His gray, gore-covered coat wrapped him from chin to boot, his face hidden beneath layers of silk and cotton and his stovepipe hat.
He was looking for something. Waiting for one thing more to finish his construction.
There. A dull glint, movement in the bloody soil.
He bent and plucked up a delicate silver dragonfly. He held it in his open palm, and the crystal wings shivered sparks of color in the late-afternoon light.
Such a precious thing. So rare. And now it had no cage to hold it.
Mr. Shunt pressed it into his chest, piecing it together, stitching it a new cage, just as he had pieced himself together anew. Then he took the iron key from his pocket and wound the dragonfly until its wings hummed.
Too great of a treasure to waste on that dead man. Now the dragonfly was where it belonged. Now Mr. Shunt would see that his own desires, his own hungers, were fulfilled.
And that which he wanted most was traveling east.
So east was where he’d go.
He strode down the rail, heading east on the dead iron rails, the sun a burning ember behind him, and all the land spread before him, like a feast of dreams.
Devon Monk writes the Allie Beckstrom urban fantasy series, the Age of Steam steampunk series, and the occasional short story. She has one husband, two sons, and a dog named Mojo. Surrounded by numerous and colorful family members, she lives, writes, and knits in Oregon. For excerpts, information, and news, please visit her Web site at www.devonmonk.com.
BOOKS BY DEVON MONK
THE AGE OF STEAM
Dead Iron
THE ALLIE BECKSTROM SERIES
Magic to the Bone
Magic in the Blood
Magic in the Shadows
Magic on the Storm
Magic at the Gate
Magic on the Hunt
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