Mae set out each item on the bed around Cedar, surrounding him with a piece of each element. Magic was a gentle art, drawn from the earth, sky, streams, and hearth. Mae took her place at the foot of his bed, and held her tatting shuttle, the precious gift Jeb had given her, in her hands. It wasn’t so much necessary for the spell as it was a comfort and strength in her hands.
Mae spoke a word and her chest caught with pain. She pressed her hand against her chest and breathed until the pain passed. She spoke a word again, beginning the spell, and pain once again rattled through her.
It took her a moment before she realized the cause. The binding between her and the coven soil was tightening down. The sisters, and magic, were calling her home. The time she would be able to endure being away from the coven was running out.
Mae took a steadying breath and held the shuttle tight to her heart. She still hadn’t killed the man—the Strange—who killed Jeb. She still hadn’t finished her work here. And she was not going to turn east and leave a man dying in her bed.
Mae began the spell again, continuing on through the pain. There was still living and dying left to see to. The sisters would have to wait.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Shard LeFel’s crew boss had the men up before sunrise. The constant clang and chug of workers setting the rail, punctuated by an occasional blast or ground-shaking thump from the matics pounding the land into shape, was music to Shard LeFel’s ears.
This would be his final day in this land. Tonight, beneath the power of the waning moon, before another dawn could rise, he would open the door and stroll back to the land where he rightfully belonged.
He was so close to his goal, he could taste it like heavy wine on his tongue, could feel the burn of it beneath his skin, stirring his hunger in ways he had all but forgotten over the centuries.
Death. All he needed to complete his crossing was the three mortals’ deaths.
Shard LeFel sat within his train car, a fine breakfast spread out before him. Caviar, cheeses, fruits and meat from the far lands, all set upon solid gold plates thin as rose petals and fine lace.
A silk napkin lay upon his knee, but LeFel had touched none of the food, had taken not even one drink. He was content to look out the window and down upon the rail, the iron that lay like prison bars upon the land. But they were not prison bars—they were roads of freedom. Freedom for the Strange.
Before the last iron was laid down, before the last spike was hammered into the earth, LeFel would have the witch—the last death he needed to open the doorway. Then he would have his way home and his revenge.
When his gaze finally wandered from the rail, he looked upon the beautiful Holder, set as it was, glowing like seven shards of seven precious gems fused together as one, upon a gilt pedestal in the corner of the room. After three hundred years of finding each piece, the remarkable metal ingenuity was his now and would be triggered to its best use.
He did not know how long Mr. Shunt had been standing inside the arched doorway that separated this car from the others. But finally, LeFel noticed he was there.
And standing next to him, holding on to the cuff of his coat as if not quite steady on his feet, was the changeling.
“Are you finished, then, Mr. Shunt?” LeFel asked.
“As you demanded,” Mr. Shunt whispered through a serrated smile.
“Good. Ready my carriage. And wait for me outside.”
Mr. Shunt bowed and exited the room, leaving the changeling behind.
“Come to me, Strange,” LeFel commanded. “Show me the child you pretend to be.”
The creature shuffled across the floor, one leg dragging a bit, its eyes wide and blank, no smile on its sweet, pink lips.
No skipping or laughing this time. Whatever it had taken to make this thing whole again had also dulled it, changed it. But that was no matter. So long as it lasted through the day, it would have outlived LeFel’s use.
But to the Strange he said, “You have done well to sink back into this broken body, this flesh. Does it pain you?”
The Strange focused glossy eyes on LeFel and nodded.
“Not much longer,” LeFel said. “I will reward you richly. Give you a new body to plant yourself within.” He leaned forward just a bit. “Give you the boy’s body.”
The Strange’s eyes lit with an unholy hunger. It glanced over at the blacksmith’s son, who lay in drugged sleep, curled upon the wide seat of a chair.
“Would you like that?” LeFel asked. “A young, firm, fresh body to walk this world? To grow in, to breathe in, to taste all the flavors of pain and fear and joy a mortal has to offer?”
The Strange nodded again, and this time it mustered a smile.
“Turn around and show me your back.” Shard waited as the Strange obeyed him. Then, with the tip of the diamond-encrusted dinner knife, he carved a symbol into the creature’s flesh. It wriggled and whimpered but did not cry out.
The clock tower whistled the noon hour, and the hammers and matics slowed and silenced while the laborers took their midday meal.
Shard LeFel sat back, inspecting his work on the Strange. A star burned there. Five points with the horns up at the creature’s shoulders, flames already dying, tendrils of smoke that smelled of charred wood rising in the still air of the car.
“Yes. This will do.”
Pleased, LeFel lifted the silk napkin and rubbed it over his lips, then placed it back upon his knee. “Go, rest in the shadows, Strange. The time is near. When you help me snag up the witch, your hunger will be sated.”
He turned to the table in front of him, picked up the gold fork, and cut a deep bloody chunk of meat off the plate. Then Mr. Shard LeFel savored, slowly, his last mortal meal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Mae woke with a start. She hadn’t planned to sleep, but only to rest in the living room chair. From the slant of light coming through the window, it was noon, or later.
She held her breath a moment, waiting to hear what had woken her. It was the creak of the bed frame. Mr. Hunt was moving.
Mae stood and smoothed her dress. She had taken the time to tend her own wounds again, to wash, and pull on a dress that was not torn and dirty.
“Are you up, Mr. Hunt?” she called out as she walked toward the bedroom. “I’m coming in.”
Cedar was standing next to the bed, the blanket wrapped haphazardly around him, his hair stuck up and tousled. But his eyes narrowed a little when he filled his lungs for a deep breath.
“Afternoon,” he said. “I’d be in your debt if you have something I could eat.”
Relief washed over Mae. She hadn’t known if he would make it through the night. “So I see the fever’s broke. You do heal quickly, Mr. Hunt. Are your wounds bothering you?”
“They will mend.” He took a step and placed one hand on the back of a chair beside the bed. He was moving slowly, not limping, but guarding a pain. “Food, though . . . if you have it.”
“I’ll see to changing your dressings after I put some coffee on to boil,” Mae said. “You’ll find some clothes in the drawers. They’ll fit you with room to spare.”
Cedar looked up at her, his hazel eyes clear. “I want . . .” Whatever he had intended to say he thought better of. “Thank you, Mrs. Lindson. For your kindness.”
Mae nodded and walked off to the larder. She heard him open the chest of drawers, and then the jangle of belt and suspenders.
