The Girl With the Iron Touch

by Kady Cross

  Around her people stopped and stared. Frightened, excited voices rose up as the metal emerged from the underground. It started down the street after her, running with an odd, hobbled gait. Women screamed. Men swore. It didn’t matter that it was late at night, a crowd gathered regardless. A shrill whistle cut through the night. The police, she thought. That’s what that whistle meant.

  She did not want the police, she knew this. They would want to know who she was and where she was from, and those were questions she couldn’t answer truthfully without them either locking her up or giving her to someone for study. No, the coppers couldn’t help her, but she knew someone who could.

  All the knowledge she had—even that which she wasn’t aware of having—was part of her programming, both mechanical and organic. She’d been built to have certain skills and abilities, but the human tissue used to construct her flesh, organs and mind—the stuff that had sparked the growth of her soul—imparted her with much of the same knowledge as those who were now a part of her. She understood all of this without any real idea of how, and her still-developing brain couldn’t offer up any reason why except that it was all true.

  She ran east and a bit south. Instinctively, she kept to back streets and alleys, those dark places where there were few people and even fewer who cared why a young woman would be running through the night in ill-fitting clothes and no shoes, at a speed that no normal human could ever reach.

  It took her approximately ten minutes to reach her destination. The exact address had come to her like a picture in her mind—a memory that originally belonged to someone else—called up by the part of her brain that had once been a logic engine, storing all the information it had ever been given.

  The person at this house was part of her. He meant something to one of her female genetic contributors, but he meant something to Mila as well, though he probably had no notion of it.

  She jumped from the walk to the top of the steps and grabbed the knocker. The bloody thing came off in her hand, splinters of wood flying. Oops. What was she supposed to do now? Tentatively, she raised her fist and knocked—gently—on the door. It opened a few seconds later.

  He stared at her. Mila stared back. He was, quite frankly, the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. The sight of him made the lump of meat in her chest pound with such force it hurt. Breath caught in her throat as she forgot how to breathe. A girl could be quite happy to do nothing but stare at a face like his all day.

  “Do you know who I am?” she asked.

  He nodded—warily. Dark eyes peered up the darkened street and then down before focusing on her once again. “I know you.”

  “Emily is in danger.”

  He frowned. “The little ginger?”

  She nodded. She wasn’t quite sure what ginger meant, but she knew it fit, just as she’d instinctively known that he would know exactly who Emily was. “Will you help me?”

  He stood back so that she could enter the house. “I’ll do what I can, Poppet. I suppose I owe you that much.”

  She stepped over the threshold and held out her hand. “Thank you. I’m Mila.”

  Warm, surprisingly strong fingers curved around hers as he pushed the door closed with his other hand. His gaze locked with hers, and she felt a jolt that shot all the way down to her toes. Was that normal? Or was she experiencing some sort of malfunction?

  “Welcome to my home, Mila. You can call me Jack. Now, why don’t you tell me everything that’s happened since I left you underground.”

  Chapter 14

  Finley normally counted Griffin among the smartest people she’d ever known or ever would, but at three o’clock that morning she entertained the notion that he was quite possibly the most thickheaded and dimwitted example of humanity she’d ever had the misfortune to stumble over.

  “Let me get this straight,” she began, wiping sleep from her eyes. “You haven’t had a nightmare about Garibaldi tonight so you’re afraid that means Sam and possibly Emily are dead?”

  “It has to mean something,” he insisted. “The dreams started after our return from New York and have become increasingly more frequent. Every dream for the past week has had something to do with him, and now nothing. It’s not right.”

  She yawned. Normally she was a night person, but concern for Emily—and for Griffin—had disrupted her sleep as of late. She should be worried about Griffin right now—concerned for his sanity, but she was too tired and a little too vexed. Why did he have to come calling when she’d only been asleep—she checked the clock beside her bed—for one hour and forty-two minutes? Tomorrow night she’d lock her door, not that it would do her any good when he owned the key to it and every other room in the house.

