Revenge and the Wild(14)

The onlookers gasped. It was an astonishing thing to ask. The consumption of vampire blood by humans and creatures alike was illegal. It certainly had its healing qualities, but it could give a powerful deadly creature even more strength. It could give humans an unnaturally long life span, or it could give them a horrible death and even turn them into the Undying, if someone were to consume too much. It was poison, after all. Only a vampire knew the right dosage, and vampires couldn’t be trusted.

Nigel whipped his head to face Costin and answered with an enthusiastic “No!”

He leaned into Westie’s ear so only she could hear his words. “Stop this at once,” he demanded.

Slobber frothed from her lips. “They’ll pay for what they did,” she said through gritted teeth.

“I’m not releasing you until you calm down.”

Clay stuck to her cheeks, turning tears to mud. “But it’s them,” she said, hating how meek she sounded.

Nigel’s expression battled between anger and sorrow. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know? Where’s your proof?”

Her forehead wrinkled. “I don’t have any.”

Nigel pinched her face between his fingers and forced her to look at the woman in red and the family walking toward them. “Look at them,” he said. Westie blinked the dust from her eyes. “Those are people of society with a fortune in their pockets. Money means power. Do you honestly think anyone will believe they are cannibals? And do you think the sheriff will just take your word for it like he did the last time?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “I assure you he will not. If you go off spouting accusations and the Fairfields catch wind of it, they will get spooked and leave.”

No, that wasn’t at all what she wanted. She hadn’t thought of it that way. If the sheriff didn’t believe her, the Fairfields would be gone, and by the looks of it they had enough money to take themselves far out of her reach.

“You need to forget about this, at least until we can get home and discuss it rationally,” Nigel said. He let go of her face. “Now, pull yourself together.”

She wanted to curl into a ball and hide from everyone watching her. “I don’t think I can.”

“You must try.” He glanced to his side. “And be quick about it.”

The faces of the mayor and the woman in red appeared above her like air balloons hiding the sun.

“Is everything all right?” the mayor asked with less concern than curiosity.

Costin climbed off Westie and helped her to stand. Her dress was filthy and the hem was ripped. She dusted the clay off the best she could and smoothed her unruly hair. Alistair stood several feet away covered in dirt, steam blasting from his mechanical mask as he struggled to catch his breath. She was glad to see she hadn’t hurt him too badly.

Clearing the dirt from her throat, she said, “I have these spells. An affliction from a sickly childhood.”

“Oh, you poor dear,” the red huntress told her.

Her voice, Westie noticed, was the same as she remembered. Kind, like when the woman had welcomed her family to sup with them. She remembered, too, how quickly that voice had turned to shrieks as Westie ran through the cabin trying to escape.

When the woman touched her, the stump of Westie’s arm began to throb beneath her machine, and her skin prickled as though it were trying to shrivel away from her.

The mayor sighed. “If we’re done with this, I’d like to introduce my guests.”

A pig. That’s what the mayor reminded her of, with his sun-tender skin and the curly wisps of hair on his head. So why hadn’t the cannibals turned him into bacon already? Unless he’s one of them, she thought.

“Nigel, my good man, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Lavina Fairfield,” the mayor said.

Lavina Fairfield. Was that her real name? They had never mentioned their names in the cabin. Westie needed something definitive. Something that made her certain, that she could put in Nigel’s face and say I told you so.

“This here is Hubbard, the head of the Fairfield clan and a fine cook, I might add.” Westie put a fist in front of her mouth, silently belched acidic fumes, and hoped she wouldn’t vomit. “This strapping young lad is their son, Cain.” Cain’s rat eyes studied Westie’s mechanical arm, his mouth puckered in disgust. “Of course you already met their nephew, James Lovett Junior.”

And then there was James. Westie was unsure where he played into the whole picture. He hadn’t been with the family at the cabin. His presence stirred more doubt within her, a feeling she wasn’t too fond of.

“And here is the youngest of the clan,” the mayor said.

The little girl lifted her face. She wore a pink ruffled dress, with her flaxen ringlets sticking out of her bonnet. When she smiled, Westie felt unease wrap around her like a smothering embrace.

“This little spitfire is Miss Olivia, but folks call her Olive.”

All the names swirled around in Westie’s head like too much whiskey. She would never remember them all. She could hardly remember seconds after they were announced.

Olive looked at her mother, who was staring curiously at Westie. The little girl frowned and strangled her doll. It was handmade, similar to the dolls Westie’s mother used to make her, and had a pink dress with a crisscross pattern all over it. The girl twisted its head until it popped off.