Revenge and the Wild (3 page)

He smiled. “If I can just get these people to invest the money I
need to finish the machine, they can in turn sell the technology to other towns and be richer than any tycoon.”

Westie glanced back down at her hands and tugged at the sheet stuck between the gears at her wrist. She said, “I take it the moral of this story is not to scare away investors with my rotten manners.”

He tapped her knee with a gentle hand. “Don’t forget the cussing.”

She grumbled. It would be a hard task to pull off, for she rarely thought about such things. “Don’t worry. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Thank you,” he said as he stood up. “Now get some sleep. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow.”

The next morning Alistair walked into Westie’s room holding a silver tray with a cup and kettle on it. Her heart thumped like a cart with a loose wheel when she saw him standing there in his mechanical mask, dark hair in anarchy around his face. His eyes settled on her, two glowing blue moons behind thick lashes.

“Hope you don’t mind me barging in. Nigel sent me to bring you some tea,” he said.

There were aches and pains all over her body from the long ride home, but it was the stiffness in her shoulder that stood out most. She tried to move her arm but realized her machine was stuck to her head.

Her face warmed with embarrassment. “Can I get a little help here?”

The skin around Alistair’s eyes creased when he smiled under his mask. He placed the tray on the bedside table and sat down beside
her. Westie stared down at their touching knees.

“You were gone longer than usual,” Alistair said, gently unwinding her hair from the exposed gears of her arm.

“I was closer to them than usual.”

The fresh smell of soap wafted from his skin each time he moved. She’d missed that scent so much while she was away.

He kept glancing at her face to make sure he wasn’t hurting her. Each time their eyes met, he stole a little piece of her that she’d been trying to take back from him for the last three years.

“Nigel was worried,” he said. The voice emanating from his mask was metallic and without emotion, like talking through a fan. But his eyes, they were full of life and sharp as daggers. They could cut a hole in a heart and stay there long after he had looked away. No one knew that better than Westie.

“Oh.” She made a huffing sound. “
Nigel
was worried.”

He hesitated. “I was worried too. It’s dangerous for you to be out searching alone. It’s a fool’s errand.”

Her voice climbed an octave. “A fool’s errand?”

Her hair was a knot on the side of her head by the time he was done.

“I know you want justice, Westie, but you’ve become obsessed.”

He always said such things, but she couldn’t understand why. As loyal as Alistair was, Westie knew if it was the other way around and the killers of his family were never caught, he would go after them no matter what it took or how foolish it seemed.

With her hands free, she took the kettle from the tray on the
table. “You don’t understand anything.” She blew into her cup, steam wetting her cheeks. “The cannibals who killed your family and took your voice are dead. The ones who killed mine are still out there.”

“You don’t know that—”

“I do know that!” she snapped. “I feel it in my gut.”

Alistair of all people should’ve understood her need to catch the cannibals. It had been only six years since they’d found him on the wagon trail. Westie was just eleven years old when she and Nigel came upon two men hunched over Alistair like they were praying over their dead. When Westie had asked if they were in need, both men looked up with blood on their faces and flesh between their teeth. Bodies had been scattered across the forest floor, their faces chewed to a pulp. Alistair was the last one left of his entire family too. The two of them were made of the same leather.

The thought of Alistair’s close call with death brought forth memories of Westie’s own family: her mother and father tied up on the floor of the old hunting cabin, waiting to be slaughtered; her younger brother murdered and made into a stew. There was a throbbing sensation in the stump of her arm. Looking down, she half expected to see her bloody limb hanging on by a tendon. When she saw her machine instead, she took a slow breath and lifted her gaze.

Alistair looked out the window, eyes sparkling like sea glass in the light. She could tell by the crease on his forehead that there was a frown beneath his mask. She didn’t need to see his expression to know that. Her memories of him were enough.

“You should get dressed,” he said. “We leave for the airdocks in an hour.”

He started to walk away and was halfway to the door when he stopped and looked back at her. The crease on his forehead softened. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said, and left the room.