  “Why can’t you just be thankful for a dreamless night?” she asked. “Or, if that’s too much, then why not go back to bed and see what happens? There are still a few hours before the sun comes up.”

  He gave her a very annoyed glance. Oh, how she wanted to stick her tongue out at him in return!

  “I’m telling you something is wrong.”

  “Of course something is wrong. Emily’s missing, Sam has gone to find her, and Jasper is off with Wildcat. Our entire group is fractured.”

  “Sam should have been back by now.”

  “He told us to wait until morning before looking for him.”

  “It’s morning now.”

  “It’s still bloody dark!” She hadn’t meant to speak so loudly—the servants didn’t need to hear them harping on one another. She sighed, forcing herself to be calm, drawing serenity through the runes Griffin had tattooed on her skin. Whether or not they actually soothed her was still a mystery, but she liked to think they did.

  Griffin turned away from her, hands on his lean hips. Finley climbed out of bed and went to him, heedless of the fact that she wore only a pair of bloomers and a camisole, while he was almost completely covered by a black dressing gown. She’d seen him naked, so she was still ahead in that respect. She wasn’t cold, thanks to her natural body temperature running on the warm side. She didn’t hesitate to reach out and touch his shoulder. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t face her, either.

  “I know you’re worried,” she began. Did she sound patronizing? “I’m worried, too.”

  “I’m bloody powerless,” he replied, voice hoarse. “They’re my friends, Fin. I let them down. I…”

  “You have got to stop taking responsibility for everything that happens to all of us. It’s not only impossible, but completely mad to even try. Not to mention how vexing it is for the rest of us. Griffin, please. I need you, and I’m scared of what might happen if you don’t start worrying about yourself as much as you do everyone else.”

  Slowly, he turned. Her hand remained on his shoulder, and there was just enough room for her bent elbow between them. The skin under his eyes looked slightly bruised, and there was stubble on his jaw. It made him look older, and a little dangerous. Her heart rolled over when their gazes locked.

  Griffin reached out and curled a lock of her hair around his fingers. She’d somehow developed two swaths of black in her hair shortly after meeting Griffin. It had bothered her at first, but now she liked it.

  “You need me, eh?”

  Finley nodded. His other hand splayed across her back, fingers warm through her thin linen camisole. All the moisture in her mouth disappeared, leaving her a little short of breath, her face flushed.

  His chest was bare beneath the dressing gown. She could see his skin in the dim light, smell his soap and his warmth. Her hand slid down to rest just over his heart. Its rhythm was strong against her palm, the muscle there firm beneath her fingers.

  It took all of her will to push him away. “I do, but I’m not going to be a distraction for you, or allow you to be one for me.”

  “A distraction?” He folded his arms across his chest. “Is that what you think you are? That I am? Bloody hell, woman. I need something to distract me from you! Why do you think I feel so guilty about Emily and Sa
m? It’s because I don’t even think of them when I’m with you. All I can think about is how you smell and feel, that I want to kiss you and touch you and…” He looked away.

  Heart in her throat, Finley took a step toward him. “And?”

  Griffin’s head turned just enough that he could look at her from the corner of his eye. His jaw was tight. “You know what. Two of my best friends are in trouble, and all I want right now is you. You think I’m proud of that?” He laughed humorlessly. “You’re not a distraction, you’re a bloody obsession.”

  Oh. Those words might have been said harshly, but they tied her insides up in joyful knots. What was the correct response? Thank you felt a bit weak. Throwing herself into his arms and kissing him until his lips were chapped seemed a bit excessive. Not to mention kisses would only be more of a distraction from the current problem.

  Finley was saved having to say anything by a sound from the balcony outside her room. She and Griffin shared a surprised but suspicious look. Amorous feelings forgotten, Finley snatched up her dressing gown and slipped it on, tying the sash tight around her waist.

  She moved to the French doors. She couldn’t see out because the drapes were closed, so she reached out and silently—quickly—opened the door.

  Jack stood before, hand raised to knock. He seemed as surprised to see her as she was to see him. He grinned. “Good ear, Treasure. I must be losin’ me touch.”

