The man had since left Rogue City with his wife, and Doc Flannigan was far too skilled at keeping secrets to tell her anything, but she needed to know if the blood really worked. The next morning, without waking Nigel or Alistair, Westie crept into the kitchen to brew some of Isabelle’s favorite coffee. She was crazy about the stuff—mostly because it was expensive and rare. Westie refused to even try it. Isabelle would’ve too had she known those particular beans had traveled through the colon of a monkey in order to earn that price tag. Some things were better left unsaid.
Westie rode into town. The streets were filled with miners and gold panners on their way to work. The musty smell of a summer storm warred with the fresh scent of baked bread that hung in the air. Westie stopped when she saw a brownie pushing a cart full of steaming cross buns. She bought two and headed for the apothecary.
Isabelle worked alone most mornings before school. She was busy crushing herbs in a mortar with a pestle, humming a beautiful tune, when Westie walked in.
As soon as she smelled the coffee, Isabelle looked up, mouth falling open. “Is that what I think it is?” she said, leaving her medicines to examine the canteen in Westie’s hand.
“It is,” Westie said, pouring some into a tin cup, “and cross buns to go with it.”
Isabelle started to reach for the cup, then paused, eyeing Westie suspiciously. “What do you want?”
Westie leaned against a barrel full of medicines wrapped in paper and tied with twine. “Can’t a girl just do a nice thing for her friend?”
“Yes, if that girl was anyone other than you.”
“Hey.” Westie’s brow furrowed. “I do nice things.”
Isabelle took the coffee and the sack of buns from Westie’s hands. “No, you don’t.”
“Okay, fine. I need a favor.”
Isabelle sat down with her gifts. She took a drink, eyes rolling around in her head as she savored the taste. Westie cringed.
“What kind of favor?”
“A tiny one.” Westie picked up one of the packets of medicine in the barrel labeled Pants on Fire.
Seeing the perplexed look on Westie’s face, Isabelle laughed, spitting crumbs from the bite of cross bun she’d just taken. “Father let me name it,” Isabelle said. “It’s a powder for burning, itching sensations—it’s very popular in brothels around the valley.”
Westie crinkled her face and tossed it back into the barrel. “Speaking of brothels,” she said, trying to ease her way into the subject. “What do you know about the medicinal qualities of vampire blood?”
Isabelle shrugged. “It cures anything from mosquito bites to old age. Why do you ask?”
Not wanting Isabelle to know she’d been drinking again, Westie said, “I’m concerned about Alistair’s head injury. I thought it might help.”
Isabelle coughed, then hit her chest with her fist. “Have you gone mad? You’ll go to jail if you’re caught with even a drop of vampire blood. Besides, we don’t keep it here in fear of bandits trying to break in and steal it.”
“I know, and I would never ask you for it if you did. I just need to look at your father’s medicine journal to see the dosage it would take to heal him. I don’t want to accidentally turn Alistair into the Undying.”
Isabelle took a bite of her bun, covering her mouth as she talked with her mouth full. “My father doesn’t let anyone read his medicine journal. You’ll need a lot more than a cup of coffee and a bun for me to go against my father’s wishes.”
“I know.” Westie reached into the leather satchel at her hip and pulled out a burlap pouch full of the rare coffee beans, handing it to Isabelle. If Nigel found out it was missing, he’d be livid, but luckily, he didn’t drink it too often.
Isabelle’s eyes gaped when she looked at the tag. “Is this the price?”
Westie grinned, knowing she had Isabelle by the look on her face. “Sure is.”
“I don’t know whether to make coffee with these beans or wear them as jewelry.”
“It would be better than some of the jewelry I’ve seen you wear.”
Isabelle scowled at her. “You’re supposed to be buttering me up, not insulting me.”
“Sorry.”
Sighing, Isabelle said, “You have five minutes.” She reached behind the counter and pulled out a leather-bound journal.
While Westie flipped through the pages, Isabelle kept an eye out the window for her father. Westie barely listened as her friend went on and on about the ball.
“It’s coming up soon and I have yet to find a dress. Can you believe it?”
“Uh-huh,” Westie mumbled. She felt a surge of elation upon finding the page on vampire blood.
She moved her finger down the page until she found the diagnosis of alcoholism. Beside it was the dosage: five drops.
Five drops. That wasn’t so bad. It shouldn’t be too hard to get. Her stomach clenched with anticipation, and she had to fight the excitement she felt spreading across her face.
“Thank you for this,” Westie said, handing the journal to Isabelle to put back. “Maybe we’ll go out later and shop for dresses together.”
Hope turned Isabelle’s voice shrill. “Really?”
Westie smirked. “No,” she said, and walked out the door.
Eighteen