Cold Copper aos-3

by Devon Monk

  Hink reached slower for the gun under his coat.

  He pulled it out, holding it by one finger, then dropped it on the floor.

  “Good. Now kick it.”

  Hink put the sole of his boot on the gun. He didn’t say anything, but there was tenseness in him, like a coil wound too tight.

  Rose knew that was her signal. It was time to throw the flare.

  She slid her hand up her sleeve and struck the flare, then hurled it at the man. The crate filled with blinding orange light.

  Rose ducked and dug in her satchel for her gun, but Hink was already rushing the man, then was on him, fists slamming into his face and stomach.

  The man got off a shot or two, then both of them fell to the floor, just as the entire crate tipped alarmingly to the side, forcing everything not tied down to slide from one end of the car to the other.

  Rose slid too, but held tight to her gun as she thunked against the crates and coffins. The flare went out and darkness thumped down so thick it felt like a blanket fell over her eyes.

  The freight car leveled somewhat, and she stood with the help of the ropes tied around the freight.

  She couldn’t see anything. But she heard someone breathing heavily. Then a groan.

  “Rose?” It was Hink.

  “I’m all right,” she said. “The gunman?”

  “Out cold. Find a light, will you?”

  He groaned again, then moved off to her left, probably toward the man. Maybe to tie him up.

  Rose felt her way along to a wall, and then felt for the lantern that should be hanging there. Found it. It only took a moment to bring the wick to a cheery yellow fire.

  Hink sat back on his heels, looking down at the man, who was not moving. She didn’t think he was alive.

  “Is he dead?” Rose asked.

  “Hope to hell he is,” Hink said. “Don’t feel like breaking my knuckles on his face again.”

  Hink stood, and lifted his hands out to the side for a second, gaining his balance. But the car was level and smooth at the moment.

  That’s when Rose noticed the blood on his shirt.

  “You’ve been hurt,” she said.

  “Not my blood,” he said.

  Rose got around in front of him and pulled his coat open. Steam from the heat of his blood wafted up from his shirt, which was soaked. “Yes, it is,” she said. “Sit down and let me try to stanch it.”

  “Stanch what? I said I’m not wounded. I feel fine. We need to knock out one of these boards so we can see where this crate is flying.”

  Rose pressed her fingers against his ribs and he hissed in a hard breath.

  “Good God, woman. Why you have to be jabbing at me like that?”

  “Let me take care of the bullet hole in your hide.”

  He shook his head.

  “Paisley Cadwaller Hink Cage, “she said sternly. “Sit down before I kick out your kneecaps.”

  He blinked hard, then gave her half a smile. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

  “Faster than you could say Nelly.”

  “Don’t know what I did to deserve the likes of you,” he muttered as he made his way over to a stack of crates and carefully—very carefully—lowered himself to sit in the dust.

  “Well, it wasn’t all those years of you being an altar boy,” she said, kneeling beside him.

  He chuckled and pressed his hand over his side. “Never quite got the hang of spiritual purity. Or any other kind of purity for that matter. Too many interesting things that needed being done.”

  “Move your hand.” Rose set the lantern down and dug in her satchel. She didn’t have much in the ways of medicine, but had kept the black salve Mae used on her shoulder wound when she’d been hit with that piece from the Holder, and she had her sewing kit.

  “Hold this.” She placed the jar of salve in his palm and then unbuttoned his shirt.

  “Had dreams about this sort of thing,” he said in a soft drawl. “Me, you. A dark train car. You ripping off my shirt…”

  “You’re delirious,” she said.

  “I’m clear as a bell.”

  “Well, then your bell is cracked,” she said. “A fact I’m willing to ignore since you are also bleeding. Oh.” She lifted the lantern to better see the wound. A wet, stone-red gash in his side was pouring blood rather freely.

  “I think it went straight through,” she said.

  “Told you it was just a graze.”

  “You said no such thing.”

