by Devon Monk
“Eat,” LeFel cooed. “I am sure you are hungry.”
But the boy did not move, not even to blink his eyes. The buttery aroma of oats filled the air, soured just slightly by the drugs that laced the meal.
“If you eat, I will let you go home,” LeFel murmured.
“He lies,” Wil Hunt whispered. “Ain’t nothing to him but lies.”
LeFel chuckled. “No. This man doesn’t understand. You would have fallen from your window that night. We caught you, Mr. Shunt and I, and brought you here safe with us. And we’ll be taking you home today. After you eat your food.”
The boy pressed his lips together, his cheeks coal red against his pale face.
“Don’t eat it,” Wil whispered.
LeFel clucked his tongue. “Now, now. Every growing boy needs to eat. You do want to grow up to be big and strong like your papa, don’t you?”
And those words, the mention of his father, finally broke the boy’s thrall. A single tear ran down his cheek. He shifted his eyes, meeting, finally, LeFel’s gaze. The boy nodded once.
“Good, then, good,” LeFel said. “Mr. Shunt, help the boy eat.”
“No,” Wil said. “It’s poison, boy. Don’t eat it.”
But Mr. Shunt had already scooped up a spoonful of the mush and shoveled it into the boy’s mouth, like a bird stuffing a chick. The boy chewed, swallowed, and opened his mouth again.
Wil Hunt shifted, his heavy chains clanking. “Leave the boy alone. Do what you want to me—I’ll take on whatever debt that child owes to you. Let him go, or so help me, I will tear out your throat.”
LeFel rolled his head against the back of the chair. “You, cur, are less than a gnat to me. And a bothersome gnat at that. I tire of you.” He picked up the hourglass and dropped it on the floor at his feet. He lifted his foot and smashed the hourglass with the heel of his boot.
Wil Hunt yelled out, in pain, in rage.
LeFel watched as he twisted, stretched, molded back into the form of an animal, a mindless beast. He lay there, whimpering in pain.
LeFel turned his heel upon the glass and gears, assuring it was crushed to dust.
“You are no matter to me now. Mr. Shunt,” he said. “I believe it is time to invite the witch to join us. Bring her to me.”
“Alive?” Mr. Shunt breathed, the empty spoon balanced in the air by just his thumb and pointer finger, the rest of his fingers flared out.
“Yes,” LeFel said, “alive. For now.”
Mr. Shunt scooped one last mound of oats into the boy’s mouth. He tipped his fingers to the brim of his hat, and then ducked back through the doorway, dissolving into the darkness.
LeFel closed his eyes, letting the sound of the wolf’s pain and the boy’s quiet sobbing fill him as no other nourishment could.
The crash and thrum of the steam matics outside the carriage was interrupted by a knocking at the door. He walked to the window, wondering who among his workers would dare bother him without invitation. He pushed aside the brocade curtains and squinted against the afternoon light.
There, on the steps of the carriage, was a small matic. Its portly copper body was balanced on spindly spider legs covered in dirt and dew and pine needles. The dual springs on the top of the device pumped puffs of steam out the side vents. It had been running all night, the fire within it nearly gone.
“No.”
LeFel opened the door, and the little matic rattled in, coming to a rest at his feet, its spindly legs tucked beneath it.
Using his handkerchief, LeFel lifted the matic to study the alarm trip.
This was clearly the ticker he had left at Jeb Lindson’s graveside. And it was also very clear that Jeb Lindson was no longer dead.
LeFel yelled, his fury cursed in a language that could blister the sun. He hurled the ticker at the wall, shattering it like a glass bell, pieces bursting apart on the floor, the embers that once drove it gone to ash beneath the heat of his words.
The wolf pushed onto its feet, head low, ears back, teeth bared. The boy, fallen once again under the effects of the drugs, did not stir.
“You will not stand in my way, dead man,” LeFel said. “Not between me and the witch’s powers. If death will not take you, I will tear you apart myself.”
LeFel took up his curved cane and strode across the broken bits of metal to the boy. It was time he be of use. It was time to introduce the boy to the creatures LeFel kept locked away in the adjoining carriage.
