Dead Iron: The Age of Steam

  He closed his eyes, swallowed, his Adam’s apple sliding along his throat. He needed a shave.

  “Did I kill?” Raspy, but the words were clear.

  “You did. That creature . . .” She paused, wondering what the boy had been. “That nightmare that looked like Elbert. You saved me from it. And I’m obliged to you. Let me begin to show my thanks with breakfast.”

  Mae stood. “It will be difficult to cook with a gun in each hand. I’d appreciate it if you gave me your word I don’t need to worry about your company, Mr. Hunt.”

  He nodded once, swallowed again. “You have my word, Mrs. Lindson,” he whispered, still not enough voice to the words. “And my thanks.” He tried to stand, got his feet under him, but his knees wouldn’t hold. He folded back down. He panted, his color white as lye, one arm braced on the floor all that held him upright.

  “Let me see the wound,” Mae said.

  She didn’t know if he heard her, so she touched his shoulder. He twitched, but did not tell her no.

  She pulled the cloth away from the puncture in his side. It was bloody. And pus yellow. Infection.

  “I think it best you come to the bed, Mr. Hunt,” Mae said. “You’ll need a bit of rest yet, and someplace better to heal than the hard floor.”

  “Fine,” he whispered, “I’m fine.”

  Mae raised her eyebrows but said nothing. She knew when a man said things out of stubborn pride. She’d been married for nine years.

  And she knew better than to ask his permission. “Up now. Take a deep breath. On three. One, two, three.” She wrapped her arm around his waist and pulled him up onto his feet. He leaned heavily on her, breathing hard, but somehow managed to get his feet moving. With her help, he limped across the room to the bed.

  Laying him down was easy, and she rolled him on his side so that she could see to the wound. Pus, blood, and the glisten of the black oil. It wasn’t as clean as she’d thought.

  Mae pulled the comforter from the foot of the bed over him, then took herself to the other room, and stoked the fire. She’d need the water to boil, and she’d need to lace it with herbs. Mae pulled the jars she needed from her herb shelf, and finally noticed she was doing it all with the Colt still clutched in her hand.

  She glanced toward the bedroom. Mr. Hunt had not stirred. So she set the gun on the table and busied herself steeping herbs and pulling out a length of clean cotton linen for a compress.

  When the water was tea brown and the house smelled of the good clean green of herbs, she picked up the kettle and walked back to the bedroom.

  “I can’t,” Cedar Hunt whispered as Mae brought in the kettle and poured some of the water out into the washbasin to let it cool before she put the kettle on the floor.

  “Can’t what?” she asked quietly.

  “Stay. My brother. Wil. The boy. I have to find . . .”

  And then his words were gone, replaced by the labored breathing of a fever.

  “Rest easy, Mr. Hunt,” Mae said, hoping he was of a high enough constitution to endure this and recover. She didn’t want another man dying so soon. She’d had enough of dying. “May healing come to you quickly and ease your pain.” She blessed the herbs, the compress, soaked the linen in water, and repacked his wound once again.

  She would need to get his fever down, and with little else of medical supplies on hand, and certainly no ice, the surest way she knew to lower a body’s temperature was magic.

  Magic always leaned toward curses in her hand, so she would curse the fever and give healing more room to take root. She set about the house gathering the herbs, stones, fire, and water she would need for the spell.

  Once she had what she needed, Mae stood again next to the bed. Mr. Hunt was shivering, the blankets pulled up to his chin.

  “You’ll hear my voice, Mr. Hunt,” Mae said softly. “You’ll hear me singing a bit, whispering prayers and spells. But don’t worry, and don’t wake. I’m going to do what I can to help you heal. And all you need to do is rest.”

  Mae set out each item on the bed around Cedar, surrounding him with a piece of each element. Magic was a gentle art, drawn from the earth, sky, streams, and hearth. Mae took her place at the foot of his bed, and held her tatting shuttle, the precious gift Jeb had given her, in her hands. It wasn’t so much necessary for the spell as it was a comfort and strength in her hands.

