by Kady Cross
During one of their conversations, Sam had confided to Leon his strange strength and healing abilities, which had intensified as of late. “Not quite so quickly, no,” he replied. “Usually it took some of Emily’s salve to make wounds heal completely.”
“Ah, yes.” Leon smiled slightly. “The brilliant but Machiavellian Emily. What did she put in this ‘salve’ you speak of?”
Sam hesitated. It was one thing to tell his secrets, but he had sworn to Griffin that he would never divulge the truth about the Organites. “I’m not sure,” he replied, looking down at his hand again so he didn’t have to lie to his friend’s face. “She never told me.”
There was a moment’s silence as Leon took a drink of the hot, strong coffee. Café-espress he called it. “Tell me more about this Finley person. She sounds quite extraordinary—and dangerous.”
“Yes,” Sam agreed wholeheartedly. “Since Griffin took her in, there’s been nothing but trouble. She comes and goes as she wants, consorts with criminals, is suspected of murder, and now… Now she may be involved in a matter Griff is investigating. Even if she’s not to blame, she’s up to her eyes in it. I know it.”
“The stalwart Duke of Greythorne.” This was said with a hint of mockery. “He is just a boy, Samuel. I dare say he’s infatuated with the girl and refuses to see her as anything but perfect.”
Sam grunted, lifting his cup to his mouth. The coffee burned his tongue but tasted good. “He knows she’s not right,” he remarked. “He’s seen what she’s capable of, but he thinks he can fix her.”
“Some people are beyond fixing.” Leon set his cup on the table. “From all you’ve told me, I would think you would not care if the duke were made a fool of after all he’s done to you.” He meant, of course, what Griffin and Emily had done to him. Made him a freak. “You could simply walk away.”
“They’re still my friends,” Sam admitted. “I don’t want to see anyone injure them.”
“My dear boy, if you are concerned with the safety of your friends, you have to do something about this girl.”
Sam’s scowl gave way to an expression of confusion. “Like what?”
Leon shrugged, making the gesture sophisticated as Sam suspected only people from the continent could. “Make them see her for what she truly is. Force her to show her true colors.”
Brow furrowed, Sam thought about it. “How?”
The older man smiled patiently. “There isn’t a devious bone in your body, is there? How very noble. You push her into a corner. You said this…affliction of hers tends to reveal itself when she feels threatened. Threaten her with the truth, make her tip her hand to your friends. Then they will see that you were right all along.”
Sam thought about it. Leon made it sound so simple. “You’re right.”
“Age does have its benefits,” his friend quipped with a smile.
They talked a little while longer about other things, until Leon finished his coffee and announced that he had to call their visit to an unfortunate halt. “I’m afraid I have an engagement, but we will see each other again soon, no?”
Sam rose to his full height, towering over the other man. Despite his superior size and strength he felt young and foolish next to this worldly man who had accepted the metal part of himself with grace and ease. Maybe someday Sam could do the same and not think of his new arm—of his heart—as something alien and wrong, as a betrayal by those he held so dear.
“Of course,” he replied, accepting the handshake. He didn’t even wince when Leon closed his chromium fingers over his, engulfing Sam’s hand in both of his. The metal was warm where it had cradled the coffee cup but cold everywhere else.
“Thank you,” he said as they walked to the door together. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me and offer advice.”
The older man smiled. “I am here whenever you find yourself in need of a friend. I hope you always know that. You are a good man. You’ll do the right thing where your friends are concerned, and they will thank you for it.”
Sam smiled. How long had it been since he’d felt as though someone understood him so well? “Good day, Leon.”
A brief nod of dark hair. “Samuel.”
Sam left the building, clomping down the winding stairs and out into the fading afternoon. He felt happier than he had for some time. He’d return to Mayfair and he’d make the others see what Finley Jayne really was. Then they’d see that he was right and not an idiot. They’d see the truth and Finley would run straight to Jack Dandy where she belonged.
He only hoped he could get rid of her before she hurt someone.
After the museum, Jasper left to talk to some of his own contacts, agreeing to come by later that evening. Griffin returned to the house to find Emily and Finley in the cellar laboratory with the waxwork Victoria. Their eager faces made the ride down to the cellar in that tiny box of a lift almost worthwhile.
“Did you find anything?” they asked almost in unison.
“I did,” he replied, glancing about the room. “Sam still gone?”
Emily nodded, worry plain in her big eyes. She looked like a waif swathed in her goggles and apron. Her clunky boots seemed too large for her feet, the goggles too big for her head. Even the ropes of her bright copper hair seemed out of proportion. Beside her, Finley looked like an Amazon warrior, with her leather corset, short-sleeved shirt and black knickers. The heels of her black leather boots looked sturdy enough to grind a man’s bones to dust.
“What did you discover?” Emily asked.
Griffin turned to her, ashamed to have taken even a moment to admire Finley when he should have been concentrating on the matter at hand. “It was The Machinist. We found his oil. The night watchman got some of it on his wound and it healed him—much faster than it should have. He has Organites, and he puts them in the oil he uses on his automatons.”
