1897 London, a final showdown is about to begin

London’s underworld is no place for a young woman, even one who is strong, smart and part-automaton like Mila. But when master criminal Jack Dandy inadvertently breaks her heart, she takes off, determined to find an independent life, one entirely her own. Her search takes her to the spangled shadows of the West End’s most dazzling circus.

Meanwhile, taken captive in the Aether, Griffin King is trapped in an inescapable prison, and at the mercy of his archenemy, The Machinist. If he breaks under the hellish torment, The Machinist will claim his powers and control of the Aether itself, and no one in either world will be safe—especially not Finley Jayne and her misfit band of friends.

Finley plunges headlong into the Aether the only way she knows how, by temporarily dying. But she cannot parry The Machinist’s maneuvers for long. To defeat him for good, Griffin will have to confront his greatest fear and finally come face-to-face with the destructive power he wields.

Also available from

Kady Cross

and Mira Ink

The Steampunk Chronicles series in reading sequence:

THE STRANGE CASE OF FINLEY JAYNE (ebook prequel)

THE GIRL IN THE STEEL CORSET

THE GIRL IN THE CLOCKWORK COLLAR

THE DARK DISCOVERY OF JACK DANDY (ebook novella)

THE GIRL WITH THE IRON TOUCH

THE WILD ADVENTURE OF JASPER RENN (ebook novella)

THE GIRL WITH THE WINDUP HEART

The Girl with the Windup Heart

Kady Cross

www.miraink.co.uk

This book is for everyone who has supported and followed this series beginning to end. You all rock. So, if anyone asks, you can say this book was written just for you. It’s okay—I’ll back you up.

And this book is for Steve, because he supported me—not only through this series, but through every book that came before and since. That’s a lot of crazy to deal with! Thanks, babe.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Extract

Chapter One

There was a most villainous killer on the loose. For weeks the nobility of Great Britain had been terrified—particularly the gentlemen. More than usual had fled to the country to their family homes, and those who hadn’t family seats had gone with those who had to hunt and have lavish parties. They thought they were safe away from London, but they weren’t. There’d been three murders outside of the city over the past month—two in Derbyshire, and one in Leicestershire. All three had happened at house parties where the guest lists contained almost exactly the same names. Two more deaths had happened in London, also at parties.

The victims were all men and they had all been burned to death. From the inside. That fact made the murders odd enough that Her Majesty Queen Victoria had requested that Griffin King, Duke of Greythorne, investigate. The only clue Griffin had to go on were two loose pearls found at the scene of one of the Derbyshire murders. Based on that scant evidence, the press had decided the killer was a woman, and dubbed her “Lady Ash” because ash was exactly that to which her victims were reduced.

Griffin had a particular dislike for the press but unfortunately they seemed to be correct. It seemed the killer was indeed a woman, but who? And why?

“I’ve never seen people madder than the aristocracy,” Finley Jayne remarked as she lounged on the sofa in the library of King House, nibbling on shortbread. An audio cylinder of Beethoven played softly in the background. “Excluding you, of course.”

He smiled at her. “Of course.” Griffin treasured these quiet moments when it was just the two of them doing mundane things. True, they were trying to catch a criminal, but tea and biscuits made it seem normal. Any moment now he expected someone to come barging in, but for the time being he was content—a feeling he rarely experienced anymore.

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew that he had to confide in Finley that The Machinist, Leonardo Garibaldi, was haunting him. Everyone had expected something of that nature to occur after the villain had died. Even from beyond the grave, Garibaldi was hell-bent on destroying Griffin and everything he held dear. The Machinist gave him no rest. He’d appear at any time of day, during any sort of function. Sometimes Griffin could send him back to the Aether, or ignore him, but other times...

Garibaldi was getting stronger. Very strong. Being dead had only made it easier for him to harness Aetheric energy and use it for his own dark purposes. Soon, the ghost would make his move, but with any luck not until they found and apprehended Lady Ash.

What would happen when Garibaldi came for him was anyone’s guess. Griffin worked on strengthening his own abilities, but it felt more draining than empowering. He was tired all the time, and all he wanted was to commit Finley’s smile to memory—just in case. He wasn’t being maudlin, just prepared. Death didn’t frighten him, but imagining all the things Garibaldi might have in store for him before and after...well, that was disconcerting. Still, he wasn’t about to go without a fight, and even if Garibaldi did his worst, Griffin would find a way out—and defeat his nemesis.

He reached out from where he sat on the sofa beside Finley and stroked a lock of black that ran through her honey-blond hair. It had appeared shortly after they’d amalgamated the two sides of her Aetheric self. She’d rather been like that Jekyll and Hyde character before, though much prettier.

She glanced at him, amber eyes troubled. “What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. Just wanted to touch you.”

She snuggled closer. “You can touch me whenever you like.”

“That’s an interesting invitation,” he murmured, trailing his fingers down her neck. She was wearing a violet frock with long sleeves under a black leather corset. Even though he’d helped lace the corset that very morning, there was something tantalizing about possibly getting her out of it.... He pressed his lips to her throat.

The door to the library burst open.

Finley swore. Griffin chuckled. Of course the others would choose this moment to show up. Their timing was, as always, terrible.

They filed in one after the other—Emily in front, followed by Sam, Wildcat and Jasper. A motley bunch if ever there was one. Emily carried a stack of papers, and had that expression on her freckled face that said she believed she’d solved a puzzle. Griffin loved to see that look.

“What did you find?” he asked as Finley sat up, putting a little distance between them. He wanted to pull her back, but she wasn’t much for flaunting their relationship in front of other people, even their friends.

Emily flopped down in a nearby chair, spreading the papers out on the tea table. “Lady Ash, I think.”

Sam snatched a shortbread from the plate and shoved the entire biscuit in his mouth. “She’s a genius.”

It always amazed Griffin to watch Sam eat. His friend loved food so much that somehow he managed to talk without spraying crumbs—as though his mouth knew better than to waste them by spitting them out.

“That goes without saying,” Griffin agreed.

“Just let her speak, will you?” Finley was peevish—and it was obvious. Griffin patted her thigh. He’d make certain they had some time alone later.

Emily arched an eyebrow at the other girl’s tone and Wildcat and Jasper shared a glance. Maybe Griffin should speak to the cowboy and ask him how he managed to find time to sneak away with Cat. They never seemed to have a problem spending time together. In fact, there had been times when they’d been impossible to find. People always seemed to find him.

“I used the Aether engine to compile a list of possible suspects,” Emily informed them in her Irish lilt. “I compared the guest list to all the gatherings with the Scotland Yard accounts of recently reported burglaries.”

Finley frowned. “But Lady Ash hasn’t stolen anything. Has she?”

Emily grinned, seemingly unaware of just how foul the other girl’s mood was. “No, but I reckoned she might be intelligent enough to realize someone would look into her ruined pearls. Two aristocratic women reported having pearls stolen as of late, but only one was invited to—and attended—each of the parties.”

They all stared at her—waiting. She sat there, smiling at them as tension built.

“Emily,” Finley growled. “Just tell us who the bloody hell she is.”

“She’s in an ugly mood, Em,” Sam added. “Best not to poke too much.”

The little Irish girl sighed. “I stayed up all night compiling this data—the least you all can do is allow me to bask in my success.”

“Bask later.” Finley sounded as though her jaw was glued shut. Griffin hid a smile. It was cruel of him—childish even, but how could he not love knowing that she was so sour because they’d been interrupted?

“Just tell us, Em,” he urged. “And then we can praise your hard work and genius.”

That seemed to appease her. She lit up like Guy Fawkes Night. “Lady Grantfarthen.”

Grantfarthen. It wasn’t a title Griffin knew well, but then, he wasn’t exactly a social butterfly. As a young noble, especially a duke, he was a person that many sought to know, curry favor from or shove their daughters at. He had more important things to do than dance and drink champagne. Although, perhaps if he’d done a little more of that, his life wouldn’t always seem to be in peril.

