by Kady Cross
Normally Griff would have laughed at such an absurd comment, but the door to the library burst open at that exact moment. It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Dodsworth.
“What is it?” Griff asked, stepping forward with a frown. The woman was positively white in the face. Had one of the few automated servants left in the house turned on them? After Sam’s attack, Griff had decommissioned many of the machines out of consideration for his friend and for the safety of every living creature under his responsibility.
“It’s the girl you brung home, Your Grace. I think you should come right away. It’s as if she’s got the very devil in her!”
Griff took off running. Emily and Sam followed, chasing him up the stairs to the room where the girl had been left sleeping just a short time ago. A man came flying out of the open door frame like a child’s toy tossed aside. Sam caught him before he could hit the wall.
“Thank you, Master Samuel,” the footman said in a shaking voice as Sam set him on his feet. “I thought she was going to kill me. She’s like a demon, she is!”
Sam’s mouth tightened as he lifted his gaze to Griff’s. “I told you so.”
Chapter 3
Griff ignored his best friend’s taunt and turned his back on his friends. What in the name of all that was holy had he brought into his house? What kind of girl could hurl a full-grown man?
From the sounds of it, she was definitely angry. He couldn’t quite make out all the words, but the ones he could were…colorful.
“I’ve met dockside trollops with cleaner mouths,” Sam snarled.
“Met many of those, have you?” Emily’s tone was sharp.
Griff shot both of them an annoyed glance and turned to the open doorway once more. He wasn’t offended by her vocabulary, just surprised by it. It made him all the more curious about her.
Taking a deep breath, he walked into the room, confident without having to look that his friends were with him. Out of habit, he tugged on his waistcoat, straightening it. He should have put on a coat and tried to look more lordly, but he’d never been very good at that. His real strength wasn’t in intimidation. It was in subtlety and confidence. And in the fact that people tended to know who he was.
He didn’t bother to knock. Quite frankly, he thought better of announcing his arrival. The less time she had to prepare, the better. As it was, he narrowly missed being brained by a candlestick. It whipped past his head to embed itself in the opposite wall.
“Oy,” he said roughly. “Is that any way to act when you’re a guest in someone’s home?”
“Guest? You mean, prisoner,” came the growled reply.
The girl stood in the center of the large four-poster bed. She wore a nightgown and robe that Cordelia had generously, and unknowingly, donated. Anything of Emily’s would have been far too short and too small. Her honey-colored hair fell over her shoulders in messy waves and her similarly colored eyes were almost black with wildness, her pupils unnaturally dilated.
Fear. He felt it roll off her in great waves. It shimmered around her in a rich red aura Griff knew he alone could see, as it was viewable only on the Aetheric plane. She was afraid of them and, like a trapped animal, her answer to fear was to fight rather than flee. Interesting.
She was certainly a sight to behold. Normally she was probably quite pretty, but right now she was…she was…
She was bloody magnificent. That’s what she was. Except for the blood, of course. She’d opened the wound on her forehead and blood was trickling down toward her nose.
“What have you done to me?” Blood covered her hands as she held them out to him, not in supplication, but to make him acknowledge the mess. “Why do I feel like maggots are crawling beneath my skin?”
“The Organites,” Griffin whispered to Emily. She had come to stand on his left. “Is it possible for her to feel them?”
“I don’t know,” Emily replied in a hushed voice, her gaze glued to the girl on the bed. “She shouldn’t.”
“Organites?” the girl snarled. She looked at her hands, the sticky crimson fingers. “You mean, this excrement you smeared on me?”
She’d heard? Griff tilted his head in silent contemplation. So not only was she fast and strong, but she had heightened hearing, as well. It made him wonder if all of her senses were so acute.
“It’s to help you heal,” he informed her softly. “And now you’ve made it worse.”
She mocked him by jerking her head to the side, mirroring how he regarded her. Then, she straightened and took a step forward on the bed. She was like a cat inching toward a mouse.
It happened quickly. Sam, as he always did, stepped between Griffin and what he perceived to be a threat. Did he think Griff incapable of defending himself, like a weakling?
The girl only smiled that off-kilter smile and then lunged. Her hands came down on Sam’s head and she neatly leapfrogged over him, landing right in front of Griff.
The others instantly went into combat mode, especially Sam, who whirled around with fists raised. Brave little Emily had produced a wicked-looking dagger from somewhere on her person. Griff held up his hand. “Stand down.”
They did as he commanded, but only to the extent that they didn’t intervene. He knew that if this girl so much as sneezed on him, she would be sorry.
“So you’re the leader of this lot, Rich Boy?” She sneered as her gaze raked over the others before returning to him—she was clearly unimpressed. “You don’t look so special.”
“You’re looking in the wrong place,” he replied with a hint of a smile. “Look into my eyes.”
And she did. They always did. It never occurred to anyone that looking into his eyes was the last thing they should do. He let his guard down, letting the Aether take him a little bit deeper into its realm. The girl’s aura poured around him and he seized it—not with his hands, but with that part of him that could bend this strange element to his will. Quickly, he forced the color to change from anger to peacefulness and finally to the tranquil glow of restfulness. His power flowed around her just before her mental defenses slammed shut. Whatever she was, her instincts were fast.
