Devon Monk - Dead Iron

He would have made them beg him for the honor. May have made them bleed their consent.

But now, with the waxing moon drawing so near, he knew he would not remain behind to finish the rail. His investors from back East and overseas would insist that the project was completed with or without him. If anyone balked, Mr. Shunt would dispose of their reluctance, and their bodies.

“The visitor, Lord LeFel?” Mr. Shunt said again.

Likely, the daughter was bringing papers for his perusal.

“Yes, yes,” LeFel said, irritated. “I will receive her outside.”

Mr. Shunt narrowed his eyes at LeFel’s tone, but bowed, one spindly hand fastened to the brim of his black stovepipe hat. He turned and was gone, uncommonly quick.

LeFel rose and donned his long coat. He stretched out his fingers and curled them in fists before stretching them out again to ease the ache of age in his bones. These small, painful mortal annoyances fueled his hatred for his brother, and sharpened his need for a most brutal revenge. LeFel straightened his lapel, then took up his cane and stepped outside.

Mr. Shunt waited at the bottom of the stairs with a massive black umbrella unfurled against the sun and held so that LeFel could enter its shade.

The day was bright, morning’s shadows swept away by sunlight. LeFel paused midway down the stairs and surveyed his work.

His three private train cars were settled on the spur of tracks he’d insisted be constructed for his comfort. The rail itself was several yards to the west, trees and brush cleared back from either side of the rail leaving stump and stone jutting up out of the earth like old bones exposed to the open sky. The track cut sword-straight, stabbing northwest.

Down the grade a bit, the great hulking matic worked. Long screwlike wheels shaped like bullet cartridges the size of small canoes were attached to either side of the device. The spinning of the screws propelled the matic, and allowed it to scramble up and across the roughest terrain even while dragging a ten-foot iron blade at its base that leveled the ground behind it.

Alongside the rail, two matics the size of draft horses with brass boiler bellies, continuous track wheels, and loads of wooden ties on their backs trundled over the leveled grade. They dropped handhewn ties like setting coffins in graves, straight rows so close together you couldn’t roll one without hitting its neighbor.

Steam puffed white and gray plumes from the pipes in the matics’ heads while heavy brass centrifugal governors spun tight circles of gold and steel, and iron pistons pumped and turned gears.

Not a spot of rust on LeFel’s matics. Not a drop of oil out of place. These metal beasts were well and lovingly tended.

Behind the matics worked the men. A crew of thirty rawboned French, British, Scots, and Indians heaved the iron rail down upon the ties already dropped, and used pry bars, spike mauls, and shovels to dig, lift, and hammer the rails into place.

It was hard work and broke a man down slowly. Likely as not, it killed him too. It was the kind of work, the kind of pain, LeFel enjoyed watching the men shoulder. He kept their rations low and their pay modest, always seasoned with a small promise of better times ahead.

The wind snatched at bits of their crude work song and threw it his way, a sorrowful chant longing for hot meals, hard drinks, and the women they’d left behind. He inhaled their sorrow, their pain, and swallowed it down like an elixir, savoring every note. The rail had brought him more pleasures than he’d imagined it could.

The rail was moving forward, pounding forward, steaming forward. And soon the Strange would follow it out of the pockets and crannies of the land to every shore.

“Good morning to you, Mr. LeFel,” a cheerful voice called out. A young woman walked toward him, her dun horse plodding behind her.

She didn’t look a thing like her mother or father. She wore a plain cobalt blue dress with a split riding skirt, the dress so tight across her narrow ribs and waist that it required no corset. Her hair was pulled back in a braid, and a silk bonnet covered her head. He half expected her to be barefoot, but instead sturdy boots that may have been her father’s castoffs adorned her feet.

Her cheeks were tanned and freckled, giving her a bit of a wild look, but when she smiled, she took the light out of the sun.

There was something about her that set his blood on fire.

“Good morning, my dear lady,” LeFel said, surprised at his rise of emotions. “I don’t believe we’ve met. You are . . . ?”

“I’m sorry. Where are my manners?” She blushed and LeFel’s heart tripped a beat. Why did this border ruffian stir him so? She was certainly not the first woman he’d laid eyes upon, nor the most beautiful or refined.

“My name is Rose Small. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She did not extend her hand, but instead gave him a small curtsy, her gaze boldly holding his just a moment too long. There was no hint of fear in her eyes. No, the only emotion he could pin to her was faint distrust and far too much curiosity than was healthy.

A sweet flower with an iron spine. What an interesting dish.

“It is my pleasure, alone,” he said. LeFel stepped forward and caught up her hand, intending to kiss the back of it, to taste what she was made of. But something around her neck made him pause.

She wore an oval locket the size and color of a robin’s egg. That charm should not be in her possession. The locket was gold and silver washed in blue, carved with protection spells no mortal should set eyes upon, much less wear as an adornment.

It was an object of the Strange realm and given to very few.

“What a lovely locket you’re wearing,” he whispered.

Rose leaned back as if his words were heat and fire. She pulled her hand away from his and drew a leather envelope out of the satchel she wore over one shoulder. “Thank you kindly, sir,” she said. She held the envelope out for him to take. “My parents, Mr. and Mrs. Small, asked for me to bring this out to you.”

LeFel took the envelope from her fingers, his eyes still on the locket. “And where did you come by such a bauble?” He did not open the ties that kept the envelope closed, but instead peered down into the woman’s eyes, and held her with his gaze.

He smiled, knowing the power of his attention when turned upon the fairer sex.

She hesitated. Her weight shifted to the edges of her feet, perhaps to run, to flee.

“It’s been mine since birth, I’m told.” Her words tumbled a little too quickly. “Found on me when I was left at the Smalls’ doorstep.”

She swallowed and pushed tendrils of hair stirred by the wind back away from her face. A thimble left forgotten on her right ring finger glinted in the morning light, and he noticed the black smudge of coal at the edge of her hand.

She was blushing again, understandably embarrassed she’d admitted she’d been abandoned. “Just a trinket of brass and tin, a silly thing.” She gave him that smile again and tucked the necklace beneath the collar of her dress.

LeFel held her gaze, letting some of his hunger play through his expression. “I consider it a lovely trinket, no matter its common beginnings. From such humble soil rare beauty has grown,” he said smoothly.

“I don’t know that its beauty is all that rare,” she said.

“I wasn’t speaking of the locket.”

Her eyes widened as his words sank in. But instead of falling for his sweet words, she took a step backward, her hand falling to the pocket hidden in her skirt. He wondered what she kept there. From the beat of her heart, he’d assume it was a gun.

“That envelope has the papers I was asked to bring to you,” she said with a nod. “I’m sure my mother and father are looking forward to your reply. I’d better be on my way. Good day, Mr. LeFel.”