The Girl with the Iron Touch
Kady Cross
In 1897 London, something not quite human is about to awaken When mechanical genius Emily is kidnapped by rogue automatons, Finley Jayne and her fellow misfits fear the worst. What’s left of their archenemy, The Machinist, hungers to be resurrected, and Emily must transplant his consciousness into one of his automatons—or forfeit her friends’ lives.With Griffin being mysteriously tormented by the Aether, the young duke’s sanity is close to the breaking point. Seeking help, Finley turns to Jack Dandy, but trusting the master criminal is as dangerous as controlling her dark side. When Jack kisses her, Finley must finally confront her true feelings for him…and for Griffin.Meanwhile, Sam is searching everywhere for Emily, from Whitechapel’s desolate alleyways to Mayfair’s elegant mansions. He would walk into hell for her, but the choice she must make will test them more than they could imagine.To save those she cares about, Emily must confront The Machinist’s ultimate creation—an automaton more human than machine. And if she’s to have any chance at triumphing, she must summon a strength even she doesn’t know she has…
Also available fromKady Crossand
The Steampunk Chronicles (in reading sequence)
THE STRANGE CASE OF FINLEY JAYNE
(ebook prequel)
THE GIRL IN THE STEEL CORSET
THE GIRL IN THE CLOCKWORK COLLAR
Visit www.miraink.co.uk for more information or find us on Twitter @MIRAInk
The Girl with the Iron Touch
Kady Cross
www.miraink.co.uk (http://www.miraink.co.uk)
For Jess Lanigan, who has hand-sold this series, talked it up to anyone who will listen and makes me feel like a superstar. Thank you for your incredible enthusiasm and for reminding me what it feels like when the future is full of nothing but promise. You break my heart, girl, and I love you to bits.
For TS, probably the sweetest—and tallest—editor I’ve ever had. Thank you for getting behind this series, and thank you to everyone at my publisher (Natashya, Lisa, Mary) for being so fabulous to work with.
For Miriam, my agent and my friend who believes in me no matter what. You rock, my dear.
This book is also for Steve, because he lets me sing when we play Rockband, never blinks when I dye my hair or asks me, ‘Are you really going out in that?’ A long time ago I made a wish and then you came true. Thanks, babe.
Chapter 1
London, Autumn, 1897
A giant tentacle slapped the front of the submersible, driving the small craft backward in the water. A crack no wider than a hair split across the view screen as suckers the size of dinner plates pulled free.
“Mary and Joseph,” Emily O’Brien muttered as murky water from the Thames began to seep in through that crack. A sound like breaking ice followed as pressure from the outside pushed against the glass, demanding to get inside like a rowdy drunkard at a tavern door.
“Goin’ up!” she yelled. “The control room’s been breached!” She shoved hard on the guiding lever, forcing the vehicle to rise quickly.
The crack grew.
Emily held her breath.
The glass popped—another crack shot downward.
She should have covered the glass with a protective metal grid.
Water spilled onto the control panel. Sparks flew. Emily pulled her goggles down over her eyes and shoved against the lever, as though she could make the craft move faster with sheer force of will.
Well, actually she could probably do just that.
Water ran onto her boots. The glass was a spiderweb of cracks. Any second the entire thing would burst inward, cutting her to ribbons before she drowned.
Her jaw set stubbornly. Fear was for the weak. “This is not my day to die!” She tore off her gloves and set her bare hands against the sub’s control panel. She took a deep breath, ignored the tiny trickles of icy water that ran beneath her palms and commanded the craft to rise. The mechanized workings of the craft recognized the order and jumped to do her bidding.
The sub shot upward so quickly she lost her footing, landing hard on the wet floor. Daylight flooded the cabin as the glass shattered. Daylight, not water.
“Emily!” cried a voice in her ear. “Em!”
“I’m all right,” she replied. Later she’d smile over the worry in Sam’s voice. With the amount of time she’d spent worrying over him, it was nice to have the tables turned.
Her enjoyment was brief. She rose up on her hands and knees only to slip on the wet metal beneath her boots. Pain exploded in her chest as she hit the metal floor. A tentacle as thick as her waist whipped the air where her head had been not two seconds earlier as she rolled to her back. Suckers attached to the ceiling and pulled. The submersible’s nose pitched down, cold, pungent water spilling inside the jagged hole left by the shattered glass.
Emily grabbed hold of the foot of the ladder to keep from tumbling through that hole. Her chest hurt from the fall, and from her heart pounding against her ribs. Were they broken or just bruised? Would one pierce her lung?
It wouldn’t matter if the beastie pulling her under the water succeeded in killing and probably devouring her. She’d take her chances on a punctured lung.
Cold, dirty water sloshed over the tops of her boots and soaked through her woolen trousers as she pulled herself to her knees. Clinging to the ladder, she rose to her feet and began to climb. Her sodden clothes and sloshing boots worked against her, keeping her movements slow and awkward.
She turned the wheel on the ceiling hatch, arms straining as she pushed against it. The Thames rushed into the craft over the jagged opening in the front of the craft. She had but seconds before it was completely pulled under. A tentacle brushed her leg. She shuddered, heart racing. Emily put all of her strength into opening the hatch, ignoring the burning in her chest and arms.
The lock disengaged with a thunk. She pushed the hatch open and scampered up the ladder as the tentacle reached for her once more. The rubbery flesh looped around her boot, but she yanked her leg up before it closed around her leg like a vice. She climbed onto the top of the submersible and slammed the hatch on the slick, gray appendage, amputating the tip. It slid away, leaving a bloody trail.
A roar escaped from the water. Emily looked up in time to see the Kraken rise out of the river. And though it had been a long time since she’d been to church, or even believed in God, she crossed herself.
“Emily!”
It was Sam. He stood on the dock, the helmet off his underwater suit, a look of absolute terror on his rugged face. It was that look that decided her fate. She was not going to let him see her die. He might be physically the strongest person in the world, but inside he was as soft as a puppy.
And she loved him for it.
So Emily ran. The submersible shook as another tentacle hit—the Kraken was coming for her. She almost slipped but kept moving. Her fingers fumbled at her belt, pulled the gun strapped there free of its holster. She aimed it at a point just above Sam’s head—the building behind him—and pulled the trigger.
A thin rope with a claw attachment on the end shot from the gun and latched on to the wooden building. Emily wrapped both hands around the pistol and pulled the trigger again. She was yanked off her feet just as a massive tentacle came smashing down on the top of the submersible, driving it completely underwater. She sailed through the air like she’d been shot from a cannon—right into Sam’s arms.
He reached up and grabbed the taut line and pulled, yanking the claw free from the building so it could retract without pulling Emily any farther. Behind her, the monstrous sea beast thrashed in the Thames, sending waves as big as fishing boats crashing onto the dock.
Her shoulders hurt from being jerked like a fish on a hook. Sam’s chest was warm and broad. I could stay here all day, Emily thought. She glanced up into intense eyes almost as dark as his hair. “Thanks, lad.”
He didn’t speak. He just held her. Her heart thumped. Was he going to kiss her? Because she would like that, very much, even if she did have the faint whiff of chamber pot about her from the river.
A sound like the igniting of a gas lamp—a hiss and pop—broke through the air, destroying the moment. What the devil…?
Both Emily and Sam turned to see Griffin, the Duke of Greythorne, in wet shirt and trousers, kneeling on the deck as though he’d been struck by more than just a foul-smelling wave.
“Bloody hell,” Sam whispered.
Emily followed his gaze. Her jaw dropped. Bloody hell, indeed.
The Kraken hovered just above the surface of the Thames, trapped in a watery bubble of bluish light. It waved its tentacles but remained held. The thing was as big as several carriages stacked together, and yet it reminded her of the glass globes her mother used to admire—the ones that were filled with water and particles of white substance that looked like snow when shook. Only this globe held the largest sea creature she had ever seen, and made it seem as ineffectual as a delicate crystal novelty.
Finley Jayne, Emily’s good friend and fellow member of Griffin’s little group, ran forward to help him, yanking off the helmet of her underwater suit. Finley was a pretty girl—honey-colored hair with a streak of black in the front, and amber eyes. It was no secret she and Griffin had feelings for each other, though they’d continued dancing around them since returning from America a few months ago.
“I’m worried about him,” Sam said as he released Emily.
She tried to hide her disappointment. “Griffin? Me, too. He looks so tired.”
Together they approached the other couple. Jasper joined them. He was a blond, green-eyed American with more charm than sense and the ability to move faster than humanly possible. Like the rest of them, he wore a diving suit. He, Sam and Finley had tried to secure cables from Emily’s craft to the Kraken, so they could capture it, but the monster had proved too wily. Griffin had remained on the dock to use his own abilities to assist.
He’d ended up capturing the bloody thing all by himself. His power was increasing—a fact that was as frightening as it was awesome.
Finley helped Griffin to his feet. His reddish hair was a damp mess and his gray-blue eyes were heavy. “Aetheric containment field,” he told them. “It will hold it until the Royal Society gets here.”
His friends exchanged glances. To have conjured such a huge amount of energy from the Aether and directed it so precisely was a remarkable feat. Griffin had been honing his skills like mad as of late, though he didn’t care to explain why. That had everyone worried, because previously Griffin had said he was reluctant to give too much of himself to the Aether for fear it would consume him.
