Dead Iron (13 page)

Now all that was left was to pluck the witch, like a ripe plum, and bleed her life away.

“On the waning moon, the door will be opened, and blood shall oil its gears,” LeFel murmured.

The wolf flattened his ears and growled.

“You, dog,” LeFel said, “have been more useful than I hoped. Tracking the witch, the child, the Strange. But in the end, it is only your death that interests me.”

LeFel stood with the grace of a dancer, despite the catch in his knees, and crossed the car, the sound of his bootheels smothered by the layers of Oriental carpets. He paused in front of the glass and iron corner cabinet that shone in the candlelight like melted diamonds. Within the beveled depths was an assortment of treasures and oddities.

He drew a golden key from within his vest and let the chain fall over his high lace collar.

LeFel slid the key to the lock and opened the door to the cabinet. He brushed fingertips across the jewels, books, gears, springs, charms, boxes, and talismans that clicked and chirped and shivered beneath his touch.

He settled upon a finely made hourglass as thick as his thumb and long as his palm. Within one bulb of the hourglass were tiny golden gears, and hanging down the neck between the bulbs was a thin wire pendulum with a blue sapphire at its end. He folded his fingers around the tiny matic and closed the glass cabinet, locking it again.

He turned to the wolf, hourglass pinched between thumb and finger.

The wolf growled so low, the sound was lost to the huff and thump of the rail work outside.

“Ah, you do remember what this small trinket can do.” LeFel turned the hourglass on end, tipped it back again, winding the spring. Three times. The tiny gears ticked, and the pendulum made its narrow swing, clicking softly against the glass.

The wolf growled again.

LeFel paced to the high-backed chair. Made of fine leather, goose down, and rare woods, the chair suited more than a railroad tycoon. It suited a king.

“This small matic holds very special properties,” he said. “With the correct word, it is quite a remarkable device, tuned as it is to the collar you wear.” He folded down into the chair.

“Shall I give you a taste of what you once were?” LeFel drew the hourglass tight against his palm. He leaned his lips in close and spoke a single word against his thumb.

The wolf growled, howled, and twisted shoulders and haunches, trying to break free of its shackles. The howls were not anger but pain. Pure sweet agony.

LeFel smiled. “Such a difficult change from one flesh to another without the aid of the moon. The gods of this land have given you their favor, and pain is your only song of praise. What cruel gods walk your mortal world.”

The wolf whined, growled, and then its howls were replaced by a man’s scream.

LeFel sat back, tipping his head down to watch as the beast became the man. It was a fascinating process, a curse, viewed scientifically, that should destroy human flesh. And yet, here before his eyes, the wolf stretched, spasmed, and melted into the form of a man. That aspect of the curse alone, the ability to shift forms, made the wolf worth keeping, worth experimenting on, and experimenting with. But for the passage it would pay him, the beast was invaluable.

Naked, sweating, and breathing hard, the man curled into himself, knees tucked up against his muscular chest, arms draped around them. He rested his head on his knees, brown hair catching at the beard across his jaw, and falling in a tangle to his shoulders. When his breathing quieted, he looked up at LeFel. His eyes were brown, the color of old copper.

“Let me free.” The words were short, as if the shape of them was unfamiliar to his mouth, his tongue.

LeFel laughed. “You demand? I have nursed you from your wounds, fed you, kept you. Even now, you speak with the words of a man, think with the mind of a man—because of my favor. Without me, you are a mindless animal. I
am
your freedom.”

The man glared at LeFel as if contemplating his murder. Mortals never ceased to intrigue LeFel. Foolish, clumsy creatures, yes, certainly. Yet they carried a fire within them, living as if they were immortal, fighting for their short, meaningless lives, as if each day was precious as rain.

Even though he was more wolf than man, the mortal still carried pride and anger. A fire burned in him. LeFel enjoyed seeing that fire had not been broken. Yet.

“Can you feel your death approaching?” LeFel asked conversationally. “Every day spent as an animal steals from you a little more of your human intellect. Do you remember your name?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. Finally, “Wil. Wiliam Hunt.”

“Yes, Mr. Hunt. And do you remember why you are here?”

“To search.” He frowned. Lifted a hand and rubbed his face, fingers digging at his forehead. “You told me you would cure me if I would hunt. Help you hunt. A woman?”

