Revenge and the Wild(54)

He was short of breath, as though it were he who had been running instead of his pampered city horse. “I heard people shouting, saying a girl was missing. I had to make sure it wasn’t you.”

He was coated in sweat, his skin the color of an overcast morning.

“It’s Isabelle—she’s gone.”

“You already knew that, though, didn’t you?” Alistair said.

“Alley,” Westie warned. If James knew they suspected the Fairfields, it could ruin everything.

James’s face was pinched with confusion. “How would I know that? I just told you I didn’t know who the missing girl was.”

“You look like you’re fixing to unload the chuck wagon,” Westie cut in. “Are you all right?”

His face had turned a sickly shade of green, and his lips were pale as death.

He leaned over, vomiting down the side of his horse. Westie lifted her lamp, then quickly turned away when she saw the mess he’d made. The sweet, rancid smell of stomach acid made her head swim. She was afraid she’d be the next link in a chain reaction.

“How much did you drink at the ball, man?” Alistair’s eyes were slivers, and he made gagging sounds under his mask.

Westie didn’t recall James drinking anything but a flute of champagne at the party, but then again she’d had other distractions.

James wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his sack coat, looking embarrassed.

“Too much.”

“Might want to get back inside the bubble if you’re not feeling well,” Westie said. “Creatures pick off the sick ones first. There’s nothing anyone can do if they carry you away.”

James looked at her like a frightened child. “I thought creatures couldn’t take anyone against their will within the confines of the Indian ward.”

“They can’t,” she said. “But we’re not inside the ward. See those blue trees over there?” She lifted her lamp to show him. “Those are the markers of magic. You need to stay inside those lines.”

“Oh, I see. That’s good to know.”

Westie and Alistair led James back to the safety of the Wintu ward. The color had started to come back to his cheeks. Westie was about to inquire further about his health when she heard hooves beating the ground, heading straight for them. A lamp swung in the distance, the light making it look as though the trees were dancing.

Nigel burst from the gloom with Bena close behind him. “The wolves picked up her scent,” he said. His hand shook so violently, Westie was afraid he would drop the lamp and burn down the forest.

“Where?” she said.

“Follow me.”

They rode hard. She hoped James and his clumsy horse could keep up or they would have to send out a second party to find him later.

They followed the wolves toward the river, deep into the brush. Ahead, a spot of color on a low-hanging branch caught the light. Westie pulled her horse to the side to avoid a collision with other riders and grabbed the swatch, rubbing the fabric between her fingers. The patch was a red piece of silk chiffon like the dress Isabelle had been wearing. The scrap she’d found was riding height, meaning Isabelle had been on horseback. Westie juggled the scenarios. She wanted to keep an open mind, if only to make herself feel better about the situation. Maybe Isabelle had taken a horse and it had gotten away from her. The girl couldn’t ride anything wilder than a wheelchair. Westie didn’t want to believe the Fairfields would be so bold as to kill her friend. She couldn’t deny the possibility either.

“Here!” someone shouted nearby. “She’s over here.”

Westie dug her heels into her horse’s sides, hoping they would find Isabelle cold and scared but otherwise unharmed. When Westie neared the scene, she knew that was not the case. Her light caught slashes of red like cave paintings all around her, smears of blood against rocks and trees. A howl cut through the silent tension. She thought it had come from a werewolf at first, but it wasn’t the sound of any lycanthrope. Westie slid off Henry’s back, held the reins in a trembling hand. She could hear the preacher’s mumbled prayers under someone’s cries. When her tentative steps took her past the crowd that had gathered, she realized the howling sound had come from Isabelle’s father. He was hunched down on the ground with the preacher by his side, holding a mangled corpse, unrecognizable as human other than by the red dress it wore.

Westie had stayed home while Alistair and Nigel did the autopsy. As she waited for their return, she jabbed and hacked at a dummy with her wooden practice sword. It was all she could do to battle her pain. Her friend was dead. The last thing she’d said to Isabelle was a lie.

The armory had always been one of Westie’s favorite parts of the house. It was more like a museum, really. There were suits of armor and chain mail, polearms, lances, flails, and maces. In the middle of the floor was a pugilist’s ring and, beside it, a fencing mat. She stood on the mat, holding the sword with her machine. With a sweeping arc, she slashed down on a dummy with such force that it shattered into a thousand pieces. She was sweating and smelling none too fair when Nigel and Alistair walked in.

Nigel scanned the mess she’d made. She had destroyed all but one of the wooden practice weapons and bent the metal ones into crude sculptures. There were spears broken in two scattered across the floor, and dummies (wood and cloth alike) had been slaughtered. Westie waited for the lecture on tidiness and tranquility. It never came.