Revenge and the Wild (14 page)

“Olivia, what are you doing over here? There’s no time to be fooling around,” Lavina said. “You should be picking out the fabric for your ball gown.”

Westie waited for a signal. She thought she must’ve missed it
until Olive turned and kicked her in the shin. Westie gasped and clutched her leg. Alistair covered her mouth with his hand before she could cry out.

Well,
Westie thought with her teeth bared,
we don’t have to worry about missing the signal. Little pissant.

Every one of Westie’s muscles turned to iron when Lavina stepped toward them. Alistair brushed his thumb soothingly against the skin of Westie’s arm as Lavina Fairfield studied the fabric. If Lavina peered through the cracks, she would see them—

Their eyes met, for a brief, horrifying moment. Lavina looked at Westie like she was trying to figure out exactly what she was seeing.

“Westie, is that you?” Lavina said. She walked behind the bolts where the three of them were crouched. “What are you doing back here?”

Westie planted her back firmly against Alistair’s chest and let his steady heartbeat help pace her own.

“They’re playing a game,” Olive answered for her. “They’re hiding from grown-ups.” She lifted her head proudly. “I’m the lookout.”

“Doesn’t look like you’ve done a very good job now, does it?”

The proud angles of Olive’s face formed angry curves. The look on her face had potential to become a fit, but it was quickly snuffed out when Hubbard appeared from around the corner and lifted Olive onto his mighty shoulders. Olive’s laughter was like a knife being dragged down Westie’s skin.

Cain and James rounded the corner next.

Jesus,
Westie thought,
they’re like a pack of wild dogs.

“What’s all this?” Hubbard asked in his dull way when he noticed Westie’s group.

Lavina said, “A game, it seems.”

Alistair helped Westie to stand.

“And who do we have here?” Lavina asked when Isabelle crawled out from her back corner. Her head was down, cheeks flushed crimson. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Isabelle Johansson. My parents own the apothecary,” she said to the ground.

“Well, aren’t you just the cutest thing,” Lavina said. Isabelle looked up then, her smile like an exploding sun. “I could eat you up.”

Alistair clutched Westie’s flesh hand. Lavina looked at Westie as if gauging her reaction. Westie’s entire body was frozen; she couldn’t look frightened even if she wanted to.

“What are those pamphlets I’ve seen you carrying around?” Westie asked Cain to take the focus off Isabelle. She didn’t like the not-so-subtle looks Cain was exchanging with her friend.

“Information about Nigel’s magic amplifier—costs and sales projections, mostly. Things a girl wouldn’t understand,” he said with a dismissive shrug.

James huffed out laughter. “You see, Westie, a girl homeschooled by the most brilliant man of our time couldn’t possibly keep up with Cain’s fifth-grade education.” His smile faded when he saw Westie and Alistair’s interwoven fingers.

With an ugly scowl, Cain pushed James into the bolts of fabric, knocking them off their rollers and onto the floor with a startling
clamor. James might have been small compared to Cain, but he was scrappy and got right back on his feet. He tackled Cain to the ground, knocking down a shelf. Bags of flour broke open, filling the room with white dust.

The shopkeeper grunted something from the front of the store. Isabelle hid her open mouth with her hand. It would’ve been a fine time for them to slip out had Lavina not been blocking the way.

“Boys! Stop that at once.” Lavina looked to Hubbard for help. “Please deal with this.”

Hubbard grabbed James and Cain by the collars of their jackets, lifting them off the ground as if they were oily rags. “Always nice to see you, Westie,” James called out as he was dragged from the store. Olive rode her father’s shoulders, clapping and shouting, “Punish them, Daddy. Punish them good.”

Lavina appeared genuinely embarrassed when facing Westie again. “I must apologize. I hope you’ll still welcome us to the ball. I promise my children will be on their best behavior.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Westie said, tugging at Alistair’s hand once Lavina had moved enough to clear a path.

There was a painful throbbing at the back of Westie’s neck from tension, and her teeth hurt from clenching her jaw. She couldn’t remember ever being as wound up as she was in Lavina’s presence.