Using strategy and some acrobatics, Westie managed to figure out all the different straps and ties of the dress Nigel had brought back for her when he’d traveled to France last year. A visit from the investors was the perfect excuse to wear it. It was white silk with a gold-colored fabric bustle and matching buttons on the front of her bodice like those on a military coat. She liked the masculine way it squared off her shoulders. It even came with a leather jacket like men wore, though it was too hot out to wear it.

On her way downstairs she noticed Bena standing in the foyer beside a dracaena. Westie stopped, watching Bena touch the brown leaves of the dying plant. Nigel had plenty of greenery in the house. He thought the foliage would balance out all the metal, but neither of his thumbs were green, so he left their care to Bena.

All Wintu had a special relationship to the earth and the things
that came from it. Westie remembered playing with the Wintu children when she was younger, in awe of their abilities. They’d whisper to a branch high in a tree, and it would bend so they could reach it. Once, while Bena and Westie had been caught in a storm and needed to cross a flooded creek, Bena whispered to the water, her fingers dancing in the air, and rocks began to pile on top of one another, making a path for them to walk.

“Aren’t you going to heal it?” Westie said.

Bena turned around, a glimmer of unshed tears in her eyes. Westie had been kicked in the chest once by Alistair’s horse, and it didn’t feel as crushing as the look on Bena’s face. If Bena couldn’t heal a sad little houseplant, the earth’s magic must be in worse shape than Westie had thought.

“Not right now,” Bena said. As she let go of the leaf, it fluttered to the ground at her feet. “We don’t want to be late.”

After breakfast they left for the airdocks. It was early, but already the day was sweltering. Westie fidgeted. She hated riding sidesaddle, but it was the only way she was able to fit on her horse in the dress she wore. Her skin was slick with sweat, and James and Alistair looked just as uncomfortable in their long boots and trousers—James more so with all the decorative metal pieces covering his sack coat. Bena was the only one who didn’t seem affected by the heat. She wore a long buckskin dress with different-colored fire beads in the zigzag pattern that identified her as Wintu. It was also adorned with hundreds of polished deer teeth that let others know she was a great hunter.

While Westie and the others rode horses, Nigel drove a wagon made of brass and wood that looked like a simple box. It had two smokestacks, and he had to continually feed coal to the fire while trying to steer at the same time. He had pulled out all his special inventions in hopes of impressing the investors. Westie had to ride upwind to keep from getting an eyeful of soot from the belching stacks.

When they reached the town, there was a herd of people plodding around, their carts and horses weighed down with mining gear.

“Who are all these folks?” Westie asked.

Typically there were equal numbers of humans and creatures in Rogue City—though there had been times when creatures would overpopulate the wilds after a rigorous mating season and find their way into town by the dozens—but she’d never seen so many humans in town before.

“Walter Cowley struck gold up on Devil’s Crag a few weeks ago,” Nigel said. “When word got out, people from all over the north valley made the pilgrimage. An airship landed this morning with a flood of prospectors.”

Westie’s eyes narrowed at a man who bumped into her horse without apologizing. “That’s Wintu land. He can’t mine up there.”

The look on Bena’s face grew dark, but she didn’t speak. Her tribe wasn’t far from that stretch of rock. It was a sacred place used by her people for various ceremonies.

Nigel sniffed and flexed his jaw. “I tried everything I could to stop it. No one will listen. They know the gold will do wonders for the town’s economy.”

Westie turned to Bena. “Why aren’t you saying anything about this? That’s your land.”

Bena’s face remained unmoved, but there was tenaciousness in her eyes when she looked at Westie. “Without the tribe, Emma will not work. If people want their towns protected, they will need our help. It will come at a price. We will get our land back, just not today.”

Westie smiled. She’d thought Bena had come along to support Nigel, but it seemed she had her own agenda.

A horde had gathered at the pier where the airship was to dock. James parted ways from the group and headed for the Tight Ship.

Alistair fiddled with his horse’s reins, eyes twitching as people stared and whispered. He had always been wary of gatherings and rarely went into town unless it was to assist Nigel in the surgical rooms. He was the ghost of Rogue City. People knew of him, but rarely had he been seen—unlike Westie, who waved her mechanical arm in people’s faces for no other reason than to make them squirm. Folks spread rumors about Alistair. They called him a vampire because he only traveled into town under the cloak of night and never removed his mask. Some said it hid fangs, while others claimed there was nothing but bone underneath.

