by Kady Cross
“Go,” he instructed. “Find ten books. I’ll wait.”
“Only ten?”
His smile turned patient. “We can come back tomorrow.”
She ran into the first row.
Half an hour later they left with an armload of books that Jack insisted on carrying. Mila wore a huge smile on her face—until they stepped outside and she saw the discarded automaton again.
Jack put the books into the boot of the carriage before joining her. “You want to take it, don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with it,” she replied. Then she turned to him. “Jack, what would you do for a real person?”
He shrugged. “Bury him—or her.”
“Then...can we bury him or her?”
Jack didn’t say anything, he just went and picked up the automaton. It was heavy, and his back bowed with the strain. Mila could have done it, but she sensed that he would not have liked it if she had. He put the remains in the boot with the books.
They drove to a cemetery not far from Jack’s house. It was a little shabby, he explained, but it would suit their purpose. This time, he let Mila carry the automaton, as he carried a shovel and an old fence post he found near the entrance.
Mila found a nice little spot, out of the way, beneath a tree. It was a pretty spot—the sort where one might like to sit and read a book on a summer day. She’d never done that, but she’d like to.
Jack dug a hole just big enough for the discarded pieces. He was sweating when he finished, but he still hadn’t said one word of complaint. Mila was more grateful for his silence than she could ever say—and somewhat unsettled by it. She put the machine into the dirt, arranging it carefully before standing back so Jack could bury it. When he was done, he stuck the fence post into the ground beside it.
“A grave should have a marker,” he explained.
A grave. People had graves. Humans.
Hot wetness filled Mila’s eyes. She blinked it away.
Jack held her hand as they walked back to the carriage. He opened her door for her and she climbed in. She didn’t know what to say. This feeling—like someone was sitting on her chest—was new and unpleasant.
“That was a good thing you did,” Jack told her when they were almost home. “A very good thing. I’m humbled by your compassion—honestly.”
The wetness burned her eyes again, and this time she let it come, let it run down her cheeks before finally wiping it away.
She didn’t say anything until they were back at Jack’s. She carried her books into the house and made to take them up to her room. Jack said he had work to do.
“Jack,” she said, partway up the stairs.
He looked up from hanging his coat. “Yes, poppet?”
Poppet. She liked it when he called her that. It was his special name for her. “Do you think it would be all right if today was my birthday?”
His stared at her for a moment, then he smiled. “I think that would be grand. Happy Birthday, Mila.”
She almost giggled in relief. Hugging her books to her, she ran the rest of the way upstairs to her room.
* * *
Finley. Griffin’s eyes snapped open as he jerked upright on the sofa. His chest felt as though someone was pounding on it with a sledgehammer—from the inside—and sweat dampened his hairline. Damnation, he was shaking.
“Your Grace?” Looking up from the book on his desk, Thomas Sheppard’s eyes were very much like his daughter’s, so much so that Griffin had a hard time meeting his gaze. “Is everything quite all right?”
Was it? The sense of panic that had forced him awake abated. Had it been real or had he dreamed it? “Was Finley here?” he asked, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. He shivered. Was it cold in the parlor or was it just him? He could barely feel the heat from the fire.
Sheppard shook his head. “No.”
“Must have been a dream, then.” He forced a smile as another shudder ran down his spine. He drew the quilt from the back of the sofa around his shoulders.
The older man didn’t look convinced. “She was in the Aether, though. I felt her when she came in.”
Griffin’s heart thumped hard. For future reference he would have to remember that Finley’s father was very literal. “Here” was obviously their immediate surroundings. “Do you feel her presence still?”
“No. She’s gone.”
He pulled the quilt tighter around him. Finally, he began to feel warm again. “She was going to confront August-Raynes, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.” Finley’s father returned to his book. “I do hope she was successful.”
Griffin almost laughed at the absurdity. “If she weren’t I rather think she’d be with us right now—as a ghost.”
“Unless August-Raynes imprisoned her like those poor souls he’s attached to his will.”
Staring at the man, Griffin felt his jaw slacken. “Mr. Sheppard, you’re not easing any anxiety I might be feeling.” Did the man not realize what he was saying? Or had he been in the Aether so long that he’d forgotten what it was to be alive? To want to live?
Sheppard glanced up once more. At least this time he appeared somewhat contrite. “Forgive me, Your Grace, for not explaining. I’m sure I must seem quite callous and uncaring in my lack of concern for my daughter’s well-being. Since Finley is of my blood, I would have felt her death in the Aether. She is alive. Hurt, but alive. My apologies for adding to your worries.”
He was ill-tempered and he knew it, so Griffin said only, “Thank you.” Adding to his mood was the fact that this man—who barely knew her—had a bond with Finley that he did not. A foolish thing to be jealous of—a girl’s father—but he was. No matter where she went or what she did, Thomas Sheppard would always be a part of her. She could leave Griffin tomorrow and never think of him again.
Finley wasn’t about to leave him, he knew that. She’d take on August-Raynes and Garibaldi himself if she had to. The foolish girl would get herself killed, and while eternity with her was a pleasant thought, it was not Finley’s time to die.
