“I don’t know which is worse, bandits or rattlesnakes.”
Bena gave her a cool look. She was being as stuffy as Alistair.
“A rattlesnake will not rape you, take your gold, and leave you for the creatures.”
“Fine.” Westie rolled her head back, letting the sun kiss her face. “Rattlesnakes it is. They can’t possibly be worse company than the two of you.”
A cold finger walked up Westie’s spine as they passed the blue-painted trees that stood as a warning, letting human travelers know they were leaving the safety of Wintu protection. She looked up at the dome, saw the smooth curve of it like a bell jar over the town, where it had stood for eight years. When settlers had first come to the area, the Wintu—as a peace offering—conjured the dome to protect the settlers from creatures, with the agreement that the Wintu’s sacred sites were off-limits. Every time Westie left that protection, she felt like she was running naked through a rose garden. It was only a matter of time before things got dangerous.
They traveled north along a game trail next to the Sacramento River. By the time the sun fell behind the mountain, Westie’s stomach was in a riot from nerves.
They cooled their saddles near the river for the night, far enough away from the rushing water so that they could hear anyone approach but close enough to catch the breeze.
Westie was laying out her bedroll when Bena sat down in front of a pile of wood and debris she’d gathered to build a fire. Whispering words to the earth in Wintu, she held her hands over the wood. Westie had seen her do the same thing countless times. Each time a fire would roar to life without a single spark. This time it didn’t work. Bena’s jaw clenched, and she tried again.
“Shit!” Bena said, and stood up.
Any other time, hearing Bena use a cuss word would’ve made Westie laugh, but there was nothing funny about seeing her friend so upset.
With a defeated moan, Bena said, “I’m going hunting.”
While Bena was away, Westie lit the fire, and Alistair brushed the horses. Westie sat on a fallen tree near the fire, watching him in the saffron glow.
“I’d lend you a hand, but it seems I’ve grown attached to it.” She waved her clockwork arm at him. “Unlike some of those with mechanical parts that are removable.” She leaned her head back and grinned even though her face wanted to do just the opposite. “That breeze is something to smile about. Feels nice against my face.”
He ignored her digs the same way he always did, but his eyes narrowed and he began to brush faster.
“Maybe you ought to take your mask off?” she said, unlacing her bodice to expose her cleavage to the breeze, pretending she didn’t see his cheeks turning red and the front of his trousers getting tight. His sudden fury to hide it made her choke on laughter. She looked away, cheeks hot, heart speeding up. It was the first time she’d ever seen him react physically to her. She felt shy and hopeful, but pushed it down. He would probably react the same way to any woman showing skin.
He mumbled something under his breath—something unpleasant, she was sure—before tossing his brush to the side and disappearing into the woods.
He came back to the camp only when Bena returned with her catch of plump rabbits and blackberries. Alistair left again, walking to the river to eat alone. Westie had a headache and wasn’t hungry anymore. She fell asleep and was tossed into the same familiar nightmare of running through the cabin trying to escape from the cannibals, only she was able to force herself to wake before the worst of it.
Her eyes opened to a star-bloated sky and to Alistair sitting beside her, brushing her sweaty hair off her face with a gentle finger.
The light of the dying fire shimmered in his eyes. “It was only a dream,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
She wondered if she had woken him, or if he’d been sitting with her all along. As he petted her hair, her lids grew heavy, and she was reminded of a time when they were younger, when she was still struggling to use her machine. The mechanical arm had been such a tiresome burden back then. Every time she’d go to scratch an itch on her nose, she’d punch herself in the face, knocking herself out for hours at a time. She was never without a blackened eye or bloody nose in those days.
One day, Alistair came to her while she sat in the barn, cuddling with Henry and crying after breaking Isabelle’s hand at school. He’d wiped her tears away, held her metal hand up in front of him, and placed his face in its palm. His blue eyes were bright against the copper as he watched her through the open spaces between her fingers.
You wouldn’t want to crush my skull, would you? he signed. He didn’t use his mask much at all back then.
She sniffed and shook her head.