“Her husband was a viscount,” Emily went on. “They spent most of their time at their country estate in Lincolnshire until Lord Grantfarthen shot himself over gaming debts, and the new heir tossed Lady Grantfarthen out.”

The new lord must be quite the peach indeed. “Let me guess. The victims have all been people to whom the late viscount owed money?” It wasn’t a brilliant deduction, so Griffin didn’t pat his own back over it.

Emily nodded. “Two of them had called in their markers, as well. When Grantfarthen couldn’t pay, they threatened to ruin him publicly.”

It was enough to make Griffin ashamed of the society into which he’d been born. If the thought of ridicule was enough to make you eat a bullet, what sort of world did you live in? Not a very pleasant one. “So the widow uses her abilities for a little revenge and claims her necklace was stolen to cover her tracks.”

“She’s not stupid,” Wildcat commented. “Would have been smarter not to wear the pearls at all, though.”

“Appearances,” Griffin said, absently. “One must keep up appearances. Not wearing the pearls might make people speculate that she’d taken to selling off her jewelry. Did you look into the lady’s finances?”

Emily puffed up like a little bird. “On a whim, I did. Turns out she had her own fortune as her father’s only child, but her da had put a stipulation on her dowry that Lord Grantfarthen couldn’t have access to it without written permission from his wife and his father-in-law. The old man’s in trade apparently, and rich as Midas. He refused to sign over any money, but he did offer his son-in-law a loan.”

“Which he refused,” Griffin concluded with a grimace. For many men—especially titled ones—pride was a terrible thing. Having a man “beneath” him deny him what he saw as rightfully his must have driven the viscount to distraction. “Do we know where the father is now?”

Emily consulted her papers. “I have an address for Mr. Peabody in Cheapside. He’s been out of the country, though.”

“When’s he due back?”

She looked again. “This morning. What are you thinking, lad?”

Griffin smiled without humor. “I’m thinking that our fiery lady might decide to pay a visit to her papa. She might decide she’s had enough of him controlling her money—and she might want his, as well.”

Some of the color left Emily’s cheeks. She was already very pale. “You don’t think she’d kill her own father?”

“I think she’s insane, very powerful and drunk on the fact that she’s gotten away with it for this long. I also think we’d better make haste to Cheapside if we’re to save Mr. Peabody from a grisly death.” He rose to his feet and offered Finley his hand. “Let’s go.”

Her fingers entwined with his as she rose to her feet. She wasn’t happy, he could tell—and he didn’t blame her. Since they’d met, their lives had been one adventure after another. Some of it had been fun, but most of it had been dangerous. They could use a little quiet time together. He wanted to give her that, but not at the expense of a life—especially not when it was a life they could save.

“We’ll go away after,” he told her in a low voice. “Spend some time alone.”

She shot him a doubtful glance. “All right.” But there was no conviction in her tone. She pulled her hand free of his and walked toward the door.

“I don’t blame her,” whispered a voice near his ear.

Garibaldi. Griffin didn’t turn his head. Didn’t even acknowledge that he’d heard. No one else seemed to have either.

“She knows you don’t mean it, Your Grace. More importantly, you know you don’t mean it.”

Griffin’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent. Clenching his hands into fists, he followed his friends.

The Machinist chuckled—the sound echoing in his head.

“I’m coming for you, Griffin King.”

* * *

“Why do I need to learn to dance?”

Jack Dandy smiled as he guided Mila through a turn. She was a good dancer, despite her whining. “Because it’s something every well-bred young lady knows how to do, and because it’s enjoyable.”

“I’m not well-bred. I was built. I suppose I could be well built.”

She was at that, he thought with a touch of irony-laced guilt. She was very fit, and her tailored trousers and waistcoat showed that off to brilliant advantage. Add her mane of wild red hair and wide amber eyes and she was a girl a fellow didn’t easily forget.

“You don’t like to dance?” he asked, turning her again.

“You could have just given me a book on it. As soon as I read the instructions I’d know how to do it.”

His lips quirked. “So, you don’t like dancing with me, is that it?”

Her cheeks flushed at his teasing. “No. I’m sure you know you dance very well—otherwise you wouldn’t do it. I just think this is a waste of your time.”

“It’s not.” And that was as much conversation as he intended to have on the subject. He wouldn’t admit—not even to himself—just how much he enjoyed dancing with her. She felt comfortable in his arms—as if she was made to fit him.

Which was ridiculous. She’d been made—engineered—to house the brain of a madman, only those plans had gotten all mucked up by Griffin King. Because of an injection of some sort of goo that apparently gave a kick in the bollocks to the evolutionary process, Mila the automaton had become Mila the girl, complete with a sharp brain and all the blood and organs that went along with being human.

She learned at an incredible rate, which was good, because, though she looked like a woman, if she were human, she wouldn’t even be old enough to crawl yet. She’d learned so much already—more than he’d ever thought possible, but there was still so much she didn’t know.

“Are you enjoying Romeo and Juliet?” Shakespeare was practically required reading in England.

Her winged ginger brows knit into a frown as she moved. Her dancing had dramatically improved in the past five minutes. Remarkable. “No. It’s foolish and contrived.”

Both of Jack’s brows shot up. He misstepped and almost trod upon her toes. “Apologies,” he muttered.

Mila easily moved around his clumsiness and kept the dance going with effortless grace. Then again, he could have fallen on his arse and she would have simply swept him back onto his feet. It was enough to emasculate a fellow, her strength. “You’re surprised.”

“I am. Most girls quite enjoy the romance of Romeo and Juliet.”

Her frown grew. She was adorable when she scowled. “I don’t find tandem suicide the least bit romantic, Jack. Why didn’t they just stand up to their families?”

“Because that just wasn’t done.”

She snorted. “Ridiculous. If I was in love with someone, I wouldn’t let that stop me.”

“You haven’t lived your life by a strict code of rules.”

The gaze she leveled at him was so direct it was unsettling. “Neither have you.”

Were that true. “I did for a little while—when I was younger.”

“If you so dislike the rules, why are you imposing them on me?”

Oh, she was getting far too smart. To think that when she came to live with him she was more like a child. Now...well, there was nothing childlike about her. “Because I want you to have a better life than I had.”

Mila glanced around at the opulence of his drawing room. It looked like a brothel—an expensive one—with its crimson walls and dark furniture. “Yes, your life has been little more than tragedy and want.”

He never should have taught her sarcasm. It was yet another thing at which she excelled. He also never should have revealed to her that the atrocious cockney accent he often used wasn’t his true manner of speaking. That had opened up a whole slew of questions—and hurt her feelings when he told her he didn’t want to talk about it.

“My life has been what I’ve made of it, and it wasn’t easy.” That was the bluntest, least dramatic way to phrase it.

“You want my life to be easy?”

Yes, damn it. “I want your life to be exactly as you deserve.”

“But you’re the one deciding what I deserve.”

He whirled her around. This conversation was becoming tedious. They’d been having it quite often of late. “Just making certain every option is available, poppet.”

She whirled him around—to make a point, no doubt. “No, you’re making certain every option you want me to have is available.”

“Now you’re just splitting hairs. Put me down.” And she did, because he’d put enough will behind his gaze to give himself a headache. Mila took more of a push than normal people to bend to his will. It wasn’t an ability he used on a regular basis—not anymore. He preferred winning the old-fashioned way these days.

Mila stopped dancing and shook her head as if to clear it. “I hate it when you do that.”

“Not a big lover of being picked up like a rag doll either, love.”

Her eyes brightened. She was spoiling for a fight—and he was prepared to give it. What was happening between them? It seemed just a few days ago she was still his sweet, curious Mila. Now she was this difficult, argumentative creature that challenged him at every turn. So, why did he find this new her so bloody interesting even when he wanted to throttle her at times?

He stared at her and she at him. They were perfectly still—tense. The music continued to play in the background as they stood with their fingers entwined, his hand on the small of her back, hers on his shoulder. A few inches and they’d touch. He could haul her right up against him. What sort of reaction would that get?

