Revenge and the Wild(24)

Westie forced air into her lungs, trying to compose herself. Clearing her throat, she said, “We’d heard California was free of the Undying. They’d taken over the prairie. We didn’t have much choice.”

The Undying’s takeover hadn’t happened all at once, but it felt like it had. Symptoms of the change were gradual, starting with a fever. No one even knew what had caused it at first. There’d been a drought that had lasted nearly two years, killing off crops and cattle so there wasn’t much to eat. Desperate, people began hunting and eating the wolves that roamed prairie. What they didn’t know was that those wolves were no ordinary canines but werewolves. What they also didn’t know at the time were the dire consequences of consuming creatures of magic.

The Undying had been slow, but there was a church of them and they liked to congregate. They were also hard to kill. Only way to keep them down was to cut off their heads. It took a lot of strength to sever one’s neck from its body.

She remembered those days vividly. Her mother hadn’t wanted to leave, holding out hope for a cure. But there was no true cure. It was only after Westie moved to Rogue City that she learned from Bena that magic was the only thing that could keep the disease at bay if caught in its early stages. It wouldn’t have helped those in the valley though; the settlers had decimated the only tribes on the prairie who could’ve conjured that magic.

At Westie’s father’s insistence, they cut their suspenders and braved the wagon trail to get to California.

Westie took a wavering breath. We should’ve stayed.

Westie sat taller in her saddle when she saw Bena come out of the forest. The Wintu hunter’s expression was as difficult to translate as her native language.

“What happened? What’d you see?” Westie asked.

Bena shook her head. Despite the unmoving wall of her features, there was tension in her gaze.

“It’s abandoned. Looks like the old man who used to live here has been gone for some time, but there have been others.”

Westie slid off her saddle and tied Henry to the closest tree. Bena dismounted behind her. She was just as short as Isabelle, but Westie never thought of her that way. Bena was strong and sturdy, which made her seem bigger than she really was.

“I counted six different sets of horse tracks, and manure piles still warm nearby. It could be outlaws,” Bena said.

“Let’s make it quick then,” Westie said as she pushed through the dilapidated door of the cabin, which hung on by a desiccated leather hinge. Birds erupted from nests hidden in the rafters, bouncing around the room until they found escape through the holes in the roof. Westie walked into the middle of the room. Dust glittered in shafts of dingy light.

It was there, in the middle of the room, that the cannibals had invited her family to sup with them.

Westie remembered how delighted she’d been to see the family. The fire shed a yolky glow across their faces, giving their features the soft lines of dreams. There was a female toddler with a tangle of golden curls, a woman her mother’s age or maybe a bit younger, and a teenage boy. He had a greasy complexion and a deep voice that cracked when he spoke.

The woman smiled at Westie. She wore a tattered light-blue dress exactly like one a woman from the caravan wore. She had a long hooked nose and a bony face, and she wore her dark hair pulled back so tight that it made her brown eyes slant.

The man’s face was covered in hair. He looked strong. He was double her father’s weight, and nearly double his height as well. He didn’t give their names, nor did her father offer theirs.

“Come share our meal,” the woman had said. The sharp angles of her face didn’t match her friendly voice. “I’ve made plenty of stew. You must be famished.”

Westie’s mouth watered. The food smelled like home, like hugs and laughter and all the good things that came before the voyage west. It had been days since their last meal, which had been horse grain.

“The hunting must be good,” her father had said.

The bearded man seemed put off by small talk. Shadows from the firelight danced behind him. “The mountain provides,” he grumbled.

They sat on the floor in the middle of the main room, and Westie watched the woman deliver heaping ladles of stew into her wood bowl.

Her first bite was a taste of heaven. The tang of wild onions popped on her tongue, the potatoes were soft and gritty with the skins still attached, and pine nuts gave the stew a sweet crunch. There was plenty of meat. Some of the chunks were tough and stringy and others were mushy like liver or duck. She guessed it to be bear, or horse. It had an odd gamy flavor, fungal like a mushroom past its prime. She ate it anyway. Even Tripp ate some, the pink blush coming back into his cheeks.

Westie pushed the memory away and focused on the present. The cabin no longer held the scent of food. Instead it smelled musty and old. Her gaze shifted. There, in front of the fireplace, was where her family had died. That same familiar fear from her nightmares twisted her stomach.

Tins and jars of moldy food had been left behind by either the old man or those who’d sought shelter in the cabin since his departure. Westie kicked at a heap of rusted tins, looking for anything that might lead her in the right direction. She headed toward the only bedroom. When she stepped across the threshold, her boot fell through a plank of rotting wood.

Pain shot through her calf. She cried out as the jagged edges of broken boards ripped through her pant leg, dragging down her flesh. Bena and Alistair rushed to her side.