For the next two days, Westie watched the Fairfields from the shadows, finding excuses to go into town or bring up their names in conversation to local busybodies who thrived on gossip. In a conversation she had with Huan Zhao, a Chinese woman who sold dumplings at morning market, she learned Lavina was dull and mostly talked about expensive dresses Huan could never afford. From the accounts of the whittler in front of Doc Flannigan’s office, she knew the mayor, Hubbard, and Cain were all about politics and Emma, and from everyone else Westie talked to, James cared only about fun and games. In all that time she hadn’t learned a single useful thing.

When it was finally time for the ball, Westie felt as if she were about to combust. She’d wring her hands, pace the room, sit, then repeat. Outside her bedroom window, she heard the creaking joints of carriages, the clopping of hooves, and the excited murmur of voices
blending together as guests arrived for the ball.

Westie let a slow breath deflate her lungs and shook out her arms. “Are you sure James and the Fairfields have arrived? This entire party will be a waste of time if they don’t show up,” she said to Bena.

“As sure as I was five minutes ago.” Bena stood behind her, pulling curlers from Westie’s hair. Each curl was pinned and tucked just so, and adorned with gems to match her eyes. For a wild thing, Bena could pin and curl with the best of them.

Westie let out a bleat of impatience.

She’d spent the afternoon in Bena’s care. Her friend had used a homemade concoction of plant oils and springwater to make Westie’s auburn hair shine as bright as her polished machine. Her body and nails were scrubbed, and she was in full war paint.

When all was done, Westie stood in front of the mirror wearing the dress Nigel had given her. She’d given up on trying to find one she liked better after running into the Fairfields at the general store.

She laughed at her reflection. “Have you ever seen anyone look as silly as I do right now?”

Bena’s smile was a straight, unmoving line. “You do not look half as ridiculous as Nigel.”

“He’s not wearing his red suede shoes with the brass buckles, is he?”

Bena’s smile cracked until it broke, exposing white teeth that sparkled against her dark skin. “I am afraid so. And the purple coat with the gold cuffs.”

“You reckon he was raised by circus folk where he comes from?”
Westie said. She looked at her reflection, tugging at a clump of hair wound up in the gears of her machine, and gave a shrug. “At least I won’t be the only silly thing there.” She turned to Bena, who fussed with a hem. “Do you think this is a bad idea?”

“This dress? Yes.”

Westie smiled. “You know I’m talking about the plan.”

The plan—the only reason for the ball—was to get ahold of Lavina’s key to her rooms at the inn so that Westie could look through their belongings for anything that might prove they weren’t polite society folks like everyone thought.

Bena gave her a smile, the kind that made the skin around her eyes crinkle. Westie loved that smile. It reminded her of her mother, even though the two women looked nothing alike.

“I think using this party for your scheme is a terrible idea, but I would do the same if I were you. Just try not to get caught. If Nigel finds out, it will break his heart,” Bena said.

Westie nodded. Though there were a lot of parts to her plan, she was sure they could pull it off.

Bena took Westie’s hand in hers and gave it a maternal squeeze. “If it looks at all like there could be trouble, walk away.”

Westie swallowed hard and nodded.

“We had better get downstairs before Nigel gets suspicious,” Bena said.

Nigel waited for her at the entrance of the ballroom, where a black curtain had been draped to hide Westie from the guests.

Westie asked, “Where’s Alley?”

“He’s parking carriages out front,” Nigel said.

She found it harder to breathe with each passing moment and wished Alistair were there.

Bena said good-bye, leaving Nigel and Westie alone.

Nigel gave her the dance card in his hand. It wasn’t a card at all, but a paper fan with red satin backing lined with copper. A few names had already been scrolled on the flat part of the folds in gold ink calligraphy.

She took a closer look at the names. There were spots for Nigel, the mayor, and Costin. She noticed only one spot for Alistair—she would have to make that dance count.

Nigel gave her the pen to fill out the rest of the names. Next to Nigel’s elegant script, her penmanship looked like someone trying to write with their toes. She wrote James’s name in most of the spaces. Even if he was unaware of the Fairfields’ dastardly hobbies, he might be able to add the missing pieces she needed without him even knowing he was exposing their secrets.

There were places on her dance card for Cain and Hubbard as well, but only one for each. She would have left them off completely, but that would’ve looked suspicious.

“Remember,” Nigel said when she was finished writing. “Not a single drop to drink.”

