When Mr. Shunt was done, he bit the string in two, setting the glim-fed gears into motion.
At the snap of thread, the creature in the coffin shuddered, then opened its eyes.
The Strangework in the corners of the room inhaled, and that smallest movement shifted the tubes that bound them at ankles and wrists to the doorway itself.
The stock, the changeling, the Strange, looked exactly like the blacksmith’s boy, looked just like the little dreamer. Except when it smiled. Then its eyes were as old as the gravewood and flesh of which it was made.
LeFel picked up his cane. “To catch the witch, we must catch her heart.” He considered the changeling with a critical eye. “The boy should show some hardships, wandering for days in the wilds; don’t you agree, Mr. Shunt?”
“Indeed,” Mr. Shunt breathed. He dragged thumbs across the boy’s cheek, leaving behind a bruising welt.
The Strangework laughed. “More,” it said.
Mr. Shunt tugged at its hair, nicked its ear, tore the shirt it appeared to be wearing—a shirt that looked exactly like the shirt the blacksmith’s boy wore. The more Mr. Shunt nipped and scraped, cut and clipped, the more the changeling laughed.
“Enough,” LeFel finally said. Then, to the boy, “You will lure the witch from her home.”
The changeling nodded, somber as an undertaker.
“Bring the witch to where Mr. Shunt waits for her.”
The changeling nodded again, then hopped out of the coffin, landing spryly on his feet.
That was no child standing in the middle of the floor. Even though it was the perfect image of the boy, from tousled hair to scuffed feet.
“See that she thinks you the lost child. Weep for her, laugh for her. Fear for her,” LeFel said. “And do not fail me.”
LeFel turned to Mr. Shunt. “You will take the dog with you to catch up the witch. I will not have this night end without the witch at my feet.”
Mr. Shunt bowed again and clicked his tongue. The changeling skipped up beside him. Mr. Shunt glided toward the door, the changeling at his heels, tearing holes in its shirtsleeves, pinching its own arms while it hummed a soft song to itself.
And then the Strange and the flesh and gear boy were out the door and gone.
Shard LeFel carefully placed all the shavings that had fallen from the making of the boy, all the splinters of bone, wood, and metal, into the swaddling, then tied it in a tight knot. This dark devising was best not to be left where even a stray breeze could stir it. He closed the coffin, set the latches, and returned the whole thing to the cupboard.
Shard LeFel walked over to the black coffin door in the center of the room. He dared run a single finger over the edge of the door, constructed by the Strange, bathed in the blood of a hundred sacrifices. He dared dream again of the moment he had waited three hundred years for. Death of the wolf, the boy, and the witch would open this door beneath the waning moon, and the Holder would see that his passage was clear.
He would be home.
Soon. So soon he could taste the need for it on the back of his throat.
He lifted his finger away from the door and instead pulled a silk kerchief out of his cuff. He wiped the kerchief over his lips, again and again, trying to blot up the hunger, the need.
“Soon,” he breathed. He turned and hooked the lantern with his cane, then slipped out of the carriage, locking the door, and his only way home, behind him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Cedar ran. The night coursed by him, through him. His claws punctured dirt, tearing, rending the earth with each stride. The mountain thrummed with life, with movement, with living things that should be dying things. The need to kill rolled over him in a hot wave.
No. He had to find the boy. Cedar pulled against the beast, against instinct that leaned a hand over his throat.
The beast whispered: Track. Kill. Devour.
Cedar focused on the boy. Clung to that one goal to drown out the blood need. Repeated it like he was repenting a sin. Track the boy. Hunt the boy. Find the boy.
The beast twisted against his hold. Snarled at his thoughts, his litany. It was all Cedar could do to think through the hunger, to remember a need that was not bent by fang and claw.
Save the boy.
He followed jagged jackrabbit trails through the brush across the fields. The boy was not here. Not on this mountain. Not in these hills, nowhere near enough for the wind to bring him his scent.
Town. The tuning fork slapped against his chest as he ran, a single pure tone humming in beat with his footfalls, music only his keen ears could hear. The Strange were here. Not near, but close enough the tuning fork whispered of their presence.
Kill.
Cedar stumbled as the blood need pressed against his hold.
No, he thought, taking back control. He would find the boy.
The wind rose as night deepened, dragging cold fingers through his thick fur and prickling against his skin. He shivered at the invitation, the freedom, the rightness of the night around him. No chains to hold him down. No locks to keep him caged. He could run forever and belong only to the night.
The boy, Cedar thought.
He was at the edge of the town now, and slowed. The press of humans living too near one another wove a thick blanket of odors. Softly, carefully, through patches of shadow and moonlight, he crept into town.
The blacksmith’s shop beneath the water clock tower was dark and stank of coal. He didn’t like coming so near the shop and tower. The slosh of water, ratchet and clatter of gears, stink of oil and grime, were too much. There were too many smells, too many noises to hide the sound of killing things, of footsteps, of bullets slid into chambers, of breath caught before a finger squeezed a trigger.
This was no place to hunt. This was a place to be killed.
Cedar stopped, fighting his dual nature.
Instinct said run.
Reason held strong to one thing only: Find the boy.
Cedar reined in his fear and made his way along the edge of a split-wood fence, then the side of the street to the Gregors’ shop. The stink of ash and metal and grease stung his nose and fouled all other scents. He took two cautious sniffs, then crept around the back of the shop.
He could smell the sweat and booze of the blacksmith here, the second sugary scent of his wife, and other people he needn’t name. His mouth watered. The overwhelming need for blood washed through his veins, took over his thoughts.
Cedar held against it, though he knew he could not hold for long. He sniffed the ground, working his way closer to the house. The beast was gaining strength the longer he denied the hunger. Quickly. He needed to find Elbert’s trail quickly.
The boy’s scent was strongest here, though still faint. The child had been gone too long, his scent rubbed away by other living things.
Cedar stood on his back legs, paws on the lower windowsill, nose at the wall.
The silver tuning fork swung forward and rapped the wood.
The single sweet note soured with the song of the Strange, too loud in the night, too loud in his ears, twisting in harmonies that made him want to growl.
The song was thick in the air. The Strange had been here. He sniffed for the Strange’s scent and found it, an oily earthiness and rot, and beneath that, the faintest scent of the boy.
The Strange had taken the boy, covered the boy’s scent, carried the boy. And he knew which way they had gone.
Cedar dropped back to all fours and turned, muscles bunched to run, to howl, to hunt. To kill.
A figure across the street paused. “Mr. Hunt?” a voice called softly.
Cedar froze. Man and beast warred. Man won.