Revenge and the Wild

by Michelle Modesto

  Westie’s throat balled up with emotion. It wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. She struggled to swallow her mouthful of food. As often as she’d disappointed him over the years, it was hard for her to believe he truly cared for her. She’d often wondered if he wished he’d never brought her back from the Wintu village.

  “You are my child,” Nigel said. “Parents should never outlive their children. Don’t frighten me like that again.”

  Westie shook her head. “I won’t. I promise.”

  Twenty

  Three days passed before the effects of vampire blood poisoning finally wore off. Westie crawled out of bed and stretched, spine popping, making a sound like dragging a stick across a picket fence. It was the first time she’d been out of bed since being home.

  After a bath, she stepped out of her room and was met by the dim chatter of conversation. When she got to the bottom of the stairs, she nearly ran into a rotund man in a white baker’s cap wheeling out a cart of flour and sugar.

  “Whoa,” she said, dancing away just in time to avoid the collision. “What’s that stuff for?”

  He had streaks of flour across his face and dots of sugar absorbing his sweat. When he noticed her mechanical arm, his eyes widened and he took a step back. “Ingredients for a cake, miss,” he said with a wobble of fear in his voice.

  “Where are you going with them?”

  “I’m taking them back to the bakery, since the party has been canceled.”

  Canceled? No. The panic of missing out on a perfect opportunity made her heart speed up. How else was she to learn more about the Fairfields without it being obvious she was snooping? The party had to happen, even if she had to drag people by the scruff of the neck and lock them inside.

  “Take the cart back to the kitchen. The party isn’t canceled,” she said.

  “But—”

  Westie balled her copper hand into a fist. “Put. It. Back.”

  His eyes opened wider. “Yes, miss.”

  Others were leaving the house as well. She sent them back inside, including a pretty female elf who’d made clever clockwork invitations that opened with a push of a button.

  “Make two more, please,” Westie said. “Address them to James Lovett and the Fairfields, and send them to the inn by telegraph bird at once—Nigel will pay extra.”

  The house was swarming with workers packing their things and preparing to leave. She found Nigel and Alistair in the dining room, overseeing the exodus.

  Alistair pointed wordlessly at the hired staff. Westie watched the serving girls as they stole glances Alistair’s way and whispered. Some giggled. It was obvious that without his mask, he intrigued more than frightened the fairer sex. She found herself staring at him too and had to admit that the handkerchief made him look mysterious. How anyone could find Alistair frightening was confusing to her. His beautiful eyes gave him away. They were trustworthy eyes.

  “Why are you canceling my party?” Westie demanded.

  Nigel tugged at his shirt and smiled. “Good to see you up and around. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine. Why are you canceling my party?” she repeated.

  Nigel adjusted his top hat. He wore loose trousers and a gussied-up smoking jacket even though the heat of hell had risen to the earth’s surface that day. “I wasn’t sure you’d feel up to a party, and since you don’t like them to begin with, or people for that matter, I didn’t think you’d mind the cancelation. You weren’t supposed to know about it anyway, but Alley told me Isabelle had informed you. I should’ve known the Johanssons couldn’t keep it under their hats.”

  “Well, I do mind. I already told everyone I know about it.”

  “You know five people and three of them are in this house.”

  Westie frowned. “Isabelle told everyone she knew. I’ll look like a fool if I have to tell folks there won’t be a party.”

  “You’ve never cared about looking like a fool before.” He tucked his hands into his pockets and lifted his chin, looking down at her. “You’re up to something.”

  “Am not.”

  “Yes, you are.” His voice rose. “No doubt it has something to do with the Fairfields.”

  Westie shook her head, focusing on the cleft in his chin to keep her eyes from shifting so he wouldn’t see through her deceit.

  “Do I look stupid to you?” he asked.

  “Do you really want me to answer that?”

  He growled at her.

  “All right,” she said. “I just want to observe the Fairfields, is all.”

  His back straightened. “Absolutely not. Besides, they wouldn’t have shown anyway; they were never invited.”

