Westie was sure Lavina knew exactly who she was, but if Lavina thought Westie didn’t remember them, she might let her guard down over time. What better way to feign cluelessness than to dance with the man who’d cut off her arm?
Trying not to quiver, Westie took Hubbard by the hand and led him to the dance floor. He was not as copper-shy as his son and was a fair dancer. What she first thought were pockmarks on his face looked to be scars upon closer inspection, like something—or someone—had gouged at his skin with their nails.
“So,” Westie said. She was getting much better at her forced smiles. “You’re a lovely dancer. What a relief. After dancing with Nigel, I’m lucky to still have use of my feet.”
Grunting in reply and leaning back, Hubbard seemed to want to dance with her as much as she wanted to with him.
He had a permanent scowl that dug lines into the corners of his mouth. Thick brows grew together in the middle, making it difficult to see the deep-set hazel eyes lurking beneath. Seeing his eyes up close again was like looking through a filthy window into her past. They reminded her of being in the cabin, her breath in her ears, his heavy footsteps behind her as she ran. Candles shed just enough light for her to see the clothes, blood, and bones of her traveling companions behind the butcher block when she ran into the kitchen. And then she turned, seeing those eyes, the look of absolute indifference, as if killing her would be no different from shooting a wild rabbit for their supper. Then she remembered the screaming.
“Westie!”
Someone shouting her name pulled her from her memories. She looked down, confused at first as she saw Hubbard on the ground, his hand crushed between her metal fingers.
“Westie, let him go!” Nigel shouted.
The music had stopped. Everyone watched her.
Dropping his hand, she jumped back. “Oh God,” she breathed.
Lavina and her children rushed to Hubbard’s side, their accusing eyes reaching out to her.
“What have you done?” Nigel said, more to himself than to her.
“I’m sorry,” Westie pleaded, afraid she’d blown her plan and any chance she might have had at learning their secrets. “It’s this damned machine. I—I—can’t always control it.”
Hubbard had a voice like a coffee grinder. “I’m all right,” he said, letting Nigel haul him to his feet with his good hand. He tested his fingers to make sure they still worked, pain twisting his lips. After some stretching, they seemed to be fine.
Westie was shocked to see his smile, sharp as a scythe. It started at his lips and stretched until reaching his eyes. “If Emma works near as good as that mechanical arm does, then you best believe you have my investment.”
He began to laugh, exposing chipped yellow teeth. The sound reached across the room to the dark corner where the antisocial vamps were sipping flutes of blood. Costin looked at her with a raised brow.
Nigel forced a smile, sweat dribbling down his temple. “Wonderful.” He turned to Westie and gave her a we’ll talk about this later look before walking away.
After the party, Westie knocked on Alistair’s bedroom door but didn’t wait for an invite before barging in.
“Did you get the mold?” she said.
He sat on his bed, his clothes wrinkled, holding up a piece of dried clay with the impression of a key stamped into the middle of it.
“All we need to do is take it to the foundry and have the key made.” The metallic screeching that had once accompanied his words was gone now that his mask was repaired, and the hum of his breath was less noticeable too.
“Where’s Bena?”
“Here.” The voice in Westie’s ear caused her to jump.
“Sonofabitch,” she said, and grabbed her chest. “Bena, stop scaring me like that!”
Bena replied with a smile.
“Now what?” Alistair said.
“Now we wait for an opportunity to break in. Do you think Nigel fell for your angry act about me being seated next to James?” Westie said to Alistair.
“He bought it,” Bena answered for him as she casually flipped through the pages of a medical book on Alistair’s dresser. “If there’s one thing that Nigel knows will get under Alley’s skin, it’s a handsome boy like James Lovett looking after you.”
Westie and Alistair blushed equally, as if a blood main that connected them had burst.
Westie cleared her throat. “Thank you for your help, Bena. You’re always putting yourself on the line for me.”
“I want those people caught as much as you do,” Bena said, touching her arm. “I’ve seen what they’re capable of.”
Westie woke to an uproar of men’s voices and baying hounds. It was early morning, still dark, the air colder now that fall was near. The ruckus hadn’t fully penetrated her consciousness until she heard Jezebel pawing at the door, cutting deep valleys into the wood.
“Hold on,” she told the worried chupacabra as she slipped into her dressing gown and house shoes.
The moment Westie opened the door, Jezebel shot out of the room and downstairs. Westie walked out onto the catwalk above the grand entrance. A stream of men flowed beneath her, weaving around one another like worms during a rainstorm, holding guns from Nigel’s armory.