Cold Copper: The Age of Steam (32 page)

C
edar pushed onto his feet. “Mae!” This time his voice carried. This time she heard him.

But it was too late.

Vosbrough’s matic soldier fired its weapon. Liquid flame roared out of its gun, melting snow and cracking rocks.

Mae threw herself to the side, yelled one final word of her spell, and grabbed up her gun.

Before Cedar could take so much as a step, snow began to fall.

Thick as a blizzard, the world was erased, swallowed whole. It was snowing so hard that even if there were a wind to break it, there would be no end to the white. It was as if the entire sky of clouds had fallen whole cloth to smother everything on the ground.

A gunshot cracked and echoed. Mae’s gun.

Mayor Vosbrough laughed. “Good, Mrs. Lindson. You are as strong as they say. Calling winter and binding it. A difficult spell. Very difficult. I could use a witch like you on my side. Don’t think of it as a service. I will pay you handsomely, beginning with sparing your life.”

Mae didn’t answer. Smart. Her voice would only give Vosbrough a target to fire at.

Another arc of fire blasted through the snow, setting the air glowing
deep red and orange, as if Cedar stood in the stirred ashes and flame of a frozen bonfire.

He knew Mae wasn’t far away. Took another step toward her.

A figure appeared out of the snow in front of him.

But it was not Mae.

It was not Wil.

It was the Strange he had seen so many times before. The Strange he had followed. It did not have Florence’s pink ribbon. But it pointed at where Wil was lying on the ice. The snow moved aside for that gesture, like a curtain pulled by cord.

“I can save,” the Strange said with the reedy song of water through grass, “him. I can save”—the Strange pointed the other direction, and Cedar knew it meant Mae—“your own.”

“Then save them,” Cedar said.

“You must.” The Strange was made of windblown snow, though there was no wind. It swirled, losing eyes and mouth and shape, and then re-forming again. “Agree. Free my kind as I free yours.”

“I don’t save Strange.” Even numb, freezing, hurting, Cedar felt the heat of the beast in his blood. Wanting to kill this Strange. Wanting to destroy.

“Your… bro-ther,” it said, as if the word were awkward for it to speak, “is dying.”

Cedar knew it was right. Wil’s side had barely lifted with breath, and the binding between them and Father Kyne was sapping his strength. As it was, Cedar could barely think straight, and shook uncontrollably from the cold.

“I can save your bro-ther,” the Strange whispered. “I can save your own. If you free my kind. From the light.”

It lifted a hand and grasped at the falling snow, impossibly dragging it aside again so that the air was clear of it. Farther downriver stood Mayor Vosbrough, hands raised, chanting.

A spell. He was spell casting. But only witches could cast spells.

That’s when the truth of it hit him. Vosbrough was a witch. He knew it was true. And Vosbrough was using glim, cold copper, and the Strange to power that monstrous matic. The light pouring from the orb in the center of its chest burned bright even through the snow. In that light he could see a Strange. It was in pain. Trapped. Tortured.

The Strange waved its hand, and all the air around Cedar was solid white again. “Free. Free my own.”

“Yes,” Cedar said. “I will free your own. Save my brother.”

The Strange bowed gracefully. “Oath.”

“Oath.”

Snow parted like water around stone. The Strange walked on weightless tiptoe over to where Wil lay. It bent, placed its hand over Wil’s eyes, and then the Strange was gone, dissolved into a chalky mist that Wil inhaled.

“No!” Horror crawled through Cedar’s mind. What had he just done to his brother? What was the price of this bargain?

Cedar staggered to Wil.

Wil opened his eyes, and exhaled.

Then his wolf form stretched, molded, changed. Fur was replaced by skin, muzzle by lips, paws by hands.

And it was Wil, lying naked on the ice. He turned his head, looked up at Cedar, confused. “Did we find the Holder?” he asked.

Cedar shook his head. “Wil, the Strange. You breathed it in. It’s in you.”

