Devon Monk - Cold Copper

She pulled her shoulders straight and put on a smile as she walked up to the agent.

“I’d like a ticket to Kansas City,” she said.

“First class?” he asked, though from the tone of his voice he already knew what her answer would be.

“No, second class, please.” She put her money on the counter. She’d done the math. At two cents a mile, she’d make it to Kansas City and would have a few cents left for food when she got there.

She didn’t like the idea of arriving in a new town nearly penniless, but didn’t fear it either.

The agent took her money and handed her a stamped ticket. “Just give this to the conductor when he comes by. Best be hurrying. Train’s about to pull out.”

“Thank you.” Rose glanced at the ticket, then held tight to it as she walked out on the blustery platform. She hurried down the line of cars, steam fogging the air with the thick smell of ash, until she reached the second-class passenger car.

Down toward the end of the train, a crowd of workers quickly loaded long crates that looked like coffins and several dozen smaller square crates into the last car. Dark green letters, V and B, were inked onto the crates. The workers looked over their shoulders a bit too often and hurried a bit too much. They were nervous handling that freight, trying not to be noticed as they transferred the VB cargo onto the train.

It must be very valuable indeed.

To Rose’s surprise, she caught a glimpse of Margaret handing them one last crate with VB on its side. She’d thought the witch was going for the mail, not to deliver crates for shipping.

A terrible curiosity caught her up. What were the witches shipping? She had never heard of them sending produce or grain anywhere but to the markets in Hays City. And those crates were handled like something fragile or valuable were inside. Rose called out Margaret’s name, but the noise of the engines covered her voice.

Margaret strode away and never looked back.

What could the witches be shipping?

The conductor yelled out a hearty “All aboard!” The train blew two hard whistles, signaling it was time to get moving.

Rose ran up the steps into the train itself and then entered the car. It wasn’t much warmer in here than out in the weather, but with all the windows closed, it smelled of wet clothes, mud, and sweat. She’d been so late to get on, every seat in every aisle was full. But she wasn’t the last on the train. A boisterous group of young men dressed so fine their shoes shined crowded on behind her, talking loud enough to beat the band.

She made her way down the narrow aisle, looking for an open spot, but every bench seemed filled with more people than it could hold.

Then she spotted Captain Hink. He took up one full bench on his own, his arms draped across the whole back of it as he slouched there, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.

He watched her come down the aisle. She searched for any other place, even for a spot on the floor, but there wasn’t any seating available.

As she neared, Hink stood up into the aisle, leaving the seat he had just been in open.

She took a deep breath and let it out. She’d managed his company before. Enjoyed it too, more often than not. And if she didn’t take the seat, that group of men behind her surely would.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly.

“Ma’am.” He tipped his hat.

Rose sat, moving over close to the window so that he could take the spot next to her.

He folded down with a grunt and stretched his long legs out as far as he could.

The group of men glanced over, probably hoping for spare space, but Hink glowered at them and they moved on.

Before Rose had settled herself with her luggage at her feet, the whistle blew out again. She sat a little straighter, excited for the sensation of being on the rails.

With a hard lurch, the train started off. It was a strange sort of motion, like being atop a horse with a limp, but it was much smoother than she imagined it would be.

She pulled the window curtain back enough to see the landscape go by. Rose couldn’t help it: she smiled. While she might prefer her travel high above the earth, rail travel was now her second favorite way to go.

If only she’d had better company, this trip might have been thoroughly enjoyable.

“Rose Small? Is that you?”

She turned at the same moment Hink did.

Hink swore.

She grinned. “Hello!”

Standing in the aisle, with a smile on his face and a book held open in one hand, was none other than Mr. Thomas Wicks.

Cedar rose before the sun was up. He hadn’t slept, his mind too restless to keep. He paced the church quietly.

Father Kyne wasn’t in any of the rooms Cedar walked through. The worship room was a small square the size of a schoolhouse at the front of the building, which was made with meticulous care. Old and worn, the walls were rubbed to a hickory shine, and dark pews kneeled in pious lines beneath the morning hush.

A light coat of dust covered the corners and windowsills, either ash from the now-cool stove in the corner or a sign that people did not pass this way often.

He didn’t sense the Strange here in the old echoes of the faithful.

Cedar walked the aisle to the front door and stepped out into the fresh air.

The sky was still lead heavy and dark as night. The wind had teeth, but at least it wasn’t snowing.

He buttoned his coat up to his chin, turned his collar against the wind, and took a deep breath. There were Strange in the air. Not here, not near the church. Still, they were close enough he could taste the scent of them like blood on the tip of his tongue.

Too intent on the scent and trail of Strange, Cedar did not hear the footsteps behind him until it was too late.

Pain cracked the back of his skull, and the world slipped away as he fell.

He woke, too hot and too groggy, pain roaring in his head, tied to a chair. The room was dimly lit with lanterns and smelled of hot metal and other sharp chemicals. Glass jars and vials lined a shelf to his right, and at his left he glimpsed the edge of a table with sharp medical instruments across it.

He tried to move, but his head, arms, wrists, chest, thighs, and ankles were all strapped tight. He was gagged, coatless, arms bare to the elbow.

“I could kill you,” a man’s friendly voice said from behind him. “It would be the simplest of things. But instead I am going to change your fate. This, Mr. Cedar Hunt, is a gift. We have been looking for you. For the man who kills the Strange. We thought perhaps you’d been killed by the blizzard. But here you are. And you’ve made it so much easier for us, coming here. Thank you. Now, I will give you your gift.”

Cedar’s heart was pounding. He might not be able to see the man, but he could smell the soap he bathed with and the oil he used in his hair. They were not uncommon scents, but mixed with the man’s sweat and the slightest tinge of hickory and cherry that clung to him, they became unique. A signature he could hunt.

If he survived.

“You see the Strange, you track them, kill them. Because of that curse you wear. We have the solution for you.”

The man stepped closer. From the corner of his eye, Cedar saw a gloved hand pluck up a needle and vial from the table.

“We are a curious people, Americans. We like to experiment. Sometimes when we discover something, we like to keep it quiet. My family has discovered some of the most interesting things that can be done. With man. With metal. And with the Strange.”

The clink of glass and metal made Cedar twitch. Sweat ran a bead down his neck, stinging the nightmare bite there.

“You won’t remember this, Mr. Hunt. Which is how I prefer it. This solution will make it so you will no longer see the Strange. A cure for your curse. Temporary, I’m afraid, but it should last long enough for my needs.”