Emily worried it had begun to do just that.
“Tarnation,” Jasper murmured, his attention turning to the thing in the Aether bubble. “A real live Kraken. I always thought the stories were just make believe.”
So had Emily, though there’d been sailors about Ireland who’d told stories of seeing the giant octopuses on their travels. Kraken were monstrous creatures that could destroy a ship and devour its crew in as little as thirty minutes. Those who had seen one up close didn’t often live to tell about it, which explained why they were believed to be more myth than fact.
The Kraken they’d caught was a small one if the accounts were to be taken as truth. It was said that a mature Kraken could make a frigate look like a toy. Those large ones could overpower and snap the large ship like dry tinder.
If this was a young one, she hoped its mama didn’t come looking for it. It thrashed against its prison like a child in the middle of a tantrum, but Griffin’s power held fast. He refused to allow Finley to support him, and wavered slightly as he stood on the dock, palefaced.
Emily glanced back at the Kraken and at the energy that encased it. She shivered, and not just because of her damp clothes. Griffin’s power scared her at times; there seemed to be no rules or boundaries to it. The Aether was not only the spirit realm, but was made up of pure life-energy. Everything, living and dead, was part of it, fed it.
And as much as it fed Griffin, it also fed off him.
“You all right, Miss Emmy?” Jasper asked. While their plan had been for the underwater team to secure the Kraken, and keep it from attacking the dock, Emily had been charged with the task of trying to drive the thing to breach for capture. If that failed, the plan had been to try to force the thing out to sea once more.
“Right as rain, lad,” she replied. “Though I’m a wee bit concerned about the submersible. I don’t think there’ll be any saving her.”
The cowboy smiled. “Better to replace a ship than you, darlin’.” He winked and then walked toward a group of people who had just arrived in a large vehicle pulled by several automaton horses. The back of the vehicle was a huge metal tank.
“Looks like the Royal Society has arrived,” Sam announced. He hadn’t even bristled when Jasper flirted with her. While this was a good sign, showing that he trusted her and was secure in their relationship, a little jealousy wouldn’t have been unwelcome. She was becoming one of those foolish girls who wanted to be the center of the universe.
“That tank’s not very big.” She frowned. “It will fit, but just barely.”
He shrugged his incredibly broad shoulders. “It should hold until they get to the aquarium. It won’t be our problem regardless.”
He had a point. And perhaps it was for the best if the beast had limited movement for those giant tentacles could crush a man to death with the ease of snapping a twig.
To say the society people were amazed would be an understatement. They stared openly—not just at the Kraken but at the containment bubble, as well.
The Royal Society was scientifically driven, of course they’d be enthralled by what Griffin had conjured. Griffin didn’t look the least bit concerned—another disturbing fact. He had always stressed the need for secrecy, knowing full well that society would either fear them or exploit them for what they could do.
The Society’s driver backed the vehicle as close to the edge of the dock as was safe. Two men scampered up iron ladders bolted to the side of the tank to turn matching wheels. A loud clang—almost like that of a church bell too close to your head—sounded as the lid of the tank flipped open.
“How the devil do we get it into the tank?” One of the lady members asked.
A group of spectators had gathered round. Emily wasn’t the least bit surprised. There seemed to be nothing Londoners liked better than a scenario in which someone might get maimed or—if the onlookers were very fortunate—killed. Unfortunately, a crowd made the chance of an accident all too great.
“Maybe I can tip the carriage over the edge of the dock,” Sam suggested. “It would make driving the thing into the tank easier.”
Griffin shook his head at Sam and straightened his spine. He even waved Finley off as she tried to offer him support. Emily’s chest tightened. She’d known Griffin quite a while now, and she knew that stubborn expression on his face. What was he about?
The bubble containing the Kraken began to float toward the society’s vehicle. The crowd gasped in unison.
“Bloody hell!” someone gasped.
Sam scowled. “Now he’s just showing off.”
Emily stared as the water-filled Aether field slid down into the tank as carefully and precisely as though gently placed there by a giant, invisible hand rather than the force of Griffin’s will. The men on the tank slammed the top down as the bubble burst and water splashed over the side.
One of the men from the society turned to Emily and Sam, his eyes wide. “What did that?” His mustache twitched.
“It’s a new scientific advancement for the navy,” Emily lied, jaw clenched. “A device meant to save sinking ships or drowning men. It’s still being tested.”
“Brilliant,” the man replied, looking slightly dazed. “Simply brilliant. Who built it? I would very much like to ask the fellow to speak at one of our gatherings.”
Blast. “I cannot tell you that, sir. Only His Grace has that information, and you know how close he likes to hold such things.” And she was going to kick His Grace’s backside for such a blatant display of his abilities.
The man nodded and set off toward Griffin, who looked as though he might fall down at any moment. He swiped at his nose with a handkerchief, then shoved the linen in his pocket, but not before Emily saw the blood on it.
Damn fool. He wouldn’t learn his limits until his brain slid out his nostrils.
“You reckon sending him after Griff was a good idea?” Sam asked.
Emily scowled at him. “Let him tell his own lies. He wants to show off in public, that’s his business. He can ruddy well figure out how to explain it.” Maybe that wasn’t fair of her, but she was worried about him, afraid for him, and that often manifested as annoyance in her.
Thankfully people would believe that a machine could do such things. These days folks lapped up science like it was fresh cream and they were a hungry kitten. No, machines they could forgive for doing fantastic things. People, on the other hand, were a different kettle of fish.
People like the five of them—people who weren’t “normal”—scared the rest of the world. She’d read Mary Shelley’s book about the monster, Mr. Stevenson’s book about Jekyll and Hyde (said to have been based on Finley’s own father), Stoker’s vampire novel…none of them ended well for the character who wasn’t simply “human.” None of them—herself and her friends—were monsters, but she didn’t want to try arguing that point against a pitchfork and torch-carrying mob. To them there’d be little difference between herself and the Kraken.
Griffin’s little stunt called attention to them, just as Sam would have done if he’d moved that tank with his remarkable strength. A mob would be the least of their worries if people found out about them. Better the wrong end of a pitchfork than in a cage being poked and prodded, or in a freak show. Griffin’s power as a duke would help them, but she’d had to put it to the test.
The Royal Society packed up and left and the crowd dispersed, having realized that there was nothing more to see. Sam went to Griffin’s side and, after a few seconds, Emily followed after him. It would be stupid for her to remain apart when the rest of the group stood together. Petty, as well.
Finley turned to her as she approached. She looked bulky in her underwater suit, but she grabbed Emily up in a fierce hug. Good thing she was already wet and chilled.
“Are you all right?”
Emily nodded. “I’ll have a few bruises later, but nothing my wee beasties can’t fix. You?”
Finley shrugged. “As right as I’ll ever be. At least we got it.” The subtle shift in her voice said more than words ever could. We hadn’t gotten anything. Griffin was responsible for the thing’s capture. If she gave herself any credit it would be that she drove it to the surface so he could seize it.
“Let’s get out of here,” Emily suggested. “Griffin’s not looking so good.”
Griffin turned to shoot her an indignant glance. “Will the lot of you stop fussing over me like I was an invalid? I’m perfectly—” His eyes rolled back in his head as he collapsed to the rough wooden planks.
“Griffin!” Finley was the first to reach him, even though Sam was closer. She gave his pale cheek a light slap. “Griff?”
“Jasper,” Emily commanded, watching blood trickle from Griffin’s nose at an alarming rate. “Get the carriage.”
Chapter 2
“Has he said anything to you?” Finley asked Sam when they were back at King House in Mayfair. Griffin was in his room, asleep. He’d regained consciousness on the way home and insisted he was fine, he just needed to rest.
No one really believed that. But, this was his house. He was the Duke of Greythorne, and his power over the Aether had been known to topple buildings. His power had also been unpredictable as of late, so no one wanted to push him. Not because they were afraid of what he might do to them—Griffin was their friend—but because they were afraid of what he might do to himself. There was something wrong, and he wasn’t sharing it with his most trusted friends.
Sam shook his head. The four of them—Finley, Sam, Emily and Jasper—were gathered in the red parlor having sandwiches and little cakes for tea. “He’ll tell us if he wants us to know.”
“That’s the problem,” Finley shot back, in no mood for his brusque tone or ever-present scowl. She was hungry and she’d tied her corset a little too tightly. “He doesn’t want us to know. Which means he thinks we’ll worry. Which means whatever’s wrong with him is something we should worry about.”
“Blokes are different than girls,” Sam informed her—still scowling. “We don’t need to talk about every little thing. You don’t hear me whining when I break a nail.”
Finley’s own brows pulled together. “Do you ever think before you open your mouth?”
“Did I offend your delicate sensibilities?” Sam asked sweetly. He seemed to take great pleasure in riling her. “Or are you afraid Griff might say something to me he might not tell you? If he had, I wouldn’t betray his trust by telling everyone.”
Finley’s shoulders straightened. She could kick him in the throat. That would remove the smug smile from his face. How did he manage to get under her skin and know what she was thinking sometimes? It wasn’t like Sam was all that bright, which meant she was completely obvious in her feelings. She’d have to change that.
But she was the one who’d cradled Griffin’s head on the ride home, and the one whose clothing was stained with his blood.
