Dead Iron: The Age of Steam

by Devon Monk

  The man pulled away from the threshold and tipped his head down, his eyes burning red as stoked coals from beneath his hat. He folded his arms across his chest and tapped razor-tipped fingers against the cloth of his coat, snagging small holes.

  “You will come with me,” he rasped.

  “I will not. Leave my land. Leave my home.” Mae shouldered the gun again, but she must have done something to unhitch the gears. The vials were no longer glowing and the clockwork was still. She thumbed the lever setting the gears into motion once more.

  Then she took a deep breath and began chanting the words of blessing, protection for her home, for herself, and for all things nurtured by the light. The wooden devices around the room hummed, picking up on the song like strings resonating to a bow.

  And the web of protection grew stronger.

  The man paced, his fingers tapping, tapping, glaring at Mae, at her house, looking for a way in, waiting for her to pause for too long a breath.

  Mae was afraid to shoot him again, afraid the shotgun would break the fragile web of magic and song that held him out. She did not step any farther away from the door, though. She sang, chanted, prayed, the wooden notions humming along with her, strengthening her song. And she held the gun at the ready.

  She realized she’d seen this man in town when she was trading a blanket for nails from the blacksmith. He’d been standing in the shadow of the shop, watching, silent. The forge and fire sent heat rolling out of the shop, but when she’d passed this man by, she had felt the dead of winter.

  The man stopped pacing. He strode to the left of the door out of her sight. Mae sang softly, hoping to catch the sounds of his footsteps. But he was too quiet.

  The shutters across the wall behind her rattled, first the one above her spinning wheel, then the other near the hearth. The shutters were strong, carved by Jeb’s hands, and rubbed down with linseed infused with Saint-John’s-wort for safety and strength.

  Mae swallowed down the taste of dust and fear and kept on singing.

  The shutters each rattled again, then lay still. A moment passed in silence. Then a knocking stuttered across the chimney; the pounding of fists—too many fists—pummeled the back door. The man walked the perimeter of her house, pounding, prying, plucking. But her house, her song, held strong.

  There was nothing she could drag to the broken door to close it, no way to stop him from stepping in, except her magic. If the magic didn’t hold, she would sacrifice a bullet and use the shotgun.

  He strolled around the front of the house again, standing in her broken doorway. He smiled and bowed low, rolling his hat off between his long fingers with a grand flourish. He paused at the lowest point of the bow, and Mae heard something metal hit the wooden planks.

  She glanced down. It was a brass button. And as the man stood again, he was missing a button from his coat.

  “Begone,” she whispered in the pause of her song. But the man smiled and said a guttural word.

  The brass button at his feet sprang open and flipped over. A hundred wriggling legs tucked beneath its armored body. The head was a drill with long mandibles and no eyes. It quickly tipped its snout to the wood plank at the man’s feet, and burrowed into it, sawdust and soil pushed up and out of the tunnel by its back legs as it headed toward her doorway.

  “Easy as threading the eye of a needle,” the man hissed. “Spy the hole, pierce the hole, stab the weave.”

  Mae swallowed, glanced down. She could not see the burrowing creature, but knew the man was right. If it could dig past her protections, if it could dig up inside the circle of magic that held her safe, it would break her barrier and the Strange man would be able to cross into her home, easy as thread pulled by a needle.

  What could she do? Shooting him didn’t kill him. The shotgun was still humming, warming slower this time, the needle on the gauge not even at half charge. There were no spells that would make a man drop dead in his tracks. She could curse him, but if she stopped singing, the wooden devices would fall quiet and the web of protection around the house would end.

  What did she have that could stop him? She glanced around the room, still singing, her mouth going dry, her heart pounding too hard, too fast. Herbs and wool and tinctures. Healing things, loving things, living things. Cooking pots, frying pans, her woven blankets stacked in a willow basket.

  None of these things would do him harm.

  Then she remembered the tatting shuttle in her pocket. It was a token of Jeb’s love to her, made of hawthorn, silver, and gold, given to her as a courting gift. She slid her fingers into her pocket and caught hold of the slim oval. It warmed at her touch, the edge of it sharp against her skin.

