Westie shook her head. “The ears,” she said, exasperated. “Males have longer, pointier ears.”
“I see.” He chuckled, looking around, up at the dome. “What a strange place, this Rogue City.”
“You new in town?”
Of course he was. Westie knew everyone in their small town. Not too many humans liked the idea of cohabiting with creatures, and the ones who did were often hiding from something.
He pulled a flask from his hip pocket. “Just arrived today.”
Westie watched him take a drink and felt her mouth begin to water. “You’ll be lucky to survive the night at the rate you’re making enemies.”
He had the kind of slick smile that could turn sharp girls into simpletons. “Luckily, I have you here to protect me.”
Bena cleared her throat. “We should get you home. It’s getting late.”
“Perhaps I’ll see you again,” the young man said.
“Let’s hope not.” Westie tugged at her horse’s reins, urging him in the opposite direction. “You seem like the kind of trouble I want no part of.”
His laughter came easily. There was something oddly familiar about the sound of it that put her at ease. She wondered what a dandy like him was doing in a place like Rogue City but didn’t want to give him the wrong idea by asking such a personal question.
Past the east side of town there were few creatures to be seen. No laws had been set in place or lines drawn in the sand, but creatures kept to the east side of town and humans kept to the west for the most part in order to avoid one another.
Westie slowed her horse, and they strolled at an easy pace through the center of town. The buildings looked a century old even though Rogue City had been only in its infancy when Westie had first gone to live with Nigel seven years ago. Two traveling men stood outside the Roaming Inn, their heads bent in discussion. When they looked up and saw Westie and Bena, their hands eased toward the weapons at their belts. Curious townsfolk looked out from their shop windows to catch a glimpse of the pair.
Westie wasn’t concerned for herself. It was Bena the townspeople had eyes for. They didn’t trust the natives. They didn’t trust the creatures either, but all the creatures had were teeth and claws—natives had magic. No matter that Wintu magic was the only thing that kept the teeth and claws of creatures from tearing out human throats.
Bena ignored the fear in the eyes of those watching. Westie raised her arm to them, sun beaming off her metal hand as she made a rude gesture with her fingers. The corner of her mouth hooked into a smile when she heard the yelps of women and disapproving grumbles of men before they scattered back into their holes like cockroaches.
Two
Bena didn’t want to get between Nigel and Westie if he started in—yet again—about Westie being gone too long, so they parted ways at the border of Nigel’s property, and Westie headed down the long path alone.
Opening the door and seeing that the foyer was empty, she walked inside. The familiar smell of exotic spices brought her back to a happier place. Nigel’s house was something to behold, a two-tiered kingdom of baubles picked up during his travels around the world. The place had a cluttered, lived-in quality that Westie loved.
Hearing the tick-tack of claws on hardwood, Westie turned and saw Jezebel, their pet chupacabra, stalking toward her. Westie braced herself, but it was no use. Jezebel pounced, knocking Westie into a flock of metal telegraph birds hanging on strings from the ceiling before falling to the floor.
Despite her aching tailbone, Westie laughed, wrapping her arms around Jezebel’s neck. Nigel had saved the young beast from Mexican poachers, who’d had her hung up in one of their traps and were about to cut off her paws for good luck charms.
“Hello, big girl. I’ve missed you,” Westie said as the beast nuzzled against her hand. Jezebel was nearly five hundred pounds, the size of a lion.
Westie had never seen a chupacabra before moving to California and had thought they were just myths, like most of the creatures native to the West that she’d never seen in Kansas. Hunched like bears, with a thick, wiry coat and bone-like spikes that started from the neck and rode down the back to the base of the tail, they weren’t pretty. Their fur was black as obsidian, and their faces were elongated, with tufts of hair on the cheeks and chin like a werewolf midtransition.
Westie scratched the beast behind one pointed ear and listened to the deep chuffing sound she made, almost like a purr. She’d wanted to take Jezebel hunting with her—chupacabras were excellent hunters and could easily have tracked a cannibal—but, alas, Nigel never would have allowed it. “You’re just an overgrown pup, ain’tcha? You really are a lovely beast when you’re happy—”
“Just like someone else I know,” said a voice behind her.