by Devon Monk
He had a man to kill. A man who killed him three times. A man who intended to hurt his Mae. Jeb knew that monster, that Shard LeFel, was a devil in a coat of hair and bone.
So Jeb kept walking. Walking to find the devil. Walking to keep Mae safe.
Mae. His beautiful Mae. Jeb paused, closed his eyes for some time, though the wind blew cold, tugging on the tatters of his shirt, and the night shifted with hungry creatures catching the scent of him.
He worked hard to remember her face, her lips, her laughter. Finally pictured her, as on their wedding day, the scent of honeysuckle in her hair, the sweetness of strawberries upon her lips as they kissed beneath white lace in the morning light.
Mae. His love. His wife. Until death did them part. He’d made that vow. Given that kiss to seal his heart, life, and soul to her. Forever. And she had given him her heart, life, and soul. Forever.
He opened his eyes. “Forever.” Jeb went on walking again, one foot, one foot, through the night, the hangman’s noose still around his neck dragging the ground behind him.
By and by, dawn pushed birdsong and watery light down from the hills. Daylight, even weak at dawn’s break, was too strong, too hot, for him.
The light burned where it touched his flesh and smoke rose in soft, foglike wisps. Jeb moaned.
Burning was not good. No, not good at all. Burning only ate up what strength he had.
And he needed his strength. All the strength in his bones and soul.
He had a devil to kill.
He stood for a long while, smoke lifting from his skin, as he thought things through. Finally, it came to him. The light was hot, but shadows were cool. Shadows were slices of night stretching out across the day. He needed the night, so he needed the shadows. He looked around. He was still in the forest where plenty of shadows clung to trees and stone. He walked toward a shadow beneath a tree and sighed as the damp wing of night covered him.
His skin cooled, the smoke thinning until it was gone. He waited, because he knew he should. Long enough for his flesh to be as whole as it could be. Long enough for his brain to think out how to get to that next patch of shadow. Because there was more than a need to see Mae moving him on. There was hatred, hot and pounding. There was a killing to be done.
Jeb took a step, but noticed a bird perched on a branch just above his head. The bird clicked and warbled.
It was a pretty thing—copper head wide and round with bright, emerald eyes and a brass beak. It cooed, owllike, and clattered its wings.
Jeb stared at it. It stared back.
That was no bird. No, not at all. Birds didn’t have clamps for feet. Birds didn’t tick. Birds didn’t tock.
That was the devil’s toy. Shard LeFel had devised it to look for him, spy on him.
Jeb licked his lips.
He caught up the owl with hands too fast for a dead man. Then squeezed. It was easy to see how the bird fit together—a mite easier to see how to bust it apart.
The bird scratched and bit, nipping flesh off the thick of his hand. He held tight. There was something inside the bird that kept it alive. Not steam like any other matic he’d ever seen—the bird wasn’t hot enough, though there was a coal and a small portion of water running through it. Something more than springs, more than clockwork. Something strong. All his life he’d known the best way to figure out how something came together was to tear it apart.
Jeb squeezed the bird in one hand, keeping the wings tucked tight, the tiny tick in its breast growing faster. He ran his fingers over its head feeling for the seam. Easy as a thumbnail through an apple skin, he split the weld on its face. The bird’s head hinged open.
Inside that metal skull was more metal, fine gears and cogs that would make a watchmaker drool. But it wasn’t just a tightened spring that made the owl tick. He pried open the back of the bird.
The innards looked like a watch, tightly coiled and geared, layers of things that ticked, pumped, spun. But there in the center of the copper and brass was a glass vial. Filled with an unearthly green light. Glim.
This matic wasn’t fueled by steam alone. Something more fired it—the rarest thing of all—glim. Not a good magic, sweet magic, earth-and-home magic like his Mae’s magic, glim was something else altogether. They said it was harvested by airships from the top of the sky, filtered, and trapped in glass to be sold to only the richest men. Jeb had never seen it, and never in his life had enough money or land to sell for even an ounce of it.
