by Kady Cross
Slowly, she pushed herself up, assessing the damage done. The others were still far away, up by the vault. Griffin and Emily were yelling at Sam, alternating between trying to reason with him and berating him. Griffin tried to hold the goliath of a young man back, but Finley knew even Griffin couldn’t keep him for long.
Sam Morgan wanted a fight, and he wanted it with her. There was no one in that room who could stop him, and she was the only one who came anywhere near being a match for him. Unless Griffin did whatever it was he did, there was no alternative but to give him that fight. She knew this with both sides of herself, so in the interest of self-preservation, she let the change happen. It didn’t take much—violence always made the transition easy. This one was a little different in the fact that it hadn’t taken over already. Normally she would have already lost control rather than be given the choice.
Energy raced through her, giving her strength where there had been weakness, numbness where there had been pain and anger where there had been fear. When she rose to her feet it was with a smile and she beckoned Sam with the taunting crook of a finger.
“There it is,” Sam said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “There’s the real monster.” His face ferocious, the tall, muscled young man charged at her. Finley stood her ground and let him come. Just as he was about to strike, she grabbed him by the waist of his trousers, her left hand going behind his shoulders. She used his own momentum to lift him off the ground, flip and throw him down. His back hit the floor hard—she could feel the shock of it tremble through the boards beneath her feet.
Within seconds, he arched his body and leaped to his feet with more grace than she would have expected from someone his size. She barely had time to duck the massive fist that swung at her, countering with a sharp uppercut under his chin. Pain raced up her arm as his head snapped back. Bloody hell, had Emily reinforced his skull with metal?
Shaking her hand, Finley drew back, waiting for him to make the next move. She wanted to be more aggressive. She wanted to climb him like a tree, lock her legs around him like a monkey and pound his face until he surrendered or passed out. However, that maneuver would probably hurt her more than him. And she wasn’t about to be the villain in this fight. She would defend herself, but she would not attack.
Something that felt very much like the side of a carriage struck her left cheek, lifting her off her feet once more. Her side struck the table holding the waxwork Victoria, sending the queen toppling to the ground as the heavy table skidded several inches, leaving grooves in the wooden floor. She felt her ribs crack, agony shooting through her as she slumped over the tabletop. She groaned.
Gentle hands touched her arm and face. It was Griffin. “Stop this,” he begged.
It hurt to breathe. Finley shook her head. “It’s not my fight to stop.”
He looked up. “Sam, stop it, now. Finley did nothing wrong.”
“Idiot,” Sam sneered as he stomped toward them. “You’re so infatuated with her you can’t see straight. Look at everything that’s happened since you brought her here. She was a murder suspect. She’s in league with Dandy and still you try to protect her. What does she have to do before you’ll see her for what she is? Cut one of our throats?”
Finley sat up, wincing at the movement. Staying down wouldn’t save her, and a part of her very much wanted to continue—fight until one of them could no longer fight. “If I cut anything of yours, you great stupid article, it will be your tongue—and then I’ll make you swallow it.”
He made a noise that sounded very much like a roar, picked her up by the throat as though she were a rag doll and held her above the floor as he punched her once, twice, three times. Her ears rang, her face felt hot and wet—broken. If she were normal she’d most likely be dead. But she wasn’t normal and her ribs were already healing. Unfortunately, she saw that the cut on Sam’s lip—no doubt from where his teeth had torn it when she punched his jaw—was almost healed, as well. Wonderful. He was bigger, stronger and healed faster than her.
The fingers around her throat tightened, cutting off her supply of air. She gasped like a beached fish, holding on to his arm so all of her weight wasn’t on her neck. He was going to kill her.
“Sam!” It was Griffin’s voice. Finley’s vision was beginning to blur, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Griffin grab Sam’s arm. “Let her go!”
It was proof of how far into his rage Sam was, because instead of letting her go, he lifted his free hand and backhanded Griffin with enough force to knock the other fellow to the floor. Emily cried out.
