Revenge and the Wild (16 page)

After getting through her dance with Cain, Westie was confident she could handle his father. She fished the key from her bodice and clutched it in her hand as she made her way to the Fairfields’ table, where Hubbard and Lavina sipped glasses of wine.

“Lavina, I’m so grateful you could make it to my party,” she said with a practiced smile. Lavina stiffened when Westie bent to hug her. Westie took the opportunity to slip the key back into Lavina’s handbag.

Once released from their embrace, Lavina relaxed and looked genuinely happy about the interaction. She wore a gorgeous blue gown with a floral bustle so large it practically required its own chair.

“It’s we who should be grateful. I’m surprised you would even want us here after the way the boys behaved in the general store,” Lavina said.

Westie shrugged. “Boys will be boys.”

Lavina chuckled at that and seemed to relax.

“I believe it’s time for me to steal your husband away for our dance.”

Lavina looked at Hubbard, then back at Westie, shedding some of the cheerfulness she’d been putting on, replacing it with confusion. “You want to dance with Hubbard?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

Westie was sure Lavina knew exactly who she was, but if Lavina thought Westie didn’t remember them, she might let her guard down over time. What better way to feign cluelessness than to dance with the man who’d cut off her arm?

Trying not to quiver, Westie took Hubbard by the hand and led him to the dance floor. He was not as copper-shy as his son and was a fair dancer. What she first thought were pockmarks on his face looked to be scars upon closer inspection, like something—or someone—had gouged at his skin with their nails.

“So,” Westie said. She was getting much better at her forced smiles. “You’re a lovely dancer. What a relief. After dancing with Nigel, I’m lucky to still have use of my feet.”

Grunting in reply and leaning back, Hubbard seemed to want to dance with her as much as she wanted to with him.

He had a permanent scowl that dug lines into the corners of his mouth. Thick brows grew together in the middle, making it difficult to see the deep-set hazel eyes lurking beneath. Seeing his eyes up close again was like looking through a filthy window into her past. They
reminded her of being in the cabin, her breath in her ears, his heavy footsteps behind her as she ran. Candles shed just enough light for her to see the clothes, blood, and bones of her traveling companions behind the butcher block when she ran into the kitchen. And then she turned, seeing those eyes, the look of absolute indifference, as if killing her would be no different from shooting a wild rabbit for their supper. Then she remembered the screaming.

“Westie!”

Someone shouting her name pulled her from her memories. She looked down, confused at first as she saw Hubbard on the ground, his hand crushed between her metal fingers.

“Westie, let him go!” Nigel shouted.

The music had stopped. Everyone watched her.

Dropping his hand, she jumped back. “Oh God,” she breathed.

Lavina and her children rushed to Hubbard’s side, their accusing eyes reaching out to her.

“What have you done?” Nigel said, more to himself than to her.

“I’m sorry,” Westie pleaded, afraid she’d blown her plan and any chance she might have had at learning their secrets. “It’s this damned machine. I—I—can’t always control it.”

Hubbard had a voice like a coffee grinder. “I’m all right,” he said, letting Nigel haul him to his feet with his good hand. He tested his fingers to make sure they still worked, pain twisting his lips. After some stretching, they seemed to be fine.

Westie was shocked to see his smile, sharp as a scythe. It started at his lips and stretched until reaching his eyes. “If Emma works near
as good as that mechanical arm does, then you best believe you have my investment.”

He began to laugh, exposing chipped yellow teeth. The sound reached across the room to the dark corner where the antisocial vamps were sipping flutes of blood. Costin looked at her with a raised brow.

Nigel forced a smile, sweat dribbling down his temple. “Wonderful.” He turned to Westie and gave her a
we’ll talk about this later
look before walking away.

After the party, Westie knocked on Alistair’s bedroom door but didn’t wait for an invite before barging in.

“Did you get the mold?” she said.

He sat on his bed, his clothes wrinkled, holding up a piece of dried clay with the impression of a key stamped into the middle of it.

“All we need to do is take it to the foundry and have the key made.” The metallic screeching that had once accompanied his words was gone now that his mask was repaired, and the hum of his breath was less noticeable too.

“Where’s Bena?”

