by Kady Cross
“No,” he murmured. “You’re not hurting me. I’m afraid I’ve hurt you, though. Haven’t I?”
She shrugged. “I’ll get over it.” That was true, but she still couldn’t look him straight in the eye.
“I was only trying to protect you.”
“I know that. I even appreciate it.” Now she met his gaze. “I don’t need to be protected.”
The bounder actually smiled at her. “Sometimes you do. Sometimes I do, too.” His smile faded. “Garibaldi and his demons have gotten stronger. They might have done severe damage to me had you not been there. Thank you.”
Well, that sucked any residual anger out of her. “I don’t want to be surprised like that again,” she informed him. “If you’re in trouble, you do what you expect the rest of us to do—share it so we can help.”
“I’m not accustomed—”
“I know.” She cut him off without remorse. “I don’t care if you’re the bloody Prince of bloody Wales. From now on you accept that you have friends who love you and stop trying to fix everything by yourself.”
He actually looked surprised to be ordered about, but he nodded. “You’re right. I need to start playing by my own rules, and stop being a hypocrite.”
“It’s not just that.” She placed her palms gently on either side of his face so he couldn’t look away. She took care not to press on any of his wounds. “The rest of us would be lost without you. We’d have no place to go, no purpose. You’ve given us a home and made us feel like heroes rather than freaks. You can’t keep putting yourself in danger when there are so many reasons for you to live.”
She released him, averting her gaze once more as she took a jar of salve from the medical kit and removed the top. It was Emily’s special blend, made with organites. Each of them had enough of the “wee beasties” in their system that healing took place rapidly, but some injuries needed to disappear faster than others. People would wonder what the Duke of Greythorne had done to his handsome face. The salve would heal the shallow wounds in a few hours, the deeper ones by morning.
Warm fingers brushed her cheek as she applied the balm to his cleaned cuts. “Some reasons to live are more dear than others.”
Finley swallowed. Her heart kicked so hard against her ribs she was certain it cracked a couple of them. When she’d first met Griffin she’d believed him capable of mesmerism, and he did have some skill in that area, because even though she didn’t want to look at him, her gaze betrayed her and met his.
Her heart stopped altogether. He was so…lovely. That was the only word that came to mind. His thumb traced the arch of her eyebrow, down to the curve of her cheekbone, and stroked. Then he placed his other hand on her face as well, holding her head as she had his just moments earlier. Now she was the one who couldn’t look away.
“That night I found you I thought I could help you,” he confessed.
“You did,” she rasped. “You helped me combine the two sides of my nature.”
“You’re not done. You’re still evolving into the woman you’re meant to be. I worried that maybe my feelings for you would change once you integrated your dark half, that maybe that part of you would win dominance.”
Finley’s stomach turned. After all their kisses and embraces, was he going to tell her he didn’t want her?
“Instead you’ve become even more amazing.” His lips tilted lopsidedly as a glint lit his eyes. “I had no idea that you would change my life so much, that it had been so empty before you crashed into it. All that mattered was my duty and continuing my parents’ work, continuing their service to the Crown. All of that still matters, but now you’re the reason I want to make the world a better place. You’re why I get up in the morning, simply because I cannot wait to see your face.”
“That rhymes,” she murmured inanely.
Griffin laughed. He brushed both thumbs over her cheeks. “The world’s already a better place for having you in it, Finley Jayne.”
She felt like Lizzie in Pride and Prejudice when Mr. Darcy reasserted his love for her. Her head spun as though she’d twirled around one too many times. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything.”
They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. He continued to look vaguely amused, while she was certain she looked like an idiot.
“It’s a good thing I have an abundance of confidence,” he joked. “Or I might take your silence for rejection.”
Rejection? Good Lord, how could he even think such a thing? In fact, how could he be thinking of romance at all when the Machinist was still out there, still after him? “You’re mad,” she whispered. “We should be talking about what to do about Garibaldi, and how to keep you safe from his attacks. We should be talking about how to release his hold on Mei so she can move on.”
