The Girl in the Steel Corset tsc-1

by Kady Cross

  “A couple are personal, but the rest come from my father’s research—and my own. The runes help me control and focus my abilities, plus keep my mind and soul sharp.”

  “Why do you want to do it to me?”

  “I want to give you a couple of runes,” he told her, swabbing the needle with a medicinal smelling liquid that she remembered from Emily’s laboratory. “Nothing frightening or terrible. Just something to help the two sides of you finally merge and awaken your awareness.”

  She watched him warily. “That sounds like more than a couple.”

  Another smile, this one warm and reassuring. He would make a fantastic confidence artist. “It won’t take long and I’ll make it as painless as possible. I’m good at this.”

  Judging from the ones she’d seen of his, she knew that. “Fine. And I’m not afraid of it hurting. I’m not some silly girl.”

  He just kept smiling. “No. I’d never call you a silly girl.” His smile faded. “Can I trust you?”

  A tiny fissure of alarm tingled at the base of Finley’s spine. “You can.” She would never betray him, no matter what he told her.

  He glanced away, fingers absently toying with the instruments on the tray. “I went into the Aether to talk to my parents.”

  Her eyes widened. “You can do that?” How amazing! He could commune with the dead. She couldn’t help but wonder if he could somehow contact her father…

  “Yes,” he replied. “I can do that, and I don’t know if I can contact your father.”

  The blood rushed from her face. “How…?”

  He waved a hand. “A lucky guess, nothing more. When I was in the Aether, Garibaldi showed up. He summoned my mother’s spirit and my father and I were taken along, as well. He tried to capture my mother’s ghost.”

  Finley slumped onto the stool, disbelief practically leaking out her pores. “I didn’t know such things were possible. What did you do?”

  A slight smile curved his lips. “I took a tip from you and grabbed him—his physical body—by the throat. That weakened him enough so that he was forced to release my mother.” The smile faded. “But he has power in the Aether—more than I’m comfortable with him having.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure. I stopped him this time, and I’m confident I can stop him again, but we need to find him and bring him to justice as soon as possible, before he tries again.”

  She gestured to the tray. “Will tattooing me help make that happen?”

  “I hope so.” Determination settled over his features, hardening them. “Yes.”

  “Then let’s do it. What do you need me to do?”

  “Just turn so that your back is to me. I’ll need you to unfasten the top of your gown so I can access your skin.”

  Her back? Her naked back? Oh, this went against everything her mother ever taught her about being a “good” girl. Still, the darker part of her perked up at the thought of undressing for Griffin—even if it was just a little bit.

  Bloody stars, if this was what it was going to be like having both halves of herself merged into one, she wasn’t so certain she wanted to do it. Before everything was morally black or white, and now it was becoming alarmingly gray.

  Her fingers trembling, Finley unfastened the buttons that ran on an angle from the mandarin collar on her gown to where the sleeve ended at her right shoulder. Griffin was able to peel the silk away from her back, revealing her shoulder. She shouldn’t have been so alarmed. She had bared her shoulders before.

  A low fire burned in the hearth a few feet away, so she wasn’t the least bit chilled. In fact, as soon as his hand touched her flesh, she felt very warm indeed.

  “I’m going to clean the area first,” he told her. “This might be a little cold.”

  She jumped as the wet cloth touched her shoulder blade. “Oh!” It was more than a little cold! There was that medicinal smell again. Wonderful, she was going to smell like a surgeon’s office.

  “I’m going to draw the runes on you now.”

  She turned her head to glance up at him. “I thought you were going to tattoo them?”

  “I am, but I’ll draw them on first. Then I’ll tattoo over them—less margin for error that way.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not filling me with confidence toward your abilities in this area, Your Grace.”

  “Turn around and stop squawking, woman,” he ordered, but there was too much humor in his tone for the demand to be insulting.