“Here.” The voice in Westie’s ear caused her to jump.

“Sonofabitch,” she said, and grabbed her chest. “Bena, stop scaring me like that!”

Bena replied with a smile.

“Now what?” Alistair said.

“Now we wait for an opportunity to break in. Do you think
Nigel fell for your angry act about me being seated next to James?” Westie said to Alistair.

“He bought it,” Bena answered for him as she casually flipped through the pages of a medical book on Alistair’s dresser. “If there’s one thing that Nigel knows will get under Alley’s skin, it’s a handsome boy like James Lovett looking after you.”

Westie and Alistair blushed equally, as if a blood main that connected them had burst.

Westie cleared her throat. “Thank you for your help, Bena. You’re always putting yourself on the line for me.”

“I want those people caught as much as you do,” Bena said, touching her arm. “I’ve seen what they’re capable of.”

Westie woke to an uproar of men’s voices and baying hounds. It was early morning, still dark, the air colder now that fall was near. The ruckus hadn’t fully penetrated her consciousness until she heard Jezebel pawing at the door, cutting deep valleys into the wood.

“Hold on,” she told the worried chupacabra as she slipped into her dressing gown and house shoes.

The moment Westie opened the door, Jezebel shot out of the room and downstairs. Westie walked out onto the catwalk above the grand entrance. A stream of men flowed beneath her, weaving around one another like worms during a rainstorm, holding guns from Nigel’s armory.

Alistair slid into the maelstrom from the dining room with his revolvers on his hips.

“Alley,” she called to him. He didn’t hear her, and there was no way she would reach him before he made it to the door.

Nigel was behind him. He looked up just as she was about to call his name. He pushed through the crowd and took the stairs two steps a time to get to her. It seemed every man in Rogue City was in their house. The place had turned into some kind of headquarters while she slept.

She ran to meet him at the top of the stairs. “What’s happening?” she asked.

Concern made a ledge of his brow. “Isabelle is missing.”

“Missing?” Westie said. “How could Isabelle be missing? She was just at my party.”

“Her mother sent a telegraph bird saying Isabelle never made it home from the ball, and her coach is still here,” Nigel told her.

Westie remembered seeing Isabelle’s parents leave before the food was brought out, and Isabelle complaining when they’d told her to be home by ten. Westie looked around as if she might find her friend hidden among the men below.

“She was mad the last time I saw her. Maybe she went for air,” she said.

Westie shook herself awake. Her brain had clearly slept in after her body got out of bed. For a moment she thought the theory made sense, but she knew Isabelle better than that. She was more likely to gather her hens and cast nasty rumors about Westie to ease her pain
than to walk it off. Isabelle wasn’t the walking kind.

“Not at all hours of the night,” Nigel said.

“I’m getting dressed. I’ll help you find her.”

If Isabelle’s disappearance was some game she was playing for sympathy, Westie meant to give the girl a bite of copper.

Westie checked Isabelle’s walking coach first. The metal legs on each side were folded beneath it, making it easier for a woman to get in and out wearing full skirts. Obviously it hadn’t moved since the party. There had been a light rain during the night, enough to dampen the ground, but the patch of dirt beneath the coach was still dry.

Westie raced her horse to catch up with Alistair. She found him following a stream near the river. She slowed, checking to see if her parasol was in the saddle holster as Nigel had said it would be. It was. She also found comfort in the rifle slung across her back, even though she was a terrible shot.

She told herself Isabelle would be all right, they would find her. The Fairfields weren’t crazy enough to kill a pharmacist’s daughter right under their noses. She repeated the thought over and over again until she almost believed it.

“Isabelle is fine. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation for where she is, which will most likely involve a boy,” Alistair assured her.

They rode a mile downstream. Hounds sang their sorrowful song behind them. Werewolves pitched in. They were still in human form, but their noses were better than any dog’s. They looked under
every rock, and behind every tree, and still they found nothing. Isabelle could’ve been anywhere.

“Westie!” she heard someone shout from the woods.

She thought it was Nigel at first until she realized the rider had no accent. And his horse was clumsily splashing over the slick rocky stream—definitely not Nigel.