Emily’s brow furrowed in concentration. “I don’t know how the wee beasties could possibly benefit a joint lubricant, but I’ll run some tests.”
“Wouldn’t you have found the Organites in the other samples?” Finley asked.
Emily shook her head, ropes of hair swinging around her shoulders. “They have to have something to draw energy from in order to live, plus they imitate whatever they’re attached to. The sample would have to be fresh for me to detect them, otherwise they’re dead and look like the very stuff suspending them.”
Griffin wasn’t entirely certain how much of that Finley understood. Hell, he wasn’t even certain he understood and he’d grown up knowing about Organites and how they worked. “Tests sound like a good idea, Em,” he said.
“Come see what we found,” Emily suggested, gesturing to the wax figure.
Griffin was astounded when they pointed out the missing eyes and the supposed caliper marks. “I doubt very much you’ll find those eyes have been sold. I’d say he’s building an automaton.”
“Of Queen Victoria?” Finley’s tone was so incredulous a slight smile curved Griffin’s lips.
“Yes,” he replied. “He could take it to one of the jubilee celebrations, pretend it’s a novelty, part of the fun and then blow it up.”
“But why?” It was Emily who asked the important question. “What would be his motivation for such random violence?”
Finley shrugged. “His crimes have been pretty random so far.”
“No.” Griffin scowled, a million thoughts racing through his head. “They only seem random because we don’t know what he’s up to.” He wished Cordelia were there. She was always much better at putting together puzzles than he was, but she had gone to Devon to see what, if any, damage had been done to the caverns on his estate—and find out more about this mysterious groundskeeper of his who suddenly vanished. It seemed obvious by now that it must have been The Machinist, but he needed to be certain.
“What about Dandy?” Finley asked. When Griffin looked at her, she seemed to have trouble meeting his gaze. “If this Machinist is such a criminal mastermind, surely Dandy sho
uld know something about him.”
For a moment—and just a brief one—Griffin wondered if Sam’s suspicions of Finley were correct. He really knew nothing of her. Didn’t know her at all, and yet…
He couldn’t bring himself to believe her a villain.
“No,” he said firmly, cursing silently this time when he saw her gaze drop to the floor. “I mean…” What did he mean? He cleared his throat. “I sincerely doubt Dandy will tell us anything even if he does know. There’s truth behind the saying ‘honor among thieves.’ It’s very possible the two of them might do business together. He won’t jeopardize his own standing in the underworld. He already took a big risk bringing the waxwork to us.”
Finley crossed her arms over her chest. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”
Griffin’s clenched his jaw all the same. He didn’t want Finley anywhere near Jack Dandy, not because he was worried about her, but because he was worried Dandy’s “liking” for her was reciprocated.
He swallowed the taste of jealousy building in the back of his throat. “All right,” he acquiesced. “Ask him. But arrange to meet him somewhere. I don’t want you going to his address alone. The Machinist knows who you are, and might still be watching you—or Dandy. I don’t want to give him an opportunity to go after you.”
She didn’t look half as afraid of that idea as she would have when she first arrived at his house, but it was obvious that the thought hadn’t crossed her mind, and that it scared her. “I will.”
Emily’s head suddenly jerked, as though an idea had literally slapped her in the face. “I know someone who might be able to tell us something.”
“Who?” the other two chorused.
Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “We found The Machinist’s oil at other crime sites. In fact, we found it in the automaton that attacked Sam.”
Griffin nodded. “That’s how we theorized The Machinist was behind the metal’s malfunction. But you said you didn’t know what he’d done to the machine,” Griffin reminded her, keeping his tone gentle so she wouldn’t mistake his words for spite.
“That was before I’d realized I developed the ability to speak machine.” With that, she stomped across the lab, boot soles hitting the floor with determined slaps as she headed toward the large iron vault in the top corner of the laboratory.
Griffin filled with unease. “Em, what are you doing?”
“Something I should have done long before this, but I was too much a coward.” She unlocked the vault, spinning the wheel to open it. There was a hiss—the venting of steam as the gears of the vault’s mechanism turned—and then a loud click. Emily pulled the door open.
Inside was the automaton that had attacked Sam. Seeing it almost froze Griffin’s heart in his chest. It stood like a great iron man with a box-shaped body, one long arm with a large scoop of a hand, heavily treaded wheels and a small navigation dome where a head would be.
“Emily.” Finley stepped forward, obviously not wanting the little Irish girl to get any closer to the abomination. It took all of Griffin’s resolve to stop her instead of going after Emily himself.
“Be ready,” he whispered close to Finley’s ear. “Just in case.”
She nodded.
“I’m going to power it up,” Emily told them. “Stand clear, just in case. If anything happens, do not attack until I say so. I need a little time to make contact.”
Griffin personally thought it too great a risk, but it was one he would take himself and therefore he didn’t try to dissuade her. He merely stood there, silent and terrified as his wee Irish lass reached up and stuck a notched brass rod into the ignition port on the automaton’s front. Every metal laborer in the city had a similar port. It was to prevent accidental power outages or ignitions, but still simple enough that a machine could be shut down quickly if necessary.