  Sharp enough to draw blood. Heavy enough to be used as a weapon.

  The drilling beetle dug and dug. She could see the scar it chewed into the threshold, a hump of wrinkled wood trailing its progress. Any second it would be drilling up and up, and then the man would have a hole small enough, large enough, to thread his way through and into her home.

  No time to wait for the gun to charge. No time to reload the Colt. No time left at all. She threw the shuttle at the man. It flew as if it had wings. The shuttle slashed across the man’s cheek, drawing a deep red line through his flesh. Blood gushed from that wound, pouring black as liquid coal.

  The man screamed, an unearthly screech, his spindled fingers fluttering up to his face, tapping and tapping. Black thread, thin as silk, appeared between the man’s restless fingers that wriggled as if he were weaving a net.

  No, not a net. He was stitching the wound in his face.

  He pulled his fingers away, the bloody thread spooling out from his finger that ended in a long, thin brass needle. He pulled the bloody threaded finger to his lips and bit the thread in two with serrated teeth.

  Even stitched, the wound kept bleeding, black liquid pouring down into the scarf around his throat like ticks gone crawling.

  Mae raised the shotgun, aimed. Charged or not, she was going to fire the thing. The shotgun whirred, and the wooden trinkets lining the wall picked up the hum. The man’s eyes narrowed.

  Mae pulled the trigger.

  This time, he did not step aside of the bullet.

  This time, the shot struck flesh and gear and all else he was made of.

  The man stumbled backward. Threaded fingers plucked at his coat, as if trying to pat out a burning flame. A globe of gold light surrounded him.

  This time, the shot exploded.

  And so did the man. Bits and pieces of him flew apart, scattering over the field.

  Mae waited a moment, two, for the Strange to rebuild the bits of himself. There was no movement. Not even a shift of shadow.

  Mae rushed over to the door, the gun still in one hand, and pulled her skinning knife. The brass bug had dug its way up through her threshold. It poked its head out of the hole, then wriggled free. She stabbed it with the knife. The bug writhed, tucked all its legs up, and popped off the edge of her blade, once again nothing more than a brass button, cold and still as a button should be.

  Mae glanced out at where the man had been standing. Not a single scrap of him near her door, and nothing in the grass stirring.

  The wind picked up again. One lone meadowlark sang a few unsteady notes. Another answered.

  Dusk settled gently over the horizon, bringing the cool scent of rain and the voice of crickets.

  Mae trembled. She had never faced anything as foul as that man. The shotgun was silent in her hand, the gears locked. With one last look out into the night, she picked up her tatting shuttle, which lay just outside the door, and made herself busy. Even shook, her feet wanted to run east, away from here, back to the soil that held her owing, back to the sisters who would wash her clean of the killing need for revenge.

  Not yet. She couldn’t run yet.

  She used the fire tongs to pluck up the button and drop it in a thick glass jar with a glass lid. Then she found the hammer and nails it would take to repair the hinges on her door
, and hurried to do so. Before night closed in. Before the moon rose. Before other Strange creatures came calling for her blood.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Cedar could not move. His hands were bound behind him, numb. His legs were strapped to the chair, and his chest and neck were similarly cinched down tight.

  Alun Madder plunked a chair down in front of Cedar and sat astraddle it, his thick arms crossed over the back of the chair.

  “You are an interesting problem, Mr. Hunt.” He pursed his lips and sucked the blood off his teeth. He spit into an oily kerchief and wiped his mouth and beard.

  “Been a while since the boys and I found a puzzle we couldn’t solve. We thought we had the way of you—a man running from his past and pain. That’s a common story for a common enough man. Then you go on and show you’re learned in old ways, Strange ways, and also foolhearted enough to lend a hand where you shouldn’t, putting your nose into business that’s none of your concern to save a boy who’s not your own. Seems you’re not that common a common man after all. Thing I wonder is how it took us so long to see the way of you.”