  “I’ll begin with Uruz, for strength and to banish self-doubt and weakness.” Finley shivered as the tip of a quill moved ever so lightly on her shoulder. A straight line down, then a small diagonal line from the top that bent to run parallel to the first—like an awkward lowercase n.

  “Are you cold?” Griffin asked.

  “It tickled,” she replied, embarrassed.

  He chuckled. “Sorry. Next is Gebo for balance, then Sowilo for self-orientation and strength of will.” He deftly drew each rune with the quill as he spoke—X followed by a sharp S. “Most important, is Ehwaz for partnership and Ingwas for centering and focus.” Each of these symbols— M and a square diamond—were written in a single line down her shoulder blade. Her skin tingled a little.

  “That’s definitely more than a couple,” she reminded him, once again wondering what the devil she was about allowing him to do this. She must be barking mad.

  “They’re small,” he replied—as though that made a difference. “Hold still.”

  Next came the needle. Finley watched with no small amount of apprehension as he poured a small amount of ink into a reservoir on the “pistol.” He was going to put marks on her—permanent marks that she would carry for the rest of her life. It was a little daunting.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She knew this was the time to decline if she was going to. He was giving her the option to run away, coward that she was. But if these markings would help her—help them— then there was no other choice.

  “I’m ready,” she replied.

  She could almost see him smiling despite having her back to him. “Good girl. This might feel odd, but it won’t hurt, I promise you.”

  There was the faint clicking of a key being turned, or a mechanism being wound. A slight buzzing noise followed, and then the needle touched her skin, following the lines of the first rune.

  Griffin was right. It didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t exactly pleasant, either. It was somewhat annoying—like being lightly stung repeatedly by a delicate bee. However, beyond that slight annoyance there was something else—a fluttering beneath her skin, a strange sense of strength—what the rune stood for—easing through her veins. The X and angular S followed, each of which imparted a new sensation as the ink seeped into her flesh. It might have been her imagination, but she thought it felt as though something unbalanced settled inside her—as though she was a scale and both sides held the same weight.

  Occasionally he would stop to wipe at her back—which was a little more uncomfortable. She turned her head to look at the cloth on the table. Amongst the blotches of black ink, were smears of blood.

  “I’m bleeding?” she cried, incredulous. He never said anything about bleeding!

  “It’s normal,” he assured her. “Just relax, Finley. I’ll be done soon, and if you’re a good girl, I shall give you a biscuit.”

  “Shortbread?” she asked. If she were going to allow herself to be bribed, it would have to be for a worthwhile prize.

  “Of course. Almost done now.” The last two figures were all that remained. The needle buzzed and jabbed—annoying but still not painful. As with the others, each new mark seemed to impart its meaning, fusing the intent with her skin and her blood.

  The power of the runes, Griffin explained as he worked, didn’t hinge on how large the symbols were drawn, only in the intention and will behind them. That, and his blood in the ink.

  “Is that why my shoulder feels hot? Because of your blood?” The thought di
dn’t bother her as it should.

  “Possibly. My connection to the Aether gives added power to the runes.”

  Sounded like magic, Finley thought as he wiped at her skin once more with a clean cloth and more Listerine. “I’m going to put some salve on your back to help it heal.”

  “Should we be using the Organites, knowing what we do about them now?” She was only slightly alarmed to feel the cool ointment on her skin as he gingerly applied it with his finger.

  “They can only make us better,” he told her. “In your case, since they’ve always been part of your blood, the Organites should make the runes part of you even faster.”

  His should was good enough for her. Besides, he was right—she already had them running through her entire body.

  As if answering her silent question, there was the strangest tingling throughout her entire body. Warmth—almost like sinking into a hot bath—swept over her. It was like nothing she ever felt before, as though the bits and parts of her, everything inside was being re-sorted and arranged in a different order—the correct order.

  “That’s bloody amazing!” Griffin exclaimed above her.

  “What?” she cried, holding the front of her dress as she jumped to her feet. “Why do I feel so strange?”

