Dead Iron: The Age of Steam
Devon Monk
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
BOOKS BY DEVON MONK
Praise for the Allie Beckstrom series
Magic on the Storm
“The latest Allie Beckstrom urban fantasy is a terrific entry. . . . This is a strong tale.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“First-rate urban fantasy entertainment.”
—Lurv a la Mode
“I am simply fascinated by this series. Each book draws me in deeper, and I find it harder and harder to put the books down. . . . This is one series you do not want to miss out on.”
—Bitten by Books
Magic in the Shadows
“Snappy dialogue, a brisk pace, and plenty of magic keep the pages turning to the end. Allie’s relationship with Zayvion, her friend Nola, and the other Hounds adds credible depth to this gritty, original urban fantasy that packs a punch.”
—Monsters and Critics
“This is a wonderful read full of different types of magic, fascinating characters, an intriguing plot. . . . Devon Monk is an excellent storyteller. . . . This book will keep everyone turning the pages to see what happens next and salivating for more.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Monk sweeps readers up in the drama and dangers of the heroine’s life as it steadily changes and grows . . . an intriguing read with fascinating characters and new magical elements introduced to the mix.”
—Darque Reviews
Magic in the Blood
“Tight, fast, and vividly drawn, Monk’s second Allison Beckstrom novel features fresh interpretations of the paranormal, strong characters dealing with their share of faults, and ghoulish plot twists. Fans of Patricia Briggs or Jim Butcher will want to check out this inventive new voice.”
—Monsters and Critics
“[A] highly creative series about magic users in a world much like our own, filled with greed and avarice. I love the character of Allie, and she is just getting better and stronger as the series continues. . . . If you love action, magic, intrigue, good versus evil battles, and pure entertainment, you will not want to miss this series.”
—Manic Readers
“One heck of a ride through a magical, dangerous Portland. . . . Imaginative, gritty, sometimes darkly humorous . . . an un-put-downable book, Magic in the Blood is one fantastic read.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Magic to the Bone
“Brilliantly and tightly written . . . will surprise, amuse, amaze, and absorb readers.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Mystery, romance, and magic cobbled together in what amounts to a solid page-turner.”
—SFFWorld
“Loved it. Fiendishly original and a stay-up-all-night read. We’re going to be hearing a lot more of Devon Monk.”
—Patricia Briggs, New York Times bestselling author of River Marked
“Highly original and compulsively readable. Don’t pick this one up before going to bed unless you want to be up all night!”
—Jenna Black, author of The Devil’s Playground
BOOKS BY DEVON MONK
THE AGE OF STEAM
Dead Iron
THE ALLIE BECKSTROM SERIES
Magic to the Bone
Magic in the Blood
Magic in the Shadows
Magic on the Storm
Magic at the Gate
Magic on the Hunt
ROC
Published by New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, July 2011
Copyright © Devon Monk, 2011
Gear art created using digital brushes by Obsidian Dawn
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Monk, Devon.
Dead iron/Devon Monk.
p. cm.—(The age of steam)
ISBN : 978-1-101-51646-1
1. Bounty hunters—Fiction. 2. Werewolves—Fiction. 3. Railroads—Design and
construction—Fiction. 4. Brothers—Fiction. 5. Steampunk fiction. I. Title.
PS3613.O5293D43 2011
813’.6—dc22 2011005307
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For my family
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my amazing agent, Miriam Kriss. Thank you for not telling me I was crazy when I first described this story to you and said I was going to write it. Your wisdom and advice made this book what it is. To my fabulous editor, Anne Sowards, who not only gave this book a chance, but also called and guided me through the trickiest turns with a steady hand. To the incredibly talented artist Cliff Nielsen, who brought Cedar Hunt to life with this gorgeous cover. And to the many people within Penguin who have gone above and beyond to make this book beautiful and strong. Thank you.
