Devon Monk - Dead Iron

She did not smell like the Holder the Madders wanted him to find. She did not smell like the Strange who had taken the boy, and she did not smell like the boy. Standing here was doing nothing more than wasting moonlight.

Find the boy. Cedar took a step backward, two. Three.

Miss Small nodded, just that easily accepting him as a wolf. “I see that you have things to do and a need to be doing them. I don’t want to keep you, Mr. Hunt. Good night to you.”

Kill, the beast in him whispered again.

Cedar silenced the voice with one word: Hunt. Before the moon set and dawn burned the beast out of his bones.

He ran, out into the fields. Not following the boy’s trail yet, looking instead for blood and meat to sate the beast’s hunger and give him back his reasoning mind. And he found it, in a calf who had staggered away from its mother, too frightened to cry out before Cedar lost control over the beast, and tore out the animal’s heart.

Mae Lindson heard a child sobbing outside her door, but did not want to unlock the shutter to see if her ears were telling her true. There was as much of a chance the Strange was outside her door, tricking her to think a child was outside. And equal odds that the Strange wanted to lure her into the night away from the protections of her cottage.

The door latch shook, rattled by feeble hands. The crying was right on the other side of her door, close as lips to the keyhole.

No words. Just sobbing.

Mae hesitated. She had spent the last few hours working spells on the bullets and shells, working protections on the Colt and the shotgun. She didn’t know if a magic blessing would do any good on bullets. Didn’t know if it would work against the Strange.

She held the Colt in one hand, the shotgun—not yet charged—in the other, one more precious shell set in its chamber. She fingered the switch on the stock of the shotgun, and the weapon hummed. When the humming reached the inaudible tone, and the needle on the gauge pressed tight to the right, indicating the weapon was fully charged, she unlatched the door. She did not break the threshold, but stood there, shotgun at her shoulder, ready to fire.

On her doorstep stood a child, dirty, bloody, and bruised. His nightshirt was torn, and his feet were bare. But his hair was wild and red—just like his father’s—and he had brown eyes wide with tears that tracked a line through the dirt and welts on his cheeks.

The wooden trinkets and toys along the walls stirred. The breeze brushed through them, their song soft and uncertain.

“Elbert?” she said.

The boy swayed on his feet, obviously exhausted. He held out his hands like a baby reaching up for his mama.

Mae looked out past him. Nothing moved in the night. No sign of the man, or anything else chasing the child.

She quickly bent and picked up the poor little thing and brought him safely into her home, closing the door behind them and setting the lock.

Elbert clung to her like a burr, his head on her shoulder, arms wrapped tightly around her neck. He took a shaking, sniffling breath. He was cold as the night itself. Too cold. She needed to get him wrapped and warm, before he took to his death from exposure.

Mae rested the gun against her table, releasing the lever and stopping the motion of the gears. The hard green light in the vials drained away. She carried Elbert over to the hearth and eased him down into a chair.

“There, now,” she said, working to get his arms off from around her neck. “You’re going to be just fine now. Where have you been, little one? Your mama and pa have been looking high and low for you.”

He let go of her neck, but didn’t speak, just shivered and shook as he tried to wipe away his tears with the back of his dirty hand.

She pulled a thick, soft blanket out of the basket at the foot of her loom and wrapped it around his slight shoulders, tucking it tight beneath his chin.

“Do you want some water? Some milk?”

He sniffed and nodded.

Mae walked over to the cupboard, and drew out a jug of milk. She poured half the jug into a cup.

“Some nice milk will make you feel better,” she said. “Drink it up and then we’ll see if we can clean some of the grime off you so you can sleep. When morning comes round, I’ll take you home to your folks.”

She handed him the cup of milk, which he took in both hands and drank greedily. He licked his lips, and held the cup out for more.

She poured more milk, and again, until the jug was empty.

“Are you still hungry?”

The boy nodded.

Mae fetched him some bread and the last of the cheese. He ate both down quick as if he’d never eaten in all his days.

He held out his palms, fingers clutching air, begging for more food. Poor thing had been frightened dumb. She’d heard of children who never regained their voice after a hard scare. She hoped the boy was young enough to forget all this, and to grow up strong.

Mae dug through the cupboards, pulling out two apples. She gave one to the boy. He gnawed on it from the top down, core and all.

“Your mama and daddy will be so happy to see you in the morning. Let’s wash your face and get you in a clean shirt.” She walked off to the bedroom—really not much more than a bed tucked behind the privacy of the wall. The bed she had shared with Jeb. The bed that would always be too cold now.

She took a breath to steel herself. One of Jeb’s shirts would be a good bit cleaner and warmer than that tattered thing Elbert was wearing. She opened the chest of drawers, and drew out a cotton shirt. She’d not cry. She’d not let her thoughts linger on her sorrow, on her heart keening with the knowledge that she’d never touch her husband again, never kiss him again, never say good-bye.

She shook the shirt, trying to dislodge the melancholy and hold tight to her anger. At least there was strength in anger.

The child started crying again, his snivel rising into a lusty wail.

“Hush, now, hush,” she said, walking out into the room.

But the boy stood at the door on tiptoe, his fingers turning the latch.

“No, Elbert. Don’t open that door.” She ran across the room to stop him. But he was uncannily quick. He threw open the door, the hinges she’d repaired squalling at the force behind the swing.

Elbert glanced over his shoulder, eyes wide with fear and tears. Then he bolted out into the night.

Mae paused on her doorstep, every nerve of her body telling her not to go into the darkness. “Elbert!” she called. “Come back! Elbert!”

He was still crying, his plaintive voice carrying on the cold air to her. And just as likely carrying for any beast or Strange creature tripping the dark. She scanned the night for him. There—just the slightest blur of his white shirt in the darkness, like a dim lantern bobbing off across the field toward the forest. The forest where the Strange man had first appeared.

Mae grabbed up her shawl, her holster and Colt, and the Madders’ gun. The child would be eaten alive, torn apart by Strange like that man, if she didn’t catch him in time.

Loath to leave the safety of her cottage, she could not abide by letting the boy run to his death. She whispered a prayer, and ran out into the night. “Elbert,” she called, loud enough surely the child could hear her. “Come on back now, Elbert. It’s not safe out here in the dark.”

From the sound of his crying, he was ahead of her, a bit to the left, and running fast to the forest.

He should be too tired to run so fast, should be too scared to do much more than curl up and hide. But the boy had gone senseless. Fear was probably the only thing that had kept him alive these two nights on his own. And it looked like it was going to be the thing that got him killed.