  “Well, they are now. The invitations have already been sent.”

  “What?” Nigel’s voice echoed in the room. Workers stopped what they were doing to stare.

  She shrugged.

  He twisted the tips of his mustache. “Dammit, Westie.”

  “I’ll be on my best behavior, promise.”

  His shoulders wilted. “I’ve heard that before.”

  “I mean it this time.”

  Alistair cut in, hands moving to sign, Everything has already been paid for. Might as well. Westie held back a smile when he glanced at her. And we’ll all be there to make sure things don’t get out of hand.

  “Oh, fine,” Nigel said. “We’ll have the party, but you must promise that you won’t drink. Not even a single sip of wine.”

  Westie cupped her hand over her mouth. The mention of alcohol stirred her stomach. “You have my word.”

  He started to walk away, then paused. He was as tall as he was brilliant and had to bend so their eyes were level. “You stay out of trouble.”

  Alistair watched Nigel leave, then turned his curious gaze on her. His hands started to move in familiar motions.

  I vouched for you. If you’re planning on doing something stupid, it’s my ass too, he signed.

  Westie’s signing was rusty, but she understood well enough.

  “Relax,” she said. “I just want to watch them.”

  So you do remember hand language after all.

  She signed back, No, I don’t, and walked away.

  Westie went to her room for a nap. When she got there, she found her oak wardrobe open and her dress for the ball hanging inside. Nigel must have put it in there while she was talking to Alistair.

  She lifted the dress carefully, peeled back the protective shroud it was encased in. It was white silk with black velvet trimming and pearl buttons, and was covered in lace wherever it had a chance to be plain. She imagined the smile on Nigel’s face—no, the smirk—when he’d had the dress made and hung in her closet.

  “Ick,” she said when she hung it back up. It was a dress for a Southern belle. Her cannibal friends might mistake her for a sweet cake and eat her alive, wearing a dress like that.

  Twenty-One

  After her nap, Westie went to the barn to saddle Henry. A horse snorted behind her just as she noticed Alistair’s mare wasn’t in her stall. Westie closed her eyes and shook her head. Alistair seemed to know every move she made before she even thought to make it.

  She adjusted the stirrups on her saddle without looking at him and said, “I thought you were planning the party.”

  There was no reply. She’d forgotten Alistair was still without his mask. She didn’t bother to face him so they could try and communicate. She knew well enough that he meant to babysit her.

  He followed several feet behind as she made her way into town. When they neared the assay office, a horseless coach stumbled into view. It was made of black metal with gold accents and had smoke pouring from its stacks. Red velvet curtains covered its windows. It looked exactly like a traditional stagecoach, only with four pointed metal legs on each side.

  Pulling Henry closer to the assay building, out of harm’s way, Westie watched as the coach tilted and swayed like a drunken spider. It crushed watering troughs and anything else in its way until finally coming to a stop aft
er hitting a beam outside the post office. The beam snapped in half, causing the awning to sag.

  Westie’s mouth fell open as Isabelle stepped out of the coach, adjusting her skirts. She looked at Westie with a frown. “When did they put that beam in front of the post office?”

  Westie swallowed back laughter. “When they built the town.”

  Isabelle giggled. “Oops.”

  “When did you get that?” Westie asked as she moved closer to get a better look at the coach.

  There were brass levers and buttons all over the driver’s cabin. Children and small animals beware, Westie thought as she imagined Isabelle trying to figure out what they were all used for.

  “My parents bought it for me when I told them your coming-out ball would be more extravagant than mine was.”

  Westie had stayed at Isabelle’s coming-out party only long enough to prove she was there before disappearing into the servants’ quarters for a game of poker, but she did remember fireworks and the gaudy white coach drawn by a team of pure-white draft horses that brought Isabelle to the house. If Westie’s party was more extravagant than that, she’d have a bone to pick with Nigel.

  “I was surprised to get your telegraph bird,” Isabelle said. She gazed at Alistair in the distance as though he were in her crosshairs. “You know that thing crashed right through my window, nearly frightened me half to death.”

