“Then I suppose I’ll need to prioritize who, exactly, I despise the most.” Rose held the gun level with Henry Dunken’s head. “Why, I do believe that is you, Mr. Dunken. And once this shot goes off, Mr. Gregor will be out here faster than your boys can run.”
“Think that old mule can get here faster than the boys can shoot?” Henry asked.
The door behind Rose clacked with the heavy slide of a bolt being unfastened and a key turning.
“Don’t think we need to find that out, now, do we?” she said.
The door opened and the big form of Mr. Gregor loomed up behind her.
“What’s all the racket about?” Mr. Gregor stepped forward. Rose moved to one side to let the big man pass her. Mr. Gregor’s hair was stuck up at odd angles. He had on his trousers over his long johns, suspenders snapped in place, and his boots untied, but no shirt or coat. They must have gotten him out of bed.
Mr. Gregor carried a shotgun. He quickly assessed the situation, noting with a grimace the gun that Rose hastily stowed back in her apron.
“Henry Dunken,” Mr. Gregor said. “I don’t care what fire you’re full of tonight, but you and your boys will take your shenanigans away from my doorstep and my property, or I will bring Sheriff Wilke into this.”
“Why, of course, Mr. Gregor,” Henry said with a smile. “Didn’t mean to rouse you. I was just seeing Miss Small back to her home, like her folks told me to. Miss Small?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Dunken,” Rose said to his outright lie. “I’ll find my own way home.”
“Can’t have a lady like you out wandering.” Henry Dunken gave Mr. Gregor a tolerant look. “You know how she gets sometimes.” He tapped his forehead. “Poor thing.”
Rose clenched her teeth to keep from telling Henry Dunken just what he could do with his false pity. But Mr. Gregor saw right through Henry’s words.
“Go on your way,” Mr. Gregor said. “I’ll see that Miss Small gets home.”
Henry’s smile disappeared. He looked from Mr. Gregor to Rose Small, back to Mr. Gregor. Rose kept her hand on her gun, and her chin high.
One of Henry’s boys slapped him on the shoulder, breaking the tension. “Come on, now, Henry. She’s gonna be fine.”
Henry wiped his face with one hand and positioned his smile back into place. “I reckon that’s true, now, isn’t it? Good night, Mr. Gregor. Good night, Miss Small.”
He turned about and sauntered off, the ruffians crowding around him like dogs in a pack. Rose forced her fingers to let go of the gun, her knuckles stiff and sore from holding on to it so tightly.
“Mr. Gregor, I’m so sorry,” she began.
“Rose Small,” he rumbled. “If I were your daddy, I’d give you a proper talking-to. What in the devil got into you to be out on the street this late at night?”
Rose normally wouldn’t stand that kind of talk from anyone. But she reckoned Mr. Gregor was more of a father to her than her own father had been. So she told him the truth. “I was restless. Needed some fresh air. I went to stand on the porch, is all. Then I noticed a bit of metal in the street.” She dug in her apron for the proof of it, fished out a nail. “I didn’t want to leave it to waste.”
Mr. Gregor took a deep enough breath, his chest rose up a good six inches. When he let it out, his words were worn down, soft. “I don’t know what gets into that head of yours, Rose.” He started walking and Rose followed along.
“You’re old enough to be a man’s wife now, and yet you still do these things.” He shook his head. “Just because people in this town think you’re wild, doesn’t mean you should give them more reason to talk.”
“But—”
“Listen to me, Rose Small. You’re too old for this now. It’s time you pull your eyes down out of the stars and start thinking about getting married, raising a family of your own. And it’s time you stop walking out at night alone. These streets aren’t safe. Not for a lady. Not for anyone.” He glanced down to see if she understood.
“What if I don’t want to raise a family? Don’t want to be married?”
They were halfway to her house now, the moon slipping behind clouds, darkness growing thicker.
“What else would a woman want for?”
“To make things. Devise things. Maybe fly an airship to China and back.” She paused, then, “I have
Mr. Gregor was silent for the rest of the walk. Rose didn’t know what he was thinking, and didn’t have the courage to ask.
Once they made it to her doorstep, he finally spoke. “Dreams can be dangerous things, Rose Small.”
“Reckon the whole world is filled with dangerous things, Mr. Gregor,” she replied. “Can’t imagine dreams should be any different. But thank you for your kind words. They haven’t fallen on deaf ears.”
He nodded and nodded, looking relieved she’d admitted as much.
Then Rose Small let herself into her parents’ home, locking the door, and the night, behind her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Shard LeFel gazed down at his floor at the pile of wood and bones and gears that had just hours before been a creature most strange and divine. Mr. Shunt lingered in the shadow of LeFel’s living quarters, but held just inside the railroad car’s exit, LeFel noted.
“You have failed me, Mr. Shunt. Twice,” LeFel said to the skeletal shadow of a man. “What a pity you are. I shall not offer you another chance to bring the witch to me.”
He picked up his cane and prodded the pile of flesh and wires with it. Nothing in there, not a spark of living left to give the Strange another chance to occupy that body, to walk whole and solid in this world.
It was a waste of gears, a waste of gravewood, a waste of blood, bone, and steam.
And it had all been a waste of time. The witch’s life, and her magic, were no closer to his possession.
He had gears, he had matics, and he had steam. But he did not have time left to waste.
“If you cannot secure me the witch, then I shall call upon her own kind to place her in my hands. Mortals have their uses.”
LeFel turned. The wolf, barely breathing and bleeding heavily from Mr. Shunt’s disciplinary administrations, didn’t even have enough air to whimper. It would be dead soon, but not before the moon rose to open the doorway home. LeFel would make sure it lived that long. One day. And no longer.
LeFel picked up the bits of wood, bone, and metal, heavy in his hands, and warm even through the black leather gloves that he wore.
He threw the mess at Mr. Shunt, who did not flinch as limbs and coils struck his coat and slid to the floor at his feet, leaving a slime of oil and blood behind.
“Stitch that back into breathing. Set a tick in its heart. And be sure that it exactly resembles the blacksmith’s child. Exactly.”
Mr. Shunt did not smile. His gaze was hard and dead as iron.
“And do it before the sun burns to noon.”
Still Mr. Shunt did not move.
The Strange was showing far too much of its own resolve. Any other day in his near three hundred years on this land, he would have reminded the Strange exactly of its place. And who, exactly, was its lord. But so long as Mr. Shunt did as he was told for one day longer, LeFel didn’t care what notions or hard hungers the Strange hid from him.
“Leave me, Mr. Shunt, and see that you do as I bid,” LeFel commanded.
Mr. Shunt bent, just so much as a degree, his gaze locked on LeFel. He swept out his arm, and his coat followed, the hem lifting and brushing over the pile of bones and bits, wiping the expensive rug clean of the shattered creature.
And then he was gone, through the door that let a breath of air into the room, stirring the lace and silk curtains, with the clean, fae light of stars promising a new day rising.
The door latched tight and the shadows of the room returned.