  Did he realize how close she was to swiping that toothsome grin off his handsome face? Lord, she’d thought he was an automaton or some other sort of villain!

  “What are you doing here, Jack? And why climb to my balcony when you could have used the front door?”

  “I’ve something of a somewhat delicate nature to discuss and didn’t want to wake the servants.”

  “It couldn’t wait till morning?”

  He brushed past her to enter the room. “I’m wounded. Not like I haven’t opened my door to you at an ungodly— Oi, evenin’, Your Grace.”

  Finley had been too peeved to notice that Jack hadn’t been using his usual Cockney affectation until he slipped back into it at the sight of Griffin. She turned from the door to find the two blokes facing each other like gladiators about to fight to the death.

  “You make a habit of entering young ladies’ rooms, Dandy?” Griffin inquired with a scowl.

  “Least I’m fully clothed, Monsieur le duc.” He fluttered his eyelashes coyly. “Don’t get your unmentionables in a twist. I knows where my darlin’ Treasure keeps ’er heart, and it ain’t wiv me. Besides, I’m ’ere to see you as much as she.”

  This admission didn’t surprise Finley. However, she noted that it did seem to surprise Griffin. Was it awful that she sometimes enjoyed his jealousy where Jack was concerned? It didn’t hurt to have him think another fellow sought her attention.

  “It’s late, Jack,” she reminded him, breaking up their staring contest before one of them decided to mark her as his territory. “Please, enlighten us as to what brings you calling at this hour.”

  “Right. First of all, my apologies for interruptin’ your…whatever you were doing. I ’ad a visitor come callin’ earlier, and I figured you lot would want to know of it.”

  “Who was it?” Griffin demanded.

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Impatient bugger, aren’t you? I could tell you, but I reckon it’s best that I introduce you.” He raised his chin and his voice. “Oh, Poppet! Be a love and come in, will you?”

  The balcony door opened. Finley whipped around to confront this new guest and found herself staring into her own eyes set in a different face. She drew back.

  The girl had Emily’s hair, but her complexion was a little darker. Her mouth looked like Jasper’s only more feminine. Her nose—well, her nose looked like Griffin’s, but smaller, and she had his foolishly long eyelashes, too. These things hit her all at the same time; they were so obvious. Though, she might not have noticed them were it not for those uncanny eyes.

  Griffin came to stand beside her so they could both inspect this stranger.

  “You’re one of his,” Griffin murmured. It didn’t sound so much an accusation as a realization.

  The girl nodded, eyes wide.

  “Mila, make the acquaintance of Miss Finley Jayne and the Duke of Greythorne, Griffin King.” Jack leaned his shoulder against one of the bedposts as he spoke. “Mila is the reason that darlin’ little ginger was taken from your collective bosom and trussed up in an underground lair. ’Parently she was supposed to put some bloke’s brain in Mila’s noggin.”

  “The Master,” Mila amended. “Her Majesty wanted to put his brain in my head, but Emily wasn’t going to let them.”

  “Her Majesty?” Finley turned her attention to Griffin. “The Victoria automaton?”

  Griffin shrugged. “Wouldn’t surprise me. It wasn’t found in the warehouse wreckage.” A muscle in his jaw flexed as it always did when he blamed himself for something. He’d been doing that a lot lately.

  She turned back to the girl—and there was no denying that this was indeed a living, breathing girl. She didn’t remember seeing an unfinished female form at the warehouse, but that didn’t mean anything. Garibaldi could have had her stashed elsewhere. Or, perhaps she was new.

  “Your master used our genetic material to make your flesh, didn’t he?”

  “Not him specifically—he’s in a revitalizing chamber— but Her Majesty and the others did as he instructed.”

  Jack finally stepped up to join them. “A revitalizin’ chamber, for those of you who may not be familiar with such a rig, is a big-arse tank filled with human gooey bits and other delicious substances to ’eal injuries and sustain life.”

  Griffin shot him a wry glance. “I know.”