“Yes, a woman. The witch. And the child.” LeFel pointed toward the boy.

Wil dropped his hand, and looked over, the chain and collar hampering his movement. He frowned.

LeFel waited. Waited as Wil Hunt realized he had helped LeFel imprison a slip of a child. LeFel had pulled the man out of wolf form more than once in the last three years. Not too often. No, that would blunt the blade of the game. But every time he had brought Wil Hunt respite from his wolf form, and shown him what he had done—the dead, the broken, and, of course, now the child—it had left the man raging and reminded him of his power.

LeFel never tired of it.

This time was different. Disturbingly so. The man clenched his jaw and fist, pulling his heavy shoulders back as if accepting a weight. He turned a smoldering glare on LeFel.

“Let the boy go.”

“You think you can issue me orders?” LeFel threw the hourglass into the air.

Wil’s eyes widened, then narrowed, his body instinctively bunching and reaching to catch the fragile clockwork glass.

“No!” Wil pushed against his shackles, arms snapping chains to their length, far short of reaching LeFel or the hourglass.

LeFel snatched the hourglass out of the air and smiled at Wil’s fear, his anger, his desperation. “Never forget, cur,” LeFel said through bared teeth. “I
am
your master. If you speak to me in such a manner again, I will kill that boy and feed him to you.”

The French door clacked open and Mr. Shunt filled the gap. He tapped one needle-pointed nail against the silver tray he carried, announcing his presence, then ducked the doorway.

“Lord LeFel?” he murmured.

LeFel placed the hourglass on the arm of the chair, where it tipped precariously to one side. A tremble, a breath, and it would fall to the floor again.

Wil Hunt leaned his head against the wall, staring at the hourglass as if his gaze alone could hold it steady.

The shackle at his neck shifted, biting against his collarbone, but he did not shrug away from the pain, did not say any more, did not glance at the boy.

Much better.

Mr. Shunt glided into the room, looking neither left nor right at the man or boy. His overly long, strangely jointed fingers wrapped thumb and forefinger over the edges of the tray, the rest of his fingers splayed like skeletal wings. His eyes glowed yellow beneath the brim of his stovepipe hat, though the rest of his features were lost in the lacy shadows and scarves piled high around his neck.

LeFel glanced at the tray the Strange carried. “That will do. Feed them.”

“Yes, lord.” Mr. Shunt smiled, his teeth a row of points beneath the shadow of hat and scarves.

He moved to stand next to the man, offering him a tin cup that sloshed with water. Wil took the cup and waited. Mr. Shunt pulled a fistful of bread that smelled of oats and rye from the pocket of his coat and offered it on a flat hand like a treat to an animal. Wil took the bread without comment or question but did not eat or drink.

Mr. Shunt glanced back at LeFel, who nodded once.

Mr. Shunt pivoted toward the boy, his approach slower, more careful, as if he were stalking skittish prey. He shifted so he did not stand in Mr. LeFel’s line of sight to him, then held a wooden bowl of cooked oats with a spoon stuck inside it out to the child.

The boy did not look away from LeFel, but his breathing hitched up faster the closer Mr. Shunt folded down nearer his side.

“Eat,” LeFel cooed. “I am sure you are hungry.”

But the boy did not move, not even to blink his eyes. The buttery aroma of oats filled the air, soured just slightly by the drugs that laced the meal.

“If you eat, I will let you go home,” LeFel murmured.

“He lies,” Wil Hunt whispered. “Ain’t nothing to him but lies.”

LeFel chuckled. “No. This man doesn’t understand. You would have fallen from your window that night. We caught you, Mr. Shunt and I, and brought you here safe with us. And we’ll be taking you home today. After you eat your food.”

The boy pressed his lips together, his cheeks coal red against his pale face.

“Don’t eat it,” Wil whispered.

LeFel clucked his tongue. “Now, now. Every growing boy needs to eat. You do want to grow up to be big and strong like your papa, don’t you?”

And those words, the mention of his father, finally broke the boy’s thrall. A single tear ran down his cheek. He shifted his eyes, meeting, finally, LeFel’s gaze. The boy nodded once.

“Good, then, good,” LeFel said. “Mr. Shunt, help the boy eat.”