The doorbell rang. Swearing, Jack stepped back, releasing her. He consulted his watch. It was ten o’clock. “Lesson’s over, poppet.”

“My heart is broken,” she drawled. “Expecting company?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.” He slipped his watch back into his pocket. “Off to your room.”

“I don’t get to meet your friend?”

Never would he use that word to describe Darla. “No.” God, the last thing he wanted was to have to explain Mila’s presence in his home. Normally he’d say she was his ward, but the changes in her lately had made that more difficult. At least one of his companions had gotten very jealous of the other girl—foolish chit. Mila was his responsibility, not his lover. There was no reason for any other woman to be threatened by her.

“Why not?” she demanded.

“Because you insulted my last visitor.”

She frowned. “I did not!”

“Hmm, you did. You commented on her hair color.”

“I simply wanted to know why the hair close to her scalp was a different color than the rest of it.”

Jack walked toward the foyer. “You don’t ask women such questions.”

“I’ll add it to the list.”

Cheeky baggage. He paused near the door and shot her a pointed gaze. “Upstairs. Now.”

Mila sighed with the gusto of an elephant expelling water from its trunk. She stomped from the drawing room to the stairs.

“Easy,” Jack warned. “Break my staircase and you’ll be cleaning the water closet for a week.” The girl didn’t know her own strength sometimes. Shortly after he’d taken her in she’d ripped two doors clean off their hinges by accident.

She glared at him, but her steps were light as she huffed and muttered her way upstairs. He heard just enough to decide to watch his language around her. She knew more profanity than most sailors.

When she was gone from sight, and he’d heard the door to her room slam, he greeted his visitor.

Darla arched a brow. She was a tall willowy woman, with hennaed hair and brown eyes and a feisty disposition. “Kept me waiting long enough.”

He stepped back to let her enter. “Apologies, pet. I was ’avin’ a bit of an issue with me cravat.”

She glanced at his throat as she crossed the threshold. “You’re not wearing a cravat.”

“Issue solved.” He closed the door and flicked the lock. “Drink?”

“Of course.” She removed her coat and handed it to him to hang up on the stand by the door. “Gin if you have it.”

Vile stuff. “Got a little bit of ev’ryfing.” At least his gin was top quality—not that Darla would know, or care. “Do come in.”

Her skirts swished as she entered the parlor. Jack immediately went to the bar to pour their drinks. She didn’t sit down, but glanced around, as though expecting to find someone hiding under a piece of furniture. She knew about Mila, but the two of them had never met. That was how he intended to keep it.

“’Ere you go, pet.” He handed her a glass.

“Thanks.” She took a sip. “I didn’t know you like music.”

“I like a lot of things.” Perhaps he should have turned the cylinder player off, but this way there was less chance of hearing Mila thumping about in her room.

“Are we going to dance?” she asked with a saucy smile as she took another drink.

Jack grinned in return. “No,” he informed her as he slipped an arm about her waist. “That’s not what I had in mind at all.”

Chapter Two

When they arrived at Peabody’s, the house was already on fire, with Peabody and his daughter inside.

Finley took a moment to collect herself. She was angry...and hurt and mad at herself for it. She oughtn’t be angry at Griffin for helping people—it was one of the things she adored about him, but it would be nice to have a bit of a break from the intrigue. A little extended time together—alone—would be nice. She loved her friends, but they were always around.

Sam kicked the door in so they could enter. The trail of smoke led them to a small parlor near the back of the dark, but well-appointed house. Peabody had money but he wasn’t loose with it, judging from the economy, but quality of decor. Sam kicked in that door, as well. Jasper rushed in, nothing more than a blur as he rushed to create a vacuum around the flames, stifling the fire that had already consumed draperies and a sofa.

Mr. Peabody lay gasping on the floor, a cloud of smoke hanging over him that rose toward the high ceiling. His daughter stood over him. The skirts of her beautiful gown were singed. Her dark hair was a mess, and her eyes and hands glowed like coals in a furnace. Finley could feel the heat coming off her.

“Greythorne,” she snarled.

Finley wasn’t surprised that the woman knew Griffin. Sometimes she forgot he was a duke, but this wasn’t one of those times—not when he stood there, staring down his nose at “Lady Ash” as though she was little more than dirt beneath his shoe. “It’s over, Lady Grantfarthen. The killing stops here.”

The older woman—she was perhaps in her midtwenties—smiled. “No, Your Grace. It does not.” And with that pronouncement, her right hand ignited into a ball of fantastic blue flame.

“Get him out of here,” Griffin instructed to Emily and Sam, gesturing at Peabody.

Lady Ash drew back her arm to throw her fire, but Wildcat dived into her, taking her to the ground. Out of the corner of her eye, Finley saw Sam scoop the old man off the floor and head outside. That was when she leaped into action to help Cat. Both of Lady Ash’s hands were burning now, along with her eyes. Finley didn’t think, she simply grabbed the pitcher from the small washing pedestal—obviously Peabody liked to be able to scrub the ink from his hands—and tipped it onto the woman.

She actually sizzled.

Swearing and sputtering, the woman struggled beneath Cat, who straddled her, trying to trap those flailing arms with her knees. As Finley bent to help—Lady Ash grabbed for the pistol strapped to Cat’s thigh. It happened so fast that Finley barely had time to shout at Cat to move. But it wasn’t Cat she should have worried about. The pistol discharged at the same second Jasper pulled his own. That was the exact same second that Peabody’s home security automatons burst into the room, their own weapons engaged.

Being shot hurt. It hurt a lot.

Finley cried out as Lady Ash’s bullet tore through her upper chest and exploded out her back. She staggered under the impact. The second bullet—from one of the automatons—drove her to her knees in breathless silence.

“Finley!” It was Griffin. She could hear the terror in his voice. He must really care about her to be so afraid for her. Stupid that would be what she thought about at a time like this.

Not going to die. She clung to that thought as she struggled to breathe. Punctured lung? Blood soaked her shirt, ran down her front and back in hot little rivers. Both bullets went through. Good. At least Emily wouldn’t have to go hunting for them inside her. At least her body wouldn’t try to heal around them.

She just had to heal before the wounds killed her. As she fell forward onto her hands, she prayed for the abundance of Organites in her system to get to work. It seemed the reconstructing process of her body had intensified as of late. Now was not a time to regress.

Lifting her head, she sought out each of her friends who were involved in the fight. The scene before her played out like one of those moving pictures—one frame at a time. Emily was back and using her ability to communicate with machines to make one of the large automatons fighting them dismantle itself. Sam took another down with his incredible strength. Jasper used his amazing speed to grab Lady Ash and bind her limbs. He’d shot her in the arm.

She tasted copper as her gaze turned to Griffin. Finley opened her mouth, but only blood came out. Griffin wasn’t watching her. He was watching Lady Ash and he...he was glowing.

Griffin’s power was the ability to harness the Aether—the energy expelled by all living creatures, and the realm of the dead. It was a terrible power, one that he fought to control every time he used it. A power that had brought so much pain upon himself—and his friends—as of late. It was power he rarely directed at a person, and now he directed it at Lady Ash.

She’d made short work of Jasper’s restraints, burning through them like they were spider silk. Even with soot and blood on her she was beautiful. She looked like a china doll, not the destructive witch she’d proved herself to be. Finley watched as flame ignited in Lady Ash’s palm and slowly licked its way up her arm, until her entire body was engulfed. The flame didn’t harm her, dancing just above her skin. She watched in horror as the flame took on the form of a long whip in her hand.

The automaton that had shot her stomped toward Finley, pulling a large sword seemingly out of his very back as he walked. The floor between them trembled with every step. She’d be worried if those holes in her body were already starting to close themselves. Finley took two tiny capsules from her pocket, broke them open and jammed one into each entry wound, wincing as her ripped flesh protested. Organites in their pure form immediately set her insides tingling as they worked their magic. They were little beasties from the very cradle of life itself, responsible for the evolution of life. Putting them into her body might take her abilities up another notch and she didn’t bloody care.