My deepest gratitude goes out to: Mom and Dad, for telling me your stories. Dean Woods, a virtuoso storyteller and brilliant brainstorming partner, for lending me your imagination. Dejsha Knight, for all your wonderful insight and help; Dianna Rodgers for reading this on the shortest deadline ever; and to my entire family and all my friends, who listened patiently while I whined and worried, yet still offered unflagging encouragement every step of the way. I couldn’t have done this without all of you. To my husband, Russ, and sons, Kameron and Konner, you are the best part of my life. Thank you for helping me make my dreams come true and for letting me be a part of your dreams. I love you.
Last, but certainly not least, I want to thank you, dear readers, for giving me the chance to spin this tale for you.
CHAPTER ONE
Cedar had stared straight into the killing eyes of rabid wolves, hungry bears, and charging bull elk, but Mrs. Horace Small had them all topped.
With dirt brown hair piled in a messy bun on the back of her head, and a pinch of anger between her brows, the storekeeper’s wife always seemed half a tick from blowing a spring.
“Two dollars,” she repeated, her fist stuck wrist-deep in the fabric at her hip, her jaw jutted out like a bass on a hook.
“Cornmeal, coffee, and a bit of cheese,” Cedar said mildly. He knew better than to let his anger show, especially this close to the full moon, in a store full of townsfolk eager to get their hands on the fresh supplies and gears from the old states. “Might be I’m missing something.” He looked back down at the receipt with Mrs. Small’s tight penmanship. “How again do they add to two dollars?”
He knew math—knew it very well. He’d spent four years back East in the universities and had plans of a teaching life. History and the gentle arts, not the wild metal and steam sciences of the devisers. He’d done his share of tinkering—had a knack for it—but did not have the restless drive of a true deviser, who couldn’t be left in a room with a bit of rope, metal, and a hammer without putting them all together into some kind of engine or contraption.
No, his needs had been simple: a teacher’s life filled with a wife and a daughter, and his brother, Wil. But that life had been emptied out and scraped clean six years ago, when he’d been only twenty-two. Leaving him a changed man.
Leaving him a cursed man.
“It’s written plain enough,” she said. “You do read, Mr. Hunt?”
“The part there that says ‘fee,’” Cedar asked without looking up. “What fee is that?”
“The rail takes its due. You aren’t part of the railroad, Mr. Hunt. Not a farmer, miner, rancher, or deviser. Not a member of this good community. I’ve never seen you in church. Not one single Sunday the last two years. That fee for the rail is less than all those months’ dues you owe to God.”
“Didn’t know the collection plate took hold to my provisions,” he said with a little more irritation than he’d intended, “and I don’t recall offering my wages to the rail.”
The mood in the general store shifted. The men in the shop—the three Madder brothers, dark-haired, dark-eyed, all of them short, bull-shouldered, and strong—were listening in. They’d stopped pawing and chuckling at the new metals and bits in the straw-padded crates, and were waiting. Waiting for him to say the wrong thing. Waiting for a fight.
Rose, Mrs. Small’s seventeen-year-old adopted daughter, stepped down off the stool where she’d been dusting. She darted behind Cedar and out the door, silent as a mouse fleeing danger. She had good instincts. He’d always admired that in her.
Mrs. Small lowered her voice and leaned over the counter between them. “You are a dirty drifter, Mr. Hunt. Any man out this far west with no plan of settling down isn’t drifting toward something—he’s trying too hard to drift away from something. The good folk of this town want you to be moving on. You’ve brought enough bad luck down on us. First the Haney stock got drug away by wolves. Then the little Gregor boy goes missing. Trouble like you needs to be moving on your way.”
“Trouble like me?” He tipped his hat down just a bit. “No offense, ma’am, but I took care of the wolf before the Haneys lost the rest of their stock. If I recall, there wasn’t another man out tracking it. And if I’d known about the Gregor boy wandering off, I would have been looking for him too. Animals aren’t the only thing I am capable of hunting.”
This time he did look up. Met her eyes. Watched the fire of her indignation go to ash. It never took much, no more than a glimpse of the thing that lived just beneath his civilized exterior, to end a conversation.