His head swam, heat creeping through his skull. Pinpricks of discomfort trailed up his arms and neck.
“Your Grace?” Sheppard steadied him with a firm hand. Good thing he was already sitting.
“I’m weak.” An unnecessary announcement, but he made it all the same. “I’ve never stayed in the Aether this long, and Garibaldi drained all my strength. I am little more than an invalid, and it feels like days since I’ve had anything to eat or drink, which only makes me weaker.”
“I’ve had some success with manifesting in the living world,” the older man shared. “I could see about getting something for you.”
Griffin shook his head. A cough scratched his throat. “If you leave I’ll be a sitting duck for Garibaldi.” God, he despised weakness.
“Your Grace, I don’t know what to do for you.”
He met Sheppard’s gaze. “That makes two of us, my good man.”
That didn’t seem to appease the older man at all. “But I am a man of science. In life I prided myself on being able to find a solution for any problem I encountered.” He laughed humorlessly. “Some of those solutions were to my own detriment, but I saw every new possibility as a success. Other than gathering up Aetheric energy and giving you another blast, I have no idea whatsoever of how to treat your current condition.”
Griffin smiled—it took a lot of energy. He wasn’t so peevish anymore. “Whatever happens to me, sir, Finley won’t blame you.”
Sheppard looked away. Were they in the living realm he probably would have flushed with embarrassment of being so transparent. “I would rather help you and reap the pleasure of seeing her happy.”
“The chance to meet you has made her very happy, I know it has.” Griffin withdrew his left hand from un
der the quilt and placed it on the other man’s arm. He coughed again. “And I appreciate all you have risked on my behalf—and hers.”
A proud smile brightened Sheppard’s face, making him look his age. It was odd to see this man—who ought to be in his late thirties—looking not even a decade older than himself. But when he glanced at Griffin’s hand, the smile slowly melted away. “Your Grace...”
Griffin followed his gaze. His breath caught on a sharp pain in his chest.
His hand was the same lifeless color as Sheppard’s face. He pulled out his right hand to compare the two. The right still had a pinkish hue and blue-veined vitality running through it. He pulled up his sleeve—the gray continued almost to his elbow before giving way to normal flesh tone.
“Perhaps when you touched me...”
“Sheppard,” Griffin interjected with a pointed look. “As you said, you’re a man of science. We are both learned men, so I am very well aware that you know what’s happening just surely as I do.”
His companion shook his head. “There is a wealth of possibilities to consider.”
“No. There isn’t.” Griffin pulled both arms back into the welcoming warmth of his quilt cocoon. The time for pretending and hoping for a miracle had passed. “When Finley returns you won’t say a word about this to her.”
Sheppard protested. “But, Your Grace—”
“Promise me.” Griffin fixed him with an unyielding stare. “Finley cannot know that I’m dying.
“I’m dying.”
Chapter Fourteen
Mila used the servants’ entrance right enough, but she didn’t knock. She very calmly turned the knob so hard it snapped and pushed the door open. She crossed the threshold much to the shock of two maids who were in the kitchen having a cup of tea at the table. They must have been waiting for her, or aware of her impending arrival because they each simply pointed at another doorway, indicating that was her desired route.
“Thanks,” she said, and crossed the spotless wooden floor, through the doorway and into a small corridor. A footman in the act of removing his livery jacket froze when he spied her.
“I’m here for Blackhurst,” she informed him.
“Up the stairs and to the right, miss,” he replied.
Somewhere in the house a bell rang. Someone had just been alerted to her presence. Mila smiled a grim smile. This would go so much more smoothly if she didn’t have to hunt the bastard down.
The servants’ stairs were slightly bowed in the middle of each worn step. The wood creaked under her weight. She wasn’t a big girl by any stretch, but a metal skeleton tended to add a few extra pounds. It didn’t matter if she made noise, if Blackhurst heard her approach.
She reached the top, opened the door and turned right. The house was incredible, of course. Almost as fancy as King House, but a little shabbier—as though Blackhurst couldn’t be bothered to fix things up. Or maybe he hadn’t the money. Jack had told her that many aristocrats had no idea of how to manage their fortunes.
Mila paused and focused on her hearing. She could hear Blackhurst’s voice—it was slightly muffled—but he was talking to a servant or someone. He told them to ready his bedchamber.
Blood rushed to her cheeks, but it was anger more than shame. Is that what this was all about? He would threaten Jack’s life for that?
As she approached the room from where she heard his voice, a door to her left opened and a young woman peeked out. When she spied Mila she froze, a look of sheer terror taking over her pretty, but bruised face. The bruises were oddly shaped—four perfect hexagons.
“Who are you?” Mila asked. When the girl hesitated, Mila took a wild guess. “Gracie?” That was the name of the girl Gina said Blackhurst had come for at the circus.
The girl’s blue eyes widened. “Yes,” she whispered. “Who are you?”