LeFel paused above the cot the boy lay upon, then bent close to his ear. “Come, little dreamer,” he whispered. “Time to bleed.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Cedar Hunt gauged just how quickly he could draw his own gun against Cadoc Madder, and judged it to be a losing proposition.
“Have a seat, Mr. Hunt,” Cadoc said again.
“I’ll stand, if it’s just the same,” Cedar said.
Cadoc pointedly looked down at the table where the arrow Cedar had touched still glowed faintly, then back up at Cedar. “Stones say you’re hunting,” he said, slow, as if each word were sorted out from among too many others.
“Stones are right.”
Cadoc tilted his head, looking Cedar up from boots to hat. “You plan on killing what you’re looking for?”
“I plan on taking back that which has been stolen. If it means violence, I’ll not shy from it.”
Cadoc nodded. “Stones say that’s true.”
Alun tromped out from the other room. “He’s a guest of mine, brother Cadoc,” he said. “You can put that blunderbuss away.”
If Alun was surprised by his brother’s sudden appearance, he didn’t show it. Alun carried a thin wood and leather box held together with brass tacks. The wood between the tacks was dark with age, as if the box had been weathered by salt air or worn down by ten thousand fingers and a thousand hands.
“One of these should suit your need, Mr. Hunt,” Alun said. He placed the box on the center of the table, flicked the brass locks, and lifted the hinged lid.
The box was lined with black velvet that caught shadow and light like the night sky drinking down starlight. Three clean slashes of silver filled the box. Three tuning forks, each smaller than the next, nestled in the darkness there.
“And which one is for sale?” he asked.
“All of them. For the right price,” Alun said. “We’ve other things to keep our hands busy than tuning forks, don’t you say, Cadoc?”
Cadoc, still standing behind Cedar, hmmed in agreement.
Cedar knew the longer he stayed in the cavern, the more daylight, and Elbert’s chance of survival, slipped away. He drew just one finger along the tines and down to the handle of the first fork. It was finely wrought, but something about it didn’t seem right. He’d learned long ago to trust his gut when it came to such things. So he touched the second fork, this one scrolled with a billowing etching along the handle that reached almost up to the tines.
He lifted his finger and finally rested fingertips on the smallest of the forks. Darker than the others, it was carved so that the tips of the tines flared out, sharp as an arrowhead. It looked more of a weapon than a tuning fork. He lifted it out of the box and struck it on the edge of his wrist, then set the handle against the wooden box. A clear tone rang out, louder than such a small instrument should be capable of.
Suddenly the walls, the stone, the pipes—the chamber itself—resonated with the bell tone and added to it the sound of pipe, drum, and harp, a rising, rushing tide of music not from this land. It was a call to battle, a shout, a joyous reel. Not at all the dark, sour song left behind in the boy’s windowsill, this song stirred his blood and made him want to shout, to dance, to weep.
Heavy hands pressed down on his shoulder, guiding him into a chair. As soon as the tuning fork was taken off the wood and out of his fingers, the music died, not even an echo of it left in his ears or thoughts.
He blinked. How long had he sat there, transfixed? Long enough that his eyes and mouth were both dry. The brother
s were staring at him, curious smiles hidden in their beards.
“Aren’t you an interesting man?” Alun murmured.
Cedar glared at the tuning fork lying silent on the tabletop. “I can’t use something that strikes me dumb every time it sings a note.”
The brothers exchanged a look; then Alun puffed his pipe and locked the lid of the box back down. “These forks are tuned to catch the trail of the thing you hunt. Most men only hear the old song faintly. You, Mr. Hunt, are apparently not a common sort of man.” He pulled a thin length of leather braid from one of his many coat pockets. He threaded it through the eye hole in the fork’s handle, then knotted it into a loop. “Maybe you shouldn’t listen quite so hard.”
He held the leather braid out on the crook of his thumb. “Give it a try.”
Cedar took the fork again. No music. He struck it, this time against his sleeve. He pressed the handle to the wooden box. Just one sweet tone rang out—a perfectly tuned A. The song, if it had been there, was faint as reeds in a distant wind.