  “Huh. Did I mention me dreaming about you pulling off my clothes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Wouldn’t want to die without you knowing that. The things I think about you.”

  “You are not going to die.” She twisted the lid off the jar and dipped her fingers into the mixture. “And I know exactly what you think about me.”

  “I really don’t suppose you do.”

  She spread the salve on as gently as she could, and he held his breath through it. Even though there was no bullet buried in his gut, that gash had to hurt. She pulled out her sewing kit, grateful she’d left the needle threaded.

  “You think I’m young, untested in the world, and innocent,” she said as she pushed the needle through the skin as quickly as she could.

  Hink winced, but remained silent, watching her.

  “You think I don’t know what a man can have on his mind when he looks at a woman. Or visits them in their parlors for weeks at a time.”

  She tied a knot and then cut the thread with her sewing scissors. The stitches should help slow the bleeding. But this was not a minor wound. She reached over for another fingerful of the salve.

  He caught her wrist gently. “Rose Small. There aren’t many people who bring the truth out of me, but you are one of them. I did not sleep with those women. There’s only one woman who has the key to my heart. Only you.”

  This close, she knew he was not lying. Knew he meant every word he said.

  But she wondered if she could give as fully her heart to him. She’d just barely begun to see this great and wild world. Tying her star to this man would mean not meeting any others. It would mean settling for the sort of life he intended to lead, just as much as it would mean him settling for the things she intended to do.

  Of course, given the chance, they’d both jumped on a train car being stolen off the rail by a massive and unidentified airship, without so much as a pause. Maybe their intentions were compatible.

  “At least you’re smiling,” he said, letting go of her wrist so she could spread the salve. “I prefer my doctors to be in a forgiving sort of mind-set when they’re jabbing fingers in my innards.”

  “Hush,” she said as she reached into her satchel for a clean handkerchief. She pressed that against the salve-covered wound. “Do you think you can hold this here while I try to make a window we can look out of?”

  “I’ll help.”

  “You’ll help by staying right here and concentrating on not bleeding.”

  He took a deep breath to argue, but must have thought better of it since he stopped with a wince, halfway through. “Might be something in the crates you can use,” he said.

  “My thought exactly.” Rose swung the strap of her satchel off over her head and left it there next to Hink. She took the lantern and first walked over to check on the gunman. She placed her hand over his mouth, felt no breath, then placed her fingers on the side of his neck, searching for a heartbeat there.

  Nothing. Rose tried not to let his death bother her. He’d been more than prepared to kill her and Hink. And she didn’t think he’d have any regrets if he’d done just that. She lifted the lantern, spotted a sheet of canvas, and pulled it over the man’s prone body.

  Then, with more delight than she should probably be feeling, she started digging into the boxes and crates to see what sort of useful thing she could build.

  15

  The road to the copper mine didn’t appear to be much used. As soon as it wound out beyond the edge of town,
it became a narrow path that snaked off to a small hill a short distance away. In that hill was an iron door that stood slightly ajar, revealing a narrow mine entrance.

  He didn’t see any workers coming or going, though there were carts and a rail spur on which small steam matics about the size of a pony rested, coal black and covered in snow.

  Wil paused next to his stirrup, ears peaked high. He whined, took a step, then glanced up at Cedar.

  “Don’t like the look of the place,” Cedar said. “It almost looks abandoned. I thought it’d be a larger operation. Some kind of working site.”

  Wil turned his wide head toward the mine and waited. This was Cedar’s call. To decide if instinct was leading him the right way by checking out the copper mine, or if instead he should head back into town to find Mae and Father Kyne so they could break his curse.

  He glanced up at the sun, already on its slow decent to the horizon. The moon would rise in a few hours. Night would be on them. And so would his curse.

  A movement near the door of the mine caught his eye. A boy in cap and short pants stood there, looking at Cedar.

  And then, as Cedar watched, the boy faded from sight.

