Devon Monk - Cold Copper

A needle stabbed into his arm and Cedar grunted from the pain.

The man took care to stand just out of his line of vision so that all Cedar could see were his gloves and the sleeve of his overcoat. He pushed down the needle’s plunger.

Whatever had been in that vial washed hot up his arm and burned across his chest, then his body. He felt as if he’d been dipped in flame. The scent of copper and taste of blood filled his mouth and burned his eyes. He yelled, but the gag muffled his cries.

Then the man stepped behind the chair again and returned with another needle and vial.

“And now. This solution will make sure you forget this meeting of ours. If I give you too much, it will kill you quickly. However, if I give you the correct dose”—he stabbed the needle into Cedar’s arm and ice-cold pain shattered across his nerves—“it will still kill you. Only slowly.

“There is some chance you might find the antidote in time, but since you won’t even remember being poisoned, I doubt very much that you will survive a month.”

He tugged the needle out of Cedar’s arm. “Just one last thing before I return you to your companions, Mr. Hunt: I am an old-fashioned man. And while I find new advancements in the scientific world fascinating, I find it best to rely on tried-and-true methods. I do hope you’ll humor me.”

Cedar could barely think past the pain storming through his body. Too late, he realized the man was casting a spell.

And then the world went dark.

The wind clattered against the frozen treetops, sifting snow down through the branches like sand through fingers.

Cedar sat on the church porch stairs, his head resting against the rail. He glanced up at the sky. It had been dark just a moment ago. But the sky was bright with dawn. Had he been walking in his sleep? Dreaming? He remembered being restless and pacing through the church, then finally stepping outside.

He rubbed at his face and at the tender pain at the side of his neck from his nightmare. His arm hurt, but then, he hurt everywhere from nicks and bruises gotten on the trail.

The cold could do strange things to a man’s mind. Hallucinations. Madness. And he had been far too cold for far too long in that snowstorm.

It must have rattled his mind more than he realized.

“Good morning, Mr. Hunt,” Father Kyne said quietly as he walked up from the barn, a bucket of water in his hand. In the muffle of snow, even his soft voice carried.

“Good morning,” Cedar said. “Need any help with the animals?”

“There is no need. I gave them hay and water. They’ll be fine until tonight. Is there something else that brought you out so early?”

He remembered he’d come out to look for the Strange. To find the one who had found a way into the room and bit him. To discover whether it had been real or a dream.

Most people didn’t believe in the Strange. Thought them to be ghosts and stories and things to frighten children into doing their chores.

“There’s a restless wind in this town,” Cedar said. “Restless souls ride it.”

Father Kyne nodded as he walked up the back steps to the church. “It has been so for many years. Some people say it is the rail that brings unrest. Some say it is the people rushing to build this city into a road for civilization. Others…” He paused and opened the back door to the kitchen. “Others say it is the earth shivering beneath the tread of strange devils.”

Cedar followed him into the house. “Strange devils?”

Father Kyne set the bucket of water in the sink and caught Cedar with his sober gaze. “There are ghosts who walk this town. They come in at night and flood the streets. So many, the mayor must send men to walk the streets with copper guns. Guns that sweep the ghosts away.”

“Have you seen this?”

“Yes.”

“So you believe in ghosts? In spirits?”

Father Kyne smiled briefly and Cedar realized he was not as old a man as his serious eyes made him out to be.

“Why would I ignore that which is in front of my eyes? Do you think the ghosts are to blame for the children disappearing?”

“I don’t know. But I plan to find out.”

“You have my gratitude. The Madders do not seem as deeply concerned for the children’s welfare. Why do you travel with the Madder brothers, Mr. Hunt?” He turned and began gathering eggs and small potatoes for breakfast, and set them beside the stove.

“They did me a great good. Helped me find my brother,” he said.

“Your brother?”

“The wolf. He is beneath a curse. A curse we both bear.”

Kyne was silent for a bit. “Do you know why I am a minister, Mr. Hunt?” He scooped water from the bucket to the pot on top of the woodstove, then reached for the jar of oats on the shelf and dropped handfuls of the grain into the water.

“Followed in your father’s footsteps?” Cedar said.

“He wanted it so. I was taken in young enough the people, the tribe, refuse me as their own. I am a man between worlds. But God accepts all His children. I had always thought the people of this church had accepted me. But when my father died…” He shrugged. “I was mistaken.”

“Do you have a congregation?”

“A few remained, for a while. Now they no longer come. I believe we must all find God at our own pace. Do you pray, Mr. Hunt?”

“I used to.”

“And now?”

Cedar didn’t say anything.

Kyne waited, then quietly said, “The curse?”

“Prayed to any god who would hear me for months,” Cedar said. “Not even the devil lent me his ear.”

“Have you tried breaking the curse? Gone back to the one who put it upon you?”

“I don’t remember much after the curse. By the time I had…reasoning back, he was gone.”

“Was he a man?”

“He didn’t seem to think so. Seemed to think he was a native god. Pawnee.”

“I do not know those people. Have you looked for him?”

Cedar heard the approach of hooves in snow. He walked over to the window near the door and peered out. “Not sure I know how to track a god, Father Kyne.”

Riders were approaching: four men on horses in front of a towering black and green three-wheeled steam carriage. The carriage itself was suspended between two wheels taller than a man, with a driver sitting right atop a single front wheel. Gray plumes of smoke poured out of the single chimney pipe sticking up at the back of the coach.

The first horseman wore a bright silver star on the breast of his sheepskin coat. He had a long, mulelike face, narrow at the chin, with a forehead full of wrinkles beneath a flat-topped hat. He was clean shaven except for thick sideburns; his eyes brown and cold as grave dirt.

The sheriff.

The riders stopped in front of the church stairs. The carriage rolled to a stop farthest from the church, turning enough to show the footman who stood on the backboard. Painted in gold on the doors were two gilded letters: V and B.

Father Kyne moved the oatmeal to a cooler burner, but kept stirring. “How many men?” he asked.

“Four riders, two with the carriage. Lawmen on horses. Probably the sheriff.”

Kyne nodded. “Is the coach green and gold?”

“Yes.”

“You may want to make sure your companions are awake. That’s the mayor’s coach.”

“Why send the law? We barely hit town ten hours ago. Is there something I should know, Father Kyne?”

“The mayor is much beloved by many in this town. By most,” he added. “I do not trust him. He has lied to my family far too often. Lied to the people of my church. Hidden things.”

The lawmen tied their mounts to the snow-covered hitching post, then stomped up the stairs to the short porch. The sheriff knocked on the door.