Devon Monk - Dead Iron

“He looked so much like Elbert. Warm, soft. He even cried like a child.”

“It wasn’t a child,” Cedar said again. “Had the smell of the boy upon it, though. The blood of him.”

Mae took another drink of coffee. “I’ve never seen such a Strange,” she said. “So . . . alive and solid.”

“They’re more than storybook tales and wisps of light,” Cedar said. “They’ve always been around, been more alive than God-fearing folk want to believe. I’ve yet to see any good follow in their path. Pain, madness, blight—seems to be all the Strange leave behind them. Maybe the Pawnee god wanted them killed before they became a force.”

Mae finished her food, and placed her fork on her plate. “Dark words, Mr. Hunt. Do you think the Strange are here to kill?”

“I haven’t seen proof otherwise.” He looked away from his coffee cup and up at her. “Have you?”

Mae could not hold that gaze. She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“I should thank you, Mr. Hunt, for coming to my aid in the forest last night. I don’t know how I would have come out of that unscathed. What can I do to repay you?”

Cedar rested the cup between his palms. He took a long bit before he answered, seeming to be thinking through many things, and discarding them one by one. Finally, “Other than a fine hot meal?”

Mae smiled at that, and he smiled back, then grew serious. “You can see my curse. Can you break it?”

“I can do some good for you,” Mae said. “But I am not sure if I can break such a powerful thing on my own. It would be best done at the time of your change, when body and soul are tugged by the moon. I will need some things. Some herbs. Maybe . . . maybe my sisters.”

“Think it will take some time?”

“To break a god’s curse? Yes. A night, I’d say. Maybe a day too. And we will both need to be strong. Certainly stronger than I’m feeling now.”

Cedar nodded. “Then it will wait.”

“Perhaps I’ll be strong enough tonight.” Mae stood and gathered the plates.

“Not so sure I want to be free of the curse tonight,” he murmured.

“Have you seen that other wolf before?” Mae asked.

“No.”

The tone of his voice, more breath than word, made her turn.

“But you know of it?”

Cedar drained his cup. He weighed something, decided something. She walked back around to the fire, and did a bit of tidying there, waiting for whatever thought had taken him to bring him back.

“Do you suppose you could break a curse, a curse like mine, for another?” he finally asked.

“I’d have to see this other before I could say.”

Cedar was silent so long, Mae wondered if he’d gone to sleep sitting there with his eyes open, staring at the wall.

“It’s my brother.” Soft, those words, as if they had never been said before. “The wolf was—is—my brother. Wil. Wiliam.”

Mae gave him some time longer. Waited for him to ask her fully, the favor he wanted.

He cleared his throat and seemed to come back from a long distance, breathing deep and rubbing a hand over his face.

When he turned and looked at her again, he was composed. “I still have the boy to find—Elbert. But once that’s set aside, I’ll help you find that killer,” he said. “If you’ll break the curse my brother carries. Provided he’s still alive.”

Mae searched his face, his eyes filled with the pain of losing a loved one. She understood that pain. “I’ll do what I can, certainly,” she said. “Do you know where to find him?”

Cedar thought a moment, as if trying to drag memories out of a thick mud. “Mr. Shunt was there last night. In the forest. He took him. I’d say he’ll be where Mr. Shunt is. If Mr. Shunt is who killed your husband, then our intentions are in agreement. We both want Shunt dead. But I should tell you, I’ve two other promises to keep.”

“You’ve told me as such, though last I asked, it was only one promise you were beholden to. I suppose if we’re going to be hunting and killing together, we may as well tell each other full what we’re beholden to.”

“Don’t recall saying we’d be hunting or killing together,” Cedar said.

“That shotgun was given to me, Mr. Hunt. I’ll be the one who pulls the trigger.” She held Cedar’s gaze until he nodded.

“First, I’ll want my boots.” Cedar stood, and hissed, bending to one side, his elbow tucked tight into his ribs.

“First,” Mae said, “I’ll tend that wound of yours.”

“It’ll heal,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“It will heal faster and far better after I dress it. Remove your shirt, Mr. Hunt,” she ordered.

Cedar’s eyebrow hitched upward at her tone. For the briefest moment, a smile curved his mouth. Then his lips flattened as he carefully kept his face neutral. “Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s better,” Mae said archly, though her cheeks flushed with color. There was something about him that she found pleasant, though she shouldn’t. The man turned into a killing beast at the full moon—not much pleasant about that.

Still, there was a sorrow in him, a familiar pain.

She gathered up fresh cloth, the steeped water, and the last bottle of alcohol she had. She rinsed out her herb pot, a pretty little copper pot she’d bought three years ago from a man traveling from the East, and pumped fresh water into it. She placed the pot on the hook over the fire.

“I’ll wash it out first, then soak another compress.” Mae dropped comfrey into the water and prodded the fire to rise up and bring the water close to a boil.

She turned around. Cedar Hunt stood there, bare to his waist, holding her husband’s shirt in one hand. She glanced up to look into his eyes, which were soft, apologetic, and a little curious. She had a feeling he hadn’t stood half-naked in front of a woman for some time. She had a feeling he didn’t mind it so much.

Mae looked away from his eyes, and studied his chest. Wide claw marks scarred from collarbone to hip, but otherwise, he was strong, lean, the muscles of his body hard from a lifetime of work.

“Would it be easier if I sat?” he asked.

Mae nodded. “It’s just the wound at your side that’s still hurting?”

“Mostly.” He sat on the edge of the chair, turned so that his injured side was facing her.

“Let me remove the compress.” Mae stepped over and touched his elbow gently.

Cedar moved his arm, propping his palm on his knee, his elbow straight. She pulled the compress off. The wound was red and raw and about as big around as her cupped palm. Fluid and blood oozed from the depth out over the burned edges of skin. It didn’t carry an odor, thank goodness, and didn’t seem to have any more black oil in it.

“Feels like I have a hole all the way to my spine,” Cedar said.

“Does the open air pain it?” Mae asked.

“Yes.” He craned his head, and shifted his shoulders, trying to get a good look at the wound. “Stitches, you think?”

“No. Not enough skin to sew together. I think it needs another cleaning, a better cleaning, and then some time to drain. Hold still, now. You’re just making it bleed more.” She pressed the cloth back over the hole. “Just hold that there, while I brew up a new compress and get something to clean it with. It won’t take long.”

Mae pulled over a bowl and put some of the warm water from the copper pot into it, then dropped a cloth into the pot to let it soak. She poured a little more cool water in with the water in the bowl and brought that to the table, dipping a handkerchief into it and, without squeezing it out, traded its place with the compress on the wound. She placed a dry towel at his waist to catch the water cleaning the wound, then squeezed the wet handkerchief into the puncture.