Revenge and the Wild (10 page)

“If I’m going to invest my money in this machine, I need to know them savages will pull their weight,” Hubbard said. He had a bovine look to him and talked like a man slow in the head. Perhaps that was what eating humans did to the brain over time. If that was the case, it wasn’t working on Lavina. She seemed as sharp as ever.

“I’m sure whatever is happening with the dome, the Wintu have their reasons, and it will have no effect on Emma whatsoever,” Westie said. “I’ll see if I can set up a meeting with the Wintu’s chief as soon as possible.”

“Excellent,” Lavina said, wiping the sweat from her brow. “Now maybe we can finally get off the topic of money.”

When Lavina lifted her arm, Westie saw a brown smear on her sleeve and blurted, “Is that blood on your dress?” before she could stop herself.

James leaned over Lavina’s shoulder for a better look. “You two must bathe in the stuff. Westie was covered in it too just yesterday. Is this some beauty regimen we should be concerned about?” he said with a smirk.

Westie forced herself to smile at James’s quip, but her gaze remained on Lavina, who scratched at the dried brown swatch. She’d been in Rogue City less than a week and was already causing trouble. It was hardly enough blood to suggest she’d attacked someone, but it was there all the same.

“I must have pricked myself with the needle when I was sewing Olivia’s doll’s head back on,” Lavina said. She smiled as if to say there was nothing Westie could do to shake her. “Speaking of Olivia, I’d best go check on her. If she wakes and sees I’m gone, she’ll destroy the place.”

“I think I’ll slip over to the Tight Ship. I’d like to avoid that little terror when she wakes.” James looked at Westie in a way that might’ve sent a flutter through her had they been alone. But as it was, all she felt was sick. “It’s always nice to see you, Westie. Good day.”

Westie watched the Fairfields leave. As soon as it was safe to turn her back on them, she rushed into the doctor’s office, locking the door behind her.

They arrived back at the mansion just before supper. Alistair was awake and, other than complaints of a headache, seemed no different than before he was shot. They sat down to eat. He wore a red handkerchief over his nose and mouth like a bandit after Nigel had taken his mask for repairs.

Alistair lifted his kerchief with one hand and shuttled a broccoli floret into his mouth with the other, careful not to let Westie see the face hidden beneath. She wished she had peeked at him when she’d had the chance.

He raised his hands.
Stop watching me,
he signed.

“Sorry, Alley, I don’t remember what those signs mean,” she lied. “You wear that blasted machine so often I’ve forgotten the hand language.”

He glared at her until she broke into a smile. His eyes softened.

“Enough,” Nigel said from the head of the table. He’d been so
quiet Westie had nearly forgotten he was there. “I want to talk about what happened at the airdocks before the two of you went off seeking adventure.”

Westie looked down at the plate of food she hadn’t touched. “I was hoping to avoid it,” she said.

“You have been, but no longer. Now”—he tossed his napkin onto his full plate—“I want you to stop all this nonsense about the Fairfields being cannibals.”

“Nonsense?” She crushed her fork into a silver ball with her machine. “You don’t believe me?”

Neither Nigel nor Alistair would look at her. She wished Bena were there. Bena would at least give it some thought before dismissing her completely.

“I believe that you believe they are who you say they are, but
please
, Westie, look at this from all sides. You spent months searching for these people in the valley, always one step behind them, you say. You dug tirelessly into the cases, trying to dispute the reports of skilled pathologists on their findings—”

“They were calling them creature attacks. I’ve helped you in the surgical rooms enough to recognize a creature attack. There weren’t any fang punctures on those bodies. I know a human bite mark when I see it.”

Nigel’s mustache moved like a living thing as he chewed his lip.

“I realize you saw . . . what you saw as a child, but you are no expert on human bite marks. Vampire and elf bites can look very much human.”

Each word that came from his mouth stoked the fire that grew within her. No one believed her. She heard it in Nigel’s voice and saw it in Alistair’s eyes.

He went on, “And don’t you think it is a miraculous turn of events that the cannibal family who killed your own seven years ago just happens to show up on our doorstep—quite literally—the day after you get back into town?”

“You think I’m lying?” she asked with narrowed eyes.

Westie had told some tall tales as a child, and she’d told a few whales to get out of trouble, but she had never lied to Nigel about the important things. It pained her that he didn’t believe her now.

“Not lying—I believe you are mistaken. I think you want to find your family’s killers so desperately that you see them in every new face you encounter. I mean you no offense, but with the way you’ve been drinking lately, and some of the mistakes you’ve made in the past, I have to just come out and say it: you are not the most reliable witness.”