“Press it against anything the Strange have touched, and you’ll know which way that Strange has gone,” Alun Madder said. “The fork will be of little help with what you do when you find them.”
Cedar pulled the fork away from the box. “Then we’re settled?”
Alun chuckled. “We are most unsettled. That fork is a rarity. It cups a proper price, not just a palm of coin.”
“How proper?” Cedar asked.
Alun stared at the ceiling as if chasing math through the shadows. “The coins you tossed at my feet are a little lean for such a fine instrument. You’ll find no other to match it.” He looked back down at Cedar. “No other in this world.”
“Name your price, Madder,” Cedar said. “Before the day burns down.”
“The coins and a favor.”
Cedar shook his head. “I won’t be holding to you for two favors. The coins alone.”
Alun snatched the tuning fork out of his hand, fast as a thief. “Then our discussion is done.”
“And what do you think will keep me from killing you here and now?” Cedar raised the gun, aimed it at Alun’s head.
Cadoc rambled over to stand shoulder to shoulder with his brother. He tipped his head at Cedar like he was waiting for the joke.
Alun puffed on his pipe. “What will keep you from killing me is that you have come to us today, out of all the days and years you’ve been in this town. You need this fork. And likely you’ll need other devices at our disposal to deal with the Strange. You are not a stupid man, Mr. Hunt. There’s that about you that makes me curious. I’d judge you for university learning. There’s not a man of this town who’d take the time to nod at your grave, yet you are going to great lengths to find a wee boy of no relation to you. Don’t reckon such a man kills another in cold blood, standing on the stones of his hearth.”
Cedar lowered his gun. “Might not in broad daylight. Night might be a different matter.” He rolled his shoulder. His temper was strung too tight across his nerves. Being in the Madders’ presence, in the presence of things like the tuning fork, got his hackles up and made it hard to think straight this close to the moon. “I came for the fork.”
“Yours. For coin. And a favor—on the same terms as the last favor: nothing that would harm the weak, women, or children.”
“To be collected within the year,” Cedar added.
Alun nodded. “I’ll agree to that term for this favor only.”
Arguing with the mountain itself would have taken less time. “Done.” Cedar held out his hand.
Alun and Cadoc Madder leaned forward and once again shook his hand simultaneously. When Cedar pulled his hand away, the tuning fork was in his grasp.
“It can hang at your neck,” Cadoc said as Alun turned to one of the line of cupboards along the wall of the room, pulling out a brown bottle, a wedge of cheese, and a loaf of bread. “Nearer your heart, the better and the truer it will lead you to the Strange.”
Cedar removed his hat and slipped the fork over his neck. He tucked it down beneath his coat, on the outside of his undershirt. The Madders might think it would be best against his skin, but he wouldn’t wear a device that near his bones.
“You do believe in the Strange, then?” he asked quietly, putting his hat back on.
Cadoc shrugged one heavy shoulder. “Wish that I couldn’t.” He paused, looked at Cedar like he was peering right through him. “You’ll wish you didn’t one of these days too, Mr. Hunt.”
Alun set the food on the table, and handed Cadoc and Cedar a cup.
“A toast,” he said. “To the finding, the killing, and the keeping. Luck to you in your search for the blacksmith’s boy. May strong gods favor you.”
“Strong gods,” Cadoc echoed.
The brothers drank. Both watched him from over the tops of their cups. Cedar sniffed his drink. Moonshine. He swigged it back in one shot. It plowed a hot path down between his ribs to his stomach, and left the taste of pine sap in his mouth.
“I’ve had enough of gods, strong and Strange,” Cedar said. “But I thank you anyway. Afternoon, Madders.” He stood from the table and started across the chamber. “If you’d open the door, I’ll be on my way.”
Just as the words left his mouth, the door to the chamber opened. Cedar glanced back at the brothers to see if they had somehow devised a way to trip the lock from a distance.
“Ho, there, those within,” Bryn, the middle brother, called out. “Is there room for two more?”
Cedar did not want to involve himself any more than he had to with the Madders’ business. Seemed that each time he crossed paths with them, it cost him more than he wanted to give. Meetings with the Madder brothers were best done two ways: quickly and infrequently.
