by Devon Monk
Seldom snorted again.
“We both take the horse,” Hink said.
“I don’t think the horse can carry me and all the people you claim to be.”
“Ho there, airship people!” a cheery voice called out over the rattling of a cart.
Rose glanced over her shoulder. It was Margaret, one of the witches she’d heard in the hall last night. Margaret’s wild brown hair curled across her forehead just beneath the brim of her bonnet, pulled back to reveal her rounded features, which were covered with a liberal sprinkling of freckles. She was just a few years older than Rose, and smiled brightly, bundled up in the driver’s seat of a horse-drawn wagon. Half of the wagon was filled with supplies of some sort, covered over with a canvas tarp.
“I’m going in to pick up mail,” Margaret said. “Do you need a ride?”
“Yes,” Rose said, spinning on her boot heel and quickly securing the seat next to her. “Thank you so much. Quickly, I need to catch a train. We’re running out of time.”
Captain Hink said one last thing to Seldom and handed him a thick fold of bills. That would be enough money to finish the repairs on the ship and some.
“What about Captain Hink?” Margaret asked.
“He has other plans. Go. Go.”
Margaret flicked the reins and the horse started off at a brisk walk.
Unfortunately, Captain Hink had long legs. He jogged after the cart and jumped up into the back of it before they’d gone more than a short distance from the shed.
“Captain Hink,” Margaret said. “I thought you had other plans.”
“Not at all,” he said. “I’m bound for the rails. Seems there’s a future out there needs finding.”
Rose rolled her eyes and settled in for a long ride of ignoring him. Hands always restless for something to do, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small lock that she’d found broken on the ground in town the other day.
She ran her fingers across the tools and bits of metal, twine, and cloth she kept in her pocket. The feel of all those little oddments was as soothing as a hot bath and she felt her shoulders relax and her mood lighten. There were so many things she could do with the castaway bits in her pocket. Right away, she had half a dozen ideas of how it could all join together to make half a dozen different little whimsies.
The last thing she’d made and tucked in her pocket was a little hollow wood ball, spring loaded and filled with sharpened nails that shot out when the trigger was hit. It was just a model to see if that kind of nonexplosive grenade might do some damage in a fight aboard an airship. She had planned on showing it to Hink.
Not now.
Still, she loved putting things together, seeing her ideas take form between her fingers, exploring the world through screw and bolt and curiosity. But today, on this ride, she worked on the little lock. She felt the need to fix, to repair, to make something work, since nothing else seemed to be going right in her life.
All through the ride, Captain Hink talked up the witch, making her laugh with that damnable charm of his. Rose wished she could block out the sound of his voice, but there was nothing else to listen to.
In the past, she could hear the sound of growing things, trees and bushes and the like, though mostly their comments were about sun, or shade, or water, or wind. But she hadn’t heard a single thought of any green since she’d been injured by the tin piece of the Holder.
The witches didn’t know what to say about it when she’d discussed her ability with them. Some of them had that same natural hearing of greenery. But none of them had just up and lost their abilities. And plus, she wasn’t a witch.
It was winter now and everything was sleeping, guarding roots, waiting out death, silent.
Maybe spring would bring her world back into full song again.
Margaret laughed and Rose hunched a little deeper into her coat, holding tight to the broken lock as they rattled over the rough trail.
Nothing about her world seemed worth a song right now.
* * *
The rail station was bustling with activity and noise. Rose looked up and away from the lock that she’d nearly gotten fixed. All the insides of it had frozen up, and she’d had to pry the pieces apart to get to the trouble. Once she had it opened, she’d been so distracted a cannon could have gone off and she wouldn’t have noticed.
She needed to put just a little grease inside to make sure the mechanism moved smoothly, but there wasn’t time for that now. Reluctantly, she dropped the lock into her pocket and took in the excitement around her.
The train station was a long, narrow wooden building, two stories tall, with a steeple right up the middle of it. The platform around it was built nearly six feet off the ground to make loading and unloading onto the train from wagons and carts all that much easier.
Dozens of steam-powered wagons and at least that many horse carts and carriages surrounded the place on three sides, while the huge, hulking black train sat huffing on the track along the remaining side of the station. Beyond the train was a row of warehouses and silos.
There had to be at least fifty people hugging, handshaking, and saying their good-byes. The squall of babies and barking dogs made up all the middle-ground noise, punctuated by the yell of workers loading crates and boxes and bags onto the back cars of the train, while laughter and shouts from the soon-to-be passengers muddled up all the calm of the day.
It was exhilarating. Rose found herself wondering what each of the people might be getting on the train for, where they were going, and why they were leaving friends and family behind.
