“Nightfall Market’s gone,” Tavis said, kicking at the broken bricks with the toe of his boot. “Proctors raided the Rustworks right after the big blow. Rounded up everyone they could find. Ghouls got the rest. Monsters’ve been crazed lately—even springing out on folks in broad daylight.”
Dean rubbed his chin, a calm gesture, but I saw the thunderheads of anger steal into his eyes. “Figures.”
I dropped my gaze to the vicinity of Tavis’s boot. The people in the Rustworks might have been rough and dishonest, but they hadn’t deserved the blame for the Engine. The Proctors were all too eager to name scapegoats for every little thing that went wrong in their city.
“Some of us came here,” Tavis said. “Foundry workers ran when the automatons went nutty and started smashing things. It’s safe here. For the most part.”
Conrad waved at us from near the wrecked sheds and mouthed
“Good seeing you, kid,” Dean told Tavis, ruffling his hair. “Keep yourself safe, you hear?”
Tavis gave Dean a smile, and it was as sly and slippery as the tongue of a snake. “Oh, I don’t gotta worry about that,” he said. “I kept you talking. I’ll get my cut.”
My heart sank. Dean pulled his knife again. “What did you say?”
A low rumble started from behind the sheds, the gravel around my feet jumping. With it came the clamor of voices and the clatter of an automaton’s tread.
I grabbed Tavis by the front of his shirt. “What did you do?”
“Can’t have you tipping off the Proctors!” he squeaked. “And we need food! Weapons! Cash!”
“Do we
“Rules of the Rustworks,” Tavis said. “You’re gone a little while and you forget. Every man for himself.”
A foundry automaton rolled around the corner of the shed, surrounded by a dozen men and women wearing identical red scarves and carrying weapons, from pump-action shotguns and the sort of electric rods the Proctors carried to simple tools like axes and pitchforks and, in one case, a baseball bat with rusty nails driven into the business end. I stared, rooted to the spot by both shock and the hungry look in their eyes. Hungrier than any ghoul, and twice as frightening.
The man driving the automaton had a scar that closed one eye, a gray beard, and white hair flying out from under a ratty top hat. He wore evening clothes, wildly mismatched, and his high-collared shirt was so blood-soaked that it was the color of Tavis’s scarf.
“Throw down your weapons!” he bellowed at us through the automaton’s vox system. The things weren’t meant to be driven, but I could see where a torch had cut away the chest plate to make a spot for a man to sit and manipulate the controls in real time, rather than having an engineer program the thing and send it on its way. I might have admired the wild-eyed man’s ingenuity if he hadn’t clearly been about to crush us with his metal appendages.
“Screw off!” Dean shouted back. “You’re not getting a damn thing from us!”
“Not that we have anything to give, anyway,” I murmured so only Dean could hear.
“Don’t be so sure, princess,” he said softly. “Those boots and my coat will get fought over down in the dirt by types like this.”
I realized he had a point—the refugees from the Rustworks were starving, likely freezing as winter set in, and clean clothes and sturdy shoes would be worth as much as fine steel or aether. They didn’t appear to be reasonable, so I braced myself to either fight or run, waiting for Dean’s cue.
The man grinned, showing several prominent gaps in his teeth. “This here is my town now. Nephilheim, the city of the angels. And I’m the voice on high!”
Crazy talk wasn’t exactly rare among people in the Rustworks—it was why most of them were fugitives. They said things the Proctors deemed heretical and thus were condemned to lives in madhouses, at best, or execution at worst. But the conviction with which the man shouted reminded me of my mother, utterly sure her iron-induced nightmares were true and happening before her eyes.
“He’s not going to back down,” I said to Dean.
“Perfect. Got a plan, then?” he asked, not relaxing his grip on his knife.
“Yeah,” I said, sliding my foot backward and shifting my weight. It was the same plan I always had when I was outnumbered by people much crazier and meaner than I was, from schoolyard bullies to these rust rats. “Run.”
Conrad got the idea, and the three of us bolted. The ground under my feet shook as the automaton rumbled to life and the group of scavengers gave chase. One of the women let out a battle cry, which the rest quickly took up.
“Were people in the Rustworks always this unfriendly?” I shouted at Dean.
“This is above and beyond, princess!” he shouted back. “Don’t know what’s gotten into them!”
Personally, I thought sanity was a thinner thread than most people realized. And I knew the thread could snap quicker than you could take a breath.
My own breath sawed in my chest; it seemed as if the narrow foundry avenues ran on forever, one folding into another.
Dean skidded, his ankle twisting under him, and he fell and rolled. I reached down without breaking stride and grabbed him by the shoulder of his leather jacket, yanking him along. A bottle shattered on the ground where his head had just been, and I looked back to see the fastest of the scavengers closing in.
“Run them down,” the automaton’s pilot bellowed. “Run those devils straight to Hades!”
A serrated horror of a blade whizzed past my face and embedded itself in the wall of the nearest building.
I stopped, spinning to face the person who’d thrown it. It was a woman—wild eyed, red hair bound up with gears and bolts that clanked and clacked when she moved. “I’ve had just about enough of this,” I snarled, my fear having been burned away by indignation. We weren’t a threat. We were just like them—wanted by the Proctors, just trying to survive. How dared they think they could run us down like prey? I looked forward to showing this girl she’d underestimated me.
The girl raised another blade. “Make your move, demon!” she screamed.
I didn’t think; I just scooped up a stray brick from near my feet and flung it at her. It thumped her in the chest and she staggered, dropping her knife. I snatched up another brick and waved it at the encroaching crowd. “Who’s next?” I yelled.
The automaton pilot bore down on me, causing the crushing pincers that made up the thing’s hands to scissor open and shut.
Too furious to even think of running, I pushed back with my Weird. I’d never tried to move something without touching it, or at least being within a few feet, but I pushed with all my strength, and with a great rattle and scream of rivets the tracks of the automaton seized, steam and smoke rising from the thing along with the smell of tortured metal. It shuddered to a stop.
I stood where I was, my heart pounding, my blood roaring. Far from feeling the falling-away sensation using my Weird usually brought on, I felt inexplicably alive, all body and blood rather than that detached piece of myself that floated around inside my mind. It was exhilarating, and yet I sort of wanted to scream.
Before I could do anything about either screaming or holding it in, Conrad grabbed me and abruptly broke the spell. “Are you
The scavengers milled nervously a few yards away, and then one by one they bowed their heads in my direction, nodding rhythmically and drawing toward Conrad, Dean and me in a tight knot. Behind them, the automaton pilot fell from his vehicle, beating at the flames on his jacket.
I realized as all the scavengers’ eyes looked at me what I’d done: I’d shown my Weird to perfectly ordinary people. People who were already on edge, and would likely just as soon burn me alive as a Proctor would for my unexplained trick. I pressed my lips together, my heart throbbing with anxiety. After everything I’d done, I’d shattered it with one thoughtless move.
“We’re sorry,” the woman I’d hit with the brick wheezed. “We didn’t know.”