He did not expect to see Mrs. Jeb Lindson walking out of the shine of day into the deeper lamplight of the room.
She wore the same dress as this morning, but had put on a silk bonnet that made her brown eyes wide and warm, and cast her lips in a soft shade of pink. She’d been riding, that was clear, and the wind had tugged some of her fine blond hair out from under her bonnet, so that it fell in a gold curl against her cheek. He found himself entertaining the thought of what her hair would look like unbound, spilling around her bare shoulders—yellow as sunlight and soft as silk. Then wondering if her skin, white as moonlight, would be softer still, beneath his hands.
Mrs. Lindson folded her fingers over the bag on her wrist and gave him a calm look. He glanced away while adjusting his hat, buying up time to brush off the thoughts and heat that she stirred up in him.
She was lovely; that was plain sure. And every time he set eyes on her, he was reminded of feelings he never thought he’d own again. Feelings he’d only ever known with his wife.
“Hello, Mr. Hunt,” she said. That calm greeting of hers held a dark fury, a desperation.
“Ma’am.” Cedar stopped fiddling with his hat and schooled his features. The brim had brushed against the goggles still fitted on his head and made his forehead itch.
“Have you reconsidered my offer?” she asked. Her words caught deep in her throat, as if wedging between sorrows before finding their way out.
Cedar said nothing. He’d given her his answer. It wouldn’t change. He couldn’t entertain so much as the idea of looking for her man’s killer until he gave the lost boy a chance to be found alive first. “I’m sorry. No, ma’am.”
Mae Lindson dropped her gaze. “I see.” When she looked back up at him, he could tell the woman had made a decision. There was death in her eyes. “Then I wish you the best, Mr. Hunt.”
Sounded like she wished him the best grave, or the best hanging rope.
“Didn’t know this was going to be a proper social,” Alun said, “or I would have washed up a few more cups.”
“I’ll be on my way,” Cedar said.
“Now, now, we wouldn’t think of it, Mr. Hunt,” Alun said. “Come sit with us a spell longer. I’m sure Mrs. Lindson would enjoy the co
mpany.”
Mae didn’t look to him, but Cedar suddenly realized the situation from her angle. She was alone, possibly unarmed, and in the home of three men who had locks that could seal a person away in the mountain until the world wound down.
And even though the day burned on, and little Elbert’s time grew shorter and shorter, he wasn’t possessed of the kind of morals to leave a woman alone with the miners.
He tugged Wil’s watch out of his waistcoat and glanced at the time. There was still a good seven hours of daylight ahead of him. He’d be able to cover a fair bit of ground before the moon came up. And if the silver fork led him lucky, he might yet find the boy.
He tucked the watch back into his vest pocket.
The Madder brothers had gone awful quiet. Alun and Cadoc stared at him like he’d just turned into a rattlesnake.
The brothers took a step toward him and Mae Lindson. Bryn Madder, still standing at the mouth of the chamber, spun the big brass captain’s wheel and sent the door rolling on its hidden tracks.
“Tell us, Mrs. Lindson,” Alun began, mild as church tea. “How is it we can assist you today?”
“I am looking to buy a weapon to kill a man.”
“What sort of man?” Alun asked.
That, Cedar thought, was an interesting question. Most people would ask what sort of weapon she wanted.
“A monster. A murderer. The man who killed my husband.”
“You had your eyes on his killer?” Bryn asked as he sauntered over from the door. “Know his height, build, manners?”
“No.”
Bryn sucked on his teeth, disapproving.
“Is there a weapon you prefer to kill men with, Mrs. Lindson?” Alun asked.
“Something,” she said, “that will make sure even his soul can’t be found.”
Alun laughed and so did Bryn. Cadoc Madder stared at Mae like a drift of snow had fallen out of a summer sky and landed right here in the middle of their dining room.
“A gun, I’m thinking, will do enough damage to unbreathe a man,” Alun said. “Strong enough to break bone, stop a heart, unhinge the soul.” He gave her a tight smile. “And not so powerful that a lady will feel the weight of its burden.”