  Westie imagined Isabelle flailing her arms, her hair in curlers, and smiled.

  “Sorry for the short notice.”

  “Honestly, the bird wasn’t what shocked me the most. It was you being serious about wanting to go shopping for a dress. I don’t think I’ve ever known you to buy a single thing that didn’t have a blade. Does this mean Nigel finally told you about your party?”

  “He told me.”

  Westie mopped the sweat from her forehead, squinting against the light that filtered through the trees. Heat made opaque waves in the distance.

  “Well, I’m glad you called on me. Shopping for a dress with the debutante will be so much fun!”

  Westie sighed inwardly. “I reckon I ought to find a dress I like rather than that thing Nigel hung in my closet.”

  “Don’t you think you’re cutting it a little close to the party?”

  Westie shrugged.

  “Why did you have to bring him?” Isabelle hooked a thumb in Alistair’s direction.

  “I didn’t. He followed me.” Both girls watched Alistair. A loose smile formed on Westie’s lips as he fidgeted in his saddle from the attention. Even at a distance she could see his forehead blush. His Irish skin always gave him away.

  “His head seems better,” Isabelle said. “I take it the vampire blood worked.”

  “Better than I could’ve imagined.”

  Westie’s smile quickly faded when she saw Cain Fairfield strolling along the sidewalk across the street, browsing through store windows. Alistair tied his horse to a post and stepped up next to her.

  “There’s Cain Fairfield,” Isabelle said.

  “Sure is an ugly cuss, don’t you think?” Westie said, hoping that someone else’s low opinion of Cain might change Isabelle’s.

  Isabelle shrugged. “Yes, but look how well he wears that jacket.”

  Cain looked at them and tipped his hat. Westie stiffened. Isabelle smiled bashfully and waved a gloved hand at him.

  Taking Isabelle by the elbow, Westie ushered her away from Cain before they were forced to talk to him. “Come on, we’ve got a dress to find.”

  “I think I like this new you, talking boys and shopping. Does this mean I can stop pretending to care when you tell me about your new weapons?” Isabelle said with a teasing smile and a hop in her step.

  “You’ve been acting this whole time?” Westie said, feigning shock. “Well, since we’re faking it, let’s pretend I want to be here shopping with you.”

  Isabelle laughed, knocking her shoulder against Westie until they both nearly fell in the street.

  For Westie, shopping with Isabelle Johansson proved more taxing than it was worth. The girl had introduced Westie to every clothing vendor new to Rogue City, including a succubus who offered to make Westie a beautiful gown made of human skin. With a polite “No, thank you,” the girls took off running.

  Alistair caught up with Westie and Isabelle at the general store after lagging behind. He wore a black handkerchief, which made him look like a proper bandit.

  When Isabelle went into the general store, Westie pulled Alistair to the side. “Why are you so eager to go shopping with us?” she said. “You fancy Isabelle?” She wished she could see his mouth, for his eyes gave nothing away.

  A poster was glued to one of the gasolier posts outside the general store. Westie pulled it off and started nervously picking at its edges. The poster had a picture of President Pierce, with a reminder that harming creatures was illegal. Someone had drawn a profane sketch of a creature next to the president’s face and had written Creature lover beside it.

  She turned her back on him. “Never mind.” If he cared for Isabelle, she didn’t want to know.

  He took Westie by the shoulders, forcing her to face him, and signed, I fancy Isabelle the way a snail fancies a block of salt. I promised Nigel I wouldn’t let you out of my sight, but I’m bored. Can we go home?

  It was difficult reading his hands with his mouth covered up. A lot of signing had to do with facial expressions, but she understood him for the most part.

  “Does he think I’ll end up with my face planted in a pool of vomit at the Tight Ship?”

  Alistair shook his head. If I had to take a guess, I’d say his distrust has something to do with the Fairfields. He finds your eagerness for this party worrisome. And I have to admit, so do I.