The mention of alcohol made Westie’s stomach twitch with the acidic pang of vomit. Before she’d tried it herself, she’d doubted the healing ability of the vampire blood, for there had been times when she’d craved the drink so fiercely, she’d rather have died than
be without it. The revulsion she felt as she remembered the sting of whiskey down her throat had turned her into a believer.

“Not a drop,” she promised.

“Good. Now, I’ve asked James to escort you, since Alistair is busy with the carriages.”

She nodded.

Nigel went beyond the curtain to announce her arrival. She barely heard his voice as he spoke the common words of one’s coming-out. He told the crowd she was a proper lady now, fit for society and suitors. When Nigel called her name, she took a deep breath and walked into the room, a shaky smile on her lips.

It seemed everyone in town had shown up for the ball. Even the sheriff was in attendance. Westie had never seen the sheriff’s family before. He had a pretty young wife and seven daughters. He was younger than Nigel, maybe in his early thirties, but the comfortable way he wore his authority made him seem older. She’d seen him take down men twice his size with his bare hands and had always thought of him as a cowboy, but the tender way he danced with his wife and daughters was enough to melt the stoniest of hearts.

As Westie looked around, her eyes lit up at the sight of several Wintu in the crowd: Grah and Chaoha, and three women whose names she couldn’t remember. Nigel had invited the tribe but hadn’t expected them to show, since no one but her family wanted them there. They probably came in defiance of the mayor, but a part of Westie hoped they were there for her. Either way, she was happy to see them.

James waited for Westie, his arm crooked for the taking. He looked dashing, with tall, fitted boots over his trousers, a black tailcoat, a high-collared white shirt, and his dark hair oiled as it always was. Other than Nigel, she’d never seen someone wear a suit so easily.

“You’re even more beautiful than I remember,” James said when she took his arm. He led her onto the floor just as the band began to play a new song.

She blushed. Not because of the flattery, but because he hesitated before taking hold of her machine. It was only a brief pause, but it was there. When he did take her machine without being crushed, he finally loosened up and settled into the dance.

The music was more modern than anything she’d encountered at other coming-out parties. The singer was a young woman with long knotted hair and filigree tattooed on her face. She plucked and thumped at the strings of her stand-up bass, the gears and cogs spinning and steam coming from small stacks on the side as she played. A frantic banjo solo turned ladies’ skirts into chiffon turbines as their dance partners spun them across the floor.

“You dance wonderfully. Who taught you?” James asked. There was a hint of a black eye still remaining from his fight with Cain in the general store.

“My pa.”

“Nigel?”

They were both looking at Nigel. He was dancing with the widow Myrtle Grey, arms barely able to wrap around her ample waist. At first glance he looked elegant with grace and an exquisite carriage, but south of his waist Nigel was a mess, stampeding all over her feet.

“My real father.”

Her father had loved to dance. Mostly dances made for country folk, but he knew the proper ones too. He could waltz with the best of them.

“Do you still miss him?” James asked.

She returned her focus to James. He had the kind of strong jaw girls lost their manners over, and kissable lips. She thought of Alistair’s lips too and was saddened to find it hard to remember what they looked like with James standing there.

“Every day.” She glanced at her machine, noticed how James’s fingers grazed the copper pieces. How she wished she could feel it. “What about you? You must miss your family, with you being here and them being—well, wherever they are.”

“My parents also passed away when I was young, and I have very little memory of them. I know my father had the same name as me, and he was the mayor of Sacramento before Ben Chambers, but that’s all.”

She scolded herself inwardly, remembering the news about the former mayor’s passing. She’d just moved in with Nigel when she’d heard about the horrible accident. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She hurried to find something else to say, but it didn’t feel right going into trivial topics like parties and talk of investments. She decided to take a chance and speak from the heart. If she was going to learn anything about the Fairfields, she needed James’s trust. “It gets lonely at times, doesn’t it?” she said.

“Yes, though there are times I am thankful not to remember my
parents, for seeing their faces and remembering their touch would make me feel all the more guilty.”

The faces of her family flashed into her mind, her parents bound by the fire waiting to be slaughtered while she ran to her salvation. Tripp’s severed leg . . .

She swallowed hard. Guilt was a feeling she knew all too well.

“Why would you feel guilty?” she asked.

