Dead Iron by Monk Devon

Author:Monk, Devon [Monk, Devon]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Roc
Published: 2011-07-04T21:00:00+00:00

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.

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