“No,” she agreed. “You’re a good little lapdog.”
His humor disappeared, replaced by a scowl darker than his usual. A muscle flexed in his jaw. Finley’s fingers curled into fists, her muscles tightening. If he wanted a fight she’d bloody well give him one….
“Oh, will you two please give it a rest? Just for a wee while?” Emily looked from one to the other like a school matron ready to apply a leather strap to both their backsides. “Regardless of what Griffin does or does not wish to share with us, there’s no denying something is very wrong. He is not himself. As his friends it’s our job to help him, not fight among ourselves over which of us knows more secrets or can better keep them.”
Sam at least look chastised, though Finley imagined that had more to do with the fact that censure had come from Emily rather than a true sense of remorse.
“He’s been getting worse since we returned from New York,” Finley said, and the others nodded in agreement, except for Jasper, who was looking out the window at the lawn beyond.
“It started the night Mei died,” the American said quietly, turning his head toward them. His handsome face wore no expression. This was the first Finley had heard him speak of that night in Manhattan when Griffin had used his abilities to prevent a group of criminals from escaping capture.
One of the criminals had his hand crushed. The other—Mei, a girl Jasper once loved—was killed. She glanced at Emily. The red-haired girl’s freckles stood out on her pale cheeks, her aqua eyes wide with sorrow. Sam looked down at his teacup. The delicate china was tiny in his large hands. Finley’s shoulders sagged. She was on her own, it seemed.
“You’re right,” she told Jasper. “It did start that night. Griffin hasn’t forgiven himself for what happened. It might…be helpful if he knew you had.”
Jasper nodded, his gaze drifting back to the window. It had started to rain since they’d returned to King House, where Jasper now lived with the rest of them. “I’ll have a talk with him.”
Silence fell around them, uncomfortable and thick. Finley took a sip of tea. It was hot and fragrant, replacing the last of the stench from the Thames that persisted in her nostrils even though she’d bathed and changed her clothes. She had put on a purple blouse and black frilly skirt that Griffin liked, but he wasn’t even going to see her in it.
No one spoke. It wasn’t like them to be this quiet, but it had become more and more commonplace since their return from America. They had saved Jasper from outlaw Reno Dalton, but at what price? The wretched thought refused to leave her alone.
And Griffin, who swore he trusted her, who knew so many of her secrets, wouldn’t tell her what he was going through. She felt as though he was trying to push her away, even though he seemed to enjoy being with her, especially when kissing was involved.
The sound of the doorbell made her jump. She giggled giddily—foolishly—at the relief that came with it. Finally, a diversion! The others looked to be just as pleased as she was.
When the door to the parlor opened, Finley rose to her feet to greet their guest. It was the sort of behavior expected from the lady of the house, and while Griffin had never formally called her such, he hadn’t told her she wasn’t, either. It was just one more confusing aspect of their relationship. His aunt Cordelia was off on some sort of adventure of her own, and no one else seemed to want the responsibility of dealing with servants and such. As someone who used to be a servant, Finley knew how life below stairs worked.
Mrs. Dodsworth, the housekeeper, appeared in the door frame. “Mr. Dandy to see you, miss,” she said. Only the slight tilt of her nose as she looked down it revealed what she thought of receiving such a notorious guest.
Jack? A diversion, indeed! Outside this house, she had very few friends, but Jack Dandy was a favorite, if for no other reason than he always knew how to cheer her up and often catered to her vanity. Finley grinned. “Show him in, please.”
The older woman nodded, clearly not pleased, and left.
“Dandy?” Sam was full-on scowling now. “What the hell does that scoundrel want?”
Finley returned his dark expression with one of her own. “You shouldn’t use words you can’t spell, mutton head.”
He rose to his feet, towering over her. Good grief, had he actually grown? “You shouldn’t invite people into a house that is not yours.”
She climbed onto the low tea table, moving the tea service with her foot, so that they were almost nose to nose. “This is as much my home as it is yours, mandroid.” The two of them had tangled before—Finley still had nightmares about how she had almost killed him—but that didn’t stop her from curling her hands into fists. I dare you, she thought as she glared at the dark-eyed boy. Take a swing.
A hand on her belly—just above the bottom edge of her corset—prevented her from getting any further into Sam’s face. The opposite hand pushed against his torso. Emily stood between them, small and determined.
A rose between two thorns. The wry thought almost made her smile, but then she saw the expression on the smaller girl’s face and she thought better of it.
“Get down from there,” Emily commanded, her Irish brogue thickened by annoyance. “And you, Sam Morgan, sit down, you great, foolish article! Do the two of ye have absolutely no idea of how to behave as proper? You’re worse than two dogs growling over the same bone.”
Shame tugged at Finley’s conscience, but she didn’t immediately step down. She waited for Sam to move first.
“You’ll be waitin’ a long time if you fink she’ll give in first, mate,” came a familiar voice from the door.
Finley didn’t have to look. She’d only ever met one person who spoke so atrociously and eloquently at the same time. “Jack!” She jumped down from the table and ran to him, boots thudding on the carpet.
He looked the same—impeccably dressed in head-to-toe black, hair falling in waves around the points of his lapels. His complexion was as fair as his hair was dark, making him incredibly striking—a fact of which he was well aware. He picked her up as she threw her arms around him, his own closing around her, strong and warm.
“It’s so good to see you!” It was true. She hadn’t seen him in weeks.
He gave her a squeeze before setting her back on her feet. “A right lovely sight are you as well, Treasure. Glad to see your sojourn to the colonies done you no lasting ’arm.” His dark eyes surveyed the room. “Where’s ’is pompousness? I’ve come to speak with ’im.”
Not just to see her then, Finley thought—a little glumly, were she honest. When she first met Jack she had been drawn to him, but not in the way he had wanted. Still, a girl liked attention now and then, didn’t she? Especially when the bloke she wanted was keeping secrets.
“His Grace is indisposed,” Sam informed him, stepping forward. His scowl had deepened. How was that even possible? “Next time make an appointment.”
Jack was a couple of inches shorter than Sam and at least two to three stone lighter, but didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. In fact, he looked amused. He tapped the end of his walking stick on the floor. “Don’t get your drawers all knotted up, Goliath. If I wants to court trouble I never ’ave to leave Whitechapel. I’ve come into possession of some information the likes of which I believe would interest Monsieur le duc.”
“Why don’t you tell us?” Finley suggested, gesturing for him to sit. Emily had pulled Sam aside and was talking at him animatedly, pointing a finger at him and frowning. Sam looked suitably chastised. “Would you like tea?”
Jack turned the full force of his intense gaze on her. It was as though he could see right down into her soul. Instinctively, she laid a palm over her brown leather corset, as though her flesh and bone might offer some protection against the feeling that she had done something wrong.
“Mistress of the ’ouse are you, Treasure? Can’t say as that I’m surprised.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. Oh, good Lord, she was blushing! Blast him for embarrassing her. She raised her chin. “I’m not mistress of anything. I was just being polite.”
He held her gaze—longer than was proper. It wasn’t what he’d said that bothered her, but rather that he’d said it in front of the others. What she felt for Griffin was…private. Calling attention to it was very un-English of him.
And made her very aware that perhaps Jack’s feelings for her were still much deeper than friendship.
“My mistake,” Jack conceded, his voice soft. “Tea would be lovely, thank you.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d dropped that awful affectation of his in front of her. Doubtful that the others even heard him, especially Sam and Emily, who were having their own conversation, er…argument.
“Have a seat,” she said, and rang the bell for a fresh pot and another cup.
Finley didn’t speak to him while they waited for the tea, but her silence wasn’t because she didn’t know what to say—it was because Jack had gone straight to Jasper, leaving her standing by herself. Her hearing was exceptional, but she couldn’t eavesdrop on Sam and Emily and his conversation with the cowboy.
For a moment, despite being in this beautiful house as someone who belonged there, Finley was struck by the feelings of being an outsider that had plagued her for most of her life.
She did not like it.
“Oi!” she cried. All eyes turned to her, but her gaze was on Jack. Perhaps she was a little mad—certainly her mind seemed to be scattered lately—but she couldn’t stand to be left out, not just by Griffin, but by everyone else. “You said you had information?”
Jack arched a brow at her bad manners. It took all of her strength not to look away. “Quite,” he said, moving toward the sofa. The others closed in, too, and seated themselves around the room just as fresh tea and sandwiches arrived.
Finley poured Jack a cup, fixed it how he liked it and offered it to him. She did not meet his gaze—the bounder already understood her too well.
“You certain ’is Lordship ain’t available?”
“Decidedly,” Emily replied, setting a strange contraption on the tea table in front of Jack. “Would you mind if I record you, Mr. Dandy?”
“Call me Jack, darling. All the pretty girls call me Jack.”
Finley rolled her eyes.
Emily grinned at him, bright eyes sparkling. “No doubt they call you many things, some of which they might even repeat in polite company.”
“You come here to talk or to flirt?” Sam demanded.
Jack smiled. “Unlike you, mate, I’m able to do two fings at once.” He winked at Emily before turning to Finley. “Somefin strange ’appened Thursday last—somefin I reckon you lot will find very interesting.”