  Mae spoke a word and her chest caught with pain. She pressed her hand against her chest and breathed until the pain passed. She spoke a word again, beginning the spell, and pain once again rattled through her.

  It took her a moment before she realized the cause. The binding between her and the coven soil was tightening down. The sisters, and magic, were calling her home. The time she would be able to endure being away from the coven was running out.

  Mae took a steadying breath and held the shuttle tight to her heart. She still hadn’t killed the man—the Strange—who killed Jeb. She still hadn’t finished her work here. And she was not going to turn east and leave a man dying in her bed.

  Mae began the spell again, continuing on through the pain. There was still living and dying left to see to. The sisters would have to wait.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Shard LeFel’s crew boss had the men up before sunrise. The constant clang and chug of workers setting the rail, punctuated by an occasional blast or ground-shaking thump from the matics pounding the land into shape, was music to Shard LeFel’s ears.

  This would be his final day in this land. Tonight, beneath the power of the waning moon, before another dawn could rise, he would open the door and stroll back to the land where he rightfully belonged.

  He was so close to his goal, he could taste it like heavy wine on his tongue, could feel the burn of it beneath his skin, stirring his hunger in ways he had all but forgotten over the centuries.

  Death. All he needed to complete his crossing was the three mortals’ deaths.

  Shard LeFel sat within his train car, a fine breakfast spread out before him. Caviar, cheeses, fruits and meat from the far lands, all set upon solid gold plates thin as rose petals and fine lace.

  A silk napkin lay upon his knee, but LeFel had touched none of the food, had taken not even one drink. He was content to look out the window and down upon the rail, the iron that lay like prison bars upon the land. But they were not prison bars—they were roads of freedom. Freedom for the Strange.

  Before the last iron was laid down, before the last spike was hammered into the earth, LeFel would have the witch—the last death he needed to open the doorway. Then he would have his way home and his revenge.

  When his gaze finally wandered from the rail, he looked upon the beautiful Holder, set as it was, glowing like seven shards of seven precious gems fused together as one, upon a gilt pedestal in the corner of the room. After three hundred years of finding each piece, the remarkable metal ingenuity was his now and would be triggered to its best use.

  He did not know how long Mr. Shunt had been standing inside the arched doorway that separated this car from the others. But finally, LeFel noticed he was there.

  And standing next to him, holding on to the cuff of his coat as if not quite steady on his feet, was the changeling.

  “Are you finished, then, Mr. Shunt?” LeFel asked.

  “As you demanded,” Mr. Shunt whispered through a serrated smile.

  “Good. Ready my carriage. And wait for me outside.”

  Mr. Shunt bowed and exited the room, leaving the changeling behind.

  “Come to me, Strange,” LeFel commanded. “Show me the child you pretend to be.”

  The creature shuffled across the floor, one leg dragging a bit, its eyes wide and blank, no smile on its sweet, pink lips.

  No skipping or laughing this time. Whatever it had taken to make this thing whole again had also dulled it, changed it. But that was no matter. So long as it lasted through the day, it would have outlived LeFel’s use.

  But to the Strange he said, “You have done well to s
ink back into this broken body, this flesh. Does it pain you?”

  The Strange focused glossy eyes on LeFel and nodded.

  “Not much longer,” LeFel said. “I will reward you richly. Give you a new body to plant yourself within.” He leaned forward just a bit. “Give you the boy’s body.”

  The Strange’s eyes lit with an unholy hunger. It glanced over at the blacksmith’s son, who lay in drugged sleep, curled upon the wide seat of a chair.

  “Would you like that?” LeFel asked. “A young, firm, fresh body to walk this world? To grow in, to breathe in, to taste all the flavors of pain and fear and joy a mortal has to offer?”

  The Strange nodded again, and this time it mustered a smile.

  “Turn around and show me your back.” Shard waited as the Strange obeyed him. Then, with the tip of the diamond-encrusted dinner knife, he carved a symbol into the creature’s flesh. It wriggled and whimpered but did not cry out.