Days like this, he liked it. Liked what his gaze could do. But it was easy to lose his grip, to go from staring a person down to waking up with a dead body at his feet. He didn’t want that to happen. Not today.
Not ever again.
Cedar blinked, breaking eye contact with Mrs. Small. He pushed the bloody memories away and gave her a moment, because he knew she’d need one.
He took a moment too. He’d meant it when he said he’d look for the boy, would have been looking at the first sign of his getting lost. But Hallelujah wasn’t made of trusting folk. They’d seen too much hardship to think a man who kept to himself and came to town only rarely would go out of his way to do them any good.
Except for the dandy rail man, Mr. Shard LeFel. Rumor had it all the town held him in high esteem. Rumor had it, when he or his man Mr. Shunt walked by, folk fought a powerful need to bow down on their knees.
Cedar hadn’t yet met a man he’d be willing to bow to.
The Madder brothers swaggered up, caulk boots hollow on the shiplap floor. The brothers worked the silver mine. Breaking rock all day never seemed to satisfy their need to bust their way through a man’s bones every time they crawled out of the hills.
“How I see it,” Cedar said, hitching his words down low, quiet, “I’ve been some benefit to this town, me and my drifter ways. Hunted wolves, mountain lions, and nuisances for ranchers and working folk alike. I’ll be hunting for the lost boy. You can tell the Gregors that when they next stop in.”
He dug in his pocket and pulled out a silver dollar and enough copper to settle the bill. Fee included. He placed the coins on the counter, plus a penny extra, and plucked a jar of ink from the shelf.
Mrs. Small raised one eyebrow, but said no more.
The silver filigreed bird perched on the edge of the high window sang one sweet chirp. Its head was the size of a child’s thimble. The gears and burner inside it were so tiny, it chirped once every hour and needed only a half dropper of water a day to power it.
Valuable, that whimsy. He wondered where she had come by it. That delicate of a matic, a fine thing of little practical use, never survived this far west for long.
Beautiful things got crushed to dust out in these wilds.
Outside, the steam clock blew the pattern for ten o’clock. Town was mighty proud of that whistle. The blacksmith, Mr. Gregor, had put it in place of a clock tower right over his shop at the north end of town. Not half again as nice as the steam bells back East, it was still Hallelujah’s pride and joy and could be heard clear on the other side of Powder Keg Bluff.
“Is Mr. Hunt troubling you, ma’am?” asked Cadoc, the shortest and widest of the Madder brothers.
Cedar picked up the flour with the two smaller bundles stacked on top. He tucked the ink into his pocket and nodded at the brothers, who all wore ove
ralls, tool belts, and long coats loose enough to cover whatever it was they kept stuffed in their pockets. “Just a discussion of good citizenship is all, gentlemen,” he said. “Afternoon.”
He headed out onto the stretch of porch that gave shade in the summer, and the chance of shelter against rain and snow in the other seasons.
The Small Mercantile and Groceries was set on the corner of Main Street—the only street with real gas lamps in the town. The other buildings, thirty or so of them with pitched roofs and walls of milled or plank wood, were laid out in neat rows following the curve of the Grande Ronde River north.
A bustle of people were on the streets this morning, come into town for the new shipment, to pick up mail, or to trade harvest goods to settle their bills. It brought back his memories of the big cities, though there were more steam matics trundling about in the East. Horses, carriages, wagons, and folk on foot added to the clatter of the place, added to the living of the place, and reminded Cedar of things long lost.
Even the ringing of a hammer on wood reminded him of the civilized life that was once his.
He glanced up the street. His gaze skipped the bakery, butcher shop, tannery, and mill, drawn, as it was always drawn, to the clock whistle atop a turret made of iron and wood and tin, sticking up like a backbone above the blacksmith’s shop. A coil of copper tubes wrapped through the structure and supported a line of twelve glass jugs, round as pearls and big as butter churns. Water poured from the top of the tower downward, like sand in an hourglass, and filled the glass jugs one at a time, until they spilled over into the next and turned the gears inside the tower toward the next hour.
