Revenge and the Wild (13 page)

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 after 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.”

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.