  The clock tower whistled the noon hour, and the hammers and matics slowed and silenced while the laborers took their midday meal.

  Shard LeFel sat back, inspecting his work on the Strange. A star burned there. Five points with the horns up at the creature’s shoulders, flames already dying, tendrils of smoke that smelled of charred wood rising in the still air of the car.

  “Yes. This will do.”

  Pleased, LeFel lifted the silk napkin and rubbed it over his lips, then placed it back upon his knee. “Go, rest in the shadows, Strange. The time is near. When you help me snag up the witch, your hunger will be sated.”

  He turned to the table in front of him, picked up the gold fork, and cut a deep bloody chunk of meat off the plate. Then Mr. Shard LeFel savored, slowly, his last mortal meal.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Mae woke with a start. She hadn’t planned to sleep, but only to rest in the living room chair. From the slant of light coming through the window, it was noon, or later.

  She held her breath a moment, waiting to hear what had woken her. It was the creak of the bed frame. Mr. Hunt was moving.

  Mae stood and smoothed her dress. She had taken the time to tend her own wounds again, to wash, and pull on a dress that was not torn and dirty.

  “Are you up, Mr. Hunt?” she called out as she walked toward the bedroom. “I’m coming in.”

  Cedar was standing next to the bed, the blanket wrapped haphazardly around him, his hair stuck up and tousled. But his eyes narrowed a little when he filled his lungs for a deep breath.

  “Afternoon,” he said. “I’d be in your debt if you have something I could eat.”

  Relief washed over Mae. She hadn’t known if he would make it through the night. “So I see the fever’s broke. You do heal quickly, Mr. Hunt. Are your wounds bothering you?”

  “They will mend.” He took a step and placed one hand on the back of a chair beside the bed. He was moving slowly, not limping, but guarding a pain. “Food, though . . . if you have it.”

  “I’ll see to changing your dressings after I put some coffee on to boil,” Mae said. “You’ll find some clothes in the drawers. They’ll fit you with room to spare.”

  Cedar looked up at her, his hazel eyes clear. “I want . . .” Whatever he had intended to say he thought better of. “Thank you, Mrs. Lindson. For your kindness.”

  Mae nodded and walked off to the larder. She heard him open the chest of drawers, and then the jangle of belt and suspenders.

  Mae stoked the fire, added wood, and got the coffee on. She set bacon to cook in a pan, and mixed water and cornmeal together for jonny cakes. By the time the jonny cakes were in the pan sopping up the bacon grease, Mr. Hunt was done dressing and had walked out into the room.

  “Could you reach down the honey from that shelf?” Mae asked.

  Cedar did so, his bare feet making little sound against the boards.

  “This here?” he asked.

  Mae set the empty bowl down on the table and glanced over at him. It was an odd thing seeing a man in her husband’s clothes. He had on Jeb’s work breeches, belted around his narrower waist, and the blue flannel shirt tucked in tight to show the width of his shoulders. No undershirt, no shoes. Looked like he was at home, comfortable in a state of undress around a woman. But he kept his left arm near his side, still holding the compress there, she’d wager.

  He was pointing to the top shelf with his other hand, his hazel gaze watching her with an expression she could not quite place.

  “That’s the one,” Mae said, taking her eyes off the man and off the clothes he wore. She swallowed back a lump of pain. Wouldn’t do for nothing to cry. Wouldn’t make Jeb come back alive, or bring justice down on his killer. No, that was in her hands alone now.

  Cedar Hunt put the honey on the table, found two plates, and set them out also, then stood there uncertain while Mae flipped the jonny cakes and turned the bacon.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Hunt. It will be done in a moment or two.”

  Cedar pulled a chair away from the table and sat.

  “How did you know,” Cedar began, more of a voice in his words again, “last night—how did you know it was me?”

  “I told you—I can see your curse. Though there’s more to it than I thought. You’ve angered someone in a terrible manner. Someone very powerful. What did you do, Mr. Hunt?”

  “Survived.”

