Devon Monk - Dead Iron

The drilling beetle dug and dug. She could see the scar it chewed into the threshold, a hump of wrinkled wood trailing its progress. Any second it would be drilling up and up, and then the man would have a hole small enough, large enough, to thread his way through and into her home.

No time to wait for the gun to charge. No time to reload the Colt. No time left at all. She threw the shuttle at the man. It flew as if it had wings. The shuttle slashed across the man’s cheek, drawing a deep red line through his flesh. Blood gushed from that wound, pouring black as liquid coal.

The man screamed, an unearthly screech, his spindled fingers fluttering up to his face, tapping and tapping. Black thread, thin as silk, appeared between the man’s restless fingers that wriggled as if he were weaving a net.

No, not a net. He was stitching the wound in his face.

He pulled his fingers away, the bloody thread spooling out from his finger that ended in a long, thin brass needle. He pulled the bloody threaded finger to his lips and bit the thread in two with serrated teeth.

Even stitched, the wound kept bleeding, black liquid pouring down into the scarf around his throat like ticks gone crawling.

Mae raised the shotgun, aimed. Charged or not, she was going to fire the thing. The shotgun whirred, and the wooden trinkets lining the wall picked up the hum. The man’s eyes narrowed.

Mae pulled the trigger.

This time, he did not step aside of the bullet.

This time, the shot struck flesh and gear and all else he was made of.

The man stumbled backward. Threaded fingers plucked at his coat, as if trying to pat out a burning flame. A globe of gold light surrounded him.

This time, the shot exploded.

And so did the man. Bits and pieces of him flew apart, scattering over the field.

Mae waited a moment, two, for the Strange to rebuild the bits of himself. There was no movement. Not even a shift of shadow.

Mae rushed over to the door, the gun still in one hand, and pulled her skinning knife. The brass bug had dug its way up through her threshold. It poked its head out of the hole, then wriggled free. She stabbed it with the knife. The bug writhed, tucked all its legs up, and popped off the edge of her blade, once again nothing more than a brass button, cold and still as a button should be.

Mae glanced out at where the man had been standing. Not a single scrap of him near her door, and nothing in the grass stirring.

The wind picked up again. One lone meadowlark sang a few unsteady notes. Another answered.

Dusk settled gently over the horizon, bringing the cool scent of rain and the voice of crickets.

Mae trembled. She had never faced anything as foul as that man. The shotgun was silent in her hand, the gears locked. With one last look out into the night, she picked up her tatting shuttle, which lay just outside the door, and made herself busy. Even shook, her feet wanted to run east, away from here, back to the soil that held her owing, back to the sisters who would wash her clean of the killing need for revenge.

Not yet. She couldn’t run yet.

She used the fire tongs to pluck up the button and drop it in a thick glass jar with a glass lid. Then she found the hammer and nails it would take to repair the hinges on her door, and hurried to do so. Before night closed in. Before the moon rose. Before other Strange creatures came calling for her blood.

Cedar could not move. His hands were bound behind him, numb. His legs were strapped to the chair, and his chest and neck were similarly cinched down tight.

Alun Madder plunked a chair down in front of Cedar and sat astraddle it, his thick arms crossed over the back of the chair.

“You are an interesting problem, Mr. Hunt.” He pursed his lips and sucked the blood off his teeth. He spit into an oily kerchief and wiped his mouth and beard.

“Been a while since the boys and I found a puzzle we couldn’t solve. We thought we had the way of you—a man running from his past and pain. That’s a common story for a common enough man. Then you go on and show you’re learned in old ways, Strange ways, and also foolhearted enough to lend a hand where you shouldn’t, putting your nose into business that’s none of your concern to save a boy who’s not your own. Seems you’re not that common a common man after all. Thing I wonder is how it took us so long to see the way of you.”

Cedar said nothing. They hadn’t gagged him, but he doubted there was much he could do to talk them into untying him.

If they held him until the full moon rose, he’d be happy to show them his uncommon way up close, and personalized. Then he’d tear their throats out.

Bryn brought another chair over and sat rightwise upon it. He had on a pair of goggles with a star spray of lenses fanned off his bad right eye, giving that cloud-shot eye a golden sheen. He’d taken off his coat and wore his sleeves caught in a band at the elbow, hands clean as a christening bowl. His vest seemed constructed entirely of pockets, and in those pockets were bits of chain, cotton, wicks, scissors, and blades.

“So,” Alun continued, “now you’re here, in our home, with a watch that wouldn’t take to fixin’. Not even for Bryn.” Alun shook his head, and Bryn fingered one of the lenses down over his right eye: snick, his eye was orange. Then another: amber. Another: gold. Snick, snick, snick, until his eye peered bloodred through the lens.

“You come asking favors,” Alun said. “And for our help in hunting Strange things. Even know the specific tools for tracking: silver and song. Things a common man should not know. Why do you suppose that is, brother Cadoc?”

Cadoc stepped out of the shadows behind his brothers, and into the lantern light. His hands were tucked in the pockets of his overcoat. He was silent for such a long time, staring at Cedar, that Cedar thought the youngest Madder had lost his wits. But his brothers waited. And so did Cedar.

Far off, Cedar thought he heard rocks falling, a deep-earth mumble, as if the stones had rolled in their resting place and spoken of their dreams.

“He carries a curse,” Cadoc finally said. “Not the old ways. Not our ways. But some way. Some way of this land has cursed him.”

“Do you see the mark of the Strange on him?” Alun asked.

Cadoc stared, silent again. Finally, “No. Not so much as.”

Alun nodded and rubbed his chin whiskers, giving Cedar a measuring look. “You know about this curse, Mr. Uncommon Hunt?”

“Untie me.”

“Do you know the manner of this curse?” Alun asked, like a man calling bluff on a bet.

“I know my own business. And how to keep it,” Cedar said.

“Then I reckon you know when keeping your own business won’t put your boots on the road. I am powerful curious about that curse, Mr. Hunt. It’s a curiosity that you could snuff with a word or two. Tell me, what do you know about your curse?”

Cedar could feel the beast pushing from within him. He was sure he’d blacked out for a bit after the brothers had dropped him in the chair. He didn’t know what time it was. Since they were asking him about the curse, the moon must not have pulled up into the sky. It must still be the day he’d come here, maybe even still daylight.

Changing into the wolf would assure he’d get free of these ropes, maybe even free of this hill, so long as the brothers weren’t too fast on the draw. But there was no mind of a man left to him when he fell on all fours. There was nothing but hunt, kill, feed.

If he became a beast, he’d not be able to operate the wheels to open the doors.

Still, the idea of letting the beast take over his mind and end this situation was sore tempting.

Cedar took a deep breath, trying to push away the killing thoughts. He was still a man. Best solve this before that was no longer true.