But not fast enough in this case.
She swayed. Staggered a little. One thin, bloody hand grabbed his shoulder. “What…? What have you done to me?”
“You need to relax,” he told her in a low voice. “I’m going to help you do that.”
She stared at him, eyes wide now, the fear pouring off her like water from a spout. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Don’t take me back. Please! I don’t know what he’ll do to me.”
So his suspicions were correct. She had been a victim.
“I won’t,” he promised, all the while gently forcing his own calm into her. “You’re safe here.” Her defenses faltered, and he slipped inside once more.
She staggered again and seized his other shoulder, as well. He supported much of her weight now, but she wasn’t that heavy. Besides, the Aether gave him strength. He watched as her eyes changed—pupils shrinking until all that was left was warm gold. Much of the wildness left her features, and as her knees gave out she actually smiled at him.
“Thank you,” she whispered. And then her eyes rolled back into their sockets.
Griff caught her before she hit the floor. “Help me get her back into bed,” he commanded.
Sam gave him a glance, brow raised. “You can’t be serious? That scary little girl needs to go. Now.”
“No,” Griff argued, and he smiled when Emily came forward to help him, just as he knew she would. He placed the girl on the mattress as the little redhead pulled back the sheets and paused just for a moment to study the blood on her face and the dark circles beneath her eyes. “As frightening as we may think her, I believe she finds herself even more so.”
When Finley woke again, she felt more like herself than she had in some time. She felt rested and not nearly as battered as she ought. More important, she felt safe. The why of it was a mystery, because she rarely felt safe anywhere.
She sat up against the great mound of soft down-filled pillows and glanced around the room. It was a large bedroom, decorated in shades of cinnamon and cream. The bed was so big she could lie sideways on it and still her toes would not dangle over the edge. Beside her on the nightstand was a lamp and a small brass box with buttons on it labeled with titles such as kitchen, butler and maid. If she pressed one of them, would someone come? Or would they be too afraid?
Large windows to her right treated her to a view of the most lush and beautiful garden she had ever seen. Were it not for the dirigible marked L’air France high in the surprisingly blue sky, she might have thought herself in the country, it was so peaceful. She had never experienced true silence in London before. A house like this could only stand in Mayfair.
This was what it felt like to be a lady waking up in the morning. Quiet and snug.
On the desk there was one of the new candlestick-style telephones, its brass gleaming. She could call someone to come get her, but who? Her mother? No. She didn’t want to involve her mother or her stepfather in this mess.
Above the desk on the wall was a portrait of a lady from Henry VIII’s time, its frame heavy and gold-gilt. Beside it, a silver candlestick lodged in the plaster. Had she done that? Oh, Lord, she had! The events of the previous evening came rushing back at her with sickening violence. She remembered an all-too-familiar feeling—that someone else had taken over her body, leaving her an observer in her own skin. She could remember all the things she said and did, but she couldn’t begin to find reason or excuse.
Was she going mad? These spells had been coming upon her more often as of late. They’d started right around the same time she’d “become a woman” by biological standards. That had been three years ago, but never had she had an experience like these past few. She’d never lost herself so completely.
And yet…when she was in the midst of madness, it didn’t feel like madness at all. It felt right, like that awful part of her was as natural as breathing. But it could not be natural. It was something dark and wrong and—evil.
Was there anything that could save her? Anything short of death that could stop it from happening again? Felix had deserved the wallop she gave him, but the young man with the striking blue eyes and the thick red-brown hair, he didn’t deserve what she might have done to him when she leaped over the giant one to get to him.
She hadn’t wanted to hurt him, not really. Something had drawn her to him, and when she looked up into those amazing eyes, doing him harm had been the last thing on her mind. She had actually wondered what it might be like to kiss him.
It had to have been some kind of sorcery. What else could it have been? He had drained all of the fight out of her without lifting a hand. One glance had filled her with such peace and lethargy that all she had wanted to do was curl up and sleep. Which she had.
Had he—or any of them—done something to her while she slept? She couldn’t tell, as she was still somewhat tender from the tussle with Lord Felix. She didn’t want to believe the pretty gentleman capable of such violence, but she had learned the hard way that pretty gentlemen were often the worst of the lot.
But now what? She couldn’t stay here forever, and she had no idea if she could trust these people. It was obvious the others didn’t want her around. What if they turned her over to the police? Or worse, what if “Rich Boy” was a friend of Lord Felix?
A knock at the door made her heart jump. The knob turned and the door opened before she could call for whoever it was to enter.
The redheaded girl walked in. Her bright, ropey hair was pinned haphazardly on the back of her head, with thick coils hanging around her pretty face. She wore trousers tucked into high black boots, a white shirt and a tight leather vest. It had become fashionable for young women of independent thought to emulate the masculine fashion, but Finley hadn’t the nerve to do it herself. She much preferred the “Oriental” look that had come over from China. She hadn’t the nerve to copy that, either.