“I know.” One of his hands slid around to the back of her head. The other dropped to entwine with one of hers. He grinned like the madman he was. “But at the moment I really don’t care.”
And then he kissed her, and Finley didn’t care about anything else, either.
Finley and Griffin were both asleep—fully clothed— when Sam barged into Griffin’s bedroom sometime later. Still, Finley lurched upright, clutching at her shirt to make certain she was properly covered, cheeks flushing hot. Sam didn’t seem to care one whit that she and Griffin were alone in his room, on his bed, but what if it had been Mrs. Dodsworth or one of the other servants? Or worse, Griffin’s aunt Cordelia! It was scandalous behavior—the kind that could ruin her and give Griffin a bad reputation.
And then she remembered that none of that mattered, and that it wasn’t Mrs. Dodsworth—who probably wouldn’t say a word anyway—but it was Sam, who didn’t care what she and Griffin did.
But she cared. The thought was somewhat surprising. What happened between herself and Griffin was no one’s business.
“Don’t you knock?” she demanded. “This is coming a bloody habit of yours.”
Sam looked at her, and chose that precise moment to be a real human being rather than an aggravating halfwit. He actually blushed, which did nothing to ease her embarrassment. “Sorry. I think I found Emily.”
She jumped off the bed and bounded over to him. “Where?”
He took a step back, like a large dog being approached by a small, yappy one. “Crestfield and Euston.” He turned to Griffin, who had also risen. “Come downstairs, I’ll show you on the map.”
Sam preceded them out of the bedroom. Finley made to leave after him, but Griffin caught her by the hand and pulled her back.
“What?” she asked, noting the pensive expression on his healing face. The cuts left by Garibaldi’s demons were little more than faint lines now.
“You haven’t done anything wrong.” Bloody hell, she hated it when he seemed to read her mind. “Sam’s not going to judge you, or me.”
“Maybe I judge me.”
He arched a brow. “That’s ridiculous.” Finley’s back stiffened, but he went on, “You could have sneaked in here last night and ravished me and then skulked back to your own room without being seen and that would be fine, but get caught innocently sleeping and suddenly you’re ruined.”
Finley’s lips twitched. “You reckon I’d ravage you, do you?”
He shrugged. “I’m surprised you’ve resisted temptation this long.”
It was a cheeky remark, especially for him. It felt wrong, being lighthearted while Emily was missing, and probably in the hands of a madman, but this new intimacy between them had a giddiness to it that refused to be denied. She liked seeing him like this. For a moment she didn’t think about the fact that the same lunatic that had Emily was also trying to kill Griffin. That was a sobering thought.
“Maybe I won’t be able to resist much longer.” Had she said that aloud? It was brazen, even for her, but with the danger surrounding them perhaps it was foolish to think that they had all the time in the world. Foolish to be afraid of sex when violence seemed to find her wh
erever she went.
His fingers tightened around hers. “I’m not going anywhere. Take your time.”
Sometimes he knew exactly what to say, even when it contradicted her own thoughts. “Let’s go see about bringing Emily home.”
They walked downstairs together, still holding hands. For years the duality of Finley’s nature had made her feel like she was an outsider to the rest of the world—in but not of. Not anymore. This was where she belonged. Griffin was who she belonged with. Their future was uncertain, but she planned on spending as much of it with him as time allowed.
And that was all the thought she was going to give it, because she was rapidly becoming sick of herself. She was a reasonably intelligent young woman who could take care of herself. She wasn’t afraid of physical violence; in fact, part of her rather enjoyed it. Spending all this time fretting and fawning over a bloke just wasn’t her. If this was what infatuation did to a girl she’d take herself off to a convent in the morning.
And yet, she walked into the library clinging to Griffin’s hand, unwilling to let him go just yet.