  The wind snagged across low bushes, pushing against his back, then scattering down the hill. In the wind was the sound of crying. Only it wasn’t the weeping of the Strange, it was the weeping of children.

  Could be a Strange trick to lure him into the mine. Could be a ghost.

  But then the faces of children, many more, appeared in the slim wedge of darkness beyond the mine’s entrance.

  These didn’t fade away.

  “Seems like we have ourselves an invitation,” Cedar said. “Let’s see what it brings us.”

  He urged his horse on, Wil pacing him. It didn’t make sense that the children would be stolen and locked up to work the copper mine. The mine wasn’t far enough outside town for people not to look here, for people not to search for their children here.

  Surely, this mine had been searched.

  Cedar rode across the flat field toward the mine and came upon it at a trot. As he neared, he saw bits of brush and rocks and snow, tangled up like whirlwinds. Wil growled, as if he saw Strange in those gusts of debris. Cedar studied the whirlwinds and saw nothing but sticks and snow.

  “It’s fine,” he said to Wil. “No Strange there.”

  Wil growled softly in disagreement.

  Cedar dismounted with care so as not to trigger any more aches and pains that seemed only to be getting worse.

  He led his horse the remaining distance to the mine and tied the reins on a hitching post.

  Wil was still snarling at the wind. Cedar looked around again, but saw nothing.

  “There is nothing in the air, Wil,” he said. “Calm yourself.” He pulled a lantern off the saddle, and lit it with a striker from his pocket.

  The side of his neck stung, and Cedar pressed his fingers there.

  Wil growled louder.

  And Cedar finally knew why. A ghostly Strange stood at the mine entrance with eyes made of cold copper. “Please… ,” it breathed, in a voice made of bits of wind scratching though leaves and stone and ice. “Help…”

  He had seen this Strange before. In the bedroom, on the road outside the church. He was sure it was the same creature that had bit him.

  And then it disappeared, torn apart by the wind that scattered him with a hailstorm of snow, branches, and dirt.

  Wil snarled and paced the area, scenting for the Strange, but came quickly back to Cedar, ears up, and no indication that he had found a trail.

  Why would the Strange ask him for help? Twice now. Cedar pulled his gun and walked up to the mine’s entrance. A dozen or so small stones had been positioned in a straight line across the entrance to the mine, but there was nothing else impeding his progress.

  There were no children in the doorway. Wil slipped past Cedar, head low, and entered the mine. Cedar followed behind.

  The mine was braced by iron girders that jutted up from the walls and crossed over the ceiling like scaffolding constructed around a tower. The ground beneath him slanted downward and was fitted with a rail. To either side were metal staircases, bolted into the stone walls.

  He made his way down into the mine, looking for any sign of the children who had been in the doorway.

  Usually stealth was his best option, but if the children were here, hiding, then he’d need to convince them to show themselves.

  “Hello,” he said just loud enough to be heard. The stone and metal seemed to swallow his words, and the deeper he descended into the mine, the more it felt like his ears were stuffed with wool.

  “Is there anyone here? I’ve come to help you. If you’re lost, I can take you home. There’s no need to be afraid.”

  Nothing moved. There was no wind in this hole, just the damp smell of stone and wet metal and the dusty arc of dirt all around him.

  “I can help you,” Cedar said.

  The hush of something scraping over stones scratched in the shadows ahead. Something was moving down here. Cedar lifted the lantern higher and held his gun at the ready. He strode toward the sound.

  The mine shaft took a hard right toward town. The tunnel narrowed, and metal bracers, which now also supported thick copper wires, closed in around his head and shoulders. Wil padded softly in front of Cedar, silent as darkness.

  Another scratch, almost a buzzing, rattled through the tunnel.

  Cedar’s heart was pounding. It was harder to breathe here, though Wil didn’t seem to be having any trouble.

  The tunnel was tight and near-impossible to fight in. If someone ahead had a gun and saw him coming before he saw them, he’d be dead. He considered dampening the lantern, but hated the idea of wandering these tunnels blind.

