Dead Iron (31 page)

“Witch,” the people in the church echoed, inhaled, exhaled, back and forth to one another, the word building and growing, breathing stronger at each repetition until it seemed as if the very walls vibrated with it.

Until another word was born in its place: “Burn. Burn her.”

Rose couldn’t believe her ears. In just as much as a heartbeat, the entire town had gone mad. Regardless of if Mrs. Lindson was a witch or not, this was a civilized age. People didn’t go around burning people just because one man stood up and called them a witch.

Her heart was pounding and every instinct told her to run, to flee, to get away from these people before they turned on her and called her something worth burning.

But Mae was her friend. She had to do something. Anything to help her. To stop this. Which meant she had to stand up against Mr. Shard LeFel.

And an entire town of people with murder in their eyes.

Rose pulled her shoulders back and walked down the stairs, her boots making too much noise for such a quiet room. Her knees shook and her hands went slick with sweat.

“You’re wrong,” she said, blunt as that.

Mr. LeFel looked over at her, hatred twisting his face into a mockery of a smile. He opened his mouth to speak, but Rose spoke first.

“Mae Lindson isn’t a witch. She’s a kind and helpful woman who hasn’t done more than mind her own business and weave blankets for this town. She’s a lace maker, a wife, and nothing more.”

“Don’t mind the girl,” Sheriff Wilke said. “She doesn’t understand these things.”

“I understand you are all talking about killing an innocent woman,” Rose said.

An angry murmur rose up in the room, and Rose caught more than one voice saying “mad,” “wild,” “crazy.”

Shard LeFel waited a moment, letting the voices hush against the rafters. Then he spoke. “You have seen what this ‘lace maker’ has done to the boy, Miss Small. She has left him with the devil’s mark, taken his blood. Would likely have killed him. She is a witch. And that is the proof.”

“That,” Rose said, “isn’t the Gregors’ boy. I don’t know what gears and steam you have cobbled together, but that boy isn’t Elbert. It’s a monster.”

A startled cry rose up from the women of the town and the men’s deep grumbling rolled beneath it. This time it did not quiet, but instead grew.

“I swear to you,” Rose said, “that it’s some Strange thing left in Elbert’s place. Some Strange matic.”

“Rose!” her mother called out sharply. “This is no time for your fool mouth.” She stood up from where she had been sitting near the front of the room and stormed toward Rose.

“It’s the truth. That’s not Elbert.” Instead of retreating, Rose walked down the crowded outer aisle, getting more than one surreptitious prod and elbow. But she didn’t care. She only needed to make one person believe her. She marched over to Mr. Gregor.

The sheriff stepped in her way, keeping her from coming any closer to Mr. Gregor, or the boy.

“You believe me, don’t you, Mr. Gregor?” Rose asked. “I tell you true—that’s not your boy. I’d know Elbert. I’d know him like my own brother.”

Mr. Gregor shook his head, his expression a mix of shame and pity. “That’s enough, Rose. Go on, now. Do as your mother says. You should go home.”

“I’m not wrong.” She searched his face, searched his expression, for the man who had always smiled at her curiosity and applauded her strong spirit. Looked for the man who had always believed in her. “I’m not crazy, I promise you so.”

“Go on, Rose,” he said tightly. “This business isn’t for . . . people like you.”

Rose felt like he had just dunked her in a trough of cold water. He didn’t believe her. He thought she was insane. Wild. Foolish.

She might believe the whole town could be blinded by a stranger’s words, but not Mr. Gregor. He had always been kind and helpful to her, and wasn’t afraid to speak against a crowd with calm words and reason. But not today. Today she meant nothing to him.

Sheriff Wilke put his hand on her arm. “Mrs. Small,” he said. “Please see your daughter home.”

“Rose Small,” her mother said. “Come here this instant.”

Rose knew a losing fight when she saw one. There wasn’t a single chance anyone else in this town would believe her. They were set on burning an innocent woman alive for a crime she didn’t commit. Rose might not be able to change their minds, but that didn’t mean she was going to stand aside and do nothing.