But it was a wondrous discovery that the most scientific of minds had put to use. Glim enhanced all that it touched. Made a piece of coal burn twice as long, made a crop yield three times its fruit, and, it was rumored, could even give a man a long, long life.
This glim must have come from whatever dark hole Shard LeFel had crawled himself out of.
Jeb smiled. He was hungry for that. For the glim that fueled an undead thing. Powerful hungry.
This he understood. This he could destroy. So easy.
He tore the ticker apart and broke the vial with his teeth. He sucked up the glim, taking it down like corn whiskey, and licking his lips for more.
It tasted good, the glim in that matic’s brain. It filled him. Warmed him. Made him stronger. Fueled him too, just like it fueled the undead owl.
He dropped the ticker, which fell in a clank of copper and brass amid the brush and pine needles. Then he started walking again. A little faster than before.
And for the first time since he died, Jeb Lindson laughed.
CHAPTER SIX
Shard LeFel enjoyed his luxuries. He saw no need to be in anything but the finest comfort at all times. His train carriage was adorned in gold and rare woods, precious jewels set in the rococo arched ceiling of the long, wide living car that dripped with crystal gas-lamp chandeliers, wall sconces, and tapestries. Mirrors, murals, and reliefs depicted scenes from a much older earth where creatures of myth feasted upon pleasures, and his kind—the Ele and the Strange—walked the land as gods.
LeFel was not mortal by choice. Banished by his brother, the king, to this mortal land, he had been trapped here for three hundred years. And though he was immortal in his land, here, in this savage place, time chewed upon his soul and flesh like a dog tearing through meat. He was dying, becoming more and more frail no matter what concoctions or devices he employed to slow time’s cruel hammer.
The beat of his death drummed ever nearer. When the full moon waned in just two days, he would die. Unless he returned to the immortal realm.
But he had not spent his exile brooding over his circumstance. He had spent it investigating the ways of cheating his sentence, and, thusly, his death. His long life had been devoted to finding a way to return to his own lands, so he could live forever, and mete his revenge upon his brother. That one clear goal had guided him through the decades with a hard desire, and had, in its own way, afforded him yet more pleasures.
He was well schooled in the kept knowledge of magic, and well versed in both the wild and gentle sciences.
And he, a highborn Ele, had befriended the lowly Strange.
A most unusual happenstance. And one he had used to his best advantage.
In trade for their knowledge he had given the Strange a promise: he would lay the dead iron down, cutting paths to guide the Strange across the land so they could slake their hunger on the nightmares and pain of mortals, and walk as men.
Through the ages, some Strange had found ways to hitch upon a nightmare, slink through a shadow, and pluck, howl, or frighten in this mortal world. But they were little more than wisps, ghosts, frights. He had given them Ele knowledge of blood and moonlight and earthly magic. All things the Strange needed to devise bodies of flesh, bone, and other odd bits and gears into the dark and delightful Strangework.
His knowledge opened the New World to their appetites. Their knowledge devised for him a doorway home. But even so, the door would swing closed too swiftly for him to walk through, and only the most nimble of Strange would be able to slip between
lands before the door was sealed for good.
So the Strange had gathered up bits and pieces and created a device most clever to keep that door open—the Holder. And LeFel had spent the last fifty years keeping the Holder hidden from the king’s guards—those few men who walked the land protecting mortals from the Strange and Strange devices.
LeFel lifted the Holder in his hand, tipping the sphere to catch the thin light of morning in all the hue and tone fine metal could offer.
The Holder was the size of a large apple. Seven intricate pieces fashioned from seven ancient metals locked and bound together to create it. Gold, silver, copper, tin, lead, native mercury, and iron bound the cogs, gears, pistons, cranks, and valves that held still and silent within and without the sphere, overlapping, arcing, flowing as if carved by wind and softened by hammer. Odd symbols further detailed the jewellike Holder, the cryptic language of the Strange binding forbidden spells into the metal. And at the heart of the sphere, glimpsed by the artful wedges through which the inner workings could be seen, was a glass vial of liquid mercury, suspended by copper strings.
