Revenge and the Wild(68)

“It was an accident. She fell into the river and I tried to save her.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “You have to believe me. As much as Olive deserved a good swat on the hide for what she did to those animals, I didn’t kill her. I wouldn’t do such a thing.” She slapped the water with the flat of her hand, getting soap in her eye. “Why are you smiling? A little girl is dead. That seems mean even for you.”

Costin tried to remove his smirk but failed. “Oh, I’m not smiling because a girl is dead. That really is tragic. But you humans, you think those who are different from you, those you call creatures as though we’re some subspecies, are no better than animals. You think we kill for pleasure, that we are incapable of love. If I smile, it’s only because I enjoy watching humans behave badly.”

“I’m not behaving badly!”

He waved it off. “It’s of no concern to me. You know I’ll forgive you anything. But I doubt Nigel and Alistair will be as generous.”

Costin stood. He reached toward Westie. She thought he would take her face into his hand again. She would have let him. Instead he took the towel from her lap and dried his hands.

She was on the verge of hysterics. “I’m in trouble, Costin. Nigel will think I killed Olive when the mayor tells him about the bottle and the set of prints from a woman’s shoe. Once he learns the only thing missing from the store is the bottle of Brave Maker, my life is ruined.”

Costin gently moved the hair from Westie’s face. “They won’t find that bottle or the prints, or the manzanita tree. I’ve dealt with the evidence. And besides, a bottle of Brave Maker wasn’t the only thing missing from the store.”

“What? But—”

“Turns out the thief took many things: horse grain, bedrolls, cigarette makings. Things an outlaw would take. What’s peculiar is he left gold on the counter, enough to pay for the things he stole and the damage to the building.” He dropped the towel beside her. “Oh, by the way, the investigation came to a close this morning, and Olive’s death was ruled an accident,” he said before walking out.

The first day of autumn fell on the same day as Olive’s funeral service. Fall was a beautiful time of year in Rogue City, everything bright and full of color. The maple trees surrounding the church boneyard looked like paintings of fire.

The entire town—except for the creatures—showed up for the occasion, even though the Fairfields were strangers to most. Olive’s death had somehow made her everyone’s little girl.

Westie stood behind the crowd away from the others, observing. Nigel wore black. Alistair’s soft leather dress coat fit snugly to his form, a rebellion when the current men’s fashion could double as sacks to hold grain. He looked more handsome than she’d ever seen him before.

James and Lavina wore expensive clothes to mourn in, while Cain and Hubbard dressed as common as street folk.

James picked at his nails, staring at the ground. Hubbard fell apart, dissolved to tears, not caring what others might say. He made sucking noises, unable to catch his breath until eventually he dropped his head into his hands and buckled to his knees in the stinking mud.

Lavina was less theatrical, except for her dress, which was a production of its own, black lace ruffles and far more low-cut than most would find appropriate for a funeral. The tops of her breasts jiggled each time she moved, catching men’s eyes all around. Her face was pale from powder, yet the skin of her chest and the tops of her breasts were golden brown and looked like the leather skulls of Siamese twins fighting for air.

Not a tear was shed by Lavina for her daughter while in the public eye. In fact, it was the public that cried. Other than James, Nigel, Alistair, and Westie, there was not a dry eye to be found.

All the sniffling, breathing, whimpers—the sounds of mourning—filled Westie’s ears. No one had cried for Westie’s family. No one had cried for the little girl who’d lost her arm.

Her head throbbed, whether with guilt or annoyance she didn’t know. What she did know was that she needed to leave before some mystery emotion spilled out of her in a public scene. She pulled the mourning lily the church had pinned to her bodice from her dress and stepped on it, twisting the toe of her boot until the white flower turned brown. No one noticed as she walked away.





Thirty-One


The bright smells of autumn faded the moment Westie stepped into the Tight Ship. The barkeep saw her and immediately reached for the bottle of Brave Maker.

“I’ll have a sarsaparilla,” she said.

He looked at her as though her marbles had fallen onto the floor, his hand hovering over the bottle of whiskey.

“Is my hearing going?” he said.

“Don’t give me sass, Heck. Not today,” she said, dejected.

“Suit yourself.” He poured her drink into a metal cup.

She sat at the bar. As she looked around, she noticed there were no creatures in the saloon except for a troll passed out on the floor.

“Where’s everyone at?” she asked.

“Seems to be a bug going around,” Heck said. His skin had a green tint to it. He didn’t look too good himself.

She took small sips to draw out her time. There was to be a potluck after the service. Westie had no intention of going.

When someone sat down beside her, she didn’t think anything of it until she heard the voice. Her back went as straight as if she’d been skewered.