Revenge and the Wild

by Michelle Modesto

  “Well, aren’t you two a lovely couple,” Westie said. Her sugary-sweet words burned on her tongue.

  Isabelle looked at Westie and beamed.

  Cain bowed to her. “It’s wonderful to see you again, Miss Butler.” He didn’t carry the same bruises as James from their fight, but he held his left arm like he was favoring it. “I look forward to our dance.”

  Like Westie, he still had the slightest twang of poor folk when he spoke, just as she remembered from their brief time spent in the cabin.

  “As do I. I believe our dance is up next, isn’t it?” She checked her card to make sure.

  That made Isabelle pout.

  “Could I borrow my friend a moment?” Westie said. “Girl talk, you know.”

  Isabelle giggled annoyingly. Her brain turned to pig slop whenever she was interested in a boy.

  Cain bowed again. Westie had Isabelle towed to the opposite end of the room before Cain had straightened.

  “You’re hurting me,” Isabelle complained, trying to shake Westie off.

  Westie held tight with her flesh hand. She wanted to grab the girl with her machine and shake her, but Isabelle was already nervous around her copper as it was.

  Westie said, “I don’t want you spending any more time with Cain Fairfield,” more bluntly than she’d meant to.

  Isabelle looked thunderstruck. “Just because it’s your coming-out party doesn’t mean you can tell me who to spend my time with.” She took a deep breath to compose herself. When she spoke again, her tone was less hysterical than it was vicious. “Besides, why should you care? You’re caught up with James Lovett now because we all know you’re in love with Alistair, but he won’t have you.” Her eyes were at a crouch, a look as mean as her words. “Leave Cain for me.”

  Westie’s hand went to her chest, her heart constricting. Isabelle’s words had struck their target, and the pain they caused could be felt all over.

  She wanted to say something hurtful in retaliation but calmed herself.

  “You’re my friend,” Westie said. “I’m not trying to hurt you, or take Cain away. I’m just trying to protect you. I hear he’s got a reputation with the ladies and a terrible habit of stealing a girl’s flower. By the time he’s done using her, no other man will have her. He spends most of his time in brothels. Costin just told me he’s a frequent customer.”

  Tears sprang to Isabelle’s eyes. “You lie. You’re just jealous that he wants me and not you. You want every eligible man at the ball for yourself.”

  Isabelle pulled away when Westie reached for her, and ran from the room in a gathering of skirts and tears.

  It was suddenly too hot, and Westie felt like the room was spinning. At least her words had shadowed Cain in doubt. She only hoped it would be enough to keep Isabelle away from him. She watched Isabelle slip through the door, nearly knocking over Bena as she walked into the room.

  Bena wore a simple white dress and beaded necklace, her hair tied back into a knot. She held a box wrapped in pretty white paper with a blue bow, drawing stares and whispers from the tables around her. Seeing Bena again was the only saving grace in an otherwise dreadful night.

  “For the debutante,” Bena said, bowing and handing the gift to her. “Are you ready for this?”

  Westie was still shaken from her fight with Isabelle, but she was ready. “Ready as I can be. Wish me luck.”

  “Be careful.” Bena smiled and headed toward Nigel.

  People glanced at her but didn’t seem too curious as she tore at the paper. Upon seeing the gift inside, she paused with the lid in her hand. The plan had been for Bena to steal the key, make a clay impression of it, then take whatever she could find in Westie’s room and put it into a box to give to her as a present at the party in order to smuggle Lavina’s stolen key back into the ball, but what was in the box wasn’t anything she owned. It was an actual gift. A dark tunic, supple leather leggings, and a pair of beautiful beaded moccasin boots. They weren’t just any Wintu clothing, they were hunting garb. Westie had been asking Bena for a set of Wintu hunting clothes since she was a young girl, and Bena always said, Not until you’re grown.

  Hugging the tunic to her chest, she could smell the undeniable scent of the Wintu: woodsmoke and wild rosemary. It instantly settled her frazzled nerves. She wanted to rip off her ugly dress in exchange for her new clothes. There was a card inside the box. For a true wild thing. Beneath the card was a key. She took it and stuffed it into her cleavage. She looked around the room for Bena and smiled when she saw her dancing with Nigel.

  Westie was so caught up in the moment that she forgot about her dance with Cain until he found her.

  Because of the plan, she’d known she’d have to dance with the Fairfield men, and thought she’d feel more confident when the time came, but she wasn’t. It felt as though there was an animal trapped inside her stomach, clawing its way out.

  Cain led her to the floor, but instead of holding her metal hand, he put both of his hands around her waist. Normally a blatant move like that would have stung, but not now. She didn’t care what Cain thought of her.

  “That was quite a scene earlier with you and Miss Johansson,” he said. “I do hope everything is all right.”

  He was head and shoulders taller than Westie. Her neck cramped looking up at him.

  “It’s nothing. We have spats all the time. I always seem to say the wrong thing.”

  “I doubt that very much. I believe you knew exactly what you were saying. In fact, I think you picked your words quite strategically.”

  Westie was taken aback by the knowing grin on his lips. “You heard what I said to her?”

  “Every word.”

  He wasn’t mad. The opposite, in fact. He seemed flattered by it. Perhaps he liked the idea of having the reputation of a wealthy playboy.

  “But how?”

  He had been nowhere near when she and Isabelle had been talking.

  “I have my spies.”

  Westie’s gaze floated around the room until she found Olive looking right at her. The precocious girl smiled, then rudely stuck out her tongue.

  She’d have to be more careful around that little beast.

  Westie hung her head, wondering how she would get herself out of the mess she was in.

  He surprised her again by saying, “I know your game.” She braced herself to look at him. “You thought you would try to get close to James, but you know the fortune will soon be in my hands after we invest in Nigel’s machine. That’s why you turned on your own friend, to seek my notice.”

  He didn’t know the game after all. She felt more confident when she met his eyes.

  “I won’t deny that I have bigger goals in mind than James.” She smiled sweetly.

  His smile was less sweet. “I like a girl with ambition.”

  She gave him a flirty poke to the chest. “Then you will love me.”

  Twenty-Five

  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 be
en 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.”

  Twenty-Six

  “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.