That was what sent Finley over the edge. As blackness swarmed the edges of her mind and vision, the sight of Griffin thrown to the floor and the sound of Emily’s anguish gave her an extra shove. She opened herself up and let go of all of her fear and control, her soul reveling in a brief moment of ecstasy as the two halves of her came together.
Her vision cleared. Behind Sam she saw Griffin rising to his feet, his eyes glowing unnaturally. She’d already seen what happened when the Duke of Greythorne used his abilities, and there was no pool here to absorb the energy. She had to end this before they all died.
She looked down at Sam as she managed to pull a shallow breath into her lungs. Both of her hands tightened around his wrist and forearm. Tightening her stomach, she pulled her legs up, bent to her chest. She focused all of her strength on her lower extremities as she drew back and then snapped her legs out like a jackrabbit.
She kicked him in the chest. The heavy soles of both boots struck with all the force she could muster. She heard a sickening cracking sound as they connected. Sam grunted and dropped her, skidding backward, until he hit the wall, books raining down on him from the shelves above.
Finley knew immediately that the fight had gone too far. Whether it was that crunching noise or the look on Sam’s face that told her she wasn’t sure, but she knew before he slid to the floor that Sam was seriously hurt.
The fight fled from her with the swift intensity of a sneeze, leaving her twitchy and anxious in its wake. She ran across the room on shaking legs, falling to her knees beside her opponent just behind the others.
“Is he all right?” she asked, even though she didn’t want the answer.
Somehow, Emily had found a stethoscope in the mess made by the fight, and placed the metal part on Sam’s broad chest as she shoved the listening pods into her ears. Her face was white as she glanced at Griffin.
“His heart,” Emily whispered, her hands shaking as much as her voice.
Finley swallowed hard and looked at the young man on the floor. It sounded as though he was having trouble breathing. Blood trickled from his mouth. His wide eyes sought Emily’s and held them.
“Em,” he whispered hoarsely, blood running down his chin. His eyes were wide and he looked like a scared little boy instead of the wild man he’d been only moments before. “I don’t want to die.”
Finley’s throat clenched as the back of her eyes burned. She would never forgive herself for this—and neither would anyone else. How could she have lost control? Yes, she was only defending herself, but she never meant to harm Sam, only to keep him from seriously harming her.
Emily’s head turned toward her. Gone was the fear and wild, wide-eyed expression. She looked calm and collected—perhaps too much so. “Pick him up,” she instructed. “Take him to the infirmary.”
Finley was so numb she couldn’t even ask where the infirmary was. She simply did as she was told and picked Sam up. Obviously her darker half hadn’t left her completely, probably because she felt so terribly guilty.
Griffin guided her to another room off the lab. It was small, but frighteningly clean and well lit. A lone table stood in the center of the room, a huge chandelier hanging overhead. It was a surgery, she realized. Quickly, she carried Sam to the table. There was a terrible pallor to his face, a light sheen of sweat over his skin.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to him, her voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.”
“Open his shirt,” Emily demanded, and Finley was so eager to fix her mistake she ripped the buttons off his waistcoat and tore his shirt right down the middle, the fine lawn giving away like tissue paper.
Sam’s chest was broad and muscled, and it was already beginning to bruise where she kicked him—not a good sign.
“Wash your hands,” Emily told her. “You’re going to help me. Griffin, get the ether and Listerine out of the cabinet. Clean linen, too.”
“What are you going to do?” Finley asked.
Emily glanced at her with unnervingly steady eyes. “I’m going to cut open his chest and fix his heart.”
For a moment Griffin thought Finley might faint she went so pale, but then she gave her head a shake and went to wash her hands at the sink as Emily demanded.
The inside of his cheek had torn against his teeth when Sam backhanded him and he could taste blood in his mouth, see it on the front of his shirt. He wasn’t even angry. At this moment all that mattered was saving Sam. Again.
