Devon Monk - Dead Iron

“There’s not anything in this world without risk,” he said. “Especially untested devices.”

Rose shook her head. “I’m sure I agree with you there, Mr. Madder.” She hefted the gun. “But I enjoyed every second of it.”

A crashing squeal of metal on metal ground into the night behind them, coming up the tracks as if something huge was being dragged. If LeFel’s matic was coming from ahead of them, Rose had no idea what sort of thing was coming up from behind.

“Don’t dally,” Alun yelled back to them, jumping to one side of the track, and still jogging while he navigated a way through the bushes. “Sounds like the fun’s just beginning.”

Bryn turned and jogged to catch up with his brothers, and after a moment’s hesitation, and a moment’s prayer, Rose did the same.

Cedar Hunt stalked the perimeter of the dozen or so tents and cook pits of the workers in Shard LeFel’s employ. Unlike most railmen, who brought a crew of stragglers and ruffians to work the rail, LeFel had only a handful of men he brought along, and had hired up another handful or two of men from the town. For the rest of the rail work, he used his matics and tickers.

The men were sleeping, vulnerable, lying quiet and easy for the kill. The cook fires had gone to ash and smoke. No sentries watched over the rail. Even the matics were powered down, cold, silent, unmoving sculptures of iron and leather and oil made supple by moonlight.

It would be easy to kill the men. But it was not men Cedar hunted. It was the Strange. And the tuning fork that whispered against his heart said the Strange were close.

Cedar had to find Wil, dead or alive. Had to find the boy, Elbert, dead or alive. And he had to kill Mr. Shunt. He may not have been able to save Mae Lindson, a sorrow that made him want to keen, but he had made her promises, and he would see them through.

Mr. Shunt would likely return to the three railcars on the track, down a ways from the men’s tents and matics. Cedar headed that way. He didn’t know why a man like Shard LeFel needed three cars, but he had a suspicion. One car to live in, maybe one car to work in. And likely one car to hold his prisoners in.

Cedar slipped through the darkness to the railcars on the spur off the main rail, staying in shadow, silent as the moonlight.

He crept to the first car and sniffed at the underbody. Death and Strange. There were things, Strange things, in this car just waiting to be killed. But the tuning fork did not hum louder. There might be Strange within the car, but it was not the one Strange who had taken Elbert. And that Strange was the one he would kill. First.

It took everything he had not to give in to the beast’s need to kill. He pulled against the urge, tamped it down, and sniffed at the car again. Something skittered in the three corners of the car, dragging long tails or ropes behind, and then was still. He could not find the boy or his brother’s scent in the death and blood and oil above him.

There might be prisoners in this car, but they were not Elbert or Wil.

He moved on to the next car. It stank of oil and steam and burned metal. Faintly, he caught the scent of the boy’s blood. Old. No other smell of him. And still no smell of his brother. The tuning fork remained quiet.

The last car was filled with scents. The heavy, moldy pall of Mr. Shunt filled his nose. Cedar stifled a growl and licked his muzzle. Mr. Shunt had been there, but he was not there now. He could not kill him, tear him apart, dig out the bits of him that made him tick. There was no movement, no talking, no signs that Mr. Shunt and Shard LeFel had returned to the car.

Other odors filled the air—Shard LeFel’s rich cologne, meat, liquor, metals, old wood.

The smell of Elbert was in that car—the musky milk scent of a child deeply sleeping, strong and alive. Cedar’s heart quickened with hope. If that was true, he had a chance to save Elbert, to bring the child back to his father alive.

All he had to do was find a way into the railcar. He sniffed along the edge of the car, looking for a trap, a latch, a door in. And then he caught the scent of his brother.

Wil. Here. Above him. Wounded. The rot of infection was already tainting the smell of his blood. But it was new blood. It was not the smell of death. Wil still breathed.

Cedar wanted to howl with joy, but that joy was short-lived. To save his brother, he had to get into the car. It was not flesh that stood in his way; it was wood and metal, latch and hinge, things that took a man’s hands, a man’s fingers.

All the claw in the world would do him no good.

The ground shook. The matic Shard LeFel and Mr. Shunt rode was coming closer. Cedar hunkered down beneath the edge of the car. Shard LeFel’s matic huffed across the ground. It rolled up the ridge and would be at the rail any minute.

Cedar waited. Waited for Shard LeFel and Mr. Shunt to walk up the stairs and open the doors. And once they opened the doors, he would no longer need them, or their hands.

The steam-powered matic huffed nearer and nearer.

Over that noise, Cedar could just make out the sound of men shifting in their tents.

Easy kill. Heart. Throat. Brain.

No. Men would not slake his thirst. He wanted the Strange. He wanted the Strange who took Elbert and hurt Wil. He wanted Mr. Shunt. Dead.

No other creature moved. Not even those who were inside the carriage above him. It was as if the whole of the world held its breath.

The matic grew louder until Cedar’s teeth rattled from the vibration of it. It stopped next to the tracks in front of the first car Cedar had investigated. A hiss of steam expelled in a roll of heat; then the huffing slowed and slowed, like a heart losing the will to beat.

Cedar waited for the footsteps. Waited for the stride. Waited for the hands to open the way to the boy, the way to his brother. Waited for Mr. Shunt.

A rattle of a hinge. The door on the matic swung open. Then bootheels scuffed down metal stairs. One set of boots was Shard LeFel’s; another set of boots shushed and smooth, almost without noise, belonged to Mr. Shunt. And the third set of footsteps was smaller, lighter than Shard LeFel’s. Who?

Cedar took a sniff, and caught the honey and flower scent of Mae Lindson. She was alive. But captured.

Rage pushed through him and the beast squirmed under his hold. Kill.

He bared his teeth, holding back a growl. They needed to be closer. They needed to open the door. Then they needed to die.

They said nothing as they hurried down the track, Shard LeFel’s cane clacking like a second hand ticking seconds into minutes along the dead iron rail.

Cedar counted footsteps. Three people. Counted scents. LeFel, Shunt, Mae. Mae was not bleeding, but he could smell her anger. And her fear.

Cedar could not suppress the sudden, livid anger at the thought of Mae in that monster’s hand. The beast inside twisted again with the rage of Mae’s capture. He pulled his muscles tight, ready to lunge. They walked up the stairs, Shard LeFel in the front, Mr. Shunt in the back, Mae Lindson between them.

Wait, the part of him that was a man commanded. Wait for the door to open.

Shard LeFel pulled a chain of keys out of a fold of cloth and unlocked the bolt on the door, but did not open it.

“Hurry, Mr. Shunt,” he said. “The moon will soon be at the end of its journey and I will have no time left.”

Mae Lindson gasped and stumbled up the stairs, pushed or pulled by her captors.

This. Now. The door. Run.

Cedar’s muscles pushed.

A flash of light burned against the southern sky, and the sound of something crashing through the trees rolled like thunder.