“My mother and father died in an airship crash over the Sacramento airfields when I was just a boy. I was sick and they were traveling to seek medicines for me. If I wasn’t such a weakling, they would never have been on board.”

“I’m so sorry, James.”

“Don’t be sorry for me. Your life is no less full of heartache.”

She didn’t want to travel down the path of her own heartache with him, so she steered clear, keeping to his story.

“It was very kind of the Fairfields to take you in,” she said.

He let out a humorless snort. “Good indeed.”

“They haven’t been good to you?”

Her eyes met his. She remembered them being a lighter green when she first met him. Under gaslight, with the sparkle of the chandelier overhead, they were the color of emeralds.

“Good enough, but anyone would be with the amount of gold they were given to take care of me. Since they’re my only living relatives, my parents left them money with the stipulation that they’d keep me in their charge until I could take over my trust when I turn eighteen.”

“It must have been a great deal of money for them to take care of a sick child,” she said.

“Eight gold bars.”

“Eight gold bars?”

She choked on the words and looked around, afraid she had spoken too loud. No one seemed to notice. Nigel still danced with Myrtle, and the Fairfields sat at a table talking to the mayor.

“One could live two lifetimes on eight gold bars.”

“Not the way Lavina and Hubbard spend money. They’re likely to blow through the whole thing and dip into my trust when they’re done.”

“They can’t do that,” Westie insisted. “There are laws.”

“Lucky for them, they know a former lawyer who’s excellent at finding loopholes.”

Ben Chambers, of course. She remembered Nigel mentioning that he’d been a property lawyer before he became mayor. No doubt he knew his way around tied-up estates.

“Mrs. Fairfield was a good mother to you, wasn’t she?” Westie asked, hoping to find some glimmer of light in James’s childhood since his parents’ passing.

He shrugged. “She made sure I ate well, went to the best schools, and had the best doctors. If I were to get sick and die, they would lose everything. She wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to me—at least not until I’m eighteen and sign my will.”

“Why do you stay? Why not stay with friends for a time? As bright and charming as you are, I’m sure there’s someone.”

A smile erupted on his face. “You think I’m bright and charming?”

She looked away from him, feeling her face heat up. “You’re all right, I suppose.”

James spun her round and round on the dance floor. Despite being overheated and feeling a bit faint, she was surprised how much she was enjoying his company.

“I’m afraid there’s no one. Being a sickly child didn’t allow me much time to make friends. . . .” His words trailed off. “Are you all right? You’ve gone pale suddenly.”

James stopped spinning her, but Westie felt as though the room were still moving.

Her legs started to wobble. James held her tight as she collapsed in his arms.

“I think Bena may have tied my corset a little too tight.” It felt as though her ribs were being crushed..

She put her head against his chest. He smelled of spiced cologne. She’d never liked the false smells of perfume before, but didn’t mind it on him. “Will you walk me to my seat, please? I need to rest a bit.”

James walked her to her table and helped her to her seat. She liked the attention somewhat. It wasn’t often someone treated her like a lady. It wasn’t often she acted like one.

She smoothed her skirt around her, feeling better once she sat.

“I’ll go get you something to drink.”

While James fetched her drink, she looked around at the other guests. There were humans and creatures alike. Nigel invited creatures
to all his social events to keep politically neutral. Westie had never minded their presence in the past as long as they didn’t hog the booze. Now dry, she still didn’t mind. The socialites’ discomfort upon seeing the creatures amused her.

Banshees, ghouls, elves, and werewolves had shown up. There were also vampires. She’d almost missed Costin sitting in his dark corner with his posse all around him, long hair nearly covering his face. He looked paler than usual. His cheeks were gaunt, and there were lavender pouches beneath his eyes as he trained them on her, following her every move as though there were an invisible web that linked them together.

Isabelle slipped into the seat beside her. “You look positively green,” she said.

Good,
Westie thought, thankful for the distraction. At least Isabelle couldn’t tell she was flushed.

“I feel like all the colors in the world mushed into brown paste,” Westie said.

“You can’t get sick—you’re a debutante,” Isabelle said.

“I wasn’t aware debutantes were immune to illness.”

Isabelle plucked a garlic-stuffed olive from the hors d’oeuvres on the table and delicately put it into her mouth. “Well, they are.”

“Why aren’t you wearing the dress I had fitted for you?” Westie asked.