  “Don’t think whoever cursed you did it just because you’re breathing. You’re certain you did nothing to anger them?” She pulled the pan off the rack and turned toward him. She slid one jonny cake and a bit of bacon onto her own plate, then filled Cedar’s plate near heaping with the rest of the breakfast.

  He eyed the food, and Mae could tell it took everything he had not to dig in and start eating. She wondered what held him back, then realized it was manners. He picked up the fork and waited for her.

  “I walked on the wrong land,” he said, while she poured coffee for them both and took her seat. “Pawnee land. I did no harm other than to be under the wrong god’s scrutiny.” He glanced over at her, his knuckles white around the fork, holding back a hunger she could almost feel from across the table.

  She picked up her cup and took a sip, nodding at him slightly. “Eat your fill, Mr. Hunt.”

  Cedar fell to the meal in front of him with vigor and made short work of the food. She wondered if the change to wolf made him ferociously hungry or if it was because of his wounds.

  Mae ate more slowly. “A lot of men have crossed the gods, I’d imagine, and not been turned into a wolf for it. Have you any idea why the Pawnee gods would curse you so?”

  Cedar swallowed coffee, even though it was hot enough to scald. “Told me there were Strange rising in the land. Told me I was to hunt them. Kill them.”

  “Have you?” Mae asked.

  Cedar paused, the cup not yet tipped to his mouth. “Yes, ma’am, I have.”

  “And that hasn’t broken the curse,” Mae mused. “Have you tried any other things to break the curse?”

  “By the time I came to my senses, I was walking west.” He took another drink. “I’ve stopped in any town that had books, but there aren’t many universities out this way. Any book I’ve found that mentions curses is a conflagration of legend and myth with very little scientific thinking to support the theories. . . .”

  He took down another forkful of food and chewed thoughtfully. “There’s no logical, tested remedy that I could find; that much I can say.”

  Mae took another sip of her coffee to cover her surprise. The man who sat across the table from her right that moment was more than a hunter, a loner, a mountain man. He was thoughtful, educated. She had never suspected he might have been university bound before he wandered out this way.

  “Maybe in the books back East? The library in Philadelphia?” Mae finally said.

  Cedar nodded. “It’s crossed my mind.” He spent some time and attention on the food again. “Haven’t had a lot of desire to head back that way. More people, more chances I could harm more than just the Strange.”


  “How often does it strike you?” Mae asked.

  “Every full moon. And I come out of it hungry as if I’ve been a week into a fast.” He drained his cup, then poured himself another, and looked up, the pot still in his hand, offering to pour for her.

  Mae held her cup out, enjoying his company and the meal despite the circumstance for it. “And when you’re beneath the thrall of the wolf, can you reason things out? Remember what you do?”

  “Not before the Madders gave me this chain.” He poured the coffee. “Last night is the first of my recollections as a wolf.”

  “Is that why you went out to their mine?”

  “No. Went out asking for something to help me find the Gregor boy.” Mae was silent at that.

  Cedar waited a bit, then finally asked, “Did you find that man you were hunting for?”

  Mae met his eyes, hazel with flecks of copper thick at the center, and more green at the ring. There was a kindness behind them, a compassion. It surprised her.

  “I know who killed him. What killed him. That Mr. Shunt. And I cannot bear to think what he must have done to turn that child into such a beast. . . .”

  “Wasn’t a child. It was a Strange too, come out of the pocket of Shunt.”

  “He looked so much like Elbert. Warm, soft. He even cried like a child.”

  “It wasn’t a child,” Cedar said again. “Had the smell of the boy upon it, though. The blood of him.”

  Mae took another drink of coffee. “I’ve never seen such a Strange,” she said. “So . . . alive and solid.”

  “They’re more than storybook tales and wisps of light,” Cedar said. “They’ve always been around, been more alive than God-fearing folk want to believe. I’ve yet to see any good follow in their path. Pain, madness, blight—seems to be all the Strange leave behind them. Maybe the Pawnee god wanted them killed before they became a force.”

  Mae finished her food, and placed her fork on her plate. “Dark words, Mr. Hunt. Do you think the Strange are here to kill?”