She forced herself to her feet. She wasn’t bleeding quite so heavily now, couldn’t feel the gurgling in her chest. She was going to live.

Too bad she couldn’t say the same about the automaton. She punched her fist—with the brass knuckles Emily had fashioned for her—through the creature’s chest, smashing its logic engine and dropping it in its tracks.

Lady Ash screamed—a ragged, eardrum-piercing sound that brought them all to a standstill. All but Griffin, that was. He was the one responsible for the woman’s anguish.

Finley had no idea how he’d done it, nor how it was even possible, but somehow Griffin was using his own abilities to turn Lady Ash’s power against her, so that her fire actually began to scorch her flesh and clothing. The awful smell of burning hair began to fill the air as Griffin seemed to glow from within—as though a light had been switched on inside him. Tendrils of power radiated from him, swirling around him like opalescent ribbons. That was new. The rest of the ribbons wrapped around Lady Ash.

It was also terrifying.

“Griffin!” She cried. He was going to kill the woman if he didn’t release her. Lady Ash might deserve to suffer for all she’d done—she’d killed people—but Griffin wasn’t the law and he wasn’t God. He’d already been haunted by one death this year; his conscience didn’t need another. “Griffin!”

He still didn’t acknowledge her. He began to lift off the ground, pulled up by his own power. Bloody hell, this was not good. She had to stop him.

But before Finley could help Griffin, she needed to take care of the automaton advancing on him. Her wounds were healing quickly, but she’d lost blood, and was still sore. She was nowhere near her peak fighting condition, but it was going to have to do. She had to stop that machine before she could stop Griffin from making a horrible mistake.

She oughtn’t have worried. The metal hadn’t even touched Griffin when an arc of sizzling blue light danced along its fingers, all the way up to its shoulder. The polished body began to convulse and gears ground and screeched. Sparks flew, and Finley raised her hands to protect herself from them. The automaton clattered to the ground, just as Finley saw what it was that had felled it.

Griffin had built a sort of energy field around himself and Lady Ash.

She wasn’t going to make the same mistake of touching it.

“Griffin!” She cried, “You have to stop!”

And he did. Suddenly, the flames around the woman flickered out, and Griffin’s feet touched the ground once again. She ran to him, but he held up a hand stopping her from coming any closer. “Don’t,” he said. When he turned to face her, both of his eyes glowed an eerie blue—no pupil and no iris, just blue. “Finley, don’t come any closer.”

She was dumb at times, but she wasn’t stupid. If he told her not to come any closer it was because he was afraid of hurting her, and she would stand her ground. A few feet away from her Lady Ash crackled and smoked, her body slowly turning into her namesake. Griffin had killed her.

Finley stared at the charred corpse in horror, not because the woman was dead, but because Griffin wouldn’t be able to live with himself for the death.

“Take a deep breath,” she told him. “Just calm down.”

“Get out of the way, Fin.” His voice was quiet and hard. “Now.”

“No.” She shook her head, putting herself between him and the body. “You won’t hurt me, Griffin. I know you won’t.”

“But I will,” came a dark whisper from behind her. The threat slithered down her spine, but she refused to shudder. Instead, her gaze locked with Griff’s. It was terrifying, that blue fire in his eyes, but not as terrifying as the realization that a ghost had just spoken to her.

“Garibaldi?”

Griffin nodded.

“You’re more clever than you look,” the voice whispered. Now that she knew who it was, Finley could hear his faint Italian accent.

“Thanks,” she replied dryly, not making any sudden moves. Every instinct demanded she whirl around and put her fist through the villain’s head, but that was the problem—her fist would go right through his head, and that was only if he was visible.

“Finley?” Emily asked, glancing from her to Griffin. “What’s going on?”

Finley barely glanced at her. It looked as though the others had defeated their opponents, as well, but thankfully there was only one corpse. Every bit of machinery was still. Garibaldi obviously hadn’t lost his touch when it came to controlling metal. “We’ve company.”

“Behind you?” Emily asked. She wouldn’t be able to see Garibaldi unless he wanted to make himself visible. She hadn’t heard him either. None of the others had, except for Griffin. Finley had only heard him because she’d spent some time in the Aether with Griffin and had begun to become attuned to it.

“Right behind me.” If the bastard had breath she’d no doubt feel it on the back of her neck.

There was a high-pitched whine and then a blast of white light so strong Finley was momentarily blinded. What the...?

Garibaldi swore—impressively. “Little bitch almost hit me!”

Another blast. This time Finley covered her eyes and dived to the ground. Emily wielded what looked like an Aether pistol, but she had modified it. This thing had a larger barrel, a smaller grip, and a flashing red light on the side. “Missed.” The Irish girl was obviously not pleased. “Where is he now?”

Suddenly, a frigid weight slammed down on Finley’s back, driving her face into the sooty carpet. She managed to turn her head at the last second to avoid being suffocated. Being able to hear and see Garibaldi—and there had been plenty of times when she knew he’d been there and she couldn’t see him—came with other issues: it made her susceptible to attack by creatures of the Aether. But if The Machinist thought she wouldn’t risk herself to bring him down, he was sorely mistaken.

“E-Em,” she called through chattering teeth. The chill of death seeped deep into her bones. “He’s on me. He’s on my back!”

But before Emily could shoot, Griffin charged. One moment she was cold as ice, and the next, the weight was off her. She flipped onto her back—a motion that was far clumsier than it ought to be thanks to every muscle in her body being frozen stiff—and saw Griffin take Garibaldi to the ground. His power made The Machinist visible. He pummeled the ghost with his fists as his eyes blazed. Garibaldi laughed with every blow. “That’s it, lose control. It feeds me, you know.”

The chill in Finley’s heart had nothing to do with Garibaldi’s touch and everything to do with his words. “Em, shoot here!” she placed her hand on the ground near The Machinist’s head. All her friends would see was Griffin’s fists flying, not what he struck. She whipped her head around as another blast struck, narrowly missing her thumb.

It also missed Garibaldi, who pushed himself up, taking Griffin with him, until they were both on their feet and The Machinist had his hands wrapped around the younger man’s wrists.

“Got you now,” he said, chuckling. “You’re mine, Your Grace.”

Finley jumped to her feet and leaped at The Machinist. She grabbed at him, but her arms took only air, and she slammed into the ground once more. Emily opened fire again, the blast aimed right at the spot where Garibaldi stood. It would have hit him if he hadn’t disappeared.

And he had taken Griffin with him.

* * *

Mila lazed on the sofa, her boots propped up on the arm as she popped grapes into her mouth. She liked grapes very much. In fact, they were one of her favorites of all the foods she’d tasted thus far. Almost as good as that Indian chicken dish Jack had bought her last night.

Stupid Jack.

She was still learning words, as well. Stupid was one of the newer additions to her vocabulary. She’d been using it a lot lately, especially where Jack was concerned.

Two months she’d been living in this house with Jack. Two months of incredible food, interesting words, extraordinary books and plays and music. Two months of filling her mind with so much information she thought she might explode, and she kept wanting more.

Two months of Jack being so stupid she wondered how he managed to function in the world. At first she thought the fault lay with her own brain, because she’d been an automaton once, but then she realized that, no, Jack was simply defective. That was bothersome, because he seemed completely adequate in many other ways. In fact, he seemed so smart in many other ways.

Just not when it came to women. Not only did he seem completely ignorant of the changes she’d gone through since coming to live with him, but he chose the most annoying, foolish, idiotic, pretentious, untrustworthy women. He had one upstairs with him right now. And judging from the noises—and the pictures she’d seen in a naughty book he’d since hidden from her—she had a pretty good idea what he was doing with her. It was enough to make even the sweetest grape sour on her tongue.

If Jack’s stupidity ruined her palate for grapes she’d gut him like a...well, whatever people gutted.