  An expression of amazement softened Griffin’s face as he held up a mirror. “Look.”

  Finley peered in the glass. She gasped at what she saw.

  There were two strips of black in her hair now—one on either side, running down from her scalp in almost perfect symmetry, all the way to the ends, which were peeking out of the bun on the back of her head.

  Lowering the mirror, she gaped at Griffin, who grinned at her with a smug I-told-you-so expression on his face.

  “Looks like the runes are working already.”

  That night Finley found it impossible to go to sleep. The runes on her back still tingled, though not with the same intensity as before. Her skin felt sensitive, as though someone had rubbed that part of her back with a scouring pad. The black was still in her hair, and her blood was still humming, though now she felt energized rather than anxious.

  She was perched on the balustrade of the small balcony off her bedroom, balanced like a bird on the plaster rail no wider than her hand. It was amazing. Before she would have been afraid to take such a precarious position, but now… Now she had faith she wouldn’t fall, and if she did, she would be able to catch herself.

  She didn’t fool herself into thinking that Griffin and his tattoos had fixed her, but they were certainly doing something—perhaps opening her up to merging both sides of herself, easing the process. That frightened her as much as she wanted it.

  When the two halves of her finally and completely merged, would one still have dominance? Would she even be aware of it? Would she be such a different person she wouldn’t recognize herself? All valid fears that kept her awake this night. But even though she was afraid, in her heart she knew this was the right thing to do.

  So she breathed the night into her lungs, savoring the cool air. London didn’t always smell as pretty as it did right then—like roses, damp earth and jasmine with just the faintest tint of coal, steam and metal. Around her she could hear the sound of carriage wheels on cobblestones, the whirl of a dirigible in the distant sky, its headlamps like stars, the odd whinny of a horse—though why people insisted on using horses for transport when there were steam carriages, she couldn’t fathom. Poor horses.

  She could also hear music coming from a nearby estate. The plaintive strains of a violin tugged at her heart. That’s where Griffin ought to be, instead of trying to save the country, or what have you. He should be dancing with some insipid debutante who didn’t need tattoos to be normal—who couldn’t toss men around like dolls.

  It was uncharitable of her to think such a way about him after he’d been so good to her, but she needed a reminder that they were from two separate worlds. It would be easier that way, and maybe put an end to this schoolgirl crush she seemed to have developed upon him.

  She was thinking of the pale blue-gray of his eyes when she heard a sound to her right. She turned her head, amazed at how well her astounding vision picked out a figure on another balcony almost all the way down to the other end of the house. From the size of it, she’d say it was Sam. And when it vaulted over the side of the rail, she knew it was Sam. No one else but she could jump from this height and not injure themselves.

  Leaning forward, she watched as he sprinted toward the stables. Where was he off to now? He’d been acting stranger than usual all day—distracted. It had started right around the time they’d had their meeting with Cordelia. She’d thought it odd after all Sam had been through and the injury he received that he seemed to pity The Machinist somewhat. He’d actually defended the villain, hadn’t he? Why was that?

  Her mind told her to stay put, but instinct told her to follow, and she let instinct guide her. The alternative was to sit on this bloody balcony until the sun came up.

  Instead of taking the time to climb down the wall, she went over the side of the balustrade. Stealthily, she lowered herself hand over hand down one of the carved pillars until she could go no farther. Then she dropped to the grass below. Silently, she followed, careful to keep a discreet distance between them.

  At the stables, she flattened herself against the wall as Sam pushed his velocycle outside. He didn’t notice her—he was too intent on a quiet escape. Once he was far enough down the drive, she slipped into the stables, to the section where the cycles were kept and took the one she’d come to think of as hers. She pushed it outside, following Sam’s lead.