Finley perched on the edge of the sofa near Emily and waited for him to elaborate. Instead, Jack picked up his cup and saucer and took a sip. He didn’t even slurp. Then, he reached out and took a little cucumber sandwich off the tray and proceeded to eat it with better manners than she expected.
When he moved to take another sandwich, she pushed the plate just out of his reach. “Talk first. Eat later, Jack.”
His gaze narrowed, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “You’ve become cruel, Treasure. An ’eartless minx what delights in denyin’ a man ’is proper tea. A little suspense is good for the digestion.”
Was everything a joke to him? Yes, she supposed it was. To be Jack Dandy was to treat every day as a novelty and to never take anything—himself included—too seriously.
Still, he had to take some things seriously—he wouldn’t have a reputation as a lord of the criminal underworld without having done something to deserve it.
It was a battle of wills, one she knew she wouldn’t win—not before the others decided to toss her out the window. She pushed the plate toward him. “I would hate to discombobulate your digestion.”
He flashed straight white teeth and snatched another sandwich. “Fanks. So, as I were sayin’, about a fortnight ago I was contacted by a bloke about circumnavigating a transportation dilemma ’e ’ad discovered.”
“I thought you said it was last Thursday?” Sam demanded, stuffing a biscuit in his mouth.
Jack gave him a patently condescending look. “I’m setting the stage, chum. Creatin’ a mood, if you will. Listen carefully and our pretty little ginger will explain the words you don’t understand.” What sort of fellow deliberately baited a creature such as Sam?
Apparently a fellow much like herself.
Sam opened his mouth to respond, but Jack cut him off. “I’m just ’aving a bit of fun. No need to get all red in the face and cosh me over the ’ead with those meat ’ooks you call ’ands. As I were saying, I was approached by a bloke who offered me enough coin to keep me mouth shut and just do the job.” He plucked another sandwich from the tray.
“Which was?” Finley prodded. Honestly, he was being deliberately difficult.
Jack chewed and swallowed. He hadn’t even gotten any crumbs on himself. He’d been taught proper manners, she’d bet her left arm on it. “Transportin’ a crate from the docks to an underground station on the Metropolitan line.”
“Which station?” Jasper asked. Finley hid her surprise that he was even paying attention. He never used to be so quiet or distant. Granted, she hadn’t known him well prior to going to New York, but he had changed when Mei died, and this was not that same fellow she considered a friend.
“St. Pancras. It were a fairly large crate, weighed at least nine to ten stone. I ’ad to ’elp load it onto the carriage.” He shuddered, as though the thought of manual labor was beneath him, but Finley didn’t buy it.
“Where on the docks?” she asked.
“Not far from where that building collapsed a few months back.” His gaze traveled to each one of them. “I reckon you’re all familiar with it.”
Finley’s blood froze in her veins. He meant the building Griffin had brought down with his power—the building the man known as the Machinist had used as his automaton workshop. The Machinist was a man named Garibaldi, and his corpse hadn’t been found when authorities searched the wreckage.
“The man who hired you, what did he look like?” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Emily’s tense expression and knew her friend had the same thought she had.
“Blond and blue-eyed,” Jack responded.
Emily glanced at her, sharing relief that it wasn’t Garibaldi. There was no way he could have survived that building coming down on top of him. Was there?
Jack continued, “Looked almost Albinese. Great big fat ’ead. I didn’t get the feeling ’e was new in town, but I weren’t familiar with ’im. Bit of a Geordie, if my knowledge of dialects is up to snuff.”
Finley didn’t doubt he could identify a person’s regional origin with three miles. “You didn’t ask what the cargo was?”
He looked affronted. “Course not, but somefin about it felt off, right? I’ve survived on luck, intuition and not being a bloody idiot. Every instinct I ’ave told me this weren’t good. So, before I delivered the crate I opened it.”
He’d lost some of his swagger and the sparkle in his eyes. That couldn’t be a good sign. He took a drink of tea and made a face. Perhaps he really wanted something a bit stronger. That didn’t bode well. Dandy was not easily disconcerted.
“What was in the crate, Jack?”
“An automaton. I think.” His accent lost much of its affectation. “Unlike any metal I’ve ever seen.”
The unease pooling at the base of Finley’s spine intensified, but it was Emily who asked, “How so?”
Jack chuckled, but there was little humor in it. “She—and it was definitely a girl—was naked, and she—” he swallowed “—she had bits of skin on her, like she was a patchwork quilt without all its pieces.”
“It must have been a waxwork,” Emily suggested, perhaps a bit condescendingly.
Dark eyes turned to her. “That’s what I told myself—before I touched her. Skin and hair. I fancied I could see lungs beneath her metal ribs. One eye socket was empty, the other had an eyeball in it—it was the color of amber.” He swallowed, and set his cup and saucer on the low table at his knees.
Finley reached out and put her hand on his arm. She’d never seen him so rattled, but then she’d only known him a few months. “It must have been a frightening sight, but it was just a machine, Jack.”
He stared at her, then at the hand on his sleeve. It was as though a curtain was pulled back into place, and he was once again the Jack Dandy she knew. “No, Treasure. I don’t fink it were.”
She removed the hand he seemed to find so offensive. If he hadn’t called her “Treasure” she’d start to wonder if he was angry with her. “Why not?”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “It…she spoke to me.”
She had asked the handsome man not to put her back in the dark, but the fleshy stub in her mouth didn’t move the way she wanted and refused to form the words, so all that came out was a moaning noise.
He had looked at her in horror, as though she were a…monster. That was the word. She didn’t quite know what it meant, but she knew it was right. He was disgusted by her. That made her sad, even though she wasn’t sure why, except that he had looked so very pretty to her.
But then, everything looked pretty when your eyes were brand-new, as hers were. She had two now. The second one had started to appear the day after the man opened the ceiling on her wooden domicile.
Domicile. That meant home. She lifted her chin and looked around the room. The other machines had put her here after removing her from the crate. Was this to be her home now? It was ever so much nicer than the hot, smelly box, even though they had set her inside a casket of iron. At least the casket allowed her to stand upright. If only they hadn’t shackled her inside, she might move about a bit. Perhaps that would ease the incessant pressure in her abdomen. It was almost unbear…
Oh.
Hot, wet liquid splashed against her feet. It was coming from inside her. Was it oil? Some sort of chemical for her inner workings? It smelled funny, but at least her belly didn’t hurt. In fact, the release of the liquid felt wonderful. Whatever it was, she’d had a surplus that obviously had to be evacuated. Would this be a regular occurrence?
The door to the room she was in opened, and in scuttled two automatons. One had a shiny porcelain doll head perched atop its squat metal body, and eight reticulated limbs that made it move like an insect. The other appeared as an elderly woman in a tattered gown. It appeared as though her head had been removed at one time and reattached by a clumsy child. It was pitched forward and slightly to the side.
She tried to draw back from them, their monstrous countenances frightening, but there was nowhere for her to go while trapped in the lead box.
“I told you it was going to be female,” the spider said to the woman. Its voice was like the clattering of discordant notes on a piano keyboard.
“We must find some clothing,” the other replied in a voice that was almost human, but with a slight hitch. Whoever had put its head back on hadn’t aligned the voice box correctly. “It would not be proper for her to be seen naked, but we can no longer keep her restrained now that biological function has begun. Bring someone to clean up her mess.”
The short one made a skittering sound. It wasn’t any kind of language her logic engine could identify, but she understood it, regardless. It was the language of metal, and the spider didn’t like being ordered about.
A clawlike hand lashed out from the “old woman” and struck the other. “You will do as told, or face the wrath of the Master.”
The Master. The mention of him made the gregorite vertebrae of her spine cold. Part of her insisted she bow to him, but another part…that strange part responsible for the gooey eyeballs in her head and the fleshy thing in her mouth, was afraid. Why would she be afraid? She was machine, and machines were not capable of feeling.
Something jumped in her chest. She looked down. Between the two swells of flesh on her chest there was a small expanse of her framework not yet covered over by skin. There, through the gleaming rungs of her chasse she spied a red, wet lump of muscle, ebbing and receding in time with the pulsing throughout her form.
What was happening to her?
The old woman came to her, every step halting, punctuated with a dry, grinding sound. Her thin lips clicked upward into a grotesque parody of a smile.
A smile with no emotion behind it. No humanity. The skin of the machine’s face was gray and lax. There was something wrong with it, but what? Her mind knew she should be horrified, but not why.
And it stank. Stank like death, though she had no idea how she knew that. In fact, she didn’t even know her own name. Did she have a name?
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked. The thing in her mouth was bigger now, and moved when she spoke, so that the words that came out sounded almost as they ought.
How did she know how the words were supposed to sound? Why did she know so much and so very little? Why was she so afraid?
“Don’t worry, little one,” the old woman said, reaching out and touching her with cold, foul fingers. “We have great plans for you.”
Chapter 3
A strange young man stood up when Finley entered the dining room the next morning. He was alone at the table, a half cup of coffee and a plate with a few bites of coddled eggs and ham in front of him.
“Good morning,” he said. “You must be Miss Jayne.”
Finley’s gaze traveled down the lanky length of him, from his reddish hair to his shiny shoes. He had a kind face, but she knew that looks could be deceiving. “And you must be?”
He offered his hand. “Silverius Isley. I’m an associate of His Grace.”