“Mila. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Mila?” The girl lost some of her frightened rabbit look. She slipped out of the room and closed the door. When she spoke again, it was a whisper. “Did Jack send you?”
A frown pulled at her brows. “Jack? No. Are you a friend of his?”
Gracie hesitated once more. What had happened to her to make her so afraid? “Yes. I have information for him, but I haven’t been able to leave to take it to him.”
That was when Mila noticed the marks on the girl’s wrists. She’d been bound.
Rage took root deep in her stomach. “You can leave now.”
The girl shook her head. “He won’t let me. He has people watching me. Even his wife won’t help me.”
Mila took her hand and pulled her back toward the hall where she’d come upstairs. Instead of going the servants’ route, she hauled the protesting girl straight to the front door. When a footman approached them with a stern look, Gracie gasped in fear. Mila punched the man in the face and he crumpled to the floor like a doll.
Gracie fell silent, tripping along behind Mila, staring at the fallen man.
Reaching the door, Mila pulled it open. Another footman stood on the steps. She punched him, too.
“You’re amazing,” Gracie whispered.
“That’s what got me into this mess,” Mila muttered. Suddenly, Jack’s overprotectiveness made sense. The world was a mad, dangerous place for a girl who didn’t quite understand it all. And now that she did understand—all too well—she was in well over her head. She ought to have been smarter, but she foolishly thought that her strength made her impervious to pain. What had Jack told her? That there were people who could hurt her in ways that weren’t physical.
She pulled some coins from her pocket and pressed them into Gracie’s hands. Then she took off her coat and put it around the girl’s shoulders. “When you get to the street you hail a cab. You take it straight to Jack, yeah? He’ll protect you. You do not tell him you saw me. Understand?”
The girl nodded. “What are you going to do?”
Mila glanced through the open doorway. “I have a meeting to attend. Go. Now.”
The girl didn’t need any extra encouragement. She ran quick as a little mouse down the steps to the drive, and straight to the gate. She pushed it open and slipped out into the night. Mila watched her wave down a cab and climb in. Only then did she relax a little. Only then did she turn on her heel and go back inside. She nudged the footman on the steps out of the way with her foot so she could close the door, and stepped over the one lying sprawled on the foyer floor. She continued on to the room where she knew Blackhurst waited and opened the door without knocking.
Blackhurst stood in front of the fireplace in his trousers, shirt and waistcoat. His dark hair glinted in the flickering flames—which were the main source of light in the room, other than a lamp. It was then that she noticed he wore a metal brace on his right arm. It started at the shoulder and continued all the way down to his knuckles. Reticulated to move with him, it was intricately etched and attached by leather straps. The part that fit over his fist was almost like a glove, and had hexagon bolts—brass knuckles. That explained the bruises on Gracie’s face.
“Mila,” he greeted with a smile. “I knew you’d come.”
“You should know I don’t bruise easily,” she informed him.
For reasons she couldn’t fathom, that seemed to please him. “No. I don’t imagine you do.”
As he walked toward her—like a big cat after a mouse—Mila was once again struck by that sense of familiarity. Then the light struck him just the right way as he tilted his head and looked down at her. And smiled.
Shock hit her hard in the chest. She could almost feel a dent in her breastbone. “You’re Jack’s father.”
Blackhurst stopped, a frown knitting his arched dark brows. Oh, yes, there was no denying the resemblance now that she’d finally seen it. Damnation. Of all the things she’d seen, heard and
experienced, this had to be one of the worst on an emotional level.
“You threatened your own son.”
His handsome face—so much an older version of Jack’s—twisted with hatred. “That boy is not my son. He’s been nothing but trouble since his birth. He has made it his mission to ruin my life and destroy me in every way possible.”
If that was true—if Jack had put that much effort into this man—then there had to be a good reason for it. “What do you want from me?”
That charming smile returned in a blink. “You, of course. You’re a strong girl, Mila. So very strong. I think you and I could have a satisfying relationship for quite some time. Most of my companions wear out so quickly.”
She stared at him. “You’re a monster.” Jack had to know that.
“Like is attracted to like,” he murmured, reaching out to touch her face with his hand. Before she could react, he’d drawn back the metal covered one and punched her hard in the face. She felt the cartilage in her nose break as her head snapped back.
Mila shook her head. Blood dripped on her boots and on the carpet, ran down her face. She reached up and set her nose back where it should be. “My turn.” She hit him in the mouth, but held back. This was not a fight she wanted to end quickly.
Blackhurst spat blood on the floor and smiled, flashing red-stained teeth. “Brilliant.”
She did not understand this man, not at all. And she hoped she never would. “I’m not going to stay with you,” she informed him. “Using Jack against me was a mistake.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “I realized that after I sent the note. I was a bit hasty, agreed. But you see, Jack Dandy threatened me, and I needed to find a little leverage against him. I don’t think the boy realized how he tipped his hand when he told me to stay away from you.”
Jack had done that? “Well, it won’t work. Jack isn’t afraid of you and neither am I. Stay away from both of us.” She turned to leave the room.
“I’m afraid you don’t understand.”