  He and Nigel had every right to be concerned. If she was in a room with the family who killed her own, there was no telling what her emotions might force her to do, but she was willing to take the chance if it meant learning their secrets.

  Isabelle called Westie into the store, dragging her over to the fabrics in the back. Westie was eyeing a swatch of white silk when bells chimed over the door.

  “Oh look,” Isabelle said, “it’s Lavina and Olive Fairfield.”

  Westie whipped around, nearly knocking over a shelf of flour. She held her body against the wooden case to steady it, but when it continued to wobble, she realized it was she who trembled. She watched Lavina and her sour whelp walk up to the front counter, where the clerk smiled with his moon-shaped face. Westie sought out Alistair and met his gaze with a silent plea.

  Alistair rushed toward her, grabbed her by the machine, and tugged her to a crouch behind the bolts of fabric stacked near the wall. If one didn’t know better, one might think the two were lovers looking to be alone.

  Isabelle squatted beside them. “What in blazes are you doing?”

  Westie’s thoughts buzzed in her ears. She didn’t know how to explain her actions to Isabelle. She wished for Alistair’s quick lies, but without a voice, he was of no assistance to her.

  “Have you ever had a conversation with Lavina Fairfield?” Westie asked.

  Isabelle thought about it. “No, I can’t say that I have.”

  “Pray you never do. That woman’s got more lip than a muley cow. She’ll talk your ear clean off, and she will . . . she will . . .” Westie couldn’t think of a single thing to follow.

  Isabelle smiled, all gums and tiny square teeth. She wasn’t so much beautiful as she was cute, which gave her an innocent quality that boys and men alike adored.

  “Don’t be silly,” Isabelle said. “Lavina has wonderful taste in fashion. She could be most helpful—”

  Westie yanked Isabelle down when she tried to stand. Isabelle’s smile was gone, replaced with an unbecoming scowl. “What has gotten into you? I swear the two of you become odder as the years pass. Before you know it, you’ll be holed up in Nigel’s strange mansion and people will whisper rumors about you like Mrs. Shelley’s monster.”

  “I
’m dressed in rags.” Westie waved a hand, bringing Isabelle’s attention to her outfit, the same clothes she’d worn that morning to feed and brush the horses. “I’m not fit for an audience with someone like Lavina Fairfield.” Not that she actually cared what Lavina thought of her attire. It was just her attempt at avoiding the woman. After her last encounter with Lavina, Westie had sat in the doc’s office, gnawing on a piece of devil’s claw root to get rid of her headache. It had taken hours for her knees to stop shaking.

  “Please. You are Nigel Butler’s adopted daughter. She will not mistake you for common.”

  When Isabelle tried to stand again, Westie grabbed the girl’s fingers with her machine and squeezed. She knew by the shocked look on Isabelle’s face that she had read the threat.

  Westie was stormed with guilt about using force against such a fragile thing as Isabelle, but she was given no choice.

  “I’m sorry, Isabelle. Please forgive me,” Westie said. Isabelle yanked her hand back, rubbing her fingers. “If we can avoid Lavina just this once, I’ll give you the white French dress I wore at the airdocks.”

  Isabelle watched her, the fear in her eyes leaking away. “You ruined that dress during your seizure.”

  “Not ruined. Nigel sent it in for mending. It’s good as new, maybe even better. I’ll send for my own personal dressmaker to fit it to your body just right. It’s far richer than anything you’ll find in Rogue City.”

  Isabelle looked up in thought, the gears in her head turning like clockwork. “I don’t know . . .” It felt like an eternity while Isabelle swished the idea around. Each second she spent thinking, Lavina drew nearer. Westie couldn’t remember a time when her friend had been more tiresome. “Everyone has seen you in that dress before.”

  “Then we’ll change it. We’ll add embellishments of pink velvet and jewels on the bodice.” That perked Isabelle up. Westie continued in hopes of sealing the deal. “And you can wear my gold-and-diamond earrings you love so much.”

  “I don’t know . . . ,” Isabelle said again, twisting a strand of her hair. “I think the bronze owls will go better with a dress like that.”