She looked at his fingers. They were long and soft—the kind of hands she expected from a man wearing such a well-made jacket. Not a speck of dirt beneath his manicured fingernails. Hesitantly, she put her hand in his. “What sort of associate?”
His entire body went rigid, fingers clamping around hers like a vise. Free hand tightening into a fist, Finley pulled back but stopped when she saw his eyes. They had rolled up in his head so far only white and tiny red veins remained. His weight tugged her forward as he wavered on his feet.
Good Lord, did he belong in an asylum? Was he ill? And what was his connection to Griffin?
Her free hand grabbed his arm to keep him from falling. His body jerked once…twice…then went still. She almost dropped him as the tension drained from him and he went as limp as a rag doll in her arms.
“What…?” He looked around, noticed she was holding him. Weakly, he regained his footing. “Oh, dear.”
Slowly, Finley helped him back into his chair. “You had some sort of fit.”
Isley took a sip of his coffee. The hand around his cup trembled. “What I had, Miss Jayne, was a visit from an apparition.”
Had she heard him correctly? And was he, as Jasper would say, “pulling her leg”? “You mean a ghost?”
He chuckled. “Your dubious tone says more than enough, Miss Jayne. You do not believe in my particular talent.”
“I don’t believe in much I can’t see,” Finley replied defensively.
“Yet you live in the home of a young man who regularly traffics in the world of the dead.”
Fair enough. “I’ve seen what His Grace can do. I don’t know you.”
“No, you do not. Thank you for keeping me upright. In the past I’ve done myself quite a harm during a visitation.” He pointed to a small scar above his eyebrow. “I’m fortunate this is my only souvenir.”
Finley eyed him warily before crossing to the sideboard to load a plate with her own breakfast. Isley was odd, but she was starving, and her stomach didn’t care if he talked to ghosts or saw fairies. She sat down at the table and dug into the eggs, toast and ham like a starving beast.
Mr. Isley arched a brow but wisely remained silent. She may not be embarrassed to eat in front of him, but no girl liked attention called to the amount of food on her plate, or the degree of enthusiasm with which she dug in to it.
“The coffee is still hot,” he mentioned. “May I pour you a cup?”
She swallowed the food in her mouth before answering, “Thank you.”
He tipped the silver pot over her cup and poured just the right amount of fragrant black brew, leaving room for milk and sugar.
“Good morning, all.”
Finley looked up as Jasper entered the room. He was his usual tousled self. “Good morning.” A glance at Isley made her pause. The young man was looking at Jasper like…well, the way Finley fantasized about Griffin looking at her. Jasper, a typical fellow, seemed completely unaware of the attention. He had no concept of just how handsome he was, which made him all the more likable in Finley’s estimation.
“Jasper, this is Mr. Isley, a friend of Griffin’s. Mr. Isley, this is Jasper Renn.”
Jasper nodded in greeting. “Pleased to meet you.”
Isley cleared his throat, a pink flush climbing his cheeks. “Likewise.”
The American filled a plate and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Enjoy your breakfast,” he said before leaving the room. He hadn’t had breakfast at the table since moving in. He would never feel he belonged if he insisted on putting distance between himself and the rest of them.
Then again, maybe he didn’t want to belong.
Isley watched him leave. “I say, is he a real American cowboy?”
Finley smiled. “He has the hat, too.”
“Extraordinary.” This was said with just a hint of wistfulness.
“Indeed.” Isley didn’t know how much. Jasper could move so fast it seemed like the rest of the world almost stopped around him. He also seemed to prefer girls to blokes, but who was she to dash Isley’s apparent infatuation?
“I hope he didn’t break his fast elsewhere because of me?”
Oh, poor thing. She’d gone from wariness to wanting to pat his hand. “No. Jasper often takes breakfast in one of the rooms facing the stables so he can see the horses.” She didn’t figure Jasper would mind her saying that. It was better than telling Isley that Jasper couldn’t seem to stand the sight of any of them for long.
Mrs. Dodsworth entered the dining room. “Mr. Isley, His Grace requests that you join him in the blue parlor. If you would follow me?”
The young man dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and rose from the table. “It was lovely to meet you, Miss Jayne.”
“You, as well, Mr. Isley.”
He stopped in the door, and partially turned to look at her. “Miss Jayne, would you have known a young blond man with blue eyes and a small brass bar in his left eyebrow?”
Finley swallowed hard, her toast lodged in her throat. Lord Felix. He was the son of her former employer, and the last time she saw him he’d tried to force himself on her. She’d knocked him senseless. He was also dead. “I’m not sure.”
He smiled slightly. “Perhaps my vision showed me the wrong person. It has been known to happen. I thought he must mean something to you.”
“Why would you assume that?”
“Because the spirits showed me his murder when I touched your hand.”
“I’m not letting you go alone.”
Emily put down the hammer before she could be tempted to use it on Sam’s metal-enhanced skull. Slowly, she turned from her workbench far below King House and faced the infuriatingly overprotective, overbearing, overly gorgeous mutton head standing a few feet away.
Not long ago in this very room she’d saved his life for the second time when a fight with Finley turned bad. He was so very concerned with her life that he seemed to forget he was the one who had almost died. Twice.
“Are ye volunteering to come with me, then?”
“No. I’ll go by myself.”
She didn’t try to hide her annoyance. “Oh, right, Mr. ‘I’m not afraid of anything.’ What happens if you encounter a chunk of metal intent on beating you into the ground?” It was unfair of her to bring it up, but he’d almost been killed by a machine once, and he’d been deeply afraid of them ever since.
So had she, and it wasn’t made any easier by being able to communicate with the logic engines in the things.
“Better I face it alone than have to worry about you,” he retorted.
All thought of unfairness went out the bloody window. “You foolish, ridiculous, backward—” Her tongue seized when he grabbed her by the arms and hauled her close.
“Seeing you fight that Kraken almost did me in, Em. I can’t go through that again. The thought of losing you…” Sam’s gaze locked with hers. “I can’t live in a world without you in it.”
Oh. Oh. A few pretty words and her heart melted. Her resolve, however, didn’t waiver. “You’re going to have to accept it, boyo, because I can’t wait here for you to return, wondering if I’ll be able to put you back together again. You’re not going without me.”
“Stubborn wench.”
“Thick-skulled jackanapes.”
“That’s your fault, isn’t it? You put metal in my head, no wonder it’s thick!”
She stared at him a second, fighting the laughter bubbling up inside her. It was no use; it poured out from her belly until she had to wipe her eyes, and even then it was difficult to stop.
“This is funny to you, is it?” Sam demanded.
There had been a time when he would have laughed, as well. Finley and Jasper wouldn’t believe her, but Emily remembered a time when consternation and anger weren’t etched into his handsome face. A time when he didn’t take everything as a personal insult. A time when he hadn’t treated her as though she were made of the thinnest glass.
She took his hand in his. “Smile a wee bit, Sam. Please? Just for me.”
“I don’t think your safety is anything to smile over.” He made it sound like something nasty.
“You don’t find much worth smiling over anymore.” She tried to keep the disappointment from her voice, but he stiffened at the remark, regardless.
“No, I don’t.” Hesitation turned his expression from anger to uncertainty. “I don’t like being like this, Em. I can’t seem to stop it.”
Was that her fault? When she put him back together the first time, had it been a mistake? She refused to think of it like that, but there was no denying that he had changed.
She swallowed. “Do you blame me?”
He started. “No. You saved me. I wouldn’t be alive if not for you.”
“You wouldn’t be partially metal, either. You wouldn’t be so unhappy.”
“Do you regret it? Do you ever wish you’d just let me die?”
Pain pierced her heart. “No, Sam. Lord, no.” She reached up and took his rugged face in her hands. He was so big, so strong. So vulnerable. “I would give anything for you to be happy again.”
“I’m happy when I’m with you.”
Tears burned the backs of her eyes. “Oh, lad.”
He picked her up as though she weighed no more than a child and set her on the workbench so that they were practically eye to eye. His size and strength should frighten her—men often did frighten her—but with Sam she never felt anything but safe. He treated her with tenderness when she was used to violence.
He was the first—and the only—male she ever thought it would be nice to have touch her.
“I have to go,” she explained. “If we run into an automaton that hasn’t learned language I’m the only one who can communicate with it. We’ll have a device that interferes with mechanical armatures. I don’t know if it will affect you or not.” Meaning that this was one time when she was the best person for the job and he was not. “Finley will be with me. You know she won’t let anything hurt me.” Though, if metal went berserk, she was just as capable of bringing it down as Finley, perhaps more so.
“I can’t tell you what to do,” he said in a soft tone. “I don’t want to boss you around. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
She brushed a thick lock of hair back from his brow and lightly touched the furrow there. It dissolved almost immediately. There he was. There was her Sam. “Sometimes people get hurt,” she told him. She’d been hurt before, but she was still alive. She was still able to feel love and physical attraction despite what had been done to her.
“But I can’t put you back together,” he whispered.
Mary and Joseph, but he broke her heart. “You already have, Sam.” And it was true. “I can’t begin to count the ways you’ve mended me.”
He kissed her then. Her heart leaped—not in fear but in joy. Butterflies tangled their wings in her stomach. Sam’s kiss and touch made her feel things she thought had been taken away from her by rough, cruel forces.
