Devon Monk - Dead Iron

“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.

Shard 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.