Revenge and the Wild(9)

“Who are all these folks?” Westie asked.

Typically there were equal numbers of humans and creatures in Rogue City—though there had been times when creatures would overpopulate the wilds after a rigorous mating season and find their way into town by the dozens—but she’d never seen so many humans in town before.

“Walter Cowley struck gold up on Devil’s Crag a few weeks ago,” Nigel said. “When word got out, people from all over the north valley made the pilgrimage. An airship landed this morning with a flood of prospectors.”

Westie’s eyes narrowed at a man who bumped into her horse without apologizing. “That’s Wintu land. He can’t mine up there.”

The look on Bena’s face grew dark, but she didn’t speak. Her tribe wasn’t far from that stretch of rock. It was a sacred place used by her people for various ceremonies.

Nigel sniffed and flexed his jaw. “I tried everything I could to stop it. No one will listen. They know the gold will do wonders for the town’s economy.”

Westie turned to Bena. “Why aren’t you saying anything about this? That’s your land.”

Bena’s face remained unmoved, but there was tenaciousness in her eyes when she looked at Westie. “Without the tribe, Emma will not work. If people want their towns protected, they will need our help. It will come at a price. We will get our land back, just not today.”

Westie smiled. She’d thought Bena had come along to support Nigel, but it seemed she had her own agenda.

A horde had gathered at the pier where the airship was to dock. James parted ways from the group and headed for the Tight Ship.

Alistair fiddled with his horse’s reins, eyes twitching as people stared and whispered. He had always been wary of gatherings and rarely went into town unless it was to assist Nigel in the surgical rooms. He was the ghost of Rogue City. People knew of him, but rarely had he been seen—unlike Westie, who waved her mechanical arm in people’s faces for no other reason than to make them squirm. Folks spread rumors about Alistair. They called him a vampire because he only traveled into town under the cloak of night and never removed his mask. Some said it hid fangs, while others claimed there was nothing but bone underneath.

Westie remembered his face beneath the mask quite differently. He had scars on his cheeks and throat, nothing creaturely. If anything, his scars gave him a rugged, outlaw look that she thought made him more handsome. His lips were soft, his teeth white and perfectly crooked. His smile was his most endearing feature, the way it swayed to the side. Before he stopped taking off his mask in front of her, she used to stare at his lips, watch the way he moved them to form words when he’d communicate through sign language even without a voice.

Alistair turned abruptly, catching her watching him. His metal sound box crackled inside his mask before he spoke. “Everything all right?” he asked.

She shifted her eyes beyond him, toward the crowd. “Not really. All these folks shuffling around remind me of the Undying.”

The Undying were just that—people who’d died of poisoning after eating creatures of magic but didn’t stay dead. When they rose again, they were evil, their skin moldy gray and covered in pustules, killing anyone unfortunate enough to cross their path.

Westie shivered at the thought and backed her horse away from a hunched, arthritic-looking woman tottering by, half expecting her to lunge and start biting.

“I’m not too fond of them myself,” Alistair said.

Hired hands came by to take their horses to the livery yard. After she dismounted, Westie heard someone call her name in a shrill voice.

“Westie, yoo-hoo!”

Isabelle Johansson maneuvered through the crowd, holding her skirts in her good hand. Being just an itty-bitty thing, she had to bully her way with elbows and knees. By the time she reached Westie, she was out of breath, chest heaving beneath her low-cut bodice.

“Westie, you are positively radiant in that dress.” She touched the fine silk. “It looks expensive.” With Isabelle, everything was about money.

She bounced on her toes, making her perfect chestnut ringlets bob. Her parents owned the apothecary between Doc Flannigan’s office and Nigel’s surgical rooms. They were well-to-do by Rogue City standards, and Isabelle made sure everyone knew it by wearing the latest fashions. The two girls were still friends, but not as close as they’d been when they were eleven years old, before Westie was kicked out of school for breaking every finger in Isabelle’s left hand during a game of ring-around-the-rosie while Westie was still learning to use her mechanical arm. Isabelle, whose fingers were bent and slightly deformed from the break, was quick to forgive—the others at school, not so much, thus ending Westie’s community schooling.

“I reckon it was expensive,” Westie said, though she’d never thought to ask Nigel the price, which made her feel ashamed for wearing the dress in the dirt.

“You must wear it to your coming-out party.”

Westie cocked her head. “My what?”

“The coming-out party Nigel has planned for you in ten days, silly. He was telling my father about it just yesterday. All proper ladies come out into society when they turn sixteen. Hasn’t Nigel told you anything?”

“I’m seventeen.” Westie was sure Nigel knew better than to surprise her with a party. She looked at Alistair, finding her answer in the way he turned his head to avoid her. “You knew about this?” she said.