“No,” Wil said. “It’s poison, boy. Don’t eat it.”

But Mr. Shunt had already scooped up a spoonful of the mush and shoveled it into the boy’s mouth, like a bird stuffing a chick. The boy chewed, swallowed, and opened his mouth again.

Wil Hunt shifted, his heavy chains clanking. “Leave the boy alone. Do what you want to me—I’ll take on whatever debt that child owes to you. Let him go, or so help me, I will tear out your throat.”

LeFel rolled his head against the back of the chair. “You, cur, are less than a gnat to me. And a bothersome gnat at that. I tire of you.” He picked up the hourglass and dropped it on the floor at his feet. He lifted his foot and smashed the hourglass with the heel of his boot.

Wil Hunt yelled out, in pain, in rage.

LeFel watched as he twisted, stretched, molded back into the form of an animal, a mindless beast. He lay there, whimpering in pain.

LeFel turned his heel upon the glass and gears, assuring it was crushed to dust.

“You are no matter to me now. Mr. Shunt,” he said. “I believe it is time to invite the witch to join us. Bring her to me.”

“Alive?” Mr. Shunt breathed, the empty spoon balanced in the air by just his thumb and pointer finger, the rest of his fingers flared out.

“Yes,” LeFel said, “alive. For now.”

Mr. Shunt scooped one last mound of oats into the boy’s mouth. He tipped his fingers to the brim of his hat, and then ducked back through the doorway, dissolving into the darkness.

LeFel closed his eyes, letting the sound of the wolf’s pain and the boy’s quiet sobbing fill him as no other nourishment could.

The crash and thrum of the steam matics outside the carriage was interrupted by a knocking at the door. He walked to the window, wondering who among his workers would dare bother him without invitation. He pushed aside the brocade curtains and squinted against the afternoon light.

There, on the steps of the carriage, was a small matic. Its portly copper body was balanced on spindly spider legs covered in dirt and dew and pine needles. The dual springs on the top of the device pumped puffs of steam out the side vents. It had been running all night, the fire within it nearly gone.

“No.”

LeFel opened the door, and the little matic rattled in, coming to a rest at his feet, its spindly legs tucked beneath it.

Using his handkerchief, LeFel lifted the matic to study the alarm trip.

This was clearly the ticker he had left at Jeb Lindson’s graveside. And it was also very clear that Jeb Lindson was no longer dead.

LeFel yelled, his fury cursed in a language that could blister the sun. He hurled the ticker at the wall, shattering it like a glass bell, pieces bursting apart on the floor, the embers that once drove it gone to ash beneath the heat of his words.

The wolf pushed onto its feet, head low, ears back, teeth bared. The boy, fallen once again under the effects of the drugs, did not stir.

“You will not stand in my way, dead man,” LeFel said. “Not between me and the witch’s powers. If death will not take you, I will tear you apart myself.”

LeFel took up his curved cane and strode across the broken bits of metal to the boy. It was time he be of use. It was time to introduce the boy to the creatures LeFel kept locked away in the adjoining carriage.

LeFel paused above the cot the boy lay upon, then bent close to his ear. “Come, little dreamer,” he whispered. “Time to bleed.”

C
edar Hunt gauged just how quickly he could draw his own gun against Cadoc Madder, and judged it to be a losing proposition.

“Have a seat, Mr. Hunt,” Cadoc said again.

“I’ll stand, if it’s just the same,” Cedar said.

Cadoc pointedly looked down at the table where the arrow Cedar had touched still glowed faintly, then back up at Cedar. “Stones say you’re hunting,” he said, slow, as if each word were sorted out from among too many others.

“Stones are right.”

Cadoc tilted his head, looking Cedar up from boots to hat. “You plan on killing what you’re looking for?”

“I plan on taking back that which has been stolen. If it means violence, I’ll not shy from it.”

Cadoc nodded. “Stones say that’s true.”

Alun tromped out from the other room. “He’s a guest of mine, brother Cadoc,” he said. “You can put that blunderbuss away.”

If Alun was surprised by his brother’s sudden appearance, he didn’t show it. Alun carried a thin wood and leather box held together with brass tacks. The wood between the tacks was dark with age, as if the box had been weathered by salt air or worn down by ten thousand fingers and a thousand hands.