Nigel’s words tore through her chest and ripped out her heart. She was quite aware of her past mistakes and regretted them, but it hurt no less hearing Nigel throw them back in her face. She felt ganged up on. Ashamed of the mess she had become. She needed Nigel and Alistair more than ever, and they wouldn’t stand by her. And worst of all, she had no one to blame but herself.

She left the table without being excused, ignoring Nigel’s pleas for her to return.

That night after everyone had retired to their rooms, Westie slipped out her bedroom window and went down to the barn.

She saddled Henry and made her way to the Wintu village. Once she was outside the city limits and into the pitch darkness of Wintu land, she slowed her horse. To keep from getting an arrow between her shoulder blades, she spoke the Wintu word for
friendship
—that, or the word for being flatulent. The Wintu children used to find it comical to teach her the wrong words for everything, and with
friendship
and
flatulent
being so close in sound, she couldn’t remember which word was which. When she heard the quiet laughter of Wintu scouts coming from the trees, bushes, and crags, she knew.

They let her pass anyway. Everyone in Bena’s tribe recognized Westie, and she was welcome.

In a clearing was a circle of huts and a large campfire in the middle, with most of the tribe gathered around. Grah sat by the fire, scraping an animal hide with a sharpened bone. He was the closest to Westie’s age, and they’d played together when Bena would take her to the village as a child. She’d developed quite the infatuation with him back then, following him around, braiding his long hair when he wasn’t able to avoid her. He would tease her about her pale skin blinding him in the sunlight. She hadn’t thought about him much since Alistair had come into her life, but seeing him, his long black hair and shirtless broad chest, made her sweat a little. He smiled and winked when he saw her. She had to fight the urge to hide her face in her hands like she’d done when she was young and still shy.

Sitting near Grah was Rek. He looked much older than she remembered, his black braids now woven with stands of gray. His wife had been raped and killed by a white man around the same time Bena had saved Westie, but that hadn’t stopped him from gently changing Westie’s bandages and treating her wound.

Roasting what looked like a squirrel over the open flame was Chaoha, who’d told her grand stories of a giant eagle that flew around the sun with the earth on its back, and Tecumseh—also known as Tall Buck—who’d sung her songs when she’d woken up from nightmares.

Seeing them brought a burning sense of longing. For Westie, the Wintu village was a place of healing, a place for her tortured soul to be nourished. She’d come to the Wintu with her heart in pieces, and they’d done their best to put it back together with what little they had left to work with.

As she rode by, she was met with words of welcome and smiles as warm as the orange glow of firelight against their skin.

Westie tied Henry up with the Wintu horses and made her way to Bena’s hut, which looked somewhat like a beaver nest. It was a round structure, dug deep into the earth. The roof was made of branches and was almost flush with the ground.

“Come in,” Bena said without even looking up. She sat on a woven blanket, the blunt end of a spear wedged between her bare feet while she sharpened the tip. “It’s been two seasons since you were last here.”

Westie looked around at all the weapons on the walls, bows and
arrows, hatchets, spears, and guns. The evidence of the warrior Bena was.

Breathing in the familiar smell of wood smoke, she smiled and sighed. “Every time I step on Wintu land it gets harder to leave. I fear one day I’ll come for a visit and never leave.”

“Believe me, we fear it too.”

Bena grinned when Westie glared at her. Bena was always more generous with her smiles when she was with her own people. It made Westie feel a little better after the crushing blow dealt by Nigel’s words.

“So.” The smile slipped away from Bena’s lips as she concentrated on the tip of her spear. “What brings you out at night?”

“I was hoping to speak to Big Fish if she’ll have me.”

Big Fish was the Wintu chief. The name was much prettier in their native language, but Westie’s tongue could never move the way it needed to to pronounce it.

“I am sure she will be happy to see you.” The smile was back. “She loves a challenge.”

“Well, aren’t you just a riot tonight?” Westie said.

Bena chuckled. “She’s up on the hill, talking to the spirits.”

Westie turned to leave, then stopped at the opening of the hut and faced Bena again. “Is magic really as scarce as Nigel would have me believe?”

Though Westie had seen it with her own eyes when Bena had failed to heal the houseplant and start a fire, she didn’t want to believe it was true.

Bena looked up from her work. “I’m afraid so.”

Westie had hoped Nigel was exaggerating so that she would behave around his guests, and that the change in the dome was some sort of natural phenomenon that could easily be explained away.

“But how? Why now?”

Bena put the spear to the side, picked up a blunt-edged stick, and began to whittle away at the tip. “More and more settlers are calling this continent their home. As the population grows, so does industry. Entire forests are being destroyed to build cities, waterways polluted. Magic
is
the land. It is in the trees, the mountains, the water, the air. As all those things are destroyed, magic will recede into the earth, deeper and deeper, until those of us on the surface can no longer reach it.”