Isabelle was wearing an off-the-shoulder red silk dress with a plunging neckline, much like the one Lavina had worn when she landed in Rogue City. The bronze owl earrings were the only thing Isabelle wore of the ensemble Westie had given her.

“That old thing?” Isabelle took a cheese ball from the platter and bit into it with a grimace before she spit it into her napkin. “Lavina says red is all the rage in the city.”

That old thing?
That old thing had been a cherished gift from Nigel. Westie had spent her entire allowance to have it cut up and fitted to Isabelle’s smaller frame, ensuring that Westie would never be able to wear it again. Isabelle threw it away to look like Lavina. Westie wanted to rip the bronze owl earrings from Isabelle’s ears but contained herself. At least those she could get back after the dance.

Westie sighed. “So Lavina likes red. How . . . appropriate.”

Isabelle was about to bite into another garlic-stuffed olive but thought better of it. She cupped her hand to her mouth, breathed into it, and sniffed. The result left her face crushed.

“That’s garlic in the middle of that olive. I thought it was a pimiento. Why didn’t you warn me? Now I’ll have garlic breath when I dance with James.”

“Is James on your dance card?”

Westie was surprised by the jealousy she felt. Knowing there was no love lost between the Lovett heir and the Fairfields had changed the game. He was smart, and he hated the Fairfields as much as she did. It was possible he could be an ally in the war against her family’s killers.

Isabelle removed her small leather-bound booklet from her cleavage. “Well, no, but there are a few spots open should he want them.” She gave Westie a curious look. “Do you mean to keep him all to yourself?”

“What? Of course not.”

Isabelle snagged the fan rudely from Westie’s copper fingers, nearly ripping it.

“This is your dance card?” Isabelle said. “Why is everything you own more beautiful than everything I own?” she complained while studying the list of names on the fan. She looked up with a mischievous grin. “I was wondering why none of the other girls had James’s name on their cards. It looks like someone is squirreling him away for herself.”

Westie snatched the fan back.

“It’s not like that. I have no interest in James Lovett.”

“That’s obvious enough.” Isabelle studied a glazed carrot round carefully and gave it a sniff before dedicating herself to eating it. “Everyone knows you’re waiting for Alistair.”

Alistair walked into the room just then. His mask was repaired and gleaming in the gaslight. Isabelle’s lip curled in disapproval.

“I don’t get what you see in him,” she said as she looked around the appetizer tray for more treats. “I just don’t get it.”

“He’s not yours to get,” Westie snapped.

Isabelle smiled, raising her hands to pantomime surrender.

When Alistair saw Westie, he waved. He moved through the crowd, politely acknowledging guests he knew, then breathed a sigh of relief when he sat down beside her.

With a roll of her eyes, Isabelle left the table to seek out more popular company.

“What’s her problem?” Alistair asked.

“She’s a bitch.”

He nodded.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

The compliment meant nothing. He told her she was beautiful each time she wore a new dress. It was good manners. Nigel used to say her beauty was like a spider’s web.
Those poor, poor boys,
he would say. But what good was beauty if it couldn’t capture the heart she wanted?

“I look stupid.”

He studied her dress without argument.

“Your face is pretty,” he said.

She waved off the shallow comment with a swish of the fan she held between copper fingers.

He took hold of it. “When do I get my chance to sweep the floor with that hideous gown of yours?” After reading the names, his face turned ashen. He had obviously found Cain and Hubbard Fairfield on the list. “I suppose it’s a good thing Nigel had me hide your parasol.”

“So that’s where it went to.”

“I agree it is good strategy to befriend James Lovett, but your dance card suggests he’s courting you.”

She thought about her dance with James, his unfortunate story, those deep eyes. “Spending time with James won’t be the worst way to get information about the Fairfields.”

Alistair gave her an intense look that made her fidget. “Sounds a little like you fancy the heir.” He turned away from her. “Wouldn’t that be something? Imagine the fortune you’d inherit if the pair of you wed,” he said.

“I hate it when you use Nigel’s British words. What man uses a word like
fancy
?”

He didn’t seem to care if she and James walked out together. The thought hurt her more than she cared to acknowledge. Suddenly she lost her taste for the food being carried out of the kitchen by servers, as well as the taste for music and dance.