Emily turned the rod. The notches made sharp clicking sounds as they found the tumblers and moved them into the proper position. There was a hollow sounding clunk, followed almost immediately by a whirring noise and the rotation of gears. The engine began to hum, preparing to run startup procedures. The automaton shuddered as the power source—made from the ore Griffin’s grandfather had discovered—worked its magic, followed by a noise that sounded like the whoosh of a heavy bellows.
The creature was coming to life.
Emily stood before it, the top of her head not even reaching three-quarters of the thing’s height. Her hands looked tiny against its scarred and dirty front panel—her left had a smear of something black across the back of it.
From where he stood, Griffin could watch her as she closed her eyes, face set with determination. However she “spoke” to the metal, it wasn’t with sound. If the thing were alive, he’d say it was telepathy. As it was, he had no word to describe it.
The automaton rumbled steadily, not making any movement whatsoever. Still, Griffin didn’t relax and neither did Finley. He was prepared to bring the entire house down on it if he had to.
Emily’s face paled with concentration, her freckles standing out against her skin. Her forehead creased, and her mouth tightened as she continued to press her hands against the metal, as though she possessed the strength to hold it at bay. How long this went on, Griffin wasn’t sure, but suddenly he noticed that Emily was trembling—and that it wasn’t simply the machine’s vibrations running through her.
“Em?” He took a step forward. Finley glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, but didn’t move. The two of them waited, holding their breath.
Locks of thick, twisted red hair fell forward as her head bowed. That moaning sound—was it from her or the machine? He couldn’t be certain. He took another step. “Emily?”
He saw the blood at the same time Finley did. It ran from Emily’s nose and down her face to drip on her dirty apron and the floor. Drops of it splattered on the floorboards between her boots.
Emily’s knees began to buckle. Her hands left moisture prints on the grimy brass as they slid down the panel.
“Shut it down,” Griffin commanded, launching forward. Finley leaped into action, as well. It was she who caught Emily as she collapsed. Griffin grabbed the ignition rod just as the automaton began to raise its one arm—parts of the other having been used to reconstruct Sam’s. The whirring and rumbling whined and choked to a stop. The arm fell with a loud clunk and then everything went silent.
Chapter 15
Don’t move,” Finley ordered as Emily shifted in her arms. They were on the floor of the lab—her kneeling with the smaller girl’s torso propped up on her legs. She used a hand kerchief to wipe the blood from Emily’s pale face before folding the linen into a square and using it to staunch the bright red trickling from her nose.
Bright blue-green eyes locked with hers. She could see that Emily was in pain, but there was something else—triumph.
“It spoke to me,” she whispered.
“You can tell us what it said later,” Finley told her. “Right now you just rest for a moment.” Nothing was so important that it couldn’t wait. The sight of Emily hurt had struck something deep inside her. She cared about this girl. She was the closest to a friend she’d had in such a long time, and the idea of losing that friendship terrified her.
Behind them, Finley heard the vault door creak on its hinges. She stiffened, heart hammering in her chest. Was it the machine? Then she heard the loud click of the lock followed by the turning of a wheel. Griffin had closed the vault. She closed her eyes and breathed a silent sigh of relief.
Her comfort, however, was short-lived. Just as she was about to help Emily to her feet, the door to the laboratory burst open and in stomped Sam, tails of his dark gray coat whipping out behind him. He looked around the room, and when his gaze fell on her, his eyes turned even blacker than usual.
“What the hell did you do to her?” he demanded, coming at her like a bull at a red flag.
Instinct told Finley to pass Emily to Griffin, so she did. Griffin glared at Sam, opened his mouth to speak, but
was cut off by Emily. “It’s only a nosebleed,” she told the large boy. “I talked to the digger, Sam.”
Sam’s head turned to look at her, shock written plainly on his features. “You what?”
“I put my hands on the digger and it spoke to me.” Emily wiped at her nose with the stained handkerchief. “I thought maybe it would tell me about The Machinist so Finley wouldn’t have to ask Dandy—”
“You started up that thing,” Sam cut her off as he jabbed a finger in Finley’s direction. “For her?”
Finley mentally shook her head. Emily hadn’t quite recovered from her ordeal, or she would have known better than to say anything about having “talked” to the blasted metal for Finley’s benefit. She knew how much Sam thought of Emily, even if neither of them knew it themselves.
Sam came at her. She barely had time to brace herself, barely time to register that part of her wanted this seemingly unavoidable violence.
“It could have killed her,” Sam raged, coming to stand in front of her, a bull ready to charge. “She wouldn’t let me die, but she risked her life for you. You are not worth her life. You’re not worth her blood.”
It happened so fast then, she barely had time to realize what was happening. Big, strong—terribly strong—hands gripped her, lifted her and threw her. Finley flew through the air, dimly aware of Griffin’s shout and Emily’s cry. She hit the wall with a force that would have seriously injured a normal person. She crashed to the bench and then the floor, taking a pile of debris with her that included part of a velocycle frame, a clock and an assortment of tools.
Oh, God, that hurt. Her lungs struggled to draw breath as she lay on her belly on the floor, gasping for breath and choking on dust. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Blood stained her skin; she had bitten her tongue when she struck the wall.
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.