Westie remembered his face beneath the mask quite differently. He had scars on his cheeks and throat, nothing creaturely. If anything, his scars gave him a rugged, outlaw look that she thought made him more handsome. His lips were soft, his teeth white and perfectly crooked. His smile was his most endearing feature, the way it swayed to the side. Before he stopped taking off his mask in front of her, she
used to stare at his lips, watch the way he moved them to form words when he’d communicate through sign language even without a voice.

Alistair turned abruptly, catching her watching him. His metal sound box crackled inside his mask before he spoke. “Everything all right?” he asked.

She shifted her eyes beyond him, toward the crowd. “Not really. All these folks shuffling around remind me of the Undying.”

The Undying were just that—people who’d died of poisoning after eating creatures of magic but didn’t stay dead. When they rose again, they were evil, their skin moldy gray and covered in pustules, killing anyone unfortunate enough to cross their path.

Westie shivered at the thought and backed her horse away from a hunched, arthritic-looking woman tottering by, half expecting her to lunge and start biting.

“I’m not too fond of them myself,” Alistair said.

Hired hands came by to take their horses to the livery yard. After she dismounted, Westie heard someone call her name in a shrill voice.

“Westie, yoo-hoo!”

Isabelle Johansson maneuvered through the crowd, holding her skirts in her good hand. Being just an itty-bitty thing, she had to bully her way with elbows and knees. By the time she reached Westie, she was out of breath, chest heaving beneath her low-cut bodice.

“Westie, you are positively radiant in that dress.” She touched the fine silk. “It looks expensive.” With Isabelle, everything was about money.

She bounced on her toes, making her perfect chestnut ringlets
bob. Her parents owned the apothecary between Doc Flannigan’s office and Nigel’s surgical rooms. They were well-to-do by Rogue City standards, and Isabelle made sure everyone knew it by wearing the latest fashions. The two girls were still friends, but not as close as they’d been when they were eleven years old, before Westie was kicked out of school for breaking every finger in Isabelle’s left hand during a game of ring-around-the-rosie while Westie was still learning to use her mechanical arm. Isabelle, whose fingers were bent and slightly deformed from the break, was quick to forgive—the others at school, not so much, thus ending Westie’s community schooling.

“I reckon it was expensive,” Westie said, though she’d never thought to ask Nigel the price, which made her feel ashamed for wearing the dress in the dirt.

“You must wear it to your coming-out party.”

Westie cocked her head. “My what?”

“The coming-out party Nigel has planned for you in ten days, silly. He was telling my father about it just yesterday. All proper ladies come out into society when they turn sixteen. Hasn’t Nigel told you anything?”

“I’m seventeen.” Westie was sure Nigel knew better than to surprise her with a party. She looked at Alistair, finding her answer in the way he turned his head to avoid her. “You knew about this?” she said.

“I told Nigel it was a bad idea,” Alistair said.

Isabelle started to cry. “Shoot. I bet it was a surprise, and I ruined the whole thing.”

“Don’t worry, Isabelle—nothing’s been given away,” Westie said. “There’s not going to be any party.”

Isabelle blinked up at her, slack-mouthed. “But there are to be shellfish, caviar, and snails to eat like they do in France. I hear a brass combo from San Francisco is to play, and there will be candy and confections.” Isabelle grabbed Westie’s metal hand and promptly let go when she felt the hot copper that had been sitting in the sun. “Oh, you must come out, Westie, you must!”

Alistair lifted his hands in protest. “No, she mustn’t,” he said. Isabelle shrank away from Alistair when she heard the droning hum of his tin voice. “She should stay in. A closet, perhaps, something soundproofed, preferably.”

Isabelle looked appalled. Alistair’s humor was hard to comprehend with his mechanics. Without the fluctuation of tones, it was near impossible to pick up on his cues. Westie knew, though. It was the first time he’d teased anyone since—well, she couldn’t remember when.

