Revenge and the Wild

by Michelle Modesto

  Westie seethed. Nigel had made the bronze owl earrings for her thirteenth birthday. They were her favorite.

  “Fine. You can borrow the bronze owls.”

  Isabelle’s face lit up. She crawled into their cramped space and somehow managed to keep from touching Alistair. Westie hadn’t tried so hard. She could feel his heartbeat tapping her shoulder. His hand touched the skin of her arm, raising gooseflesh despite the heat. She looked into his kind, open eyes. He stared back.

  “The little girl is coming our way,” Isabelle nearly shrieked.

  Westie shook herself out of the trance his gaze held her in.

  Olive walked across the room. She had a new doll tucked under her arm and a lollipop in her hand, lips candy red from the dye. Her blond ringlets bounced with each step. She walked past a row of white kid gloves, touching each pair with sugar-sticky hands. Westie thought the girl would skip right by them, but with a sudden turn, Olive bent and poked her head behind the fabric bolts. Westie jerked in surprise. Alistair held her firm against him.

  “You thought I wouldn’t see you?” Olive said. She was hell with the hide off and had an obnoxious way about her: taunting voice, pinched eyes, and a puckered mouth caught somewhere between smugness and accusation.

  Westie struggled to smile. “You’re too clever for us.”

  The girl stuck her rainbow tongue out to lick her lollipop.

  “Is this a game you’re playing?” the girl asked.

  “Sure is,” Westie said. She could feel Isabelle stiffen beside her, but not for the same reason Westie was. For Isabelle it was the fear of humiliation in front of a distinguished family. “We’re hiding from grown-ups.”

  The girl’s face hatched open with a grin. “Can I play?”

  The thought of being in such cramped quarters with the girl had Westie looking for an alternative way out. But there wasn’t one, not without Lavina seeing her.

  “Yes, of course,” Westie said. Olive began to crawl into their hiding spot. Westie stopped her. “Wait. We need someone to be our lookout. Stand in front of the bolts and give us a signal when a grown-up is coming, and let us know when they pass.”

  The girl, with her doe eyes and her Cupid’s bow mouth, gave her a chilling look, reminding Westie of a demented doll in the scary stories the boys used to pass around when she was in school. Olive knew she was being played for a fool.

  This girl really is clever, Westie thought.

  “All right then, I’ll give you a signal,” Olive said with an angry jut of her hip that made Westie think she would do just the opposite.

  Westie tried to make it right. “Good. You have the most important job of the game.”

  It was clear by the harsh line of the girl’s lips that she didn’t believe her.

  Olive stood vigil as she was directed. Westie could hear footsteps coming toward them. Through the diamond-shaped spaces between the bolts of fabric, she saw Lavina heading their way and wondered what signal Olive would give them—if any—and if it would be too subtle for her to notice.

  “Olivia, what are you doing over here? There’s no time to be fooling around,” Lavina said. “You should be picking out the fabric for your ball gown.”

  Westie waited for a signal. She thought she must’ve missed it until Olive turned and kicked her in the shin. Westie gasped and clutched her leg. Alistair covered her mouth with his hand before she could cry out.

  Well, Westie thought with her teeth bared, we don’t have to worry about missing the signal. Little pissant.

  Every one of Westie’s muscles turned to iron when Lavina stepped toward them. Alistair brushed his thumb soothingly against the skin of Westie’s arm as Lavina Fairfield studied the fabric. If Lavina peered through the cracks, she would see them—

  Their eyes met, for a brief, horrifying moment. Lavina looked at Westie like she was trying to figure out exactly what she was seeing.

  “Westie, is that you?” Lavina said. She walked behind the bolts where the three of them were crouched. “What are you doing back here?”

  Westie planted her back firmly against Alistair’s chest and let his steady heartbeat help pace her own.

  “They’re playing a game,” Olive answered for her. “They’re hiding from grown-ups.” She lifted her head proudly. “I’m the lookout.”

  “Doesn’t look like you’ve done a very good job now, does it?”