“I’ll pull up here so as not to get us run over,” Margaret said. She guided the cart to the far side of the muddy road, just avoiding a family of four—a father, mother, boy, and girl—who dashed out in front of the wagon as they headed for the platform stairs, clutching one bag each, hands on their hats to keep them in place.
“Thank you,” Rose said, “for all the kindness you’ve shown me. I wish you and the sisters all the best.”
“Travel safe,” Margaret said, giving her a quick hug.
“Oh,” Rose said, “One other thing. I left some books in my room. Could you return them to Miss Bucker’s library?”
“I’d be happy to.”
Hink jumped down out of the back of the cart and was around to the front before Rose could swing her boots over the edge.
He held his hand up to her. Didn’t say anything. Just raised his eyebrow.
She took his hand and stepped down off the cart into the straw-filled mud.
“Might be difficult keeping that dress clean while adventuring,” he said.
“I’m a woman, Mr. Hink. I can keep my dress clean, and my shoes bright no matter what adventure may bring.”
“I thought you liked mucking about in trousers. Said they don’t get in the way like petticoats and whatnot.”
“Well, since I am no longer employed repairing your ship, I feel much more comfortable in proper dress and belted coat.”
He grunted. They made their way through the hiss and puff and heat and noise of the place. “You have enough for your ticket?”
“Yes.”
“And for food?”
“Mr. Hink.” She navigated around a cart with six men unloading crates of apples, potatoes, and bags of grain. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Couldn’t hurt to have some company. It’s a long way to Kansas City. Might be dangerous.”
“On a train? I don’t think so.” She kept walking and he dropped his pace to hers.
“Rose,” he finally said as they strode up the wide wooden steps onto the platform. The station house was ahead and to their right, the train running the full length on their left. “I didn’t sleep with them.”
“I can’t hear you, Captain Hink. You’ll have to lie a little louder.” The day was noisy, but she could hear him just fine. And she didn’t believe him for one hot second.
Hink swore and stopped pacing her. Fine. S
he had tried to get rid of him all morning. She was glad he had finally taken the hint that she didn’t need him for where she was going.
Rose strode into the station and stood in the short line of people purchasing tickets from the agent in the ticket booth. She had been here once before, just out of curiosity, but this would be the first time she’d ever ridden a train. Here she was, Rose Small, with nothing to her name but a change of clothes and her wits, ready to take her first steps out on the adventure of her lifetime.
She couldn’t wait to see the big cities. Couldn’t wait to build her place among them. Someday she would own her own airship. Faster than the Swift. Stronger too. She’d fly halfway around the world for tea every morning, if she so cared.
The line moved forward and Rose’s stomach fluttered with a mix of excitement and a dose of doubt. She knew heading off into the unknown could bring joy, but it was also filled with danger. And heartache.
She swallowed hard and glanced out the window, wondering if Hink was still following her. He was a tall man. With his hat on, he stood a good hand or two above most other men. But there was not a hint of him out there.
She was surprised at how sad that made her.
Maybe she wasn’t being honest about her own feelings. Maybe she was angry with him but still sweet on him, though she didn’t know how the two emotions could take up space in the same heart.
“Miss, may I help you?”
Rose blinked and looked back to the ticket agent. All the people in front of her were gone, leaving a wide empty space between her and the man. She’d been dreaming in her boots again.
She pulled her shoulders straight and put on a smile as she walked up to the agent.
“I’d like a ticket to Kansas City,” she said.
“First class?” he asked, though from the tone of his voice he already knew what her answer would be.
“No, second class, please.” She put her money on the counter. She’d done the math. At two cents a mile, she’d make it to Kansas City and would have a few cents left for food when she got there.
She didn’t like the idea of arriving in a new town nearly penniless, but didn’t fear it either.
The agent took her money and handed her a stamped ticket. “Just give this to the conductor when he comes by. Best be hurrying. Train’s about to pull out.”
“Thank you.” Rose glanced at the ticket, then held tight to it as she walked out on the blustery platform. She hurried down the line of cars, steam fogging the air with the thick smell of ash, until she reached the second-class passenger car.
Down toward the end of the train, a crowd of workers quickly loaded long crates that looked like coffins and several dozen smaller square crates into the last car. Dark green letters, V and B, were inked onto the crates. The workers looked over their shoulders a bit too often and hurried a bit too much. They were nervous handling that freight, trying not to be noticed as they transferred the VB cargo onto the train.
It must be very valuable indeed.
To Rose’s surprise, she caught a glimpse of Margaret handing them one last crate with VB on its side. She’d thought the witch was going for the mail, not to deliver crates for shipping.
A terrible curiosity caught her up. What were the witches shipping? She had never heard of them sending produce or grain anywhere but to the markets in Hays City. And those crates were handled like something fragile or valuable were inside. Rose called out Margaret’s name, but the noise of the engines covered her voice.
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.
7
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 friend
ly 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.