Sam cupped her face as he pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t. You won’t ever lose me, I promise.” And she meant it. “And someday, I’m going to make it so that all you want to do is smile.”
He kissed her again, and it was a long time before either one of them spoke.
Emily caught her skulking around outside the blue parlor, the horn of an ornophone against the door as she tried to listen to the conversation taking place on the other side.
Mr. Isley and Griffin were discussing ghosts, but she was having the devil of a time hearing the full extent of their conversation. Something they were doing created a low-grade noise that partially drowned out their voices. Blast it all. How was she ever to know what was going on?
“What are you doing?”
Finley jumped. Fortunately she did so quietly. She could only hope the device made it just as difficult to hear what was going on in the corridor. She tiptoed toward her friend, her finger to her lips so Emily would shush. If Griffin caught her it was going to make it that much more difficult to find out what he was keeping from her.
The library wasn’t far, so Finley gestured the other girl inside and then closed the door.
“I was trying to eavesdrop on Griffin’s meeting.”
“That much was obvious,” Emily replied disapprovingly. “Why?”
The redhead’s wariness was to be expected. As good friends as the two of them had become, Emily’s loyalty belonged to Griffin first. And Emily favored a more direct approach than Finley did.
“Because the bloke he’s talking to says he saw Lord Felix’s murder when he touched my hand.” She folded her arms over her chest. “And I want to know if he is what he seems, or if he’s a charlatan.”
“A male medium? How interesting. Woman tends to be the more sensitive sex when dealing with the spirit realm.”
Finley shrugged. “He seemed to find Jasper quite attractive.”
Emily shot her a censorious look. “That doesn’t make him any less male.”
Not physically obviously, but perhaps his preference gave him more of a feminine sensibility where the dead were concerned. Or maybe the whole thing was bollocks. “I don’t care what he is. I just want to know if I killed the bastard!” She slapped her hand over her mouth, but it was too late; she’d said too much.
The color drained from Emily’s already pale face. Just as quickly her expression went from surprise to annoyance. “Of course you didn’t kill him. Scotland Yard said you were no longer a suspect. You could never kill anyone.”
“Your confidence is appreciated, but you don’t know that. I don’t know that. I have no memory of that night, and it was before Griffin started helping me amalgamate my two selves.” Plus, Scotland Yard thought a man had done it, but only because an “ordinary” girl wouldn’t have been physically strong enough.
Finley was stronger than most men.
Small, warm hands came down upon Finley’s shoulders as her friend met her gaze intently. “Do you honestly believe you are capable of murder?”
“I’d kill if I had to.”
“If you didn’t kill that slimy bastard when he attacked you, there’s no reason to believe you could do so in cold blood. You’d never be capable of such a thing.”
“That doesn’t mean that someone else didn’t do it for me.”
Understanding dawned in Emily’s eyes. “You think Dandy did it.”
Finley nodded. She didn’t have even the slightest doubt that Jack would kill for someone he cared about, and Lord Felix had been part of the gang of young men who followed Jack around like he was their new messiah. If he wanted to send a message about what would happen to his followers who stepped out of line, it would have been the perfect opportunity.
“I’m not afraid he did it, Em. I’m afraid he’ll get caught. I don’t want Jack to go the hemlock chair for me.” The idea of Jack being stuck by all those needles, poisoned and left to die a slow death made her feel sick.
“Oh. Aye, I understand. But maybe he didn’t do it, either. Lord Felix was an arse. I have to think he had many enemies.”
“True.” Finley glanced toward the closed door. “I should have just made Isley tell me, but I was too shocked to stop him.” And afraid. She had no idea what sort of man Isley might be. Had no idea if he might come back at another time to blackmail her, or use the information against her somehow.
If she had killed Felix she wasn’t going to be sorry for it, but she’d hate for Griffin to think less of her. That was her true fear, and she was a foolish twit for it.
“Well, that tells you that the killer wasn’t you. No one would be stupid enough to admit to a murderer that they know all about it.”
“No, I reckon not.” Blast Emily for being so smart and rational. It made her feel all kinds of foolish. But honestly, she’d been more afraid for Jack than for herself. Not by much, but still her worry was mostly for him.
And a little bit afraid of what it said about his feelings for her, were her fears true. You didn’t kill for a casual acquaintance. Afraid because no matter how much simpler it would be to choose Jack Dandy, crime lord, over Griffin King, Duke of Greythorne, she couldn’t. She chose Griffin.
Though, right now with him being all secretive and standoffish, even though everyone knew something was wrong, she sometimes wished she didn’t choose him. She was good enough to be kissed but not good enough to be trusted. At least she wasn’t alone there. He wouldn’t confide in any of them. He might say they were all a team, but this sort of behavior made it perfectly clear that he was lord and master in this house and the rest of them just lived there.
And just who was this Silverius Isley to be given breakfast and a private audience?
“You won’t hear anything,” Emily told her, gesturing to the ornophone. The brass horn-shaped instrument was in need of a polish. “He uses an Aetheric amplification transducer whenever he wishes to have a completely private conversation.”
“Ah, yes. Of course.” What the devil was an Aetheric whatever-it-was?
“It turns Aetheric energy into sound waves,” Emily explained as though reading her mind. “Basically he uses it to make just enough noise that no one can eavesdrop. I wonder who he thinks might listen at doors?”
Well, she felt fifty different kinds of ridiculous now. “I reckon I’ll put this useless thing away then.” She lifted the ornophone. “It made me feel like an old woman anyway.”
Emily smiled—a sly quirk of her lips. “I do have a device that can dissipate Aetheric sound waves.”
Of course she did, clever chit. Finley’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you didn’t like me eavesdropping?”
“I don’t, but I don’t blame you for it. And if this continues much longer I’ll give you my device with my blessing. Better yet, I’ll make one for all of us. Regardless of what Sam says, Griffin will not tell us if there is something wrong until it’s verging on too late. Sam’s so caught up in worrying about me that he can’t see his best mate’s in trouble.”
She didn’t want to think about what “too late” might include. “Had a chat with Mr. Morgan, did you?” She began walking down the corridor and Emily fell into step beside her. Intentions of eavesdropping were forgotten for the time being.
“Yes. I think we’re finally beginning to understand each other. I just wish…”
“What?”
Emily looked away. “That I could make him as happy as he makes me.”
“Happiness is an individual pursuit, Em. He has to let himself be happy first. You spend far too much energy worrying about him.”
“I lo—I care about him.” She gestured at Finley. “I may not be listening at doors, but I worry about him.”
“Meow. Retract those claws of yours. I don’t care if you write sonnets about his eyes and rhapsodize about his hair. I’m just suggesting that maybe if you stopped trying to make him be happy he’d find happiness on his own.”
“How?”
“Well, maybe he’d realize that you accept him as he is. Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe part of the reason he’s unhappy is that he thinks you’re unhappy with him?”
Emily stopped—obviously she hadn’t considered that at all. “And perhaps Griffin keeps secrets from you for the same reason you’re afraid of him discovering yours—that you’ll think less of him.”
Now there was a thought. “I hadn’t entertained that possibility.” She hadn’t thought that perhaps Griffin had insecurities of his own. She was too busy second-guessing herself and worrying that he might not like her if he really knew her.
Sometimes she did reckless things just for the sheer joy of it. And sometimes she fought the urge to get into street brawls with men twice her size. Other times she felt guilty about keeping books from Griffin’s library in her room because no one else could read them. It was no more fun being too good than it was being too bad. But would Griffin still want her if she was sometimes bad? He never seemed to do the wrong thing, while she sometimes deliberately set off in the wrong direction.
Although, that blatant display of his abilities at the dock had been incredibly daring.
“You want to see if cook’s made any cakes?” she suggested, tired of thinking. Did blokes have any idea just how much of a bother they were? “We could make some tea and eat ourselves silly.” That was the “good” option. The bad was jumping on their velocycles and driving into the east end for a little danger and excitement.
“Actually, I have another idea.” Emily stopped and turned to face her. “Let’s go to the St. Pancras station.”
“I thought we weren’t going to go until we discussed it with Griffin?”
Emily tilted her head to one side. “How long do you reckon it will be before that happens?”
She had a point there. Besides, it was something to do that would take not only her mind off Griffin, but Emily’s off Sam. Lord knows they could both benefit from that!
Finley shrugged. “Why not?” She had nothing better to do. “Can we have cake first, though?” She was starving.
Her friend grinned. “Of course. One of us needs to take a por-tel with us. I told Sam I would.”
Emily had created portable telegraph devices for all of them that made communication so much easier. They were also very helpful if one of them found themselves in a spot of trouble and needed help.
They stopped by the kitchen for cake and tea—Finley made a pig of herself while Emily watched with amusement. Then, they grabbed jackets and whatever supplies each needed for poking about the station. They were going to look for clues as to where the mysterious automaton-girl had been taken, and by whom. They met at the stables—where the velocycles were kept—ten minutes later.
Finley appraised Emily’s various items. She looked prepared for anything. “Just what are you hoping to find there, Em?” Sometimes she wondered at the many devices and weapons her little friend made or possessed. What had happened to her that she was obsessed with making certain she and everyone around her was as safe as possible? It went beyond ordinary preparedness.
