Dead Iron (12 page)

Outside, the water clock tower whistled out the noon bell, a melodious, lonely chord.

“I’m obliged to you,” Rose said. “Never know what those sorts of men have in their mind. Mr. LeFel works them like demons. Come in wild-eyed and mean, near often as not.” She made it sound matter-of-fact, but Mae could see the slight tremble in her hand as she brushed her hair back from her face. Rose might be too old to marry conventionally, but she was very pretty. Too often a man took that kind of beauty to be his right to spoil.

“You keep a gun in your pocket?” Mae asked.

Rose gave her a level gaze. “A proper woman wouldn’t,” she said. “But don’t suppose I’m so proper as some.”

Mae nodded. “That’s well and wise of you.”

Rose’s smile was sunshine and summer breezes again. “Such talk! If my mother heard me, I’d be left scrubbing floors for the remainder of my God-given years. Is there anything else you’ll be needing today? I cooked up a rhubarb pie this morning. I’d be happy to bring it out to your place this evening, and maybe sit for a bit of tea?”

“No,” Mae said, “don’t bother yourself.”

Rose looked disappointed. Mae realized she wasn’t asking to give the pie out of pity, but out of a need for friendship.

“I’m just not in the conversing mood, Rose. I’ll come by again soon. To bring those blankets I’ve finished. And the lace, of course. When again is Mrs. Haverty’s daughter being wed?”

“Not for three weeks, if a minute,” Rose said. “Though they’re going on about it as if Becky and John are going to burst out into vows any minute now.” She’d picked up a small spindle from the shelf and she was rolling it between her hands, the wood clicking against the thimble on her finger.

Rose never held still, her fingers always flying from one thing to another as if all the world were something that needed touching, changing.

“I’ll bring the lace before then. Will you tell Mrs. Haverty that for me, if you see her?”

“I’d be more than happy to.”

Mae started for the door.

“I don’t suppose you’re looking for the Madder brothers?” Rose asked.

Mae turned in her tracks and gave Rose a long look. She still held the spindle, but was no longer rolling it between her palms.

“Why would you think such a thing?” Mae asked, deeply curious. Rose might be winsomely clever, but she didn’t seem to have a knack for reading thoughts. Mae was certain she hadn’t mentioned the brothers to her.

Rose shrugged but didn’t look away from the spindle and string.

“Just a guess is all. If my husband had gone to his death suddenly, I suppose I’d be looking for a gun, in the least. Maybe other contraptions in the most. The Madders have a way with contraptions that’s better than the best in the old states, I’ve heard whispered.”

She shrugged again and looked up at Mae. “It’s known they devise, though no one talks about it in the cold light of day. Only by candlelight when they think there aren’t ears around to hear.”

“Do you know where the brothers are?” Mae asked.

“They haven’t come into town today. I’d guess they’re up at the mine. You aren’t going out there alone, are you?”

“I won’t be unarmed,” Mae said. “I’m not near proper as some either.”

Rose nodded. “That’s well and wise of you.”

The door opened again. This time a handful of women just come back from church sashayed in. They chattered like scrub jays before spotting Mae. One look at the golden-haired weaver and their perky demeanor snuffed right out, taking on the high-chin stilted manners of a trial, instead of an afternoon’s chance meeting.

“Mrs. Lindson,” said Mrs. Dunken dismissively. The baker’s wife had a face that looked like it’d been pressed out of dough. Her eyes were deep set and nut brown, her nose a knot, and her cheeks round. She’d piled her hair up so high, it threatened to push her blue taffeta spoon bonnet right off her head, roses, lace, feathers, apples, and all. Mrs. Dunken had her nose in everyone’s business, though she didn’t lift a finger to keep her children—some of them, like her Henry, older even than Rose—out of making such trouble that the sheriff had a nightly seat reserved at their supper table. “Have you finally brought a scrap of lace today?”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Dunken,” Mae said. “No, I’m afraid not. I’ll be bringing it to town next I come, though.”

“I heard your man is gone looking for work,” Mrs. Dunken went on. “Pity the rail man wouldn’t take his kind. Employs all sorts. Even the savages. At more than a fair dollar. I can’t imagine how you’ll survive until spring.”