Each piece glittered and glowed, in equal parts art, design, and device. Shard LeFel took delight in knowing that fitted together the Holder was a great weapon, and also that each piece, if left separate, was a wicked weapon of its own. But the Holder would serve for him one purpose: to hold open the door between the realm of the Ele and Strange and this mortal dirt.
This was even more valuable than the glim dragonfly caught in the cage. This was even more valuable than a king’s vault full of gold and glim. With this one device, Shard LeFel would shuck his mortal sentence, and change the face of the land forever.
The matics up the rail let out a screech and thump, a chain breaking free with a load of wood. Shard drew his gaze away from the Holder, and rose to replace it within the protective dead iron chest set deep within the floor of the railcar.
“Lord LeFel.” A murmur from the far end of the carriage. Mr. Shunt had been no more than a shadow lingering, but now he took a step into the lantern light. “You have a guest come to call.”
LeFel leaned back from setting the lock on the chest, dropping the key into his pocket and picking at the lace of his cuff. “Who?”
“The storekeeper’s daughter, Rose Small.”
LeFel frowned. He had not met the daughter, though he had dealings with her parents. Owners of the mercantile, the Smalls were rich and set to benefit most by the rail’s completion. Still, they offered to sell him their land to drive the rail straight through town, straight through the mercantile, the mill, and the church. He had agreed to see their terms, though he would have taken their land whether they offered it or not.
He would have made them beg him for the honor. May have made them bleed their consent.
But now, with the waxing moon drawing so near, he knew he would not remain behind to finish the rail. His investors from back East and overseas would insist that the project was completed with or without him. If anyone balked, Mr. Shunt would dispose of their reluctance, and their bodies.
“The visitor, Lord LeFel?” Mr. Shunt said again.
Likely, the daughter was bringing papers for his perusal.
“Yes, yes,” LeFel said, irritated. “I will receive her outside.”
Mr. Shunt narrowed his eyes at LeFel’s tone, but bowed, one spindly hand fastened to the brim of his black stovepipe hat. He turned and was gone, uncommonly quick.
LeFel rose and donned his long coat. He stretched out his fingers and curled them in fists before stretching them out again to ease the ache of age in his bones. These small, painful mortal annoyances fueled his hatred for his brother, and sharpened his need for a most brutal revenge. LeFel straightened his lapel, then took up his cane and stepped outside.
Mr. Shunt waited at the bottom of the stairs with a massive black umbrella unfurled against the sun and held so that LeFel could enter its shade.
The day was bright, morning’s shadows swept away by sunlight. LeFel paused midway down the stairs and surveyed his work.
His three private train cars were settled on the spur of tracks he’d insisted be constructed for his comfort. The rail itself was several yards to the west, trees and brush cleared back from either side of the rail leaving stump and stone jutting up out of the earth like old bones exposed to the open sky. The track cut sword-straight, stabbing northwest.
Down the grade a bit, the great hulking matic worked. Long screwlike wheels shaped like bullet cartridges the size of small canoes were attached to either side of the device. The spinning of the screws propelled the matic, and allowed it to scramble up and across the roughest terrain even while dragging a ten-foot iron blade at its base that leveled the ground behind it.
Alongside the rail, two matics the size of draft horses with brass boiler bellies, continuous track wheels, and loads of wooden ties on their backs trundled over the leveled grade. They dropped handhewn ties like setting coffins in graves, straight rows so close together you couldn’t roll one without hitting its neighbor.
Steam puffed white and gray plumes from the pipes in the matics’ heads while heavy brass centrifugal governors spun tight circles of gold and steel, and iron pistons pumped and turned gears.
Not a spot of rust on LeFel’s matics. Not a drop of oil out of place. These metal beasts were well and lovingly tended.