“James,” Westie said when he emerged. She and Alistair shared a glance, for James was a direct link to the Fairfields. “What in damned hell are you doing out here? You don’t know these woods—you could get lost.”

He was short of breath, as though it were he who had been running instead of his pampered city horse. “I heard people shouting, saying a girl was missing. I had to make sure it wasn’t you.”

He was coated in sweat, his skin the color of an overcast morning.

“It’s Isabelle—she’s gone.”

“You already knew that, though, didn’t you?” Alistair said.

“Alley,” Westie warned. If James knew they suspected the Fairfields, it could ruin everything.

James’s face was pinched with confusion. “How would I know that? I just told you I didn’t know who the missing girl was.”

“You look like you’re fixing to unload the chuck wagon,” Westie cut in. “Are you all right?”

His face had turned a sickly shade of green, and his lips were pale as death.

He leaned over, vomiting down the side of his horse. Westie
lifted her lamp, then quickly turned away when she saw the mess he’d made. The sweet, rancid smell of stomach acid made her head swim. She was afraid she’d be the next link in a chain reaction.

“How much did you drink at the ball, man?” Alistair’s eyes were slivers, and he made gagging sounds under his mask.

Westie didn’t recall James drinking anything but a flute of champagne at the party, but then again she’d had other distractions.

James wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his sack coat, looking embarrassed.

“Too much.”

“Might want to get back inside the bubble if you’re not feeling well,” Westie said. “Creatures pick off the sick ones first. There’s nothing anyone can do if they carry you away.”

James looked at her like a frightened child. “I thought creatures couldn’t take anyone against their will within the confines of the Indian ward.”

“They can’t,” she said. “But we’re not inside the ward. See those blue trees over there?” She lifted her lamp to show him. “Those are the markers of magic. You need to stay inside those lines.”

“Oh, I see. That’s good to know.”

Westie and Alistair led James back to the safety of the Wintu ward. The color had started to come back to his cheeks. Westie was about to inquire further about his health when she heard hooves beating the ground, heading straight for them. A lamp swung in the distance, the light making it look as though the trees were dancing.

Nigel burst from the gloom with Bena close behind him. “The
wolves picked up her scent,” he said. His hand shook so violently, Westie was afraid he would drop the lamp and burn down the forest.

“Where?” she said.

“Follow me.”

They rode hard. She hoped James and his clumsy horse could keep up or they would have to send out a second party to find him later.

They followed the wolves toward the river, deep into the brush. Ahead, a spot of color on a low-hanging branch caught the light. Westie pulled her horse to the side to avoid a collision with other riders and grabbed the swatch, rubbing the fabric between her fingers. The patch was a red piece of silk chiffon like the dress Isabelle had been wearing. The scrap she’d found was riding height, meaning Isabelle had been on horseback. Westie juggled the scenarios. She wanted to keep an open mind, if only to make herself feel better about the situation. Maybe Isabelle had taken a horse and it had gotten away from her. The girl couldn’t ride anything wilder than a wheelchair. Westie didn’t want to believe the Fairfields would be so bold as to kill her friend. She couldn’t deny the possibility either.

“Here!” someone shouted nearby. “She’s over here.”

Westie dug her heels into her horse’s sides, hoping they would find Isabelle cold and scared but otherwise unharmed. When Westie neared the scene, she knew that was not the case. Her light caught slashes of red like cave paintings all around her, smears of blood against rocks and trees. A howl cut through the silent tension. She thought it had come from a werewolf at first, but it wasn’t the sound
of any lycanthrope. Westie slid off Henry’s back, held the reins in a trembling hand. She could hear the preacher’s mumbled prayers under someone’s cries. When her tentative steps took her past the crowd that had gathered, she realized the howling sound had come from Isabelle’s father. He was hunched down on the ground with the preacher by his side, holding a mangled corpse, unrecognizable as human other than by the red dress it wore.

Westie had stayed home while Alistair and Nigel did the autopsy. As she waited for their return, she jabbed and hacked at a dummy with her wooden practice sword. It was all she could do to battle her pain. Her friend was dead. The last thing she’d said to Isabelle was a lie.

