Dead Iron (18 page)

The wind picked up again. One lone meadowlark sang a few unsteady notes. Another answered.

Dusk settled gently over the horizon, bringing the cool scent of rain and the voice of crickets.

Mae trembled. She had never faced anything as foul as that man. The shotgun was silent in her hand, the gears locked. With one last look out into the night, she picked up her tatting shuttle, which lay just outside the door, and made herself busy. Even shook, her feet wanted to run east, away from here, back to the soil that held her owing, back to the sisters who would wash her clean of the killing need for revenge.

Not yet. She couldn’t run yet.

She used the fire tongs to pluck up the button and drop it in a thick glass jar with a glass lid. Then she found the hammer and nails it would take to repair the hinges on her door, and hurried to do so. Before night closed in. Before the moon rose. Before other Strange creatures came calling for her blood.

C
edar could not move. His hands were bound behind him, numb. His legs were strapped to the chair, and his chest and neck were similarly cinched down tight.

Alun Madder plunked a chair down in front of Cedar and sat astraddle it, his thick arms crossed over the back of the chair.

“You are an interesting problem, Mr. Hunt.” He pursed his lips and sucked the blood off his teeth. He spit into an oily kerchief and wiped his mouth and beard.

“Been a while since the boys and I found a puzzle we couldn’t solve. We thought we had the way of you—a man running from his past and pain. That’s a common story for a common enough man. Then you go on and show you’re learned in old ways, Strange ways, and also foolhearted enough to lend a hand where you shouldn’t, putting your nose into business that’s none of your concern to save a boy who’s not your own. Seems you’re not that common a common man after all. Thing I wonder is how it took us so long to see the way of you.”

Cedar said nothing. They hadn’t gagged him, but he doubted there was much he could do to talk them into untying him.

If they held him until the full moon rose, he’d be happy to show them his uncommon way up close, and personalized. Then he’d tear their throats out.

Bryn brought another chair over and sat rightwise upon it. He had on a pair of goggles with a star spray of lenses fanned off his bad right eye, giving that cloud-shot eye a golden sheen. He’d taken off his coat and wore his sleeves caught in a band at the elbow, hands clean as a christening bowl. His vest seemed constructed entirely of pockets, and in those pockets were bits of chain, cotton, wicks, scissors, and blades.

“So,” Alun continued, “now you’re here, in our home, with a watch that wouldn’t take to fixin’. Not even for Bryn.” Alun shook his head, and Bryn fingered one of the lenses down over his right eye: snick, his eye was orange. Then another: amber. Another: gold. Snick, snick, snick, until his eye peered bloodred through the lens.

“You come asking favors,” Alun said. “And for our help in hunting Strange things. Even know the specific tools for tracking: silver and song. Things a common man should not know. Why do you suppose that is, brother Cadoc?”

Cadoc stepped out of the shadows behind his brothers, and into the lantern light. His hands were tucked in the pockets of his overcoat. He was silent for such a long time, staring at Cedar, that Cedar thought the youngest Madder had lost his wits. But his brothers waited. And so did Cedar.

Far off, Cedar thought he heard rocks falling, a deep-earth mumble, as if the stones had rolled in their resting place and spoken of their dreams.

“He carries a curse,” Cadoc finally said. “Not the old ways. Not our ways. But some way. Some way of this land has cursed him.”

“Do you see the mark of the Strange on him?” Alun asked.

Cadoc stared, silent again. Finally, “No. Not so much as.”

Alun nodded and rubbed his chin whiskers, giving Cedar a measuring look. “You know about this curse, Mr. Uncommon Hunt?”

“Untie me.”

“Do you know the manner of this curse?” Alun asked, like a man calling bluff on a bet.

“I know my own business. And how to keep it,” Cedar said.

“Then I reckon you know when keeping your own business won’t put your boots on the road. I am powerful curious about that curse, Mr. Hunt. It’s a curiosity that you could snuff with a word or two. Tell me, what do you know about your curse?”

Cedar could feel the beast pushing from within him. He was sure he’d blacked out for a bit after the brothers had dropped him in the chair. He didn’t know what time it was. Since they were asking him about the curse, the moon must not have pulled up into the sky. It must still be the day he’d come here, maybe even still daylight.