Rose shook off Sheriff Wilke’s hand and started walking. But not toward her mother. She was headed toward Mr. Shard LeFel. “I know what you’re doing, Mr. LeFel.” She was close enough she could smell the lavender and spice of his expensive perfume. “And I know what you are—what you and your man are. Strange. Come to blight this land.”

LeFel’s eyebrows raised again. And his man, Mr. Shunt, lowered his head, until his eyes burned from beneath deeper shadow.

“I am quite sure you are mistaken, Miss Small,” LeFel murmured. “I am here with only the highest regard for this town and these people. I am bringing to Hallelujah all the riches and future the rail and steam can offer.”

“You are a liar.”

Mr. LeFel’s hand shot out so fast, Rose didn’t even see him move. He caught her wrist in his grip, and squeezed down tight.

The entire room seemed to go distant and fuzzy. No one moved. Seemed like no one breathed.

“Mind your tongue,” Shard LeFel growled. “Lest you lose it altogether.” He squeezed down so hard, she couldn’t feel her fingers. She slipped her left hand into her apron, fumbling for her gun.

Still no one in the church spoke. Still no one moved.

Except the Madder brothers.

Rose could hear them push away from the door as if they were one man. She felt the vibration of their steps as they marched down the aisle, their boots heavy as the mountains falling from the heavens.

“Let go of the girl, LeFel,” Alun said low and clear, coming closer and closer, “or we’ll have ourselves a go at you.”

The brothers were smiling, eyes mad and drunken bright. They each brandished weapons in their hands: hammer, ax, and gun.

Shard LeFel’s gaze shifted between each of the brothers.

“Might be a good night for someone to die,” Cadoc said. He pulled a pocket watch out of his vest and pressed the winding stem down, sending the watch ticking.

Shard LeFel eyed the pocket watch, then let go of her wrist. “You are a waste of my time, poor Rose,” he said. “And so too your kind.”

Kind? Rose looked back to the Madders. Their expressions were unreadable. Was she somehow like them?

But as soon as the watch had begun ticking, the townsfolk seemed to wake up out of their sleep and the room came back sharp again, though not a person appeared to notice they’d lost a minute or two.

The Madder brothers stood shoulder to shoulder in the center aisle. They moved apart just enough to make a place for Rose to stand between them. She hurried to do so and walked with them back to the doors of the church.

“Think he broke your wrist?” the second brother, Bryn, asked as they walked forward behind Alun. Cadoc walked backward, watching LeFel.

“No,” Rose said as she rubbed at her hand to get the blood moving in it. “It’s fine.”

They were at the back pews now, and all the room was riled up again, mumbling and chattering, repeating the words “bewitched” and “deviser” and, most frightening of all, “burn her too.”

Her mother stood behind the last pew, face stoked red as a baker’s oven. She pointed at the door. “Get on home, Rose Small. Lock yourself in your room. You make me sorry I’ve ever called you my own. No wonder your mother left you to die.”

Rose opened her mouth, closed it around nothing but air. She had no words, not apology or anger, though both raged a wild storm in her. A deep, silent sob of betrayal twisted at her heart.

“Get home before I throw you out for good,” her mother said.

Alun Madder smiled at Rose’s mother and tugged his beard. “Maybe the girl’s old enough not to belong to anyone anymore, Mrs. Small.”

“You have no place preaching to me, Mr. Madder,” she said. “You and your dirty brothers don’t belong in this town.”

The Madders laughed, but Rose kept on walking, head up, arms straight at her sides, wooden as a doll. Her eyes burned with tears.

She pushed open the door and hit the fresh night air like she was running from a fire. She wasn’t running home. No, she’d never go back to that house. Never go back to those people. She didn’t belong there. She had never belonged there, and her mother had just put words to the truth they’d both been denying all her life.

There wasn’t a lock or latch that could keep her in this town a moment longer.

And there wasn’t anyone, or anything, that was going to keep her from helping her friend.

She ran straight down Main Street, the bits of metal and wood in her pockets jingling with each step. She had to get to Mae’s farm. Had to get there in time to warn her. Had to get there faster than the townspeople’s torches.

C
edar Hunt was halfway back to Mae Lindson’s house, having made his way to the Madders’ mine. He’d found the brothers gone, his clothes and guns wrapped up tidy as a parcel near their front door. Didn’t know where his horse was, either somewhere in the brothers’ mountain or maybe set loose. Didn’t take the time to track it down.