  There was a side tunnel to his left. He lifted the lantern, but could see nothing but a stone tunnel supported by wood bracers marching downward. The sound had come from ahead, not to the left.

  Wil paused at the edge of the lantern light, head up, nose scenting the air.

  Cedar walked up behind him. The tunnel split left and right, a rail line set smoothly down both paths. The scratching was coming from the right.

  Cedar and Wil turned that way. Here the stone was no longer just brown and charcoal black. Spidery thin lines of blue and white spread down the wall and arced across the ceiling like lightning caught in stone.

  Copper. A much richer vein of it than he’d expected.

  At the end of the tunnel was a steel door. It stood ajar and the slight scratching came from beyond it.

  Someone or something wanted him to go in there. Someone or something had been leading him this whole way.

  It could be a trap. But who would go through this much trouble to try to lure him out here?

  Cedar pressed his fingertips on the edge of the door. He gasped as the song of the Strange filled him, and with the song, their sorrow.

  Cedar let go of the door and lifted the lantern.

  The room beyond the door was massive. Easily two stories tall, it was a wide, smooth chamber that looked like it had been carved out with water and then polished down to a smooth sheen.

  Lantern light caught a surreal turquoise glow from the walls and ceiling and floor. The entire room was the center of a massive copper vein. Cedar felt like he’d just stepped into the heart of an ocean-colored jewel.

  But it was not just the stunningly rich deposit of copper that made him catch his breath in wonder; it was the huge iron and copper devices that filled the center of the room.

  Five tanks stood at one side, wires connected to the top of each and spreading outward. Those wires also connected to a boiler and an alternator that were both taller than Cedar. And in the center of all those wires and connecting pipes was a transformer made of metal and wood and thick blown glass.

  The room was noticeably damp and warm, which meant the boiler was still hot, and the device had recently been in use. The scratching sound could have come from the boiler c
ooling.

  Cedar walked around the contraptions. They were built to power something, maybe to send an electric pulse of some kind down the copper wires hammered over the walls and ceiling like a net thrown across a blue wave.

  The scratching hiss crackled down one of the wires, perhaps latent energy bleeding away into the walls.

  Cedar walked over to one wall and touched the copper wire with his palm.

  No heat, it was just the opposite. The metal was so cold, it drank the heat out of his skin. He pulled his hand away and could make out red lines left behind from the wire. Cold copper. What kind of energy could it carry, a metal that heated so slowly? What kind of power could it drink down?

  Wil had made his own search of the room and came to stand next to Cedar.

  There were no children here. There were no Strange. Whatever they had seen at the mine’s entrance, whether it be an illusion cast there by Strange, ghosts, or his own tired imagination, they were not here.

  But the one thing that Cedar had discovered in the room was the smell of hickory and cherry cologne, the scent he’d noticed on Mayor Vosbrough when they’d met. His stomach knotted, and he paced his breath to calm the sudden fear that rolled through him.

  The mayor had been here. Recently. But Cedar had no explanation for his fear.

  “What a pleasant surprise.”

  Cedar turned. The mayor walked through the door and froze as soon as he saw Wil.

  “A wolf—,” he started.

  “Belongs to me,” Cedar said. His heart was still pumping. This man, the mayor, set Cedar’s instincts clamoring. He was danger. He was pain.

  The mayor smiled, but did not move. “You certainly are an interesting man, Cedar Hunt. Would you like to tell me why I’ve found you in our generator room? And do make it a good reason; otherwise I’ll be obliged to escort you to jail.”

  “I was told there are children missing in your town. Thought I saw them out at the mine entrance when I was riding by. Thought they might have wandered down these tunnels and gotten lost.”

  “How altruistic of you,” he said, then, in a more friendly tone, “And how thoughtful. Most men would have notified the authorities instead of trespassing on private property.”