  Cedar said nothing. They hadn’t gagged him, but he doubted there was much he could do to talk them into untying him.

  If they held him until the full moon rose, he’d be happy to show them his uncommon way up close, and personalized. Then he’d tear their throats out.

  Bryn brought another chair over and sat rightwise upon it. He had on a pair of goggles with a star spray of lenses fanned off his bad right eye, giving that cloud-shot eye a golden sheen. He’d taken off his coat and wore his sleeves caught in a band at the elbow, hands clean as a christening bowl. His vest seemed constructed entirely of pockets, and in those pockets were bits of chain, cotton, wicks, scissors, and blades.

  “So,” Alun continued, “now you’re here, in our home, with a watch that wouldn’t take to fixin’. Not even for Bryn.” Alun shook his head, and Bryn fingered one of the lenses down over his right eye: snick, his eye was orange. Then another: amber. Another: gold. Snick, snick, snick, until his eye peered bloodred through the lens.

  “You come asking favors,” Alun said. “And for our help in hunting Strange things. Even know the specific tools for tracking: silver and song. Things a common man should not know. Why do you suppose that is, brother Cadoc?”

  Cadoc stepped out of the shadows behind his brothers, and into the lantern light. His hands were tucked in the pockets of his overcoat. He was silent for such a long time, staring at Cedar, that Cedar thought the youngest Madder had lost his wits. But his brothers waited. And so did Cedar.

  Far off, Cedar thought he heard rocks falling, a deep-earth mumble, as if the stones had rolled in their resting place and spoken of their dreams.

  “He carries a curse,” Cadoc finally said. “Not the old ways. Not our ways. But some way. Some way of this land has cursed him.”

  “Do you see the mark of the Strange on him?” Alun asked.

  Cadoc stared, silent again. Finally, “No. Not so much as.”

  Alun nodded and rubbed his chin whiskers, giving Cedar a measuring look. “You know about this curse, Mr. Uncommon Hunt?”

  “Untie me.”

  “Do you know the manner of this curse?” Alun asked, like a man calling bluff on a bet.

  “I know my own business. And how to keep it,” Cedar said.

  “Then I reckon you know when keeping your own business won’t put your boots on the road. I am powerful curious about that curse, Mr. Hunt. It’s a curiosity that you could snuff with a word or two. Tell me, what do you know about your curse?”

  Cedar could feel the beast pushing from within him. He was sure he’d blacked out for a bit after the brothers had dropped him in the chair. He didn’t know what time it was. Since they were asking him about the curse, the moon must not have pulled up into the sky. It must still be the day he’d come here, maybe even still daylight.

  Changing into the wolf would assure he’d get free of these ropes, maybe even free of this hill, so long as the brothers weren’t too fast on the draw. But there was no mind of a man left to him when he fell on all fours. There was nothing but hunt, kill, feed.

  If he became a beast, he’d not be able to operate the wheels to open the doors.

  Still, the idea of letting the beast take over his mind and end this situation was sore tempting.

  Cedar took a deep breath, trying to push away the killing thoughts. He was still a man. Best solve this before that was no longer true.

  “There is a boy out there who might be alive,” he said calmly.

  “But he’s on short time seeing as how he’s been gone more than a night. I have the tools to hunt for him, and I have paid the price you asked for those tools. That is my business. And that is all. Untie me.”

  Bryn was still clicking lenses into place, staring at him through his right eye that had gone from gold to red to emerald and was now drenched in indigo.

  “Moon,” Bryn said. “And blood.” He leaned forward and his brothers mimicked him, leaning in as if they too could see through the lenses over his eye.

  “Blaidd gwaed,” Cadoc whispered.

  “Blood wolf,” Alun agreed.

  They all leaned back, as if pulled by the same string.

  Alun scratched at his beard. “Shape-shifter, eh? Do you remember much the day after the change?”

  Cedar blinked. He didn’t know what to say. Anger, fear, or disbelief he expected, not casual curiosity.

  “It’s only for a night, I reckon? Or say a few nights around the full moon?” Alun pressed.