Above her head she heard a thump—her hearing was most exceptional. Apparently everything about her was exceptional, or at least that was what Emily told her. Emily was terribly smart, so it must be true. But if she was so bloody exceptional, why didn’t Jack realize it? He seemed to think of her as a child or a pet—she had yet to work out the subtle differences between the two. She knew it was something pertaining to biology and such, but emotions were complex and she didn’t completely understand them yet.

She only knew that no one could make her happier, angrier or sadder than stupid Jack Dandy. And she was stuck in the bloody house listening to him entertain another woman with dubious hair color. It didn’t matter where in the house she went, she’d hear. She could go out, but Jack didn’t like her going out at night, especially alone. What did he think would happen to her? If anyone came near her, she was physically capable of defending herself—more than capable. She wasn’t naive enough to just go off with someone, and it wasn’t as though she’d would go looking for trouble. She just didn’t want to be there, in that house. Listening.

Thump. She glared up at the ceiling. It would serve the two of them right if she climbed up on some furniture and smashed her fist through the floor. How fast would that painted-up...tart run away when she realized that Jack’s houseguest, the one he hid away but sometimes referred to as his “ward,” was not normal?

Another thump—followed by a trill of laughter that made Mila’s teeth ache, or maybe it was the clenching of her jaw that made them hurt. She swung her feet off the sofa and stood up, setting the bowl of grapes on the table. She had to do something to distract herself. She could get a book, but she didn’t feel like reading. She could listen to music, but Jack had taken the phonographic cylinder player upstairs with him.

Pity he hadn’t put some music on, but even if he had she’d still hear. The tart was loud enough she could be heard over the scream of a steam whistle.

She glanced at the polished mahogany bar in the corner. Bottles of liquor were neatly placed on shelves beneath it. She knew this because she’d seen Jack take them out. He’d taken a bottle upstairs with him earlier.

What was so amazing about the stuff? She’d tried to take a sip once and he’d torn a strip off her for it. Well, he wasn’t there to stop her now. A little smile curved her lips as she walked over to the bar and behind it. Yes, tonight seemed the perfect time to do something Jack didn’t like. Spite, she believed it was called. It was a good word, and she was full of it.

Crouching, she withdrew one of the bottles, uncorked it and poured herself a full glass of the contents. She took a sniff. Not too bad. Then she raised the glass to her lips and drained it in several long gulps. She set the glass back on the bar and waited.

Nothing happened.

She repeated the process again. And again. The third time she paused to enjoy the warmth that filled her belly. Hmm. Perhaps she oughtn’t have drunk it so fast—the bottle was empty. Well, that was a short diversion. She went back to the sofa and her grapes. A few moments later, as she lifted a grape to her lips, it wavered slightly. She frowned at it. No, there was only one grape in her fingers, not two. But two would be better, wouldn’t it? She plucked another one with her other hand and held them up side by side.

“Jolly fine weather we’re having, is it not, Mr. Grapeypants?” she asked in a low voice, bouncing the left grape up and down.

“It is indeed, Lord Cabernet,” “replied” the right grape in a higher pitch. “Nary a cloud to be seen. And isn’t it a travesty, the price of tea these days?”

“Highway robbery. We’ve taken to using the same leaves over and over until the pot runs clear.”

“A sound notion.”

Mila laughed. Now, this was a diversion!

Another thump from upstairs. More laughter—and this time she heard the familiar sound of Jack’s chuckle. It ruined her fun, and made her angry.

Very, very angry, which was surprising because she’d heard that wine was supposed to make a person happy. The laughter continued. Mila reached behind her and took a candlestick from the small table. She tested the weight of it in her palm and then tossed it upward with all her strength. It broke through the ceiling, trailing plaster dust as it tore through the floor of Jack’s bedroom. The doxy screamed. Jack swore. From where she sat, Mila could see through the hole the candlestick created, to where it had lodged itself in the ceiling above. She grinned. She was still grinning when a portion of Jack’s scowling face appeared above the hole.

“What the bloomin’ ’ell was that all about?” he demanded. “’Ave you gone completely mad?”

Completely mad? That implied that he thought her somewhat mad, didn’t it? Her grasp on language might not be as good as it ought, but she knew what mad meant. She tossed Lord Cabernet and Sir Grapeypants into the bowl with their society friends and set it aside. Then she jumped up on the sofa. Another big jump and she was able to grab a handhold in the hole she had made. Jack backed up—good thing, too. She drew back her arm and snapped her fist upward, knocking another chunk of ceiling loose.

More screams from the woman. Mila was going to shove the woman’s own knickers into her mouth just to shut her up. She punched again, and this time a large enough chunk fell—onto the sofa—that she was able to bring her other hand up and haul herself through the jagged opening.

Jack stared at her as though he truly thought her insane. As if he thought she was a monster. Mila had never wanted to hit him before, but she did now. How could he look at her as if he didn’t know her? As if he didn’t understand?

“Wot the ’ell?” He was on his feet now—clad only in a pair of black trousers that weren’t fastened all the way. His naked flesh was quite captivating, though Mila wasn’t certain why. She’d seen him undressed before, but now she wanted to put a shirt—or her hands—on him. Behind him, his “companion” tried to hide her nudity with her garish gown. Her naked flesh was not so captivating. In fact, the sight of it made Mila want to toss her out the bloody window.

Instead, she turned to Jack. “You’re stupid,” she informed him. Her tongue felt thick and heavy in her mouth. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. You’re a stupid-head. And you’re loud, and pretty and...” Her attention went back to the woman. “Your laugh hurts my ears like a screeching door hinge.”

“Are you drunk?” Jack demanded.

“How should I know?” Mila shot back. “I don’t know what drunk is!”

“Right.” He took her arm. “You’re wasted.”

Waste. That was bad, wasn’t it? Mila jerked free of his hold. “I am not. I’m angry. How can you seem so smart and be so not smart?” She ran a hand through her hair; it came out covered in plaster dust. Blast.

Jack frowned at her. He was pretty even when he frowned. “I told you to stay away from the liquor cabinet.”

Mila scowled back. “You told her—” she pointed at the woman who had since donned her shift and was climbing into her gown “—that she was pretty. Obviously you are not consistent with the truth.”

The tart—Darla—gasped and Mila rolled her eyes. Surely the woman had heard worse insults than that.

“Go to your room,” Jack instructed sternly. “Later the two of us is going to ’ave a serious chat.”

“I hate it when you talk like that,” she shot back. “Speak per-properly.”

He grabbed her arm again and propelled her toward the door. Honestly, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d shoved her back through the hole. “Get out.”

Jack yanked open the door to reveal the new housekeeper he’d hired for Mila. Why he thought Mila needed someone to look after her when she had him, Mila had no idea. He’d said something about propriety that she didn’t understand and still didn’t quite comprehend. Basically he’d hired the woman to make sure he didn’t treat Mila like one of his “ladies.”

What if she wanted him to treat her that way?

“Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Dandy, but is everything quite all right?” the older woman asked in her Northern accent.

Jack forced a smile. Mila knew it was forced because it looked nothing like his real smile. “Goin’ to need someone what to fix that ’ole, missus. Be a love and take care of that would you?”

“Of course, sir.” She continued to stand there. Mila grinned at her and waved. The housekeeper—Mrs. Brooks—tentatively waved back. “Are you unwell, child?”

“Wasted,” Mila replied with a grin. Jack, she noted, winced.

“Be a love and escort Mila to her room, missus.” And then, to the doxy he said, “You best be on your way, love.”

“Yes,” Mila chirped. “Do be on your way.”

“Oy.” Jack poked her. “Don’t be rude.”

“That wasn’t rude,” she protested. “Rude would be—” And then she threw up all the lovely wine and grapes all over Darla’s skirts.

* * *

Where was he?

Griffin tried to sit up, but thick straps over his chest, arms and legs kept him from rising. The spots where the straps touched him felt cool—wrong. There was something about them that separated him from the Aether, made it impossible for him to use his abilities in any way. What were they made of? It bothered him that he didn’t know what they were or how to combat them.

