Revenge and the Wild(3)

Past the east side of town there were few creatures to be seen. No laws had been set in place or lines drawn in the sand, but creatures kept to the east side of town and humans kept to the west for the most part in order to avoid one another.

Westie slowed her horse, and they strolled at an easy pace through the center of town. The buildings looked a century old even though Rogue City had been only in its infancy when Westie had first gone to live with Nigel seven years ago. Two traveling men stood outside the Roaming Inn, their heads bent in discussion. When they looked up and saw Westie and Bena, their hands eased toward the weapons at their belts. Curious townsfolk looked out from their shop windows to catch a glimpse of the pair.

Westie wasn’t concerned for herself. It was Bena the townspeople had eyes for. They didn’t trust the natives. They didn’t trust the creatures either, but all the creatures had were teeth and claws—natives had magic. No matter that Wintu magic was the only thing that kept the teeth and claws of creatures from tearing out human throats.

Bena ignored the fear in the eyes of those watching. Westie raised her arm to them, sun beaming off her metal hand as she made a rude gesture with her fingers. The corner of her mouth hooked into a smile when she heard the yelps of women and disapproving grumbles of men before they scattered back into their holes like cockroaches.





Two


Bena didn’t want to get between Nigel and Westie if he started in—yet again—about Westie being gone too long, so they parted ways at the border of Nigel’s property, and Westie headed down the long path alone.

Opening the door and seeing that the foyer was empty, she walked inside. The familiar smell of exotic spices brought her back to a happier place. Nigel’s house was something to behold, a two-tiered kingdom of baubles picked up during his travels around the world. The place had a cluttered, lived-in quality that Westie loved.

Hearing the tick-tack of claws on hardwood, Westie turned and saw Jezebel, their pet chupacabra, stalking toward her. Westie braced herself, but it was no use. Jezebel pounced, knocking Westie into a flock of metal telegraph birds hanging on strings from the ceiling before falling to the floor.

Despite her aching tailbone, Westie laughed, wrapping her arms around Jezebel’s neck. Nigel had saved the young beast from Mexican poachers, who’d had her hung up in one of their traps and were about to cut off her paws for good luck charms.

“Hello, big girl. I’ve missed you,” Westie said as the beast nuzzled against her hand. Jezebel was nearly five hundred pounds, the size of a lion.

Westie had never seen a chupacabra before moving to California and had thought they were just myths, like most of the creatures native to the West that she’d never seen in Kansas. Hunched like bears, with a thick, wiry coat and bone-like spikes that started from the neck and rode down the back to the base of the tail, they weren’t pretty. Their fur was black as obsidian, and their faces were elongated, with tufts of hair on the cheeks and chin like a werewolf midtransition.

Westie scratched the beast behind one pointed ear and listened to the deep chuffing sound she made, almost like a purr. She’d wanted to take Jezebel hunting with her—chupacabras were excellent hunters and could easily have tracked a cannibal—but, alas, Nigel never would have allowed it. “You’re just an overgrown pup, ain’tcha? You really are a lovely beast when you’re happy—”

“Just like someone else I know,” said a voice behind her.

Nigel stood in the doorway of the main sitting room. He was from Africa but had lived most of his life in England before moving to America at twenty. He had a handsome face and wore a handlebar mustache waxed to points at the ends.

“Seems a little empty around here,” Westie said as she brushed Jezebel’s fur from her trousers. Though the house was full of souvenirs, she could see bare spots where some of his inventions used to be. Instead of the display case full of mechanical limbs, there was a rectangle stamped out of the clutter, showing the green-and-gold damask wallpaper behind it. In a corner, the chest of nonsensical inventions he liked to tinker with was missing.

“I needed the copper,” Nigel said.

She looked curiously at him. He rarely recycled copper and found it difficult to part with any of his inventions, even the ones that never worked.

“For Emma?” she asked.

In his younger years, Nigel’s inventions had been transportation-inspired because of his love for travel: airships and land engines, mostly. After he took Westie and Alistair into his charge, his creations became more prosthetic and medically geared.

But something had changed recently. All he’d worked on for the last year was a heaping pile of copper parts that seemed to have no function other than taking up space in the great room. He called it Emma—Earth-Magic Mechanical Amplifier.

Westie didn’t know much about his new invention. He had told her once what the machine did, something about pulling magic from gold or some such nonsense, but she hadn’t cared enough to pay attention.

“Of course,” he said.

Westie looked toward the hallway just as Alistair walked around the corner. Paying attention to Westie instead of where he was walking, he bumped into a wall, knocking down a shelf of novels. She would’ve laughed had her heart not seized at the sight of him. He wore a mask that enabled him to speak, made of clockwork bits that rotated when he breathed. It was lined with leather to keep the metal from touching his skin, and it covered his face from the bridge of his nose to the bottom of his chin. His high-collared shirt hid scars on his neck. Every inch of him was covered except for the top half of his face.