“Where’s Jasper?” Griffin asked, glancing about the room.
Sam turned from the large map of Britain on the wall. “That American girl showed up. The one with the fangs.”
“Wildcat?” Finley couldn’t believe it.
Sam turned his disinterested gaze her way. “Does she have fangs and black hair?”
“She does.”
“Then that’s her. I forget what she said she was in town for, but she said something about needing Jasper’s help with something and him owing her. She made a pretty convincing argument for him to accompany her. Really laid on the guilt about a debt and how she wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. I told him to go ahead. I mean, it’s not like he wanted to be here with us, right?”
He had a point, difficult as it was to hear. Maybe Jasper wanted time away. But he cared about Emily. He would want to help her. So, whatever Wildcat wanted, it had to be important.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Jasper accompanies her back to New York,” Griffin commented. “I don’t think he’s happy here.”
“He came back on his own,” Finley reminded him. “That must mean something.”
“Can we get back to trying to find Emily rather than fretting over Jasper?” Sam asked, rather bitingly.
“We can do both.” Griffin tapped the map. “Stop growling and show us where Emily is.”
Sam didn’t have to be told twice. He pointed at St. Pancras on the smooth paper. “This is where Dandy delivered the crate.” He slid his finger a little south. “And this is where the tracking device says she is.”
“But we were already down there,” Finley protested. “Both Emily and I thought we were being watched, but we didn’t see a thing.”
“That’s because they were carefully concealed.” Sam moved to the desk and unfurled a long tube of canvas. It was another map. “This is the late duke’s cartography of London’s underground, with secret passages and grottos marked. He recorded every detail.”
Finley blinked. “Cartography?” She wouldn’t have thought that word would be part of Sam’s lexicon. It certainly wasn’t a word she would have said, but then she hadn’t been schooled alongside a duke.
Sam pointed at the St. Pancras location on this new map. Finley peered around Griffin so she could see. There, on the older, slightly faded map, was what looked like a labyrinth of corridors and rooms, great caverns and tiny burrows, plague pits and Roman ruins, train tunnels and sewer paths, all crisscrossing and lurking at different levels beneath London.
And in one of them, beneath the already underground rail line, Emily was being held hostage. Finley glanced at Griffin. This would be difficult for him, as he sometimes suffered great anxiety in enclosed spaces.
“If we access this sewer drain we might be able to sneak up on them,” Griffin suggested, pointing out a small tunnel. “Provided this map is completely accurate, and we’ve no reason to doubt it, Emily should be very close.”
It was at that precise moment that a metallic screech sounded not far from them. Finley actually jumped. Sam went white. He released the underground map, the ends immediately curling in on themselves like waves crashing onto shore.
“What was that?” Finley asked, dreading the answer.
The large bloke picked up what looked like nothing more incredible than a compass. “It’s gone,” he whispered.
“What’s gone?”
There was fear in his dark eyes when he raised them to meet her gaze. “Emily’s signal.”
“You’re not coming.” Sam tugged on a pair of fingerless gloves and flexed his fingers. Finley had a similar pair. They were reinforced with an incredibly hard metal across the knuckles, just in case she or Sam ever felt the need to punch, oh, say a train.
Griffin, she discovered, did not like being bossed about. He had followed Sam into the weapons room, and Finley followed him. “The devil I’m not.”
Sam scowled. “Pull rank if you want, you’re still not coming with me. You’re staying here.”
Griffin glared. If eyebrows were weapons the two of them would be bleeding profusely. “Bugger you, Morgan. You do not give the orders in this house.”
Sam ignored him and slid a wicked-looking dagger into the sheath on a leather strap around his hips. Finley silently applauded. Griffin was a good person, but he’d been born to privilege, and sometimes he needed a bit of that entitlement knocked out of him. He just assumed people would do what he told them because he was the Duke of Greythorne.
It was obvious Griffin despised being ignored. She would have to remember that. “Sam, do not piss me off.”