Changing into the wolf would assure he’d get free of these ropes, maybe even free of this hill, so long as the brothers weren’t too fast on the draw. But there was no mind of a man left to him when he fell on all fours. There was nothing but hunt, kill, feed.

If he became a beast, he’d not be able to operate the wheels to open the doors.

Still, the idea of letting the beast take over his mind and end this situation was sore tempting.

Cedar took a deep breath, trying to push away the killing thoughts. He was still a man. Best solve this before that was no longer true.

“There is a boy out there who might be alive,” he said calmly.

“But he’s on short time seeing as how he’s been gone more than a night. I have the tools to hunt for him, and I have paid the price you asked for those tools. That is my business. And that is all. Untie me.”

Bryn was still clicking lenses into place, staring at him through his right eye that had gone from gold to red to emerald and was now drenched in indigo.

“Moon,” Bryn said. “And blood.” He leaned forward and his brothers mimicked him, leaning in as if they too could see through the lenses over his eye.

“Blaidd gwaed,”
Cadoc whispered.

“Blood wolf,” Alun agreed.

They all leaned back, as if pulled by the same string.

Alun scratched at his beard. “Shape-shifter, eh? Do you remember much the day after the change?”

Cedar blinked. He didn’t know what to say. Anger, fear, or disbelief he expected, not casual curiosity.

“It’s only for a night, I reckon? Or say a few nights around the full moon?” Alun pressed.

“Three,” Cedar said. “Three nights. Beginning with the waxing full moon.”

“Your sudden need to be rushing out of here makes a mite more sense.” Alun stared up at the ceiling while Bryn pulled a pair of scissors that looked like a tiny brass heron, and a small leather satchel, out of a pocket.

He ambled over next to Cedar and snipped off a bit of his hair.

Cedar jerked and glared at Bryn. “Keep your hands to yourself, or I will break them joint by joint.”

Bryn grinned, and waggled his fingers at him as Cedar flexed his arms, pulling against the straps that held strong.

“Do you remember, Mr. Hunt?” Alun asked again.

“About?” Cedar glared at Bryn, who wisely backed away and sat back down.

“Being a man, being a wolf.” The eldest brother pulled his gaze off the ceiling. “Do you carry the thoughts from one skin to the other?”

“No.”

The far-off rumbling of stones rattled a trickle of dust down one wall.

Cadoc, who still stood behind the brothers, exhaled a breath he’d been holding far too long.

“Well then, might be we could do you a favor, Mr. Hunt,” Alun said, the gleam of negotiation back in his clever, dark eyes.

Cedar pushed against the ropes, but they did not loosen.

“We’ll return your coin, return the favor owed for the silver tuning fork, if you’d do a job for us.”

“What job?”

“Hunt for us.”

Cedar laughed. “Are your ears full of wool? I told you, I’m hunting the boy. Until I find him, living or dead, I will hunt nothing else. For anyone.”

Alun looked over at Bryn, who shrugged and smiled.

“Say we give you something to make it worth your while,” Alun said.

“Say we give you something to cage the wolf,” Bryn said.

“Say we give you something to keep the man’s mind in the wolf’s clothing,” Cadoc said.

“Say you untie me, boys, and let’s be done with this,” Cedar said.

Bryn chuckled and walked off into the shadows behind his brother Cadoc. He passed through the door where both Mae’s gun and the tuning forks had been kept. Cadoc took Bryn’s seat and stared at Cedar.

“We have a need for you,” Cadoc said careful and slow. “Other-ways, we’d not ask it of you. Not ask it of any man.”

“That’s truth, Mr. Hunt,” Alun said. “Our word on it.”

“But,” Cadoc said, “a man who can hear the Strange, a man with the wolf in his bones and his eyes in all the worlds . . . well, that’s the sort of thing that might suit our needs. Something we will pay handsomely for. No price too high to pay if you’ll find our Holder.”

“The Holder,” Alun explained, “is a device that’s been taken, piece by piece, from many a land. A device we have spent all these long years searching for. We believe the Holder is here, in these hills, maybe even in this town.” He leaned forward, thick arms crossed over his chest. “We want you to find the Holder for us, Mr. Hunt.”