Wil’s eyes went wide, then he sat up smoothly, as if the ice and snow and wind had no effect on him. As if he were not in pain. “In me? I don’t feel any different.”

And then everything about Wil changed. His face went blank, and a light burned copper behind his eyes. “This. Oath,” a voice that was not Wil’s said through his mouth.

“No,” Cedar said. “I take back my oath. I break it. Get the hell out of my brother.”

“Oath,” the Strange said with Wil’s lips.

Wil stood in a graceful, liquid motion, then he took two steps and dove into the water.

“Wil!” Cedar grabbed for him. Wil was gone, disappeared beneath the inky black water.

The entire exchange had taken no more than a few seconds. He could dive in after him.

It would be his death.

The snow thinned. Cedar glanced at where he’d last seen Mae. She was standing just inside the line of trees by the road, her hands out to both sides, curled in fists, as she called on the elements to fuel her spell.

He didn’t know what she was casting. Whether it was a curse, a binding, or a vow. But Vosbrough stood at the riverbank, unmoving, arms clamped to his side at an awkward angle, as if a rope were tied around him and cinching tighter.

“Whore!” he yelled. “Demon spawn. You are an abomination on this earth. And not even a very good one at that.” He pushed his arms out to the side and flexed his fingers. “Strong, though. Which I like. I’ll give you that.”

He crooked his finger and Mae gasped. She grabbed at her neck with one hand as if a wire had just wrapped around her throat, her other hand still tight in a fist.

“Goddamn it,” Cedar swore. If ever there was a time for the beast to lend him its strength it was now.

He ran for his rifle. Stumbling at first, his feet fell faster and faster as anger gave him strength over his pain. And like kindling starving for oxygen, that anger caught a spark of rage and woke the beast within him.

His senses heightened and heat and power rolled through his bones. One step and he bent, scooping up his rifle. A second step and he had
the headless matic in his sights. It was still, bound by a spell, by a spell that Mae still held and Vosbrough had not yet broken.

Cedar shot at the matic, aiming for the glass globe, but the bullet ricocheted, and sent out a spray of glim and copper sparks like flint rubbing steel.

“So now the hero wants to join the fight,” Vosbrough said as Mae struggled to breathe. “Haven’t I said this to you enough, hunter? I am your death. And the death of your woman. You do realize I could snap her neck with a twitch of my wrist, don’t you, Mr. Hunt?”

Cedar held his place and did not lower the gun. “Let. Her. Go.” It was all he could force out through his teeth, all his rage would allow.

“I was willing to give you the hospitality of this fine city if you played by my rules. But now…” He shook his head. “Well, you’re consorting with witches, Mr. Hunt. And damned men. A decent civilized world has no room for such things.”

“And you,” Cedar snarled as he shifted his aim to Vosbrough’s head, “talk too much.” He squeezed the trigger.

H
ink was surprised they were still alive. After the sheriff had let every damn man in town unload a round or two into the walls of the church, they’d settled down to a more random aim and fire, mostly only when he, Wicks, or Miss Dupuis stuck their head out a window long enough to take a shot of their own.

The sheriff knew it was only a matter of time before those inside the church ran out of bullets. He seemed willing to wait them out.

But being low on bullets only meant each shot had to count. And they’d made sure to do just that. There were more wounded men on the street, or being transported by wagon to doctors, than there had been just a few minutes ago. Hink knew Miss Dupuis was a steady aim, but he had to grudgingly admit Mr. Wicks was no slouch with a gun.

The sheriff had tried to burn the place down too, but the recent snows made for difficult burning.

Miss Dupuis and Mr. Wicks had taken the time to bring Father Kyne, mattress, blankets, and all, into the main room with them, and put him on the floor, bundled for warmth. Less likely he’d be shot up here than back in his bedroom near a wall getting peppered with lead.

“I don’t like how quiet it is out there,” Wicks said.

“Shoot at them,” Hink suggested. “Seems to wake them right up.”