  The proud angles of Olive’s face formed angry curves. The look on her face had potential to become a fit, but it was quickly snuffed out when Hubbard appeared from around the corner and lifted Olive onto his mighty shoulders. Olive’s laughter was like a knife being dragged down Westie’s skin.

  Cain and James rounded the corner next.

  Jesus, Westie thought, they’re like a pack of wild dogs.

  “What’s all this?” Hubbard asked in his dull way when he noticed Westie’s group.

  Lavina said, “A game, it seems.”

  Alistair helped Westie to stand.

  “And who do we have here?” Lavina asked when Isabelle crawled out from her back corner. Her head was down, cheeks flushed crimson. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “Isabelle Johansson. My parents own the apothecary,” she said to the ground.

  “Well, aren’t you just the cutest thing,” Lavina said. Isabelle looked up then, her smile like an exploding sun. “I could eat you up.”

  Alistair clutched Westie’s flesh hand. Lavina looked at Westie as if gauging her reaction. Westie’s entire body was frozen; she couldn’t look frightened even if she wanted to.

  “What are those pamphlets I’ve seen you carrying around?” Westie asked Cain to take the focus off Isabelle. She didn’t like the not-so-subtle looks Cain was exchanging with her friend.

  “Information about Nigel’s magic amplifier—costs and sales projections, mostly. Things a girl wouldn’t understand,” he said with a dismissive shrug.

  James huffed out laughter. “You see, Westie, a girl homeschooled by the most brilliant man of our time couldn’t possibly keep up with Cain’s fifth-grade education.” His smile faded when he saw Westie and Alistair’s interwoven fingers.

  With an ugly scowl, Cain pushed James into the bolts of fabric, knocking them off their rollers and onto the floor with a startling clamor. James might have been small compared to Cain, but he was scrappy and got right back on his feet. He tackled Cain to the ground, knocking down a shelf. Bags of flour broke open, filling the room with white dust.

  The shopkeeper grunted something from the front of the store. Isabelle hid her open mouth with her hand. It would’ve been a fine time for them to slip out had Lavina not been blocking the way.

  “Boys! Stop that at once.” Lavina looked to Hubbard for help. “Please deal with this.”

  Hubbard grabbed James and Cain by the collars of their jackets, lifting them off the ground as if they were oily rags. “Always nice to see you, Westie,” James called out as he was dragged from the store. Olive rode her father’s shoulders, clapping and shouting, “Punish them, Daddy. Punish them good.”

  Lavina appeared genuinely embarrassed when facing Westie again. “I must apologize. I hope you’ll still welcome us to the ball. I promise my children will be on their best behavior.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Westie said, tugging at Alistair’s hand once Lavina had moved enough to clear a path.

  There was a painful throbbing at the back of Westie’s neck from tension, and her teeth hurt from clenching her jaw. She couldn’t remember ever being as wound up as she was in Lavina’s presence.

  Twenty-Two

  For the next two days, Westie watched the Fairfields from the shadows, finding excuses to go into town or bring up their names in conversation to local busybodies who thrived on gossip. In a conversation she had with Huan Zhao, a Chinese woman who sold dumplings at morning market, she learned Lavina was dull and mostly talked about expensive dresses Huan could never afford. From the accounts of the whittler in front of Doc Flanni
gan’s office, she knew the mayor, Hubbard, and Cain were all about politics and Emma, and from everyone else Westie talked to, James cared only about fun and games. In all that time she hadn’t learned a single useful thing.

  When it was finally time for the ball, Westie felt as if she were about to combust. She’d wring her hands, pace the room, sit, then repeat. Outside her bedroom window, she heard the creaking joints of carriages, the clopping of hooves, and the excited murmur of voices blending together as guests arrived for the ball.

  Westie let a slow breath deflate her lungs and shook out her arms. “Are you sure James and the Fairfields have arrived? This entire party will be a waste of time if they don’t show up,” she said to Bena.