Emily swung her leg over her machine and gripped the steering bar as she kicked the stabilizing bar out of the way. “I don’t know, but I promised Sam I’d be careful, so I want to be prepared for any eventuality.”
That was sweet. Respectful. Finley tried to ignore a stab of jealousy as she climbed onto her own machine. Would Griffin worry about her? Would he even notice she was gone?
She wasn’t certain she wanted to know the answer.
Chapter 4
She woke up with a start, a strange pounding in her chest. Was one of her parts defective? A cog off its pattern? No, it was that organic thing—that lump of muscle that pumped blood through her system.
What was blood again? Oh, yes. It was essentially the oil that kept human organisms running smoothly.
She touched her head. Inside her skull felt odd—as though her logic engine had somehow changed—had become more. Information assaulted her at an alarming rate.
She understood it. All of it.
She was learning. She was evolving. Her heart—that’s what it was called—gave another jump.
They’d given her a name—Endeavor 312—which she didn’t like, and clothes, which she did. They’d also given her access to a water closet should she need to expel fluid again. And they’d given her food and water—things that would act as fuel in her changing system. Things she would have to expel later on, only to continue taking more in. It seemed wasteful to her, but she understood the necessity.
It had been explained to her that she was the first of her kind, that she would notice changes. The spider had told her not to get emotional over them. She wasn’t quite sure what emotions were, but she knew it was linked to this pounding beneath the cage that protected her internal workings.
Voices. That’s what had brought her system to wake. The machines had gone to gather supplies, leaving her alone. They told her that soon others would join them. Was this them?
She rose from the horizontal rest bay. No, that wasn’t what it was called. It was a bed. An odd term. Rest bay sounded much more accurate. Slowly, she walked across the dirt floor—it was cold against the bottom of her bare feet. She was much more aware of temperature fluctuations now, and anything else that engaged her sensory inputs. Her endoskeleton was now completely covered by the pale membranous material that was sensitive to everything around it, including a breeze that seemed to blow through the cavern.
It smelled of age and dirt and metal down here. She knew she was underground because of how muted the noise of the city was. And this was a city, because she felt the rumble of trains, both above and below street level.
Slowly, on limbs that felt awkward, she went to the door of her room. It didn’t want to open at first, but one good yank solved that problem; the entire metal and wood slab came free. She propped it against the wall and slipped out into the main chamber.
There were boxes and crates everywhere, and more slumbering automatons, too, though none seemed to have the same covering that she did. They didn’t wear clothing, either. Some of them looked battle-scarred and patched together while others gleamed with the brightness of new metal.
Normally she would stop to inspect them all, but she wanted to see their guests. There was another door on the far side of the room and she moved toward it. There was an odd-looking glass-front box mounted on the wall—it showed the catacombs beyond the door. She knew this because part of her was still machine and she understood.
A photographic camera had to be positioned somewhere near the ceiling out in the catacombs, not far from the door. Harnessed Aetheric energy fed the images seen through the lens of the camera to the receiver in the box with the glass front.
The visitors appeared on the glass. She grinned and hurried toward the door. Halfway there, she came to an abrupt and unanticipated stop.
Scowling, she looked down at the limbs that refused to move. She pulled and strained but to no avail. She could not move. It was then that she became aware of a humming noise and realized that she was more prisoner than guest herself.
The spot where she stood was home to a powerful magnet, one that froze the metal inside her to the spot. This was why the others felt they could leave her, leave the other slumbering machines—because there was little chance of escape.
And if there was little chance of escape, logic insisted that she was to be kept there regardless of her own thoughts on the matter.
She stared at the girls on the grainy surface of the glass, and then through a small slit in the door. There were two of them—one tall with light hair streaked with dark and another shorter one with hair that looked like ropes.
Part of her reacted to the sight of them. It was her heart again, kicking up a fuss in her chest cavity. She knew them. She didn’t know how, but she had seen them before. The little one especially.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement and jerked her head around. For a moment she was terrified of the strange girl staring at her from just a few feet away. The girl had curly red hair, honey-colored eyes and pale skin. She was tall and slender and dressed in ill-fitting clothes.
The girl was her. It was nothing but her own reflection staring back at her from the scuffed surface of a long, framed mirror. She reached up—it took real effort to lift her arm under the magnet’s pull—and touched her hair, then looked back at the girls outside. They walked past the door to where she was as though they didn’t even see it.
But she saw them. Or rather, she saw her; the red-haired girl. Her mother.
Somehow, in what was left of her logic engine memory capacitors, she recognized a physical connection between herself and that tiny girl. She recognized another connection with the taller girl, as well, but not as strong. She reached forward, but the two couldn’t see her. She opened her jaw to cry out, but only a low keening noise filled the room. The fleshy thing in her mouth still didn’t work properly.
To her left yet another door opened. The old woman stood there, and she did not look amused. Her disapproval was made disconcerting given the odd angle of her head. She looked like a corpse that had been reanimated after its neck was broken, though how she knew that was an apt description was a mystery.
“What are you doing?” the woman demanded. The hitch in her voice box sounded worse. “Were you trying to leave?”
“I heard voices,” she confessed, pointing at the glass, but her gaze was pulled past the old woman, into the room behind her. It was a sterile place, filled with soft lights and scads of machinery.
The badly repaired automaton pulled a switch on the wall, and the magnetic force abruptly disappeared. Meanwhile, her companion skittered toward the door, blocking her view of the catacombs. It didn’t matter—the girls had passed by and were almost out of sight.
What interested her now was inside that forgotten room. She walked toward it and peeked over the threshold. Tubes and wires ran from a framework of machinery bolted onto the ceiling to a long metal containment tube with a thick glass cover. Inside the tank she could see the form of a man suspended in a green, viscous fluid. A mask covered his nose and mouth, and a hose ran from the mask to the inner wall. A bellows outside the tank rose and fell in a steady rhythm that matched the rise and fall of the man’s chest.
Apparatuses hummed and buzzed, clicked and chirped. Bladders filled with liquids hung from hooks, their tubes attached to one larger hub on the outside of the tank. One thicker tube ran inside and was embedded in the man’s forearm. Were they giving him medicine? Sustenance? Poison?
No, they weren’t trying to kill him. They were trying to save him. As soon as she realized it, she knew who he was.
“Get away from there!” the old woman snapped, shoving her out of the room. Her voice hummed with an odd metallic echo. She smelled bad, and her gown gaped where it was missing a button, showing a stained chemise beneath the dirty silk. She shut the door.
“You’ve no business in there. None whatsoever. You were made for one purpose, to learn and understand. To be the perfect vessel. You should be content with that. It is a great honor that awaits you, little one. If you fail, you will doom us all. You will doom him. Now, back to your room. There are books there for you to read.”
Reading. That was the deciphering of words upon a page so that they told a story. Yes, it was one of her favorite pastimes, though she was certain she’d never done it before. In fact, she knew she hadn’t done it before, because she had no idea how to figure out what the letters meant when they were bunched together.
As she glanced over her shoulder at the door of the man’s room, she was also certain of something else: if the red-haired girl was her mother, then the man being kept alive in the glass-and-metal tube was her master.
“Well, this was a rather dismal waste of time,” Finley commented as she and Emily worked their way through the dank darkness of the catacombs toward an exit. While their excursion had yielded a Roman coin, a few skeletons and a host of belligerent rats, it had not produced any information to support Jack’s story.
She hadn’t even found anything to hit. Kicking rubbish and old bottles didn’t afford the same satisfaction.
“Do you think Dandy lied to us?” Emily asked.
Finley shook her head and wrinkled her nose as a whiff of something that smelled suspiciously like sewer assaulted her. “Jack manipulates with charm and power. He doesn’t lie so much as wrap the truth in temptation.”
“You’ve given it considerable thought, haven’t you?”
Despite Emily’s teasing tone, Finley stiffened and made a point of shining the small but powerful lamp Emily had given her on the catacomb wall. “He’s my friend.”
“Oh, now don’t go getting all bent out of shape. I’m just teasing, lass.”
“I’m sorry, Em. I reckon I’m more thinly skinned than I thought.”
“No need to apologize. I ought to have known better than to poke you when Griffin’s being such a dunderhead.”
“Dunderhead,” Finley scoffed, unable to keep from smiling. “I can think of a few stronger names to call him.”
“No doubt they’d be more succinct.” Her friend grinned but quickly turned serious once more as she shone the beam of her light around them. “Other than some tracks in the dirt I haven’t seen anything out of sorts. You?”
Finley shook her head. “If the automaton is down here they’ve done a bang-up job of hiding it, and any tracks it might have made.”
Emily glanced over her shoulder. “I feel like someone is watching us. Did you hear that?”
“It sounded like a moan.” Finley aimed her light in the direction of the sound. “I don’t see anything.”
“It could have come from anywhere. This place is bad for echoes.”
“And plenty of things that could have made such a sound.”
“Don’t remind me. I’ve heard that there are people who live down here, and strange creatures unlike anything you’d see street-side.”
Finley scratched her back. “Now you’ve got me thinking we’re being watched, too.” She’d rather take on a stronger opponent she could see than tangle with a weak one she couldn’t.
“Paranoia’s contagious. I don’t see a ruddy thing and I’m hungry. Let’s go back to the house. I think I have spiders in my hair.”
