Revenge and the Wild(8)

“Oh.” She made a huffing sound. “Nigel was worried.”

He hesitated. “I was worried too. It’s dangerous for you to be out searching alone. It’s a fool’s errand.”

Her voice climbed an octave. “A fool’s errand?”

Her hair was a knot on the side of her head by the time he was done.

“I know you want justice, Westie, but you’ve become obsessed.”

He always said such things, but she couldn’t understand why. As loyal as Alistair was, Westie knew if it was the other way around and the killers of his family were never caught, he would go after them no matter what it took or how foolish it seemed.

With her hands free, she took the kettle from the tray on the table. “You don’t understand anything.” She blew into her cup, steam wetting her cheeks. “The cannibals who killed your family and took your voice are dead. The ones who killed mine are still out there.”

“You don’t know that—”

“I do know that!” she snapped. “I feel it in my gut.”

Alistair of all people should’ve understood her need to catch the cannibals. It had been only six years since they’d found him on the wagon trail. Westie was just eleven years old when she and Nigel came upon two men hunched over Alistair like they were praying over their dead. When Westie had asked if they were in need, both men looked up with blood on their faces and flesh between their teeth. Bodies had been scattered across the forest floor, their faces chewed to a pulp. Alistair was the last one left of his entire family too. The two of them were made of the same leather.

The thought of Alistair’s close call with death brought forth memories of Westie’s own family: her mother and father tied up on the floor of the old hunting cabin, waiting to be slaughtered; her younger brother murdered and made into a stew. There was a throbbing sensation in the stump of her arm. Looking down, she half expected to see her bloody limb hanging on by a tendon. When she saw her machine instead, she took a slow breath and lifted her gaze.

Alistair looked out the window, eyes sparkling like sea glass in the light. She could tell by the crease on his forehead that there was a frown beneath his mask. She didn’t need to see his expression to know that. Her memories of him were enough.

“You should get dressed,” he said. “We leave for the airdocks in an hour.”

He started to walk away and was halfway to the door when he stopped and looked back at her. The crease on his forehead softened. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said, and left the room.





Five


Using strategy and some acrobatics, Westie managed to figure out all the different straps and ties of the dress Nigel had brought back for her when he’d traveled to France last year. A visit from the investors was the perfect excuse to wear it. It was white silk with a gold-colored fabric bustle and matching buttons on the front of her bodice like those on a military coat. She liked the masculine way it squared off her shoulders. It even came with a leather jacket like men wore, though it was too hot out to wear it.

On her way downstairs she noticed Bena standing in the foyer beside a dracaena. Westie stopped, watching Bena touch the brown leaves of the dying plant. Nigel had plenty of greenery in the house. He thought the foliage would balance out all the metal, but neither of his thumbs were green, so he left their care to Bena.

All Wintu had a special relationship to the earth and the things that came from it. Westie remembered playing with the Wintu children when she was younger, in awe of their abilities. They’d whisper to a branch high in a tree, and it would bend so they could reach it. Once, while Bena and Westie had been caught in a storm and needed to cross a flooded creek, Bena whispered to the water, her fingers dancing in the air, and rocks began to pile on top of one another, making a path for them to walk.

“Aren’t you going to heal it?” Westie said.

Bena turned around, a glimmer of unshed tears in her eyes. Westie had been kicked in the chest once by Alistair’s horse, and it didn’t feel as crushing as the look on Bena’s face. If Bena couldn’t heal a sad little houseplant, the earth’s magic must be in worse shape than Westie had thought.

“Not right now,” Bena said. As she let go of the leaf, it fluttered to the ground at her feet. “We don’t want to be late.”

After breakfast they left for the airdocks. It was early, but already the day was sweltering. Westie fidgeted. She hated riding sidesaddle, but it was the only way she was able to fit on her horse in the dress she wore. Her skin was slick with sweat, and James and Alistair looked just as uncomfortable in their long boots and trousers—James more so with all the decorative metal pieces covering his sack coat. Bena was the only one who didn’t seem affected by the heat. She wore a long buckskin dress with different-colored fire beads in the zigzag pattern that identified her as Wintu. It was also adorned with hundreds of polished deer teeth that let others know she was a great hunter.

While Westie and the others rode horses, Nigel drove a wagon made of brass and wood that looked like a simple box. It had two smokestacks, and he had to continually feed coal to the fire while trying to steer at the same time. He had pulled out all his special inventions in hopes of impressing the investors. Westie had to ride upwind to keep from getting an eyeful of soot from the belching stacks.

When they reached the town, there was a herd of people plodding around, their carts and horses weighed down with mining gear.