The girl glanced at her with large, intense blue eyes as she entered the room. Finley’s fingers went to her forehead where she’d been injured. The skin there was soft and smooth, not even a lump or slightest scab, even though she remembered tearing at it the night before. In fact, her cheek and lip felt better, as well. But then, she’d always been a fast healer.
“You…fixed me.” She couldn’t keep the awe from her voice.
The young woman’s expression was puzzled as she dipped a cloth in the washbasin on the stand near the dresser. Of course she would be expecting Finley to act as beastly as she had last night. “Yes. I did. I’m glad you left it alone this time.”
Finley smiled, hoping she looked friendly rather than demented. This girl was no threat to her and so that dark part of her was peaceful. “Thank you.”
“I’ve brought you breakfast.” She gestured to the doorway, where the large young man with longish black hair and rugged features stood holding a tray. Her dark self raised its head, but didn’t make a fuss. “And I would like to examine you, if that’s all right.”
So young and a doctor? It was impossible, of course, but that didn’t mean the Irish girl didn’t have a proper knowledge of medicine. After all, she had healed her wound. “Of course. Thank you for breakfast.”
“I’ll clean you up and we can talk while you eat.”
Finley’s smile was stronger now. She kept her attention focused on the girl while watching her companion from the corner of her eye. “I’d like that.” She felt something of a kinship with this girl. Girls didn’t normally like her, and young men tended to like her in ways she didn’t want. She didn’t understand why because it wasn’t as though she was uncommonly beautiful or anything.
The girl didn’t look like she was convinced of her sincerity, but she came closer all the same. “If you try to hurt me, he’ll stop you. Understand?”
The smile melted from Finley’s lips and slipped down her throat to form a hard knot. She nodded, not daring to glance at the grim-looking young man.
She sat still while her companion wiped her forehead and face, trying not to notice how much blood stained the cloth, turning it rusty. She was given another warm, wet length of linen to wash her hands. They were stained, as well.
Finley swallowed. “I must apologize for my behavior last night. I was not myself.”
“No?” A high, red brow arched against the girl’s pale forehead as she took both cloths away. “Who were you, then? A Changeling perhaps?” She had a beautiful, lyrical Irish accent.
“I’m not sure,” Finley replied with a frown, watching her walk away. Was she teasing her, or did she honestly believe she might be a Faerie trying to pass as human?
The girl dropped the soiled cloths back into the basin, turned and walked to the dresser. She rummaged through a small leather kit and pulled out something that looked like a perfume bottle. “I’m going to give you another treatment, just to make sure you continue to heal. I promise it won’t annoy you like it did last night. You can eat, as well.”
Finley blushed, unable to contain a rush of humiliation. “Of course.” She pushed herself up farther on the pillows to be more accommodating and so she would be able to eat. The movement apparently startled the girl because she jerked back and dropped the bottle. It landed on the floor with a loud thump.
“Ah, blast! It went beneath the dresser.”
Before the girl could bend down to stick her hand underneath the piece of furniture, the dark-haired young man was there. He set the tray on the bed and then went to the dresser, bending down. How he expected to find the mechanism with those big hands of his, Finley didn’t know. But then she realized he had only reached underneath to get a good hold. When he straightened, the large, heavy piece came with him, held between his two hands with ease.
No man was that strong. Even in her “altered” state she couldn’t come close to that kind of easy strength.
“Astounding,” Finley whispered, staring at him in open awe.
The other girl smiled then, as though she couldn’t help herself. “This coming from a girl who tossed a footman like a sack of potatoes.” Quickly, she bent down and retrieved the item. “Thank you, Sam.”
He said nothing, merely glanced at her before setting the furniture back in its proper place. The girl made a point of not looking at him, but her pale cheeks turned red.
“My name is Finley,” she said when once again her nursemaid attended her. “Who are you?”
The girl hesitated, her fingers wrapped around the depression bulb of the atomizer. Whatever the reservoir contained, it smelled of rosemary and something earthy—like dirt. She didn’t quite meet Finley’s gaze as she applied a light, cool layer of mist to her forehead. She was still wary of her. “Emily.”
Finley held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Emily. Thank you for being kind when I was such a wretch.”
Emily looked down. For a moment, Finley thought maybe she’d reject the offer of friendship and she held her breath. But just when she was about to drop her hand, Emily switched the contraption to her left and accepted the handshake. The Irish girl’s hands weren’t smooth like a lady’s. They had a little roughness to them, like Finley’s own. They were the hands of someone used to working, and it made Finley like her even more.
More so, it made her want to trust this small girl with her strange red hair and old eyes.
“You’re welcome…Finley.” Emily gestured over her shoulder. “That’s Sam.”
Finley managed to smile at the large young man. Him she wasn’t so eager to trust, nor, from the stony expression on his face, was he about to trust her. “Hello, Sam. My apologies for leaping over you as I did last night.”
“You’re fast,” he allowed grudgingly, lifting the breakfast tray and setting it across her lap. “But I caught the footman when you threw him, and next time I’ll catch you.” It wasn’t said in a threatening manner but Finley knew beyond a doubt that he would crush her like a bug if he caught her.