“They’re planning something,” Miss Dupuis said.

“My thoughts exactly, Miss Dupuis,” Wicks agreed. “Someone should scout to see what they’re doing. Captain Hink, I elect you.”

“Go to hell,” Hink said.

The puffing of a steam wagon pulling a heavy weight drifted into the room. Whatever matic was out there, it was coming closer, coming to the church, while men shouted directions.

That didn’t sound good.

“Train?” Miss Dupuis said.

“No,” Wicks said. “Wagon, I think. But it sounds like it’s on rails.”

“It’s hauling,” Hink said. “Under a heavy load.”

“What is it hauling?” Wicks asked. “What would the sheriff haul all the way out here to the outskirts of town?”

“Something to kill us with?” Miss Dupuis suggested.

“A gun,” Hink said. “Don’t know what kind, but it will be a gun. A big gun.”

“Cannon?” Wicks asked.

“Maybe. When that puffing stops, I’ll stick my nose out and look.”

None of them argued, so Hink took a swig out of the canteen of water Miss Dupuis handed him and leaned his head back against the pew behind him. They’d stacked the wooden pews up against the doors, then used the rest as a barricade to take some of the sting out of the bullets that found their way through the thin walls.

He closed his eyes for a minute or so, tired of seeing the room in double. That knock on the back of his head wasn’t doing him any favors. His body was begging for sleep, but he knew sleeping right now would just be a shortcut to the grave.

“It’s stopped,” Mr. Wicks said. “Marshal? You’d better look.”

Hink opened his eyes and held his breath a minute until the room stopped yawing side to side.

“Are you all right?” Miss Dupuis asked.

“Low on bullets and bleeding? Oh, yeah, I’m just aces.” Hink
pushed up to his feet. He supposed he should crouch low and scuttle to the window, but he was damn tired of scuttling.

He walked up to the side of the window, then glanced outside.

A bullet winged through the wood above the window and Hink pressed against the wall for the scant protection it provided, then glanced out the window again.

The wagon scraped the brush on both sides of the road as it lumbered toward the church. It was pulled by a steam muler with tracks for wheels that belched thick, black smoke into the snow-heavy sky. Behind that muler was a massive cannon, black as the devil’s heart and long as the wagon. The thing had three barrels, the center one big enough to stuff an ox into, the two barrels flanking it only slightly shorter and smaller.

Six men stood atop the flat wagon, working the cranks and wheels to lift and drop the cannonballs into all three snouts, while angling the beast down so it was aimed directly at the church.

“Dammit all,” Hink growled.

“What?” Miss Dupuis asked. “What kind of a gun is it?”

“The kind that can blow this church into splinters. We run. Now!”

“I don’t take orders from you,” Wicks said. “And there isn’t a gun on land that can take down an entire building.”

“Well, then you can stay here and let me know if you still hold that belief when the roof is falling on your head. Miss Dupuis, help me with the father.”

Miss Dupuis levered Father Kyne into a sitting position. It was enough to rouse the preacher. He opened his eyes.

“What…where are we?”

“Take a last look at God’s house,” Hink said, bending to haul the man up onto his feet and then bracing him there with an arm around his waist. “It’s about to be decommissioned.”

Kyne did Hink a favor by not passing out and not arguing as Hink mostly dragged him toward the back of the church. Miss Dupuis
followed, and Wicks must have decided to go look out the window himself, because he suddenly got his cussing on.

Man had an impressive list of words to chew.

“Why would they have built such a thing?” he said as he came up on Father Kyne’s other side and thankfully helped to carry the man toward the kitchen.

“Don’t know,” Hink grunted. “Indian wars?”

“No. That thing is built to tear down walls. Or buildings.”

“Just what we need,” Miss Dupuis said as they ran for the back door of the place. “A gun big enough to destroy cities.”

“Ain’t progress just dandy?” Hink asked.

And then there was no time to talk. No air left to talk with anyway. An explosion blasted out and the world shook like a wet dog.