If Finley hadn’t done this, what would he have done? He had felt the Aether rushing to him in his anger. He would have done far more damage than this. He might have killed them all.
This was too much like the previous time they had operated on Sam. Not so much blood and carnage, but horrible all the same. He didn’t want to stand there and watch Emily do what needed to be done, but he refused to leave her alone. So, he put the ether-soaked cloth over Sam’s nose and mouth and watched as his friend slipped into a deep slumber before collecting the needles, pump and tubing for a transfusion. Last time Emily had operated, they discovered his blood was compatible with Sam’s. Quickly, he attached the equipment, piercing the vein on the inside of Sam’s large arm before doing the same with his own. Then he connected the small pump Emily had fashioned out of parts of a sewing machine. It powered up immediately, and within a few moments was producing enough steam to pull the blood from his arm into Sam’s. It was much quicker than waiting for gravity to do its work.
While he’d been busy readying the transfusion machine, Emily had readied her own tools and poured Dr. Lister’s “Listerine” disinfectant over her hands and Sam’s torso.
Then, she raised her scalpel and quickly cut into Sam’s chest. Finley handed Emily what she needed, doing what she was told quickly and without comment. Not even when she utilized that awful contraption for spreading Sam’s broken ribs apart did she falter, although she grew terribly pale.
Emily frowned as she peered inside Sam’s chest. “What the devil…”
“What is it?” Griffin demanded.
“Nothing that needs worrying right now,” she replied curtly. “One of the intake valves is broken. Finley, hand me that one on the tray beside you.”
Finley did, her eyes wide as she looked at Sam’s open chest.
Emily worked quickly and efficiently, but Griff was well aware of the minutes ticking by as she clamped and removed the faulty valve. Every second brought Sam closer to death. He didn’t know how long they’d been at this, but it felt like forever. He had yet to feel light-headed from blood loss, so he knew it couldn’t have been that long. The transfusion pump continued its slow “breathing,” inhaling Griffin’s blood and exhaling it into Sam.
“Finley, I need you to hold the broken edges of his ribs together so they can knit. Otherwise they’ll heal like this.”
Finley swallowed hard, but she didn’t hesitate to reach inside Sam’s chest and do what she was told. Emily tossed the ruined valve into a bin at her feet, wiped her wet hands on a square of linen and then set about affixing the new valve. Once it was in place, she removed the clamp. Griffin held his breath. His shoulders were stiff and the entire right side of his face throbbed, but he didn’t move.
Emily smiled. “It’s working,” she said.
No one said anything, but their collective sigh was cheer enough. As he shut down the pump and removed the needle from his arm, Griffin frowned at the brilliant Irish girl. She was still gazing inside Sam’s chest, her hands paused in the act of removing the rib spreader.
“What is it, Em?” he asked, sticking a bandage in the crook of his arm and bending his elbow to stop the bleeding.
She shook her head. “I don’t know, but it’s amazing. Look.”
Griffin wasn’t a squeamish person, but it took all of his resolve to peer inside his friend. His unease was soon replaced by wonder. Tiny tendrils of blue and green wrapped around Sam’s mechanical heart, framing the glowing green power crystal at its enclosed center. “Is that…?”
Emily nodded, her gaze locking with his. “The Organites. When I first opened him up, I saw that they were already trying to patch the broken valve themselves.”
“How is that possible?”
She removed the spreader and Finley released the already mending ribs. “When I replaced Sam’s arm, I used Organites to regrow his flesh. They replicated his cellular composition. Obviously they spread from his shoulder into his chest. Probably the rest of his body, as well.”
Griffin shook his head in wonder. “Which would explain his increased ability to heal.”
Emily cast a brief glance at Finley as she began to stitch Sam’s flesh together with the precision and steady hand of a seamstress merely mending a hem. “Yours, as well,” she remarked. “Your father’s experiments made the Organites part of you.”