  Jack made a face. “I suppose you ’as one in your loo, ’aven’t you, dukey? Keeps you lookin’ all youthful and fresh for the ladies.”

  Dandy was in fine form tonight, Finley thought. Was it because he assumed she and Griffin had been… intimate? Or was it because he’d been drawn into this mess? Maybe he felt a little guilty for being the one to deliver Mila to those who kidnapped Emily. Regardless, it was annoying.

  “Play nice, boys,” she warned. “You want to butt heads, take it outside. Are you hungry?” she asked Mila.

  The girl nodded. “I am.”

  “Let’s get you fed then. You can tell us everything while you eat.”

  “And you’ll save Emily and Sam?”

  Finley paused, resisting the urge to look to Griffin. “Yes. We will save them.”

  She smiled, an expression that was entirely her own. Finley took her by the hand. “Come with me.”

  They’d only made it two steps when Mila dug in her heels. It was like trying to haul a steam carriage out of a bog. Finley succeeded in pulling her an entire foot farther and earned a surprised look in return. What had she said about butting heads? Griffin and Jack were each a bad influence on her. Here she was trying to dominate this poor, frightened thing who was still a child in many ways.

  Mila turned her torso, arching slightly as she looked back over her shoulder at Jack. She held out her hand. “You’re coming, too, aren’t you?”

  A flicker of refusal glinted in Jack’s dark eyes, but it was soon replaced by a gentle expression that ignited a tiny bit of jealousy in Finley’s own heart. She didn’t have romantic feelings for Jack, but he was hers. He knew her better than anyone, and she was supposed to be the only one who saw this side of him.

  “Course, Poppet. You’ll not get rid of me that easily.”

  Griffin didn’t protest—so that was as good as permission. The four of them made their way quietly downstairs, and then down another set to the kitchen where Finley played hostess and put together a platter of cold meats, cheese and bread for them to share. Mila dug in like a ravenous dog. Jack stopped her with a hand on her arm. “You’re going to do yourself a harm, pet. Eat slowly. There’s plenty more where that come from.”

  Mila nodded and smiled at him.
Poor thing looked at him like her savior. Then again, he was probably the first human she’d ever had contact with. If he hadn’t opened that crate who knows what sort of mess they’d be in right now. They’d have no idea where Emily was, and Sam would have torn apart most of London looking for her.

  As she ate, Mila told them about “waking up” in the catacombs, and how she remembered Jack. She related how Emily arrived and that she’d helped her learn to read. She talked about the Machinist and his plans, and she told how she and Emily had escaped, only to be set upon when Sam arrived. She was very impressed with Sam’s destruction of Her Majesty. Finley wished she’d been there to see it. She should have crushed that thing’s head when she had the chance.

  Mila also told them about the digger and that Emily had told her to run, so she had. Finley’s chest tightened as she turned her gaze to Griffin’s. He’d gone pale, and while his expression was bleak, his eyes burned with anger.

  The pots on the wall shook. The stove rattled. Even the floor beneath their chairs trembled.

  “Do you mind, mate?” Jack asked. “This sort of thing wreaks havoc on me digestion.”

  For a second Finley feared that Griffin might tear Jack apart from the inside out. Instead, everything went still and Griffin actually looked relieved. “Thanks.”

  Jack smiled slightly. “No worries. Now, what do we do from here?”

  “We?” Griffin echoed.

  “I feel partially responsible for this muck up. ’Twould be ungentlemanly of you not to allow me to help set it to rights.”

  “Right,” Griffin agreed, obviously amused. Then, he said seriously to Mila, “I suppose they’ll come looking for you.”

  Finley watched the girl’s eyes widen. It was so disconcerting seeing her own eyes in another face. “But they won’t. The Master didn’t want a female body, and now that they have a human male, that’s the one he’ll choose.”

  Horror clutched at Finley’s heart. The Machinist wouldn’t. Yes, the bastard would. It would be not only revenge on all of them, but it would be the greatest injury to Griffin. One glance at him and she knew he thought the same thing.