That was why Nigel used gold for his invention, Westie realized. She’d seen Big Fish use nuggets of it during spells. She wore a chunk of it on a string around her neck. Magic had sunk into the earth and soaked into the gold.

“I’m sorry,” Westie said.

“As am I.”

Westie ducked her head and left Bena’s hut. There was nothing she could do about the settlers, and she didn’t need another burden right then to wallow in. She’d come to the Wintu village with a purpose, and that was to ask a favor of Big Fish.

Westie hiked up the nearly vertical hill. It was too dark to see her footing. She worked solely on memory to get her there, and it seemed her memory wasn’t all that reliable from when she’d been sober either.
She didn’t remember trees and rocks in the path the last time she’d walked to Spirit Hill. She fell and scraped her knees. The pain of it nearly pushed her to a breaking point. She cussed the entire way up.

She could see the glow of firelight up ahead and smelled the tangy scent of kinnikinnick burning in the air. The smell brought back a long-forgotten memory of when she had stayed with the Wintu. Big Fish had spent every night on Spirit Hill with her pipe, talking to her creator, asking the spirits for protection over her tribe. Westie had decided she wanted to talk to them too, ask why they’d allowed the cannibals to take her family. She knew only a chosen few were able to talk to spirits, but that wasn’t about to stop her from trying. One night after everyone in the village was asleep, she snuck into Big Fish’s dwelling, took the pipe, and climbed the hill.

Though not a spirit talker, after smoking enough wild tobacco for three grown men, Westie finally saw them—as well as a pink buffalo and dogs dressed in human clothes dancing through the air. Somehow, through it all, she’d forgotten to ask the creator anything and woke up with a brain-splitting headache the next morning. Since then she’d decided to leave the spirit talking to the chief. It was a hard lesson learned, like most. Still, it was a memory that made her smile when so many others hurt.

By the time Westie reached the top of the hill, she was bathed in sweat and breathing so hard she thought one of her lungs might have collapsed. She crumpled to the ground in front of the fire opposite the chief and grabbed the water skin from her belt, taking deep gulps.

Big Fish wore coyote hides and a colorful woven hat that fit tight
to her skull. She looked up at the sky in a trance, unaware Westie was there. Her eyes darted from side to side like a cat following a bird in the trees. Westie followed her gaze but saw only lazy stars. Big Fish was seeing the creator, she knew. Westie sat back on the blankets by the fire, waiting it out. Finally the chief fell out of her stupor.

“Westie. It has been too long,” the woman said, offering the pipe to her.

Big Fish was the oldest person Westie had ever seen, with deep wrinkles creasing her face and skin like parchment. Some in the Wintu village claimed she was over three hundred years old, though Westie reckoned it was closer to ninety. She was old and frail, and smaller than some of the mountain dwarves Westie had seen, but there was nothing frail about the woman’s mind.

Westie shook her head and waved the pipe away. “My days of spirit talking are done.”

Big Fish smiled and nodded.

“The creator tells me you seek something. I’m told you have a darkness growing inside your heart,” Big Fish said in Wintu.

Westie picked up a clump of dirt, smashed it between her fingers, nervous.

She replied in her own tongue, self-conscious about saying the Wintu words properly. “I have a whole lot of dark things growing in my heart these days, but I’m here to tackle just the one.”

“You want to ask the creator for help?”

What she planned to ask Big Fish was no small favor, and she felt guilty for even asking since it had been months since her last visit.

“Nah,” she said, “spirits don’t like me much. I was hoping
you
would help me out.”

“Oh?” Big Fish raised her brows—only the loose skin around her eyes kept her from looking surprised.

Westie buried her chin in her chest, avoiding Big Fish’s clear, wise eyes. “I was hoping you could give me an elixir, something to stop me from . . . from . . .”

“The poison you crave,” Big Fish finished for her.

Westie looked up then, meeting her gaze. “Yes.”

The chief nodded and frowned. “I am sorry, young one, but there is no herb or spell for sobriety. It takes time and perseverance to overcome such a craving. There is no instant cure.”

Westie picked up a rock and crushed it with her machine. “That’s not true.” She sat straight, suddenly remembering a rumor she’d heard long ago. “There is a cure.”

Big Fish leaned over the dying fire and gave Westie a hard glare. “What you speak of is illegal, and immoral. The creator looks down on such perversions.”

Westie stood up, feeling angry. Mostly at her own self for even asking. “I reckon if the spirits don’t care for me, I don’t care for them much neither.”

The old woman looked ready to throw Westie over a knee and give her a good paddling for talking bad about her beloved spirits, but her anger was soon replaced with a look of concern.

“Westie, I pray you reconsider. There is no cure. What you speak of may stop the body’s cravings for a time, but it is your mind that is
diseased. You must rid yourself of the darkness in your heart. Only then will you be free.”