winding down while leather bellows wheezed out the last of the air it had been pumping into her lungs.
The Strange had made her. Or remade her.
The girl fell sideways. A metal key stuck out of her back. A small key made of tin that ground to a stop like a music box striking the last tine.
“Mr. Hunt?” It was Rose, come into the room.
“Rose!” Cedar called. “Don’t!”
But it was too late. The key stopped moving. Touching the girl had sprung the Strange trap. He’d set off some kind of trigger set deep within her. A trigger that sparked a short fuse.
Cedar was on his feet, running, throwing himself to shield Rose. They tumbled out the door, but the explosion was immense. The kitchen, the mother, and the girl flew into bits. A barrage of flesh andbone and wood rained down around them where they lay out in the mud. His leather duster shielded him from the worst of it.
But Rose was not so lucky. The tin key arrowed into her left shoulder and burrowed in deep. She yelled, and her eyes went wide before they rolled back in her head.
“Rose?” Cedar lifted up off her. She was breathing, fast and shallow, but she did not come to. There was too much blood. Her blood.
He needed Mae. Needed to get that bit of metal out of her. Needed medicines and stitching and herbs.
Cedar swept Rose up into his arms, his heart drumming hard.
A sound behind him made him turn.
Even in the darkness, the mess of blood and flesh from the explosion was startling.
But not as startling as the dead mother who lay on the ground and shuddered. Something—no, not something; the Strange, ghostlike with too many eyes, too many mouths, too many arms—pulled up from the ground beneath her and slipped inside her like a man shrugs into an ill-fitted shirt.
The mother stopped shaking. Then she sat straight up, and got to her feet.
Her ruined face twisted in inhuman glee as she limped toward Cedar. “Hunter,” she exhaled.
Cedar had seen the Strange wear the dead once before. Didn’t know how they did it. Didn’t have time to question. But he knew they were damn hard to kill.
He shifted his hold on Miss Small and drew his gun. He unloaded three bullets straight into the mother’s heart.
And still she kept coming.
He couldn’t fight with Rose in his arms, and he was not about to put her down. So he strode to the center of the town.
“Madders!” he yelled as he jogged toward the fire. “We have a problem.”
As he rounded the last house before the clearing, he saw that the pile of dead bodies they’d so carefully stacked up was now much less carefully unstacking itself.
The dead were rising. Strange slinking down out of the hills and up into bodies to try them on for size.
Vicinity’s townfolk rose up with the look of murder in their eyes. And started toward him.
CHAPTER FOUR
C aptain Hink leaned out the port door, holding the dead man’s grip just inside the
Swift.
Here amid the clouds and freeze, the wind slapped across the tip of Beggar’s Peak and chuffed against the
Swift,
making her bob like a cork in a tub.
Not many ships were small enough or fast enough to hide here. It took some tight maneuvering to slip into this notch of rock and snow. But for the ship that could sling it, the tight wedge of stone just north, and the outcropping here, were enough to shelter from the worst of winter’s howl.
For a short time, at least.
He’d ordered them to throw anchor and bank the boiler. He wanted quiet and he wanted still. There wasn’t a wisp of steam to give them away, not a click of gear or pump of propeller.
Molly had seen to it that even Guffin was sitting still and keeping his mouth shut—no mean feat.
The
Swift
was as invisible as a frog’s eyelash.
Captain Hink pressed the brass telescope to the darkened lens of his goggles and closed his left eye to better see the edge of the rocks and cliffs around them. Stump Station was just east a ways. If there was a ship taking to the skies, if there was pursuit,
The Strange had made her. Or remade her.
The girl fell sideways. A metal key stuck out of her back. A small key made of tin that ground to a stop like a music box striking the last tine.
“Mr. Hunt?” It was Rose, come into the room.
“Rose!” Cedar called. “Don’t!”
But it was too late. The key stopped moving. Touching the girl had sprung the Strange trap. He’d set off some kind of trigger set deep within her. A trigger that sparked a short fuse.
Cedar was on his feet, running, throwing himself to shield Rose. They tumbled out the door, but the explosion was immense. The kitchen, the mother, and the girl flew into bits. A barrage of flesh andbone and wood rained down around them where they lay out in the mud. His leather duster shielded him from the worst of it.
But Rose was not so lucky. The tin key arrowed into her left shoulder and burrowed in deep. She yelled, and her eyes went wide before they rolled back in her head.
“Rose?” Cedar lifted up off her. She was breathing, fast and shallow, but she did not come to. There was too much blood. Her blood.
He needed Mae. Needed to get that bit of metal out of her. Needed medicines and stitching and herbs.
Cedar swept Rose up into his arms, his heart drumming hard.
A sound behind him made him turn.
Even in the darkness, the mess of blood and flesh from the explosion was startling.
But not as startling as the dead mother who lay on the ground and shuddered. Something—no, not something; the Strange, ghostlike with too many eyes, too many mouths, too many arms—pulled up from the ground beneath her and slipped inside her like a man shrugs into an ill-fitted shirt.
The mother stopped shaking. Then she sat straight up, and got to her feet.
Her ruined face twisted in inhuman glee as she limped toward Cedar. “Hunter,” she exhaled.
Cedar had seen the Strange wear the dead once before. Didn’t know how they did it. Didn’t have time to question. But he knew they were damn hard to kill.
He shifted his hold on Miss Small and drew his gun. He unloaded three bullets straight into the mother’s heart.
And still she kept coming.
He couldn’t fight with Rose in his arms, and he was not about to put her down. So he strode to the center of the town.
“Madders!” he yelled as he jogged toward the fire. “We have a problem.”
As he rounded the last house before the clearing, he saw that the pile of dead bodies they’d so carefully stacked up was now much less carefully unstacking itself.
The dead were rising. Strange slinking down out of the hills and up into bodies to try them on for size.
Vicinity’s townfolk rose up with the look of murder in their eyes. And started toward him.
CHAPTER FOUR
C aptain Hink leaned out the port door, holding the dead man’s grip just inside the
Swift.
Here amid the clouds and freeze, the wind slapped across the tip of Beggar’s Peak and chuffed against the
Swift,
making her bob like a cork in a tub.
Not many ships were small enough or fast enough to hide here. It took some tight maneuvering to slip into this notch of rock and snow. But for the ship that could sling it, the tight wedge of stone just north, and the outcropping here, were enough to shelter from the worst of winter’s howl.
For a short time, at least.
He’d ordered them to throw anchor and bank the boiler. He wanted quiet and he wanted still. There wasn’t a wisp of steam to give them away, not a click of gear or pump of propeller.
Molly had seen to it that even Guffin was sitting still and keeping his mouth shut—no mean feat.
The
Swift
was as invisible as a frog’s eyelash.
Captain Hink pressed the brass telescope to the darkened lens of his goggles and closed his left eye to better see the edge of the rocks and cliffs around them. Stump Station was just east a ways. If there was a ship taking to the skies, if there was pursuit,
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