Mae’s shoulders drew back straight and hard. She’d heard worse, been through worse than four women’s scathing stares and bitter barbs. She’d likely endure more before the day ended, what with the death she was contemplating. “We’ll manage, thank you kindly,” Mae said. “And thank you, Miss Small, for your time,” she said to Rose.

“Been a pleasure,” Rose said. “I’ll let Mrs. Haverty know we’ll have that lace in plenty of time before the wedding.”

As soon as the word “wedding” left Rose’s mouth, the women started up again like a flock of hens tattling over scraps of seed.

“We’ll settle this nonsense for good,” Mrs. Dunken said to one of her hangers-on—the long-faced, sad-eyed Mrs. Bristle. “Rose, fetch us the newspapers immediately.”

The women bustled into the store, taking themselves back a ways toward the pharmaceutical counter, where glass bottles and waxes cluttered the shelves.

And before Mae could step out the door, a man was blocking her way. Tall, and wearing the newest style from New York, Henry Dunken, the baker’s son, took his hat off his head and stepped inside. His eyes were green as river rocks, his jaw square as a sawed-off railroad tie, the rest of his features just as rough-hewn. He’d always had a meanness about him, and today was no different. He ignored Mae’s presence and scanned the store like a surveyor judging the yield of his claim.

He pushed past Mae without a decent pardon-me and leaned an elbow on the counter. Then he helped himself to a handful of candy out of the jar and stared at his mother and her women, obviously waiting for something.

Rose came from the back of the room with a booklet of papers. “Here’s all we have from the last year or so, Mrs. Dunken.” She looked up and caught sight of Henry. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth took on a stubborn line.

“Where are your manners, Miss Small?” Mrs. Dunken snatched the papers from her. “You have a fine gentleman waiting for you. See to your customer.” She waved a hand at Henry, and in the same motion dismissed Rose from her service.

Mae caught Rose’s gaze, and Rose gave her a bored look. She didn’t seem concerned about Henry. She stomped across the wood floor and stood behind the counter.

“Good day, Mr. Dunken.” No honey in those words. Luckily, Henry’s mother was too busy arguing about sleeve lengths to hear her tone.

Rose pulled out a ledger book and flipped through the pages. “I’ll add that candy to your father’s tab. Is there anything else your father will be buying for you today?”

“Now, now, Rose,” Henry said. “Once I’m mayor of this town, a bit of free candy every once in a while might sugar my feelings toward your interests.” He glanced down at her bosom, then gave her a wide smile.

“Miss Small,” Rose said coolly. “I’d be obliged if you used my proper name, Mr. Dunken.” She leaned a little closer to Henry and lowered her voice. “But I think you may want to reconsider your offer.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” he asked, warming to her presence.

“Because my interests all require you to cross lots off the short end of the earth.”

Henry stood up tall and glowered down at her. Rose met his gaze with a bland expression. He glanced over at his mother, but she had heard none of it, then scowled at Rose again.

“And I’d be obliged if you treated me with the respect due my station,” Henry said.

Rose put her hand over her mouth and coughed to cover her laughter. “Of course, Mr. Dunken. Anything more I can get for you? We have a fresh batch of pride carted in from the East, if yours has gone and gotten bruised.”

Mae hid an approving smile and walked outside. Rose could take care of herself. And it’d take more of a man than the troublemaker Henry to match her.

After the warmth of the shop, the cool air felt like she had plunged into clean water. Her mule stood, head lowered, dozing in the afternoon sun.

The wind stirred, bringing with it the voices of the coven sisters calling her home.

East. She needed to be walking, needed to be packing, needed to be riding east. Mae could hear their voices as clear as the rattle and thump of the matic on the rail, as clear as the clatter and jingle of horses and gear making their way between the shops of the town, as clear as the laughter rising up from somewhere off by the butcher’s shop. A pain in her chest flared out as the bind between her and the coven tightened like a string being pulled.

No. She swallowed hard and held tight to the porch rail until her mind cleared and the sisters’ call eased.

She knew the sisters’ call would only grow stronger. And each day she held off returning to her own soil, the more time and effort it would take for her to resist.