Griffin looked from Finley’s surprised expression to Sam’s peaceful face, profoundly glad that his friend was going to recover—so he could tear a strip off his hide later for being such an ass. “They looked as though they were attracted to the power core.”
“Yes.” Emily frowned in concentration. “I’ll have to run some tests, but I’ve a theory brewin’ about that, lad.”
He grinned, he couldn’t help it. Emily was one of the most soft-hearted people he knew. She cried over injured birds, but in the face of real crisis she became almost emotionless, single-minded in her purpose. It was something he admired about her, although the shock would hit her later and she’d shake like a leaf in the wind for a day or two.
When Sam was all sewn up, Emily cleaned the incision again with the Listerine, wiped it clean and then smeared a layer of her Organite-based salve to quicken the already rapid healing of Sam’s body. Then she put something that looked like the flat part of a stethoscope right over where Sam’s heart was. A long wire running from it was attached to a small gramophone on a nearby table. Through it, came the sound of a heart—Sam’s heart—pumping.
“He’ll be almost good as new when he wakes up,” she told them as she went to the sink to wash her hands. She removed her stained apron and flung it in the laundry bin in the corner.
Finley, unbidden, took the surgical instruments to the sink, as well. Emily would sterilize them later. Griffin’s attention turned to the girl who was still a relative stranger to them all, but had been pulled so quickly into their lives and the drama that surrounded them. She stood at the sink, her freshly washed hands gripping the white enamel. Her hunched shoulders began to shake.
“Finley?” He moved toward her.
Her sobs broke his heart. They weren’t the careful tears of a gently bred young lady taught never to make a scene and never to appear ugly. These were the gut-wrenching hiccups of someone in terrible and uncontrollable pain. He and Emily exchanged a glance.
“Finley.” He made his voice as gentle as possible. God only knew what she might do in this emotional state if her darker self was still lingering about, and Griffin had been battered enough for one night. So had Finley, for that matter.
She turned when he touched her shoulder, surprising him by throwing herself into his arms and sobbing against his chest. He held her for a while, stroking her hair and hushing her as Emily looked on with equal parts discomfort and concern.
“It…it’s all my fault,” she whispered. “I almost killed him.”
What she said was truth, there was no denying that, but Griffin was hardly about to take her to task for it.
“He was trying to kill you.” He hated to say it, but that, too, was truth. He wasn’t certain what madness had taken control of his friend, only that he must have thought Finley had harmed Emily. He had no doubt that Sam could have easily killed her in his anger.
“It’s all right,” Griffin told her, patting her back. “Sam’s going to be fine. You’re going to be fine.” He was so bloody happy to be able to say that.
Finley nodded, but she didn’t meet his gaze as she withdrew from his arms. The front of his shirt was damp from her tears. She sniffed and wiped at her eyes. “I’m going to go lie down for a bit.”
Griffin watched helplessly as she walked away. He didn’t know what to do or say. Everyone’s emotions were running high at the moment; jumbled and confused. Emily stepped back to let her pass, her gaze following the other girl into the lift.
And then she was gone, leaving Griffin and Emily alone with Sam, whose heartbeat sounded out, loud and strong behind them. Regardless of how much either of them wanted to go after Finley, Sam was the one who needed their attention now, and he was the one they went to, forced to choose one friend over the other.
When Finley left the others, she went straight to her room, found a valise in the wardrobe and began stuffing as much of her belongings into it as she could. It held almost everything, as she didn’t have much. She’d repay Griffin for the clothes someday.
It was her natural instinct to run whenever trouble found her, and this was no exception. It didn’t matter that she liked Griffin and Emily, even Jasper. Sam had been with them longer than her and he was their real friend. If they had to choose between herself and him they would take him, and rightfully so.
But she couldn’t stay there any longer knowing she’d almost killed him. If the others didn’t hate her now, they would soon. Better to leave on her own than be tossed out like garbage.
She was crossing the great hall when she met Jasper Renn coming in. “You runnin’?” he asked, glancing at the luggage in her hand.