He was too tired to panic. He’d never gotten into a situation he couldn’t get himself out of, and he’d get out of this one. He just had to keep his wits about him. Garibaldi would want him to be afraid and off balance.

He closed his eyes. Was Finley all right? At least Garibaldi hadn’t taken her, as well. When he saw Lady Ash, and then that automaton, shoot her...well, he’d lost all reason. If he lived to be one hundred he would never regret killing that woman—something he’d never thought himself capable of feeling, but he’d slaughter an army to protect Fin.

She was probably ripping London apart looking for him.

But he wasn’t in London.

Griffin’s eyes snapped open. He was in the Aether. How was that possible? How could Garibaldi imprison him there and render him powerless? It was his element, he should be strong, but instead he was as weak as a newborn kitten trying to hold its head up. He reached out for any hint of power and felt the bands around him tighten. There was pressure on his head, as well—like a set of fingers digging into his skull. He could feel his power being siphoned through those conduits. Garibaldi was leeching the Aether from him to keep him weak. Helpless.

Still refusing to panic, he glanced around at his surroundings. The implements digging into his scalp prevented him from turning his head much, but he could see that he was in a house. Garibaldi was strong enough to construct within the Aether. Bloody hell, that was not good. The man would be practically a god in this world, while Griffin’s power was being slowly drained—probably to strengthen Garibaldi, the bastard.

Leonardo Garibaldi was a villain in every sense of the word, and the closest Griffin had ever come to having a nemesis. Not only had the man been responsible for the death of Finley’s father, but he had instigated the deaths of Griffin’s own parents, with whom Garibaldi had once been close. He had also tried to turn Sam against his friends and used him as something of a spy. They thought they had defeated him and his plans to build sentient automatons, but he’d come back again, kidnapping Emily and almost killing Sam. Some of his friends had thought Garibaldi’s death put an end to his criminal career, but apparently death only served to make him stronger, something Griffin had feared might happen.

He was trapped with a vengeful madman in the land of the dead, a land of pure energy. He’d known only one other living person who had been able to access this dimension—Nikola Tesla. Tesla had built a suit that allowed him to put himself into a deathlike state so he could access the Aether. The man had been attacked by some of Garibaldi’s “demons” and had given the suit to Griffin for safekeeping.

The suit was at his house, and if he knew Finley half as well as he thought he did...damnation. The girl was mad enough to put the suit on and come looking to rescue him. If she did that there was no way that he could protect her—not that Finley was the sort of girl who would count on that anyway. Still, the idea of her at Garibaldi’s mercy was enough to tighten his gut and seize his heart. Physically she was a match for anyone, even Sam. But in the Aether she would be at a disadvantage, vulnerable.

He had to escape before she decided to come looking for him. He pushed against the restraints, digging his booted heels into the mattress. The straps didn’t even budge and he fell back panting and sweating. A wave of dizziness washed over him, bringing with it a flush of sick heat.

“Struggling won’t do you any good.”

Griffin went still at the sound of Garibaldi’s voice. The older man drifted into the room, a gray-hued pantomime of a human. In death he’d made himself “more” than he had been in life. His hair was thicker, his face more chiseled. He might even be slightly taller. Regardless, he was still a vain madman with delusions of grandeur.

He smiled at Griffin. “I designed those restraints just for you, Your Grace. They’ll not let you go now that I’ve got you.”

“What do you want?” The straps around his head made it difficult to move his jaw so the words came out slightly slurred.

His enemy’s face darkened. “I want to be alive again, but you made certain that could never happen.”

Griffin simply stared at him. His silence obviously angered the ghost, whose eyes filled with black. He lunged forward. Griffin tried not to flinch, but it was impossible.

Garibaldi chuckled—a dry, rasp. “And so, I’m going to make you suffer, young Greythorne. Suffer like no one has ever suffered in the history of the world.”

Still Griffin said nothing.

The Machinist leaned down and whispered close to his ear, “I’m going to make your little band of misfits suffer, as well. I’m going to make you watch.”

He couldn’t help it—Griffin tried to rise up, but all he did was jerk hard against the restraints.

Garibaldi laughed again. “That’s what I want. I will so enjoy the pain their deaths will bring you.”

“Bastard.”

Dark eyes bore into his, and all trace of amusement vanished from that cruel face. “You need to learn some respect, and I need to teach you who is in charge here.”

As he spoke, he drew one of his fingers through Griffin’s face—it was like an icicle being driven through his skull. The dead weren’t tangible, but Griffin wasn’t dead. The rules of this world didn’t apply to him, especially when he couldn’t use his abilities. Garibaldi’s fingers slid through his flesh right into his chest, grabbed hold and squeezed. It hurt. Oh, hell, it hurt. He ground his teeth. He would not give the bastard the satisfaction of making a sound.

Blackness edged his vision, blurred it. His mind burned. Nothing existed but pain. Such pain.

Garibaldi smiled, cruel fingers searching. “Ah, there it is. I’ve always wanted to hold someone’s heart in my hand.” His fist tightened.

Griffin screamed.

Chapter Three

Gone.

Griffin was gone.

Finley stood in the doorway of the room they shared and looked around. She’d hoped to find him here when she came running up the stairs—hoped that he’d escaped Garibaldi and found his way back home. Honestly, she’d known he wouldn’t be here the moment they arrived. He hadn’t come to greet them and let them know he was all right.

Which meant that he wasn’t all right at all.

Griffin was the strongest person she knew. If Garibaldi was strong enough to imprison him, then the madman had finally achieved the power he sought during the twisted course of his life. There was no telling what the villain might be able to do now.

Her heart kicked hard against her ribs, seized by a terrible fear that refused to let go no matter how hard she pushed. Garibaldi might kill Griffin. No, there was no might about it. Garibaldi would kill him, just as he had killed Griffin’s parents and her real father. The only question was how long did she have before the terrible event took place?

The Machinist wouldn’t do it quickly, and that was as much a blessing as it was terrible. He’d want to make Griffin suffer, and that meant kept keeping him alive. Didn’t it? Or would Garibaldi decide to torture Griffin’s soul for eternity instead? God, it was too much to even think about—too many wild and awful places her imagination could go. She couldn’t think of what might happen, she had to concentrate on what she was going to do about Leonardo Garibaldi’s insane ghost. Were they never going to be free of the man? First he’d tried to take over England with a false queen, and then he’d tried to implant his brain into an automaton. Now he had Griffin.

She was not going to cry, no matter how much her eyes burned or her throat tightened. Her eyeballs could ignite and she’d still refuse to cry in order to drench the flames. Griffin didn’t need her tears, he needed her help. So, no—she was not going to throw herself on the bed they shared, bury her face in his pillow and sob herself dry. She would not bawl and snot and pray for him to return to her. What she was going to do was figure out how to bring Griffin home and rid them of Garibaldi once and forever.

But how? It wasn’t as though she could simply kill Garibaldi either. Despite all her concern about Griffin killing Lady Ash, she knew she would find it incredibly easy to kill The Machinist. The problem wasn’t whether or not she could stand to kill him, it was the fact that the villain was already dead. Unless someone figured out a way to kill a ghost, the pleasure of ending the bastard’s life would not be hers. Never mind that killing him wouldn’t necessarily save Griffin. She needed to find him first, and how the bloody hell was she to do that? It was only because of Griffin that she could see what little ghostie bits she could, so it wasn’t as though she could trust her eyes and search for him. Maybe Emily had some sort of contraption that could isolate his unique Aetheric resonance—if he had such a thing, whatever it was.

Not like she could simply kill herself and go into the Aether to rescue Griffin.

Couldn’t she? The thought came to her as though sent via divine messenger, and latched on to her mind with sharp and certain claws.

Finley pivoted on the thick heel of her boot and left the room. Her dress and tailcoat were dirty from the earlier scuffle, but she didn’t take the time to change. Clean clothes could wait; Griffin could not.