  At the road, Sam pushed the cycle a little farther before swinging a long leg over the seat and starting the engine. Finley let him get a bit of a head start before starting her own and following after him. The traffic grew thicker as she drove, past a mansion that was obviously hosting a party given all the carriages about. Sam probably wouldn’t notice he was being followed, but just to be certain, she let a small, sleek steam-phaeton get in front of her. She could track him by scent and sound so long as he didn’t get too far ahead. Thank God he didn’t seem to share her heightened senses or he’d know she was shadowing him.

  She followed him to an address in Covent Garden—nothing too posh, but not squalor, either. It looked like a normal, middle-class home. So what the devil was Sam doing knocking on the front door at this hour of the night? No one respectable was awake; Sam, herself and the entire aristocracy were proof of that.

  Finley parked her velocycle down the street in the shadows where Sam wouldn’t notice it, and watched as the door to the house opened. Sam spoke to the person and then crossed the threshold. She couldn’t see who his host was, but as soon as the door shut, she hurried toward the house—and the nearest lit-up window. It was conveniently open, as well, so she could hear the conversation that had already started within.

  “You used me,” Sam said in a voice that shook with anger and disappointment.

  “Did I?” asked a strangely accented male voice. “How so?”

  “To get to the Duke of Greythorne. To get information about us.”

  Finley frowned. What the devil? Slowly, she rose up on her toes to peer in the window. Sam stood in the center of the room, towering over his companion. A man whose left hand was made of bright, shiny metal. She recognized the hand, and his face. Sam was talking to Leonardo Garibaldi— The Machinist.

  “Son of a wench,” she whispered. How had the big dolt gotten himself into such a mess? It was obvious from his expression that he had been lied to and betrayed by The Machinist.

  “And good information it was,” Garibaldi replied. Finley guessed his accent must be Italian. “You were a very generous source, my friend.”

  “I’m not going to let you get away with it,” Sam vowed, jaw clenched. “I’m taking you to Scotland Yard.”

  The older man smiled sadly. “No, you’re not. You underestimate me, my friend. But then you make a habit of underestimat
ing people. It is why I like you so much. But now, like everything else, our friendship, sadly, must die. I am sorry, Samuel. Not just for betraying you, but for leaving you with my wonderful toy, which I brought here for just such an occasion.”

  Finley’s eyes widened as the door to the room was flung open, revealing a metal man approximately seven and a half feet tall. Its head was like a chromium skull, with lidless eyes and metal teeth set in a lifelike grimace. It moved into the room with a graceful gait, articulated limbs moving smoothly.

  It was amazing. It was terrible. And it was headed right for Sam.

  Garibaldi chose that moment to make his escape. “Forgive me, my friend,” he said to Sam as he fled to the door, and then out.

  The front door slammed. Finley saw Garibaldi flee toward a steam carriage waiting on the street. He jumped inside and the carriage began to roar away. She stepped back from the window, and ran after it, determined to catch The Machinist.

  But the sound of metal hitting metal stopped her. From where she stood, she could just barely see inside the house, but what she saw was the metal man as it hit Sam in the face, knocking the large fellow into the wall. Plaster rained down. Finley swore, her gaze flitting from Sam to the disappearing carriage. She could go after Garibaldi and capture him, or she could help Sam. If she helped Sam, Garibaldi would get away and she would have to admit to letting that happen to Griffin.

  But if she went after Garibaldi, there was a very good chance this brutal automaton would kill Sam—the one who thought her a villain. The one who had almost strangled her. The big lad was nigh on invincible against a human opponent, but metal didn’t tire. Metal didn’t give up. Metal would rip his lungs out.

  Finley sighed. There really wasn’t a choice, was there?

  She hoped Griffin wasn’t too disappointed—and that the metal didn’t kill Sam and her both—as she ran full tilt toward the house and leaped through the open window.

  Chapter 19

  How could he have been so stupid?

  Facing the automaton with its metal grin and lidless eyes, Sam was certain he would never make it out of that house alive. And even if he did, he wasn’t certain he’d deserve it.