Devon Monk - Dead Iron

The rail matics outside huffed low and steady like lumbermen heaving a two-man saw through a sequoia. Off rhythm at first, the spike mauls hit rails, drove spikes, dropped wooden sleepers to carry the track, creating a second and third rhythm—the beating pulse of LeFel’s conquest of this land, and his promise to the Strange.

Still, it would take more than the Strange’s door and the Holder to buy LeFel’s escape from this mortal flesh. It would take a key. And that key was made of three things: the lifeblood of a dreaming mortal, the life of a man cursed by the gods, and the life filled with the magic of this earth.

Of all the devices he had commissioned over hundreds of years, of all the jewels and precious metals that had been broken down to dust to make way for this ticker or that, the most elusive thing of all had been finding each part of the key: three lives to sacrifice to open the door to the Strange realm.

He had never once concerned himself with finding a mortal dreamer—children often still saw the world through dreaming eyes, even through the most difficult of circumstances. No, finding a child to kill was easy.

But a man who was truly cursed by gods was a more difficult rat to corner. He had investigated hundreds of claims of mortals stricken by curse, and all were fakers, charlatans, or simply unfortunate beings living unfortunate lives. He had nearly despaired of finding a single man cursed by the gods.

Until he saw the wolf. Uncanny human intelligence in those old copper eyes. LeFel had been curious enough he’d told Mr. Shunt to catch him up so he could better see him.

And when the moon went dark, the wolf revealed himself to be a man. A very cursed man indeed.

It had taken until just a few months ago for LeFel to find the last life—that filled with magic—that had so eluded him. To his surprise, he had found that magic lying heavy as a perfume on the colored man when he had come asking to work the rail. And he had tracked it back to the colored man’s wife, the witch Mae Lindson.

But the dark man had stood in his way. LeFel had been unable to steal her away, kept as she was, safe under the colored man’s devices and protections. Killing the man, three final times, should have finally broken his protections, and the ties of magic between the pair.

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.