Devon Monk - Cold Copper

“We’re not following you,” Rose said before Hink started yelling at him. “We were following the train car being lifted by an airship.”

“I am extending to you my patience, Mr. Wicks,” Hink said. “But that’s about ran out now. Why are you here? What interest do you have in this enterprise?”

The two men regarded each other for a moment as if Rose weren’t even standing there. Fine, let them argue. She wanted to know what was in the warehouse.

She stepped up and opened the door.

“Rose,” Wicks started, “you shouldn’t.”

“Oh, I think we all should,” Hink said.

But Rose ignored them both. The building was very clearly a warehouse. Stacked within it were crates, just like on the train, and just like the freight in the train, these were stamped with the initials VB. She could guess what was in them. Copper-and-glass battery bits and pieces. Maybe even a few parts of those puppet men.

It was too dark to see much of the warehouse, but the boxes appeared to line the entire place, with at least one or two clear aisles for walking.

And to her left was a small office space, a rolltop desk, and beside that, a table with a closed ledger book, a lamp, and a telegraph key.

“What were you doing in here, Wicks?” Hink asked. “Stealing goods?”

“If you must know, I sent a telegraph. Now, I really do think we should be leaving in all haste. Miss Small?”

“Who?” Hink asked. “Who did you send a message to? What part in all this are you playing, Wicks?”

Wicks smiled, and it was a hard, bright slash in the darkness of the room. “I see no need to tell you, Marshal Cage. My business is my own. And yours, which I believe includes pirating glim, smuggling goods, and trading in secrets, strikes me as against my best interests. Perhaps even against the best interests of this United States. I’ve been sent to look in on you.”

“You’re a spy?” Rose asked startled. “For who?”

“I never said I was a spy, though I do operate under the direction of those few people in higher places than I.”

“So what I’m hearing,” Hink said, “is I should just shoot you now, since you’re just going to talk riddles all night.”

“What you’re hearing, Marshal Cage, is I am your boss.”

Hink opened his mouth, but no sound came out of it. He shut it, scowled, and tried again. “Unless you are the president of this here States United, like hell you’re my boss.”

“Chief Territorial Director of the United States Marshals, Thomas Wicks.” He nodded once. “Recently appointed to oversee all lawmen on the ground and in the air.”

“Horse crap.”

“Appointed by the president himself, as a matter of fact, and sent out to investigate the…goings on out west. I assure you I am your superior.” His smile seemed to add: “in every way.”

“And I’m just supposed to take your word for that? Do you think I fell out the hatch last week?”

“You tell me. Have the doves mentioned a change in the overview of lawmen?”

“Information is cheap,” Hink said. “And can be planted with a penny and a pretty word.”

“So you’re telling me you don’t trust your own spy network?”

“I’m telling you that, as of now, you haven’t done a lick to convince me that I’d be wasting a bullet just to shut you up.”

“Interesting.” And that appeared to be all Mr. Wicks was going to say, for he just stood there, waiting.

“I don’t want to interrupt this, um…discussion, but about these crates?” Rose asked. “Do you know what those devices are being used for, Thomas?”

His eyes shifted to Rose. “Why in the world would you want to know? I find it odd that a woman who claims to have only stayed with the coven in Kansas out of convenience is suddenly mixed up with this glim pirate, stowing away on freight trains and meddling with contents that may be used to destroy this country.”

“Pirate?” Hink asked with a dangerous grin.

“Meddling?” Rose said. “You were the one who broke the lid off the crate. You can’t really think I’m part of some kind of plot?” It both frustrated and saddened her. She had been honest with him when they’d been together. But it appeared Mr. Wicks had been lying about who he was, and what he was made of.

“I really can’t rule it out, can I?” he asked. “You are traveling with this man.”

“Aw, don’t be tender on me, Wicks.” Hink’s voice held a casual sort of threat. “Tell me just what it is you think I am.”

Rose let out a hard sigh. This wasn’t getting them any closer to figuring what the copper batteries and puppets were used for. “Excuse me,” she said, a little louder than necessary. “I am tired of being defined by the men I travel with. I make my own choices. I’m here for my own reasons. And one of those reasons is to find out what those devices in the crates are used for. And guns”—here she gave Hink a hard look—“aren’t going to help with that none. Neither is standing around pissing on each other’s boots.”

Both men looked a little shocked at her language, but Hink smiled.

“Mr. Wicks,” she continued, “I am not involved in any plot. What I am is tired, cold, and in need of a good hot meal. Gentlemen, I’ll leave you to your threats and wrasslin’. I’m going to find a way into town and, if I’m lucky, a warm hotel and steam bath.”

“Don’t go far,” Hink said. “Steam bath sounds nice, and it won’t take me long to send a wire.”

Rose walked out of the warehouse, angrier than she’d expected. She had liked Wicks. But he was yet another man dealing in secrets, like Hink.

No, not just like Hink. She knew for a fact Hink really did work for the president of the United States, and she’d seen him do some heroic things to save lives.

She couldn’t say the same about Wicks. While he had seemed nice, she hadn’t actually seen the measure of his character.

She pulled her coat closer around her shoulders, suddenly all out of fire for adventure. It was bitter cold here, most of the ground covered in snow and ice. She was hungry, dirty, and at the same time, restless to be moving on.

Far off, the sound of music, maybe piano keys, tumbled down in the dark. She didn’t hear gunfire, which meant maybe the men had managed to settle their differences with fists, although it had barely been a minute since she stepped out into the cold. They might just be warming up on threatening each other.

Then she heard footsteps in the snow. More than one person, a lot of people—men. Coming this way.

The Strange in the shadow of the alley drew the pink ribbon closer to its chest. Then it started down the road, not so much clinging to shadows as becoming a part of them, then reforming as a man-shape with the bits of trash from the city whenever moonlight touched it.

“You heard it speak, right?” Wil asked.

“Yes,” Cedar said.

“And you saw it?”

“Yes,” Cedar said again.

“We’re following it, aren’t we?”

Cedar hesitated only a second. “Yes.”

They did just that. The Strange avoided full moonlight, avoided open spaces, preferring to cling to structures. When those became fewer and fewer, it lingered against trees, brambles, and even drifts of snow.

But as soon as they reached the forest, the Strange changed. It dropped all the scraps of trash from the city, and instead drew together a body made of twigs and dirt and snow that glittered darkly in the shadows.

The only thing it kept with it was the pink ribbon, Florence’s ribbon, clutched with one hand against its chest where a heart should be.

The trail through the woods narrowed until there was no room for the wagon Mae drove.