  “As sure as I was five minutes ago.” Bena stood behind her, pulling curlers from Westie’s hair. Each curl was pinned and tucked just so, and adorned with gems to match her eyes. For a wild thing, Bena could pin and curl with the best of them.

  Westie let out a bleat of impatience.

  She’d spent the afternoon in Bena’s care. Her friend had used a homemade concoction of plant oils and springwater to make Westie’s auburn hair shine as bright as her polished machine. Her body and nails were scrubbed, and she was in full war paint.

  When all was done, Westie stood in front of the mirror wearing the dress Nigel had given her. She’d given up on trying to find one she liked better after running into the Fairfields at the general store.

  She laughed at her reflection. “Have you ever seen anyone look as silly as I do right now?”

  Bena’s smile was a straight, unmoving line. “You do not look half as ridiculous as Nigel.”

  “He’s not wearing his red suede shoes with the brass buckles, is he?”

  Bena’s smile cracked until it broke, exposing white teeth that sparkled against her dark skin. “I am afraid so. And the purple coat with the gold cuffs.”

  “You reckon he was raised by circus folk where he comes from?” Westie said. She looked at her reflection, tugging at a clump of hair wound up in the gears of her machine, and gave a shrug. “At least I won’t be the only silly thing there.” She turned to Bena, who fussed with a hem. “Do you think this is a bad idea?”

  “This dress? Yes.”

  Westie smiled. “You know I’m talking about the plan.”

  The plan—the only reason for the ball—was to get ahold of Lavina’s key to her rooms at the inn so that Westie could look through their belongings for anything that might prove they weren’t polite society folks like everyone thought.

  Bena gave her a smile, the kind that made the skin around her eyes crinkle. Westie loved that smile. It reminded her of her mother, even though the two women looked nothing alike.

  “I think using this party for your scheme is a terrible idea, but I would do the same if I were you. Just try not to get caught. If Nigel finds out, it will break his heart,” Bena said.

  Westie nodded. Though there were a lot of parts to her plan, she was sure they could pull it off.

  Bena took Westie’s hand in hers and gave it a maternal squeeze. “If it looks at all like there could be trouble, walk away.”

  Westie swallowed hard and nodded.

  “We had better get downstairs before Nigel gets suspicious,” Bena said.

  Nigel waited for her at the entrance of the ballroom, where a black curtain had been draped to hide Westie from the guests.

  Westie asked, “Where’s Alley?”

  “He’s parking carriages out front,” Nigel said.

  She found it harder to breathe with each passing moment and wished Alistair were there.

  Bena said good-bye, leaving Nigel and Westie alone.

  Nigel gave her the dance card in his hand. It wasn’t a card at all, but a paper fan with red satin backing lined with copper. A few names had already been scrolled on the flat part of the folds in gold ink calligraphy.

  She took a closer look at the names. There were spots for Nigel, the mayor, and Costin. She noticed only one spot for Alistair—she would have to make that dance count.

  Nigel gave her the pen to fill out the rest of the names. Next to Nigel’s elegant script, her penmanship looked like someone trying to write with their toes. She wrote James’s name in most of the spaces. Even if he was unaware of the Fairfields’ dastardly hobbies, he might be able to add the missing pieces she needed without him even knowing he was exposing their secrets.

  There were places on her dance card for Cain and Hubbard as well, but only one for each. She would have left them off completely, but that would’ve looked suspicious.

  “Remember,” Nigel said when she was finished writing. “Not a single drop to drink.”

  The mention of alcohol made Westie’s stomach twitch with the acidic pang of vomit. Before she’d tried it herself, she’d doubted the healing ability of the vampire blood, for there had been times when she’d craved the drink so fiercely, she’d rather have died than be without it. The revulsion she felt as she remembered the sting of whiskey down her throat had turned her into a believer.

  “Not a drop,” she promised.

  “Good. Now, I’ve asked James to escort you, since Alistair is busy with the carriages.”

  She nodded.

  Nigel went beyond the curtain to announce her arrival. She barely heard his voice as he spoke the common words of one’s coming-out. He told the crowd she was a proper lady now, fit for society and suitors. When Nigel called her name, she took a deep breath and walked into the room, a shaky smile on her lips.