Bryn walked back into the light, carrying a short length of chain. It was black, the links thin as a stalk of wheat. The links were worked loop through loop and a spiral of thin silver snaked through it. At the join point was a clasp shaped in a crescent moon, and on the opposite side, a small brass arrow that would pierce the moon and hold the chain together.

“Don’t know the ways to keep the moon from calling you,” Bryn said as he walked over to stand behind Cedar. “Don’t know the ways to keep the wolf away. But this should break the thrall so you’ll have a clear mind. Even after you’ve gone beast.”

“Think of it,” Alun said. “You will have all the instincts and keen senses of the wolf, so too your reasoning. Finding the boy, if he can be found, will be swift. After that task is put to fallow, you will look for our Holder.”

Cedar’s stomach tightened, his chest hot with anger. The whiskey-heavy heat of the moon was stirring him even through a mountain of stone. The moon must be near its rise. He could feel it in his bones, calling, calling. His thoughts were already slipping, shifting, his ears filling with the rush of his own blood pumping hard. His hands opened and closed. He needed the heavy chain around his neck—not this collar the Madders offered, but the links that would hold him trapped against the stones of his hearth. Links that would keep him from killing the very child he intended to hunt.

“What do you say, Mr. Hunt?” Alun asked. “Care to take the gamble?”

Cedar hankered to say no. All he wanted was a chance to find the lost boy. But saying as much was beyond him now, his reason slipping quickly. The alcoholic haze of the moonrise licked through him, the heavy weight bringing his body taut with a need, a hunger, bloodlust.

He pushed against the ropes. This time, they creaked. Snapped. Cedar grinned at the spice of fear rising from Alun’s skin. He pushed harder.

Something cold and heavy looped around his neck, clicked into place.

And then the world slowed.

Cedar was aware of every second of the change, his bones and muscles stretching, curving, compacting. Luxurious pleasure flooded his senses. He pushed again against the ropes, which fell in a pile at his feet as if someone had released the knots. He needed free of these clothes, and stood, dreamlike, pulling each piece away from his skin, and folding it carefully upon the chair where he had sat. Coat, vest, shirt. His hand paused at the tuning fork and chain, both of which he left hanging against his heart. Belt, boots, pants, and drawers, all stacked neatly in the pile.

With every inhalation, a heady rush of heat pushed through him. He was alive, nerves burning, filled with the need for the air, the sky, the ground beneath his claws, and blood in his mouth. His eyesight sharpened, clarified, colors draining down to only the necessary few. His hearing cleared of the blood and thrum, and smells became infinite.

He fell down upon four feet, his mind sliding at last into the final haze of unthinking—blood hungry and needing to kill. An icy shock radiated out from the chain at his neck, clearing away the haze.

Cedar wanted to hunt, to tear and rend and mutilate. And the Madders would be the first to fall.

Coolness washed his mind again.

“You’ve your senses, Mr. Hunt,” Alun said. “If you use them.”

Cedar realized he was in possession of his thoughts, the man in him nearly as strong as the killing instincts of the beast.

Kill,
the beast in him said.

Cedar pulled against the blood hunger, like hauling back on reins. The need for blood eased.

He looked up at the three brothers, who did not seem one bit surprised at his state.

“Do we have a deal, then, Mr. Hunt?” Alun asked. “The silver tuning fork is yours. This money is yours.” He bent and dropped the bag of coins on the floor between them. “The favor between us is absolved. If, in return, you will find our Holder.”

Cadoc reached into a pocket inside his vest and pulled out a small, clothbound book. Inside the book was a single dried flower. He carefully turned a page so that the flower was covered, and then tore the next page out from the spine of the book.

The internal binding on the book showed bare stitches and ragged bits where too many other pages had been removed.

Cadoc closed the book and then tore the page in half.

The air filled with a fragrance Cedar had smelled only once before—from the book Wil had found. Sweet as honey, it carried the promise of music, wine, joy, and warm summer nights that never ended. It carried a promise of something just beyond reach, just beyond taste. Something powerful.