Just the thought made Finley shudder. Blood didn’t bother her, nor did violence, but the thought of something crawling on her…well, that was enough to make a girl scream and run about like an idiot. There was just something sinister about something with so many legs, especially if they possessed wings. It wasn’t natural.
“Might as well,” she agreed. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything.”
“Poor thing. I wonder if she’s being looked after.”
It took a moment longer than it should have for her to figure out what Emily was talking about. “The automaton?”
“Aye.”
“It’s a machine, Em. I’m fairly certain it can look after itself.” Not to mention it could break both the arms of a full-grown man without trying very hard.
“It’s not just a machine.” Emily looked outraged that Finley would even think such a thing. “If it was indeed covered in bits of flesh, then it has been exposed to organites. Either she’s badly injured and decomposing, or her skin is not yet fully formed. Regardless, she most certainly cannot look after herself.”
“You think she’s like the Victoria automaton?” The thought of that awful thing put a bad taste in her mouth. It had looked so much like the queen that she’d spent several days thinking someone was going to arrest her for ripping its head off. The thing had been so humanlike that destroying it felt like murder.
“We both know what the beasties are capable of doing. They helped repair Sam’s heart, treated injuries. They’re the reason we’re…evolved. I have no doubt that she’s very much like the mechanical majesty. By the time the organite process is completed, I reckon she’ll be a living, breathing girl with a gregorite skeleton and a great capacity for learning. I’ve no idea what someone might want with her. There are so many possibilities.”
“I wouldn’t recommend thinking on it too hard,” Finley suggested with a grimace. “I’ve heard stories about what some men like to do to automatons. Some women, too.”
Emily held up a hand. In the dark her shirt was so very bright it made her look a little tanned, though she often burned more than anything else. “I don’t want to know, thank you very much.”
Finley cast a sideways glance in her direction, her expression dubious. “Whenever anyone says that it’s because they already know or have a fairly good idea.”
“I know lots of things, but that doesn’t change the matter of me not wanting to speak of them. I’m not the fragile little doll everyone seems to think I am.”
She snorted. “Nothing fragile about you, you mad Irish harpy.” Finley waited until she had gotten a smile in return before pressing on. Now was as good a time as any…. “Em, did somebody hurt you?”
Emily came to an abrupt stop. Her eyes were wide, but her jaw was firm, as though something inside her was trying to force its way out and she was determined to control it. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said finally. When her expression went completely blank—even her eyes—Finley knew she’d struck a nerve, knew she was right. She wished she wasn’t.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. I don’t want to pry, but if you do…I’d like to listen.” She began walking again to let her friend know she wasn’t going to pressure her.
“How did you know?” Emily asked a few moments later when the silence between them had stretched on.
Finley shrugged. Good Lord, where was the bloody exit? “For a while I’ve suspected something had happened.” Suspected and wished her friend would share with her, so she could share, as well. Lord Felix hadn’t been the first bloke to try to force himself on her, but he’d been the most frightening, and not just because he would have hurt her badly, but because of how badly she had wanted to hurt him for trying it.
“I should have known you’d figure it out. Of course you would.”
Was that a compliment or a judgment? Maybe neither. No one who had ever been hurt in such a manner would treat someone else’s experience as a positive thing, and they certainly wouldn’t cast blame.
“Do you want to talk about it?” This was what girls who were friends did, right? Talked about things that had happened to them, traded secrets. Emily was only the second friend she’d had since her twelfth birthday, and the first one had been her employer so it didn’t really count. She had no idea how to handle this sort of situation.
Only she knew that she would like five minutes alone with whoever had hurt Em. Five minutes and a cricket bat.
“Not really.” Emily looked straight ahead. “Not now. It was a boy I’d known most of my life. What’s important is that he might have gotten my body, but he couldn’t touch my heart or my soul.” She turned her head toward Finley, gaze bright. “I’ve never told anyone else this, but I had my revenge on him later.”
Finley prided herself on having a decent imagination, but she couldn’t begin to fathom the sort of suffering a girl as intelligent and determined as Emily could exact from such a bastard. She thought about the boot print she herself had left on Lord Felix’s forehead, and how good it had felt. “Did that make it easier?”
“It did, a little. I felt like I got a piece of myself back. Please don’t say anything to the boys. Sam doesn’t know. I’m not sure I ever want him to.”
“And he won’t ever—not from me. But doesn’t he frighten you a little?” He intimidated her at times, and she had almost killed him. He was so big, so strong. So angry. Even though she’d caught glimpses of lightness in him over these past few months, he normally stomped about as if a thundercloud hung over his head.
Emily smiled. “Nah. Sam makes me feel safe. Sometimes too safe. I think that’s why I fight him so often. I refuse to hide behind him. I don’t want him to stand in front of me and shield me. I want him to stand beside me. With me.”
Finley understood, so she nodded. What could she possibly say?
Small, warm fingers tangled with hers and squeezed. Emily had taken her hand and was smiling at her in a way that made her chest tight. “Thank you for caring enough to ask, but also not to push. I’d forgotten what it was to have a best friend before you came along.”
Oh, blast. Finley’s throat felt as though it was closing up on itself, and her eyes burned most uncomfortably. She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she pulled her hand free and wrapped her arms around the Irish girl, lifting her off the ground in a fierce hug that made her squeal with laughter.
They walked the remainder of the distance to the exit in comfortable silence. It wasn’t until they were almost out that Finley realized she no longer felt as if they were being watched. They hadn’t encountered anyone else in the catacombs, hadn’t even seen a sign of humanity in that area.
So who could have been watching? And why?
Something dropped to the ground beside her. She whirled around, ready to fight. Emily pulled an Aether pistol from the holster on her belt.
It was a rat. There was another one on a ledge above their heads—no doubt the first one’s mate. The one above them had a button in its teeth that looked to be mother-of-pearl.
She and Emily exchanged sheepish glances. “I reckon we were being watched after all,” she joked.
Emily shook her head, putting her pistol away. “Let’s go home. There’s nothing down here.”
Finley agreed, and when they rounded the next corner they saw light from the exit ahead. It was odd for Jack to have been so wrong, but whoever had the crate must have moved it that same day. There was nothing down here to be worried about, except a rat with a button in its mouth.
Nothing at all.
Chapter 5
If it were possible for people to be the weather, then Sam Morgan would be a thundercloud—dark, tumultuous, as gorgeous as he was intimidating. He watched the girls approach from his bedroom window.
“He looks like he is on the verge of imploding,” Finley commented. They were walking back from the stables where they’d left their velocycles.
Emily smiled, glancing up. Her gaze met Sam’s for a second before he dropped the curtain. “That he does.” But she considered it a victory that he hadn’t tried to follow her, that he had trusted her to go with Finley and to return in one piece.
“Gadzooks. You like it when he’s all scowly and thumping his chest.”
Sometimes, thought Emily, Finley was infuriatingly intuitive. Although, perhaps she underestimated her friend’s intelligence. perhaps she didn’t hide her feelings as brilliantly as she thought.
“It lets me know he cares,” she admitted. “It’s not as though he’s the type to say what he’s feeling.” Today was turning out to be a champion for sharing secrets. Why not tell Finley the shocking thoughts she sometimes had about Sam? Intimate thoughts based on pictures she’d seen in a book in Griffin’s library…thoughts of her and Sam doing some of those things—things she thought she’d never want to do with anyone. “What?”
Finley stared at her as they crossed the garden terrace to the French doors. “Your face is burning so bright, I’m afraid for the draperies. Are you all right?”
Fortunately, no one ever died of embarrassment. “Must be the sun. I always end up looking like a tomato.”
“Right,” her friend drawled. “Because the sun is so very hot through those thick rain clouds.”
“Oh, shut up!” Emily laughed despite herself. “I’m blushing and I’ve no intention of explaining why.”
A slow grin spread across the other girl’s pretty face. Eyes the color of honey twinkled as she opened the terrace door. “Oh, is that the way of it, then?”
Emily swept past her into the house. “’Tis.” Her mirth faded when she saw Sam waiting for her. He looked relieved to see her. That was almost as good as happy. He’d been worried, that was obvious. She could assume he thought she couldn’t take care of herself, but she knew that wasn’t it. Sam just thought he could look after her better than anyone else.
It was sweet when she thought about it. Somewhat.
Even Finley noticed the difference in his expression, though he wore his usual frown. She took one look at him and turned to Emily. “Right. I’m going to go…do that…thing I have to do.”
“Griffin wants to see you,” Sam said in a tone that made Griffin sound like the matron at a strict school.
“Does he?” Finley’s jaw set stubbornly. “I don’t know if I have time. I’m going to be terribly busy.”
“Doing that thing you have to do?” he inquired. Was he actually teasing Finley? He used to make sport of his friends quite often before his accident.
“Quite.” Finley lifted her chin. “It’s very important.”
For a moment, Emily thought Sam might actually smile. He shrugged. “I don’t care what games the two of you play with each other. You’re both mad as far as I’m concerned.”
As Finley walked past him, she gave him a sweet smile. “Maybe you can find out why she’s the color of a ripe tomato.”
Emily’s cheeks heated once more, and she bit the inside of her mouth to keep from laughing. She couldn’t laugh, not when Sam might think it was directed at him.
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