  “Three,” Cedar said. “Three nights. Beginning with the waxing full moon.”

  “Your sudden need to be rushing out of here makes a mite more sense.” Alun stared up at the ceiling while Bryn pulled a pair of scissors that looked like a tiny brass heron, and a small leather satchel, out of a pocket.

  He ambled over next to Cedar and snipped off a bit of his hair.

  Cedar jerked and glared at Bryn. “Keep your hands to yourself, or I will break them joint by joint.”

  Bryn grinned, and waggled his fingers at him as Cedar flexed his arms, pulling against the straps that held strong.

  “Do you remember, Mr. Hunt?” Alun asked again.

  “About?” Cedar glared at Bryn, who wisely backed away and sat back down.

  “Being a man, being a wolf.” The eldest brother pulled his gaze off the ceiling. “Do you carry the thoughts from one skin to the other?”

  “No.”

  The far-off rumbling of stones rattled a trickle of dust down one wall.

  Cadoc, who still stood behind the brothers, exhaled a breath he’d been holding far too long.

  “Well then, might be we could do you a favor, Mr. Hunt,” Alun said, the gleam of negotiation back in his clever, dark eyes.

  Cedar pushed against the ropes, but they did not loosen.

  “We’ll return your coin, return the favor owed for the silver tuning fork, if you’d do a job for us.”

  “What job?”

  “Hunt for us.”

  Cedar laughed. “Are your ears full of wool? I told you, I’m hunting the boy. Until I find him, living or dead, I will hunt nothing else. For anyone.”

  Alun looked over at Bryn, who shrugged and smiled.

  “Say we give you something to make it worth your while,” Alun said.

  “Say we give you something to cage the wolf,” Bryn said.

  “Say we give you something to keep the man’s mind in the wolf’s clothing,” Cadoc said.

  “Say you untie me, boys, and let’s be done with this,” Cedar said.

  Bryn chuckled and walked off into the shadows behind his brother Cadoc. He passed through the door where both Mae’s gun and the tuning forks had been kept. Cadoc took Bryn’s seat and stared at Cedar.

  “We have a need for you,” Cadoc said careful and slow. “Other-ways, we’d not ask it of you. Not ask it of any man.”

  “That’s truth, Mr. Hunt,” Alun said. “Our word o
n it.”

  “But,” Cadoc said, “a man who can hear the Strange, a man with the wolf in his bones and his eyes in all the worlds . . . well, that’s the sort of thing that might suit our needs. Something we will pay handsomely for. No price too high to pay if you’ll find our Holder.”

  “The Holder,” Alun explained, “is a device that’s been taken, piece by piece, from many a land. A device we have spent all these long years searching for. We believe the Holder is here, in these hills, maybe even in this town.” He leaned forward, thick arms crossed over his chest. “We want you to find the Holder for us, Mr. Hunt.”

  Bryn walked back into the light, carrying a short length of chain. It was black, the links thin as a stalk of wheat. The links were worked loop through loop and a spiral of thin silver snaked through it. At the join point was a clasp shaped in a crescent moon, and on the opposite side, a small brass arrow that would pierce the moon and hold the chain together.

  “Don’t know the ways to keep the moon from calling you,” Bryn said as he walked over to stand behind Cedar. “Don’t know the ways to keep the wolf away. But this should break the thrall so you’ll have a clear mind. Even after you’ve gone beast.”

  “Think of it,” Alun said. “You will have all the instincts and keen senses of the wolf, so too your reasoning. Finding the boy, if he can be found, will be swift. After that task is put to fallow, you will look for our Holder.”

  Cedar’s stomach tightened, his chest hot with anger. The whiskey-heavy heat of the moon was stirring him even through a mountain of stone. The moon must be near its rise. He could feel it in his bones, calling, calling. His thoughts were already slipping, shifting, his ears filling with the rush of his own blood pumping hard. His hands opened and closed. He needed the heavy chain around his neck—not this collar the Madders offered, but the links that would hold him trapped against the stones of his hearth. Links that would keep him from killing the very child he intended to hunt.