He’d promised Mae Lindson they would face the Strange together, but more than once he’d found himself blacking out in the saddle on his way back to her house, the wound stealing his strength and his senses away. Now he was on foot, pacing, waiting for the curse, the change, to slip over him.

The deep-belly warmth of the wolf stirring in him eased the pain in his side some. Maybe, he thought as he unbuttoned his shirt and folded it atop the mule’s saddle, the change would heal the wound. It would help; he was sure of that.

The moon, shaded to the waning, pushed up at the horizon’s edge as Cedar pulled off his boots, pants, and belt. He secured his clothing alongside the borrowed clothes and weapons, then drank down the last of the water from the canteen and secured it too.

He rubbed the mule’s muzzle, then pointed her in the direction of Mae’s house, and sent her on her way.

Moonlight, silver and pure, burnished the dry, golden land. And Cedar Hunt’s fingers found first the tuning fork, then the crescent moon and arrow chain still around his neck. He hoped the chain would help him keep his reason and wits one more time, so that he could find Elbert, find his brother, and hunt down Mr. Shunt.

He arched his back, bathing in the moonlight, no longer feeling the pain of his injury, no longer feeling any worries, any cares. If he couldn’t kill Mr. Shunt as a man, he’d sure as hell find a way to kill him as a wolf.

Cedar gave in to the change, relished the warmth and the thick haze of sensation that stretched and remade him. And then he lost himself, drowned himself in the killing needs of the wolf. And ran, toward town, toward Mae Lindson.

Rose Small considered not returning to her home. But there were things stashed there she might need, things that might help her save Mae. She ran up the porch stairs and through the main room to the stairs that led up to her bedroom tucked against the rafters. As she ran, her mind sorted options.

She didn’t have much time. If Mr. Shard LeFel had a few minutes more, she was sure the entire town would be marching out to burn Mae’s house down. Speed was the best she could do. Reach Mae before the town reached her. Warn her to run.

But if that didn’t work, they’d need weapons.

Rose pulled out a knapsack. The canvas was stiff, the buckles old, but strong. Into the bag she stuffed her spare dress, underthings, shoes, and sweater. She added the leather-wrapped tools Mr. Gregor had given her on the sly, and which she kept stashed beneath her bed, out of her parents’ sight.

She hesitated over the bits of brass and gears in the box under her bed. She had gathered all of it over the years, things she used to make things, fix things, devise things. She didn’t want to leave so much behind, but didn’t see how the weight of it, nor the bits themselves, would be of practical application tonight.

Instead, she packed bullets for her Remington and derringer.

Rose pulled on her overcoat. She’d added pockets on the inside of the coat, and into those she stashed bullets.

Rose found the messenger satchel, which she’d fashioned out of oiled leather. She tucked into it a sheaf of paper, pen and ink, her three books, and a thin but sturdy wool blanket.

Lastly, she drew her heartiest bonnet and a tool belt out from under her bed. She buckled the belt around her waist, holstering both guns into it, then put on the hat.

She took a moment to look around her room, at the only home she had known. Even though she wasn’t wanted, she would miss it. But it was time to move on. She’d known it for years. And now there was no denying it anymore.

Just as she turned toward the door, she saw one last thing. A palm-sized china doll that had been wrapped up in the blanket with her when she’d been abandoned on the doorstep. Impractical to take along now. She’d need room in her packs for other things. Like food.

Rose picked up the doll and hugged her tight to her chest. She had whispered all her hopes and fears to that doll, had held her and pretended she was a gift from her real mother, an admission that her mother left her behind out of love, not hate or shame.

“No place for you now,” Rose whispered to the doll. She placed her on the window, facing the street below and the horizon beyond, so she could look out at the world.

Then Rose left her room, her home. She closed the door behind her and did not look back.

The grumble and growl of the crowd spilling out from the church, the racket of horses and wagons being mounted, lined up, and loaded, pricked fear into her heart. Rose ran down the street, taking the shadows, taking the less-traveled ways. She might yet be able to steal up a horse at the livery and ride hard out to Mae’s. She might yet get there before the town had even started their hunt.