Revenge and the Wild(10)

“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.