  Twenty-Three

  It seemed everyone in town had shown up for the ball. Even the sheriff was in attendance. Westie had never seen the sheriff’s family before. He had a pretty young wife and seven daughters. He was younger than Nigel, maybe in his early thirties, but the comfortable way he wore his authority made him seem older. She’d seen him take down men twice his size with his bare hands and had always thought of him as a cowboy, but the tender way he danced with his wife and daughters was enough to melt the stoniest of hearts.

  As Westie looked around, her eyes lit up at the sight of several Wintu in the crowd: Grah and Chaoha, and three women whose names she couldn’t remember. Nigel had invited the tribe but hadn’t expected them to show, since no one but her family wanted them there. They probably came in defiance of the mayor, but a part of Westie hoped they were there for her. Either way, she was happy to see them.

  James waited for Westie, his arm crooked for the taking. He looked dashing, with tall, fitted boots over his trousers, a black tailcoat, a high-collared white shirt, and his dark hair oiled as it always was. Other than Nigel, she’d never seen someone wear a suit so easily.

  “You’re even more beautiful than I remember,” James said when she took his arm. He led her onto the floor just as the band began to play a new song.

  She blushed. Not because of the flattery, but because he hesitated before taking hold of her machine. It was only a brief pause, but it was there. When he did take her machine without being crushed, he finally loosened up and settled into the dance.

  The music was more modern than anything she’d encountered at other coming-out parties. The singer was a young woman with long knotted hair and filigree tattooed on her face. She plucked and thumped at the strings of her stand-up bass, the gears and cogs spinning and steam coming from small stacks on the side as she played. A frantic banjo solo turned ladies’ skirts into chiffon turbines as their dance partners spun them across the floor.

  “You dance wonderfully. Who taught you?” James asked. There was a hint of a black eye still remaining from his fight with Cain in the general store.

  “My pa.”

  “Nigel?”

  They were both looking at Nigel. He was dancing with the widow Myrtle Grey, arms barely able to wrap around her ample waist. At first glance he looked elegant with grace and an exquisite carriage, but south of his waist Nigel was a mess, stampeding all over her feet.

  “My real father.”

  Her father had lo
ved to dance. Mostly dances made for country folk, but he knew the proper ones too. He could waltz with the best of them.

  “Do you still miss him?” James asked.

  She returned her focus to James. He had the kind of strong jaw girls lost their manners over, and kissable lips. She thought of Alistair’s lips too and was saddened to find it hard to remember what they looked like with James standing there.

  “Every day.” She glanced at her machine, noticed how James’s fingers grazed the copper pieces. How she wished she could feel it. “What about you? You must miss your family, with you being here and them being—well, wherever they are.”

  “My parents also passed away when I was young, and I have very little memory of them. I know my father had the same name as me, and he was the mayor of Sacramento before Ben Chambers, but that’s all.”

  She scolded herself inwardly, remembering the news about the former mayor’s passing. She’d just moved in with Nigel when she’d heard about the horrible accident. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She hurried to find something else to say, but it didn’t feel right going into trivial topics like parties and talk of investments. She decided to take a chance and speak from the heart. If she was going to learn anything about the Fairfields, she needed James’s trust. “It gets lonely at times, doesn’t it?” she said.

  “Yes, though there are times I am thankful not to remember my parents, for seeing their faces and remembering their touch would make me feel all the more guilty.”

  The faces of her family flashed into her mind, her parents bound by the fire waiting to be slaughtered while she ran to her salvation. Tripp’s severed leg . . .

  She swallowed hard. Guilt was a feeling she knew all too well.

  “Why would you feel guilty?” she asked.

  “My mother and father died in an airship crash over the Sacramento airfields when I was just a boy. I was sick and they were traveling to seek medicines for me. If I wasn’t such a weakling, they would never have been on board.”

  “I’m so sorry, James.”

  “Don’t be sorry for me. Your life is no less full of heartache.”