Her friends had gone to check other rooms in the house just in case Griffin had returned, but she didn’t find them in any of the rooms, which meant they were probably in Emily’s laboratory beneath the house, their search having turned up as empty and fruitless as her own. Finley took the lift down and stepped out onto the stone floor. Everyone was already there, just as she suspected.

No one asked if she’d found Griff. The fact that she was there alone meant she hadn’t.

“What are you doing?” she asked. They were all gathered around Emily at one of the worktables. The walls and shelves throughout the vast space were covered with tools, bits of machines and automatons and other bits and bobs. A large vault contained the remains of several dangerous automatons, including the one that had almost killed Sam, and the Victoria automaton Garibaldi had created.

Wildcat lifted and turned her head. Her full lips curved into a slight smile. “Emily’s trying to adjust a portable telegraph so it will pick up Aetheric transmissions.”

So Aetheric resonance just might be a thing after all.

The portable telegraphs already utilized the Aetheric realm for communicating with one another, so it was a sound idea as far as Finley was concerned. However, she understood the Aether about as well as she understood the secrets of the Javanese, which was to say, not at all. However, she’d gargle while standing on her head, reciting the Magna Carta in Latin if someone told her that was the way to get Griffin back.

“How do we know he’s even in the Aether?” Jasper asked. He’d removed his cowboy hat, and the tips of his hair stuck out like little wings. “That scoundrel could’ve taken him anywhere, right? I reckon Griffin’s abilities could make that possible.”

They all looked at Emily, who was uncharacteristically vexed. “Oh, right. Ye all look to me for the answer, well, I don’t have a single one! I’m going on pure assumption and grasping at straws. Being dead, it’s most likely Garibaldi has Griff in the Aether—it’s the one place he knows we can’t look, and the place he has more power. Unfortunately, I know next to nothing about the Aether—that was Griffin’s area of expertise.”

“You know more than the rest of us,” Sam reminded her in a gentle tone. He placed one of his big hands on her shoulder. “No one’s putting the responsibility of finding him on you, Em.”

“No,” Finley agreed. “In fact, I plan to take that responsibility on myself.”

Now they all turned to her, in unison like a monster with four heads. “Do ye now?” Emily asked, arching a ginger brow as she crossed her arms over her brocade waistcoat in a challenging manner reminiscent of a school matron confronting a naughty pupil. “Would you care to explain how and why to the rest of us, who I wager want him back just as much as you do?”

“Of course,” Finley replied, ignoring her friend’s attitude for the sake of their friendship. “You’re going to kill me.”

* * *

“Are you out of your ever-loving mind?”

Finley opened her mouth to speak, but Emily cut her off—the girl loved a good tirade. “Kill you? That’s your bloody solution? And then what do we do when we get Griffin back?” She banged a spanner against the workbench. “Tell him that killing you was the best we could manage?”

This time when she opened her mouth, Finley put her hand over Emily’s to prevent another detailed account of how idiotic she was, because she knew it was coming. “No, that’s when you wake me up.” Her gaze locked with her friend’s. Emily’s bright eyes snapped with annoyance, worry and fear. Emily was always the smartest person in the room, and at that moment, Finley reckoned her friend had no more answers than she did. “I’m going to use the Aetheric Mortality Disambiguation suit to go into the Aether and find Griffin.”

They gaped at her. She felt Emily’s jaw drop beneath her hand—only then did she remove her fingers.

“Oh,” Sam said. “I see.” A man of many words, he was.

Wildcat frowned and looked to Jasper, feline eyes bright against the dusky hue of her complexion. “What the heck’s an Aetheric Mortality whatchamacallit suit?”

“That Tesla fella made it,” he explained in his American drawl, casting a perplexed glance in Finley’s direction. “Don’t know much more about it than it kills folks so they can go into the Aether.”

Black curls bobbed as she shook her head, her scowl deepening. “Who’d want to die?”

His lips quirked on one side. “Says the girl with nine lives. Some folks want to know what happens after we die.”

She made a face. “Who cares? You’re dead.”

Finley would have chuckled if her stomach wasn’t in knots. “Em? Will you do it?” She intentionally chose will rather than can. She had no doubt her friend could kill her and bring her back, but whether or not she would...

Emily’s ginger brows were knit tight, the edges of each almost meeting over the bridge of her pert nose. “You know I will, you daft baggage. As if we have any other option.”

Relief struck with such force Finley almost doubled over. She wanted to fall down on her knees before her friend and babble her thanks, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. She would find Griffin. She would. She would find him and get him out of the Aether. They’d worry about Garibaldi later.

“Tesla only used the suit for a few moments,” Sam said. He’d actually been present in New York when the genius inventor showed off his creation. “Is that enough time for her to find Griff?”

That was an annoyingly astute question for the big brute to ask. Should she pinch him for asking, or herself for not? A few minutes might be enough time to find Griffin, but the Aether was a big and vast dimension—its own world. Garibaldi would have him well hidden. The villain didn’t know about the suit, but he had to know they wouldn’t just let him win.

Then again, maybe he thought he already had. In which case it might be very easy to find them. But then there was the fact that time moved at a different pace there... Oh, damnation. She had no idea how long it would take or how long the suit would give her.

Apparently Emily did, however. “The suit has a cooling system to safeguard against loss of oxygen, as well as an Aetheric field that slows down all metabolic functions. When used properly, and if monitored correctly, it acts as a bubble, or stasis field, putting the body into a near-death state.”

Sam smiled at her before turning to the others. “That means that Finley can stay in the Aether for a long time.”

Emily patted his arm like a proud mother. “That’s right, lad.”

Arching not one, but both brows, Finley resisted the urge to shake her head at them. “How long will I have?”

The little redhead turned to face her and shrugged. “Forty to sixty minutes if I had to guess.”

“And if you didn’t have to guess?”

“For most people I’d be certain of forty, but you’re not most people. You’re ability to heal and your physicality may afford you more time.”

“But there’s no way of knowing?”

“I could equip the suit with some sort of safety feature that would sound an alarm once your brain activity and oxygenation levels began to drop. It would trigger the Lazarus switch.”

“Resurrection,” Finley murmured. She wasn’t having second thoughts or cold feet, but dying was a risky thing, and she had heard about the Aether demons that had attacked Tesla when he wore the suit. They were Garibaldi’s creations and they would come for her, as well. She’d already tangled with some of his creatures before. It would not be easy. It would be dangerous and she would be totally alone.

But Garibaldi had Griffin, and she would die a hundred times to save him. Too bad she only had to die once for everything to fail.

“How quickly can you make the changes, Em?” No sense in thinking about what bad things could happen. She had to concentrate on the task at hand.

Her friend looked at the suit, as though she could take each section and devise a dependable schedule. She probably could. Lord, Emily could probably estimate right down to the quarter hour. “Three hours and ten minutes,” Emily responded.

Better than the quarter hour. “No faster?”

Her friend shot her a cross look. “No. No faster. That’s fast enough. Maybe you’re fool enough to risk your life, but I’m quite committed to making certain both you and Griffin come back from this.”

“Fair enough.”

“However, the process would be easier, and possibly a bit faster with an assistant.”

“I’ll help you,” Sam said.

Emily wrapped her arm about his waist and squeezed herself against him. “I know you would, but your hands are too big for the delicate work.” She tilted her head back and smiled up at him. “Besides, I need you to keep me sane, not drive me mad.”

All this romance was well and good, but Finley felt it like a thorn under her fingernail. “Could you stop batting your eyelashes at each other long enough to help me save Griffin?”

To her credit, Emily didn’t seem the least bit irked by her snotty tone—which only drove the thorn deeper. What if she never got to touch Griff again? “Plus, Finley is in need of someone to fight with, and you’ve always been very good at that.”

Well, that was a bit of a surprise. Finley never thought Emily would suggest she and Sam fight especially after that time she almost killed him.