A wall of blades began to tremble, each weapon shaking in its hold. The lights inside the room flickered.
Sam was unimpressed. Finley was…well, Griffin might be a little petulant, but his power was exciting. Her insides shivered at it, which just proved that her dark half was alive and well.
Heedless of the possible danger to his own flesh, Sam plucked a small hatchet from the blade wall. “Griff, if the Machinist can make a mess of you from a distance, imagine what he can do when you’re close. There’s a very good chance he’s going to be where Emily is. I’m not going to worry about you as well as her. You’re going to stay at home with Finley.”
At one time she would have argued, as well, but not now. As much as she loved Emily, protecting Griffin was more important to her. Sam would find Em and bring her home. She knew this because it was stupidly obvious that Sam loved Emily just as she loved him. The lucky fools.
Griffin, on the other hand, simply didn’t want to admit he was vulnerable to the Machinist. And Finley didn’t mind watching over him. If Garibaldi came back she’d be ready for him.
The rows of blades quieted. “I don’t like you going down there by yourself. If Garibaldi is there, you’ll be in danger. At least if I’m with you I can distract him.”
“You don’t have to be with me to distract him.” Sam sighed. “This is wasting time. For years I’ve trusted your judgment and done whatever you asked of me. I was literally ripped apart, but I’m still here. That’s because I trust you and believe in what we do. Now, you have to trust and believe in me.”
Well done, Sam! It was so lovely to hear someone other than herself telling Griffin he needed to give the same amount of trust to his friends that he expected in return.
“I do trust you,” he mumbled. “I just don’t want you or Emily to get hurt.”
One of Sam’s large hands came down on his shoulder. “And I don’t want you to get hurt, so please, stay here. Snog with Finley, and if I’m not back by morning, I’ll expect the two of you and the cowboy to come find me.”
Griffin nodded. It was obvious he didn’t like the situation, but Finley suspected that had more to do with a sense of responsibility than control. Griffin was their leader, and he looked out for each of them. He hadn’t said much about it, but he probably felt responsible for Emily’s a
bduction in the first place. If he’d done a better job of protecting her she wouldn’t have been taken. If he’d done things differently Mei wouldn’t be dead. If he’d gotten rid of the Machinist the first time they wouldn’t be doing this now. If…if…if… It was a wonder he didn’t drive himself insane with all the responsibility he tried to take on.
“Be careful,” Griffin advised. “And take one of these.” From a drawer he withdrew a small metal sphere about twice the size of a marble and offered it to his friend.
Sam took it, rolling the ball in his palm before dropping it into his pocket.
“What is that?” Finley asked when it became apparent that neither of them was going to offer an explanation.
“An Aetheric field generator disruptor,” Griffin told her.
She arched a brow. “Which does…?”
“It will interfere with the workings of anything automaton and sentient.” It was Sam who explained. “It’s useless against standard metal, but once the organites take hold, Aetheric energy is produced. The sphere is really only good against something caught between machine and human.”
She almost asked if it would work on him, but caught herself. Of course it wouldn’t. Sam was all human despite a few metal bits.
“What about machines that don’t produce Aetheric energy?”
Sam hoisted a large, double-headed hammer from a rack on the floor. There wasn’t a hint of fear anywhere in his expression, and part of Finley responded to that with a desire to do violence. His muscles bulged as he housed the weapon over his shoulder. He resembled the woodcutter in those fairy stories who was supposed to kill the heroine but helped her instead, or dispatched the big bad wolf.
“I can handle those on my own.”
And she believed him.
Chapter 13
Emily woke up when someone crawled into the cot with her, tipping the tiny bed to the side.
“Sam?” The moment she said his name she knew it wasn’t him. Sam would never do such a thing. Fear slammed hard into her chest. She was without a weapon, but she wasn’t defenseless. She flipped over, fingers curving into eyeball-raking claws.