“That’s a dreadful thing to say, Alistair,” Isabelle said.

Alistair took another step toward the girl. Each time he moved forward, she took a step back.

“You clearly haven’t heard Westie complain.”

“Ignore him,” Westie said.

Isabelle was on the other side of Westie, hiding behind the taller girl’s skirts. “Well, anyway, do think about it—”

Isabelle’s words were cut off by a rumble in the distance. At first Westie thought it was the airship coming in, until she saw a black
cloud of smoke gather over the buildings in town.

Whispers scurried through the folks at the docks like wind through a field of weeds. A black metal land engine fashioned in the shape of a horse came into view. Smoke billowed from the two holes of the terrible face designed to look like nostrils. The engine pulled a stagecoach behind it, made from black squares of metal riveted together like a devil’s quilt. Its enormous metal wheels, with spikes as long as shin bones, tore at the earth beneath it.

“Is that Costin’s coach?” Isabelle asked, trying to peek around taller spectators.

“Why on earth would a vampire be at the docks in the middle of the day?” Westie heard Nigel say.

He looked from his precarious brass contraption to the vampire’s hulking stagecoach and huffed, jealousy showing in every crease of his face. The vampires were brilliant tinkerers themselves and were neck and neck with Nigel when it came to inventing ground transportation—though Nigel still owned the sky—but when it came to style, the bloodsuckers were far ahead in the race.

“I know what he’s doing here.” Isabelle gave Westie a conspiratorial smile.

Alistair leaned in to better hear their conversation.

“He’s not here for me,” Westie said.

“Of course he is. He’s in love with you. I’d give anything to have a vampire in love with me. And not for the same reasons I love lobster and butter sauce—I mean true love. You’re so lucky.”

“Costin doesn’t love me. There’s no room for anyone else with
an ego like that. He just wants what he can’t have.”

Isabelle’s lids looked heavy. “He can have me,” she said dreamily.

“You just like his money.”

Isabelle smiled. “You don’t like his money enough.”

“I don’t care about money.”

“She doesn’t care about money,” Alistair mimicked over her shoulder.

Westie looked back at him with a scowl.

The stagecoach stopped in front of the crowd. A tall, lithe figure clad in a black duster and top hat stepped out of the coach. He wore a black lace veil over his face like a grieving widow. Westie couldn’t see much of his features other than his white skin through the holes of the lace. His head swiveled and stopped when he saw her. Two of his guards stepped out of the coach behind him.

“He’s endlessly fascinating, don’t you think?” Isabelle whispered this time to keep Alistair out of the conversation. “He reminds me of the princes in those European love stories I like so much.”

Costin cut a path through the crowd, ignoring the whispers around him.

Westie cleared her throat and straightened her back when he stopped in front of her.

“Westie,” Costin said. He had a smooth voice, easy on the ears. “You look stunning as always.”

Goose bumps rose on her arm when he took her flesh hand. It disappeared beneath his veil, soft, cold lips touching her knuckles. Blood rushed to her cheeks. When he gave her hand back, she was
glad to have scrubbed beneath her nails that morning.

“What brings you out into the sun?” she asked. “Don’t you have a brothel to run and listless human bloodsacks to drain?”

A faint rumble of laughter came from his veil. “You make it sound so barbaric. Our patrons feel nothing but pleasure when we open their veins.” His voice was like a purr. “I could show you sometime.”

Alistair stepped between Costin and Westie. “She’s not one of your blood whores.”

Nigel had been ignoring the conversation for the most part until Costin’s guards moved in. Nigel took Alistair by the shoulders and pulled him back away from the vampire.

“What are you doing here, Costin? This is a gathering for the mayor,” Nigel said.

Westie had never heard Nigel speak ill of a creature until Costin came along two years ago. He’d called him a home wrecker and tempter. It was because of the brothel. A brothel, human or vampire, brought the riffraff to town.

“I know what this is.” Though Westie couldn’t see Costin’s eyes, she felt them on her. “I too am here to see the mayor, as the ambassador for the vampires.”

“If that’s the case, where are the ambassadors for the other creatures?” Nigel asked. Costin ignored him. “There’s no such thing.”