Mae took a few deep breaths, then rubbed Prudence’s nose to wake her. She untied the reins and hitched back up into the saddle.

She looked up the street. More people walked between the wagons that were loading and unloading crates and barrels and bushels, people scurrying from wagon to storehouse. Winter was coming. The whole town knew it. Like ants desperate to get the last bit of food beneath the ground before the frost hit, the folk of Hallelujah were working to stock up against the coming storms. But farther off north, cool as the heart of a sapphire, stood the Blue Mountains. And at their feet was the Madder brothers’ mine.

The sun shifted from behind a cloud, a dark shadow skittering down the street as the wind on high blew the clouds across the fields, tearing them apart until they were gone.

Sunlight poured down, strong as summer ever was, lighting the way north. As good an omen as she’d likely receive. With the sunlight on her back, Mae headed down the road toward the shadow of the mountains.

S
hard LeFel knew Mr. Shunt lingered, a dark shadow among shadows, inside the doorway at the far end of the railroad car that served as LeFel’s living room. LeFel was always aware of the Strange, as one is aware of a draft that lets in the frigid breeze.

But it was not the Strange that held his interest most today. It was the two other creatures in the room—one a wolf and the other a boy.

The wolf was a mottle of black and gray, its underbelly and legs white, the tips of its ears and the top of its head pure black. It was chained and shackled, its neck caught so high and tight in the collar that it panted to breathe. Even so, it strained to reach LeFel, hungry for his blood, and would likely break its bonds if not for the brass collar with clockwork gears that let out a pitch only the beast could hear and clouded its mind.

The boy lay upon a simple cot, wrapped in a striped wool blanket as if tucked tight against a fever. His eyes were glossy; his red hair stuck up in unruly curls that were darkened by the sweat on his brow. He was staring at LeFel as if he could see right through him.

It took no collar or geis to keep the child quiet. No, LeFel had found that all it took to keep the boy complacent was the correct mixture of drugs.

“Mr. Shunt,” LeFel said, more to get rid of the Strange than out of any sense of compassion, “bring the beast a crust of bread and water, and for the whelp, a bit of porridge.”

Mr. Shunt bowed, one spindly hand rigored against the brim of his stovepipe hat. He turned, his long coat whispering at his ankles as he exited to the kitchen car.

The rail matics outside huffed low and steady like lumbermen heaving a two-man saw through a sequoia. Off rhythm at first, the spike mauls hit rails, drove spikes, dropped wooden sleepers to carry the track, creating a second and third rhythm—the beating pulse of LeFel’s conquest of this land, and his promise to the Strange.

Still, it would take more than the Strange’s door and the Holder to buy LeFel’s escape from this mortal flesh. It would take a key. And that key was made of three things: the lifeblood of a dreaming mortal, the life of a man cursed by the gods, and the life filled with the magic of this earth.

Of all the devices he had commissioned over hundreds of years, of all the jewels and precious metals that had been broken down to dust to make way for this ticker or that, the most elusive thing of all had been finding each part of the key: three lives to sacrifice to open the door to the Strange realm.

He had never once concerned himself with finding a mortal dreamer—children often still saw the world through dreaming eyes, even through the most difficult of circumstances. No, finding a child to kill was easy.

But a man who was truly cursed by gods was a more difficult rat to corner. He had investigated hundreds of claims of mortals stricken by curse, and all were fakers, charlatans, or simply unfortunate beings living unfortunate lives. He had nearly despaired of finding a single man cursed by the gods.

Until he saw the wolf. Uncanny human intelligence in those old copper eyes. LeFel had been curious enough he’d told Mr. Shunt to catch him up so he could better see him.

And when the moon went dark, the wolf revealed himself to be a man. A very cursed man indeed.

It had taken until just a few months ago for LeFel to find the last life—that filled with magic—that had so eluded him. To his surprise, he had found that magic lying heavy as a perfume on the colored man when he had come asking to work the rail. And he had tracked it back to the colored man’s wife, the witch Mae Lindson.

But the dark man had stood in his way. LeFel had been unable to steal her away, kept as she was, safe under the colored man’s devices and protections. Killing the man, three final times, should have finally broken his protections, and the ties of magic between the pair.