The armory had always been one of Westie’s favorite parts of the house. It was more like a museum, really. There were suits of armor and chain mail, polearms, lances, flails, and maces. In the middle of the floor was a pugilist’s ring and, beside it, a fencing mat. She stood on the mat, holding the sword with her machine. With a sweeping arc, she slashed down on a dummy with such force that it shattered into a thousand pieces. She was sweating and smelling none too fair when Nigel and Alistair walked in.

Nigel scanned the mess she’d made. She had destroyed all but one of the wooden practice weapons and bent the metal ones into crude sculptures. There were spears broken in two scattered across the floor, and dummies (wood and cloth alike) had been slaughtered. Westie waited for the lecture on tidiness and tranquility. It never came.

“Where’s Bena?” Westie asked.

“She went home,” Nigel said. “With the confusion about the changes in the dome and now
this
, some people in town think it’s the Wintu’s doing.”

Westie’s shoulders slumped. “What did you learn from Isabelle’s remains?” She held up the sword as if she could slash through any news she didn’t want to hear.

Alistair and Nigel both looked ragged, their hair matted with sweat and filth, their clothes askew. There was horse shit caked on their boots and blood under their nails. Nigel pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the dried blood from his face.

“The teeth marks we found on the bones were definitely human,” Alistair said.

The wooden hilt crumbled beneath Westie’s machine. Tears blurred her vision. It felt as though someone were driving nails into her heart. If that were the case, she hoped it would be nailed shut and never opened again to such pain. She turned her back on her family before they could see her tears.

Her jaw flexed. “I told you it was the Fairfields who killed my family, and now Isabelle’s dead too.”

It wasn’t the time to be laying blame, she knew. If she had a better way to stop the pain and guilt she felt, she would’ve chosen it.

Nigel hung his head. “I believe you now, Westie, and I’m sorry for ever doubting you. But we don’t have proof that it was the Fairfields themselves who killed Isabelle. You said there were cannibals on
your travels in the valley. It’s possible they made their way to Rogue City and found easy prey with Isabelle,” Nigel said.

Oh,
now
he believes me about the cannibals in the valley,
she thought.

“Again with the damn proof,” she mumbled just out of his hearing. “Who else knows about the human teeth marks on the body?”

“Only Alistair and I. I ordered Isabelle’s body sent to my surgical rooms for examination. The sheriff was with us, but I didn’t tell him my findings so he wouldn’t immediately suspect the Wintu.”

The Wintu were always blamed for everything. While she knew there were native tribes that consumed the flesh of their enemies in war rituals, it wasn’t the case with the Wintu. They were a peaceful tribe living on the river. As long as foreigners kept to themselves, they had no quarrels.

“What happens to the Wintu?” she asked.

“I told the sheriff the attack was most likely a bear,” Nigel said. “That takes the suspicion off the Wintu.”

“That’s good.” She pretended to scratch her face while she wiped away a tear. “That also leaves the townspeople vulnerable to another attack by the Fairfields.”

“There is a mandatory curfew in place until the bear is caught. Women and children are to be escorted at all times.”

Westie threw the bits of shattered hilt across the room so hard, the splinters pierced the wooden dummy carcass as though they were arrows shot from a bow.

“Everyone in Rogue City is a hostage now, and the no-good
zealous hicks of this town will be crawling all over the woods killing innocent bears because the Fairfields are a bunch of flesh-hungry gluttons.” She wanted to scream but knew if she tried she might melt into tears instead. “We should just out them and be done with it. Let the town and Isabelle’s folks do what they will with them.”

Alistair picked up a sword, inspecting the damage. He said, “There’s no evidence to prove the Fairfields killed Isabelle, and even if there was, no one would believe it. They are the wealthy kin of the Lovetts, not savages.”

No one mentioned Emma or the need for the Fairfields’ money. It would’ve been in bad taste. But the worry of losing investors was not far from Nigel’s and Alistair’s minds; she could tell by the guilty way they lowered their gazes.

“Nigel, you better get that money soon. I plan to take the Fairfields down before they get the chance to kill another one of my friends.”

“It’s not that easy,” Nigel said. “Investors don’t toss their money around willy-nilly. It’s a process.”

Westie’s lips tightened against her teeth. There was no time to sit around and wait for money. She needed to expedite the process.