Behind the matics worked the men. A crew of thirty rawboned French, British, Scots, and Indians heaved the iron rail down upon the ties already dropped, and used pry bars, spike mauls, and shovels to dig, lift, and hammer the rails into place.
It was hard work and broke a man down slowly. Likely as not, it killed him too. It was the kind of work, the kind of pain, LeFel enjoyed watching the men shoulder. He kept their rations low and their pay modest, always seasoned with a small promise of better times ahead.
The wind snatched at bits of their crude work song and threw it his way, a sorrowful chant longing for hot meals, hard drinks, and the women they’d left behind. He inhaled their sorrow, their pain, and swallowed it down like an elixir, savoring every note. The rail had brought him more pleasures than he’d imagined it could.
The rail was moving forward, pounding forward, steaming forward. And soon the Strange would follow it out of the pockets and crannies of the land to every shore.
“Good morning to you, Mr. LeFel,” a cheerful voice called out. A young woman walked toward him, her dun horse plodding behind her.
She didn’t look a thing like her mother or father. She wore a plain cobalt blue dress with a split riding skirt, the dress so tight across her narrow ribs and waist that it required no corset. Her hair was pulled back in a braid, and a silk bonnet covered her head. He half expected her to be barefoot, but instead sturdy boots that may have been her father’s castoffs adorned her feet.
Her cheeks were tanned and freckled, giving her a bit of a wild look, but when she smiled, she took the light out of the sun.
There was something about her that set his blood on fire.
“Good morning, my dear lady,” LeFel said, surprised at his rise of emotions. “I don’t believe we’ve met. You are . . . ?”
“I’m sorry. Where are my manners?” She blushed and LeFel’s heart tripped a beat. Why did this border ruffian stir him so? She was certainly not the first woman he’d laid eyes upon, nor the most beautiful or refined.
“My name is Rose Small. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She did not extend her hand, but instead gave him a small curtsy, her gaze boldly holding his just a moment too long. There was no hint of fear in her eyes. No, the only emotion he could pin to her was faint distrust and far too much curiosity than was healthy.
A sweet flower with an iron spine. What an interesting dish.
“It is my pleasure, alone,” he said. LeFel stepped forward and caught up her hand, intending to kiss the back of it, to taste what she was made of. But something around her neck made him pause.
She wore an oval locket the size and color
of a robin’s egg. That charm should not be in her possession. The locket was gold and silver washed in blue, carved with protection spells no mortal should set eyes upon, much less wear as an adornment.
It was an object of the Strange realm and given to very few.
“What a lovely locket you’re wearing,” he whispered.
Rose leaned back as if his words were heat and fire. She pulled her hand away from his and drew a leather envelope out of the satchel she wore over one shoulder. “Thank you kindly, sir,” she said. She held the envelope out for him to take. “My parents, Mr. and Mrs. Small, asked for me to bring this out to you.”
LeFel took the envelope from her fingers, his eyes still on the locket. “And where did you come by such a bauble?” He did not open the ties that kept the envelope closed, but instead peered down into the woman’s eyes, and held her with his gaze.
He smiled, knowing the power of his attention when turned upon the fairer sex.
She hesitated. Her weight shifted to the edges of her feet, perhaps to run, to flee.
“It’s been mine since birth, I’m told.” Her words tumbled a little too quickly. “Found on me when I was left at the Smalls’ doorstep.”
She swallowed and pushed tendrils of hair stirred by the wind back away from her face. A thimble left forgotten on her right ring finger glinted in the morning light, and he noticed the black smudge of coal at the edge of her hand.
She was blushing again, understandably embarrassed she’d admitted she’d been abandoned. “Just a trinket of brass and tin, a silly thing.” She gave him that smile again and tucked the necklace beneath the collar of her dress.
LeFel held her gaze, letting some of his hunger play through his expression. “I consider it a lovely trinket, no matter its common beginnings. From such humble soil rare beauty has grown,” he said smoothly.
“I don’t know that its beauty is all that rare,” she said.