Sam regarded her thoughtfully—another aggravation. When did Sam Morgan become someone who was thoughtful? Usually she thought him fairly vacant of thought, the big dunderhead. Although, he had been surprisingly ingenious on occasion. “I can do that.”

No doubt he could. It was like fighting a mountain, sparring with him. Was it wrong that she was a little excited at the prospect? All that fear for Griffin turned so easily to bloodlust, itching to be indulged. At least she wouldn’t be sitting around feeling useless. She had to be calm when she went into the Aether. Her temper wouldn’t do her any favors when she needed to keep her wits about her.

“Run along, then,” Emily told them in her best school matron voice. “Jasper, I don’t need you right now, but I will when it comes time to engage the stasis field. Wildcat, I’d like you to stay and assist me.”

Cat looked surprised, but didn’t protest. The American girl was with Jasper now, but the two of them sometimes went off and had their own adventures outside of their group. No one begrudged them for it, but it had made it a little harder for her to become part of their little family. Hopefully this would change that. After the events in New York, it was only since Cat’s arrival that the cowboy seemed like his former self. He was one of them, and if they wanted to keep him, they needed to welcome the girl he cared about, as well. If Emily was opening up to the idea, then Sam would follow shortly—he was always the last to trust anyone, taking his role of “family” protector to new levels of over-the-top. Finley liked Cat—they trained together on occasion. Direct and honest, Cat was exactly the sort of solid person Jasper needed in his life, and she wouldn’t allow him to dwell on the past.

Although, there was something disconcerting about those fangs of hers. Sharp, they were. Then again, Jasper didn’t seem to mind, and Finley had caught them kissing once, so it couldn’t be an issue. Still, there were reasons they called her Wildcat, and Finley was pretty certain she didn’t want to know all of them.

Sam stepped in front of her, blocking out the rest of the room. “Let’s go.”

Finley peered up at him. She barely cleared his shoulder and she was tall for a girl. “Itching to go toe-to-toe with me, Goliath?”

He smiled—actually smiled! “You’re not?”

He had a point. She needed to do something about this fear simmering low in her gut. She was afraid—more afraid than she had ever been in her entire life. It threatened to take over completely, like when her other self would come out before Griffin taught her how to merge the two sides of herself. He had saved her, given her purpose, and he accepted her for who she was, flaws and all. She had a great number of flaws, but then again, so did he.

And she wanted more time putting up with them.

As she turned to follow Sam and Jasper to the lift, Finley paused. Her gaze sought out Emily, who opened the door to the locker where the Tesla “death suit” was kept. She must have felt Finley’s attention because she whirled about.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Emily must also have a talent for deciphering the movement of lips because she smiled ever so slightly, but not before Finley saw fear in her eyes, as well. This had to work. She couldn’t let Griffin die without knowing she loved him.

But she was going to die; Griffin’s life depended on it.

* * *

Mila woke up to the sound of her brain beating out a tenacious rhythm against the inside of her skull. There was a sour taste in her mouth and her tongue felt as though it had been replaced by a dirty wool sock. A few days ago she would have actually felt her tongue to make certain that hadn’t happened. Was it odd that she was disappointed she didn’t do that now? She knew her tongue was exactly as it was, and that was good, but she missed...she missed the not knowing, and the need to find out.

Regret was a word she was becoming more and more familiar with.

Cautiously, she opened her eyes. Bloody hell! She closed them again. Her brain throbbed. Her stomach rolled. There was that regret again! And Jack was sitting in a chair just a few feet away, watching her like a cat watching a newborn mouse.

So this was what the morning after a night of too much drink felt like.

Summoning all her strength, she cracked one eye open again. It didn’t hurt so much this time. She focused on him—and there was only one of him, unlike the two she’d seen after puking all over his lover. He was dressed entirely in black, as he often was, but his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat and he wasn’t wearing a waistcoat or a jacket. His dark hair fell in waves about his shoulders. No bloke—Finley had taught her that word—should have such lovely hair. No bloke should be so lovely to look at either.

She ought to have vomited on him.

“She wakes,” he commented dryly, long fingers following the scroll carved in the wooden arm of the chair. “How’s your head, poppet?”

She tried to scowl at him but it was hard to do with only one eye open and her brain trying to come out her ears. “I think you know very well how my head is.” She’d seen him the morning after indulging a little too much the night before. He looked then like she felt at that moment.

“Probably better than I ought” was his reply. He even smiled a little. He couldn’t be too angry at her, then. “Now, let’s discuss how you’re going to apologize to my friend for ruining her gown, and to me for pulling such a destructive, impulsive, childish stunt.”

Or maybe he was.

Mila pushed herself into a sitting position. Her head was starting to hurt less—the benefit of having a metal skull and a fast metabolism. She also, she realized, had her pride. Or maybe it was stubbornness. She hadn’t figured out the difference between the two yet, despite careful reading. She supposed she’d understand once she’d experienced both enough times to discern between them. “I’m not apologizing to your doxy, so you can just forget about that. I am sorry about the floor, but if the two of you weren’t making so much noise I wouldn’t have done it.”

Jack arched a brow. The expression made him look somewhat sinister. Lucifer before the fall. Such a fascinating story. “Where did you learn the word doxy?”

She scowled as she took a peppermint from the crystal bowl on her nightstand and popped it in her mouth. “I heard one of your friends say it, so I looked it up in the dictionary.” She’d started reading the huge books for something to do, in order to learn, but words were easier to learn when a body had examples to which to apply them. “And don’t talk to me like I’m an imbecile or a child. I’m neither of those things.”

His gaze flickered over her before glancing away. Was he actually flushed? That was an indication of fluster. Jack Dandy was never flustered. “No, you certainly are not.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry you...overheard. That was wrong of me. You shouldn’t be subjected to such things.”

It was fortunate she couldn’t frown any harder because her eyes would disappear under the onslaught of her lowered forehead. “Now you’re talking like I’m some sort of fine lady. I’m not that either.”

His head tilted to one side as his gaze came back to her. “What are you, then, poppet?”

Sometimes she hated that damn pet name. It was better suited to a small child. And she hated that condescending tone, as though he knew her better than she did. She might still be new, but she was the one who spent time in her own head, not him. “I’m a girl, Jack. I might have started a machine, but I’m still a girl, and I’ve got a girl’s mind and a girl’s heart....” She stopped. What was she saying? “I’ve got a girl’s pride and a girl’s feelings. If I was up here banging the headboard against the wall with some bloke, how would you like it?”

Jack’s jaw hardened, as did his gaze. “That’s never going to happen.”

“Why not? You have your doxies, why can’t I have mine?” How had their conversation taken this turn? Mila didn’t know and she didn’t care. A fight was just what she was spoiling for, and she knew Jack was game to give it to her.

“You will never, ever have a man in your room, Mila. I forbid it.”

Forbid? Heat rushed to her face. Indignation was stronger than common sense, because the look on his face should have silenced her. She should have at least wondered why he looked as though he’d kill anyone who touched her. “You’re in my room.”

“That’s different.”

“So, it’s not having a man in my room that’s the issue. It’s having a man in my bed.”

He leaped to his feet and moved toward the door. “We’re not having this discussion.”

Mila followed after him. “Why not? Why can you do it and I can’t?”

“Because no one is going to treat you that way.”

“But you treat girls ‘that way.’”

That stopped him—just a step or two away from the door. He froze as though she’d tossed a bucket of ice water on him. “Yes, I have,” he murmured. “But that doesn’t mean it’s right. And no one’s going to do it to you.”

“That’s a bit of hypocrisy, don’t you think?” She’d just learned that word yesterday. What a perfect time to use it! “And it’s stupid. If you can have such ‘friends’ I should be able to, as well.” But she didn’t want those sort of friends. She wanted...

She wanted Jack.

Mila recoiled as though someone had punched her in the chest. That’s why she was so upset over Jack and his girls. Why she got so angry. She was...what was the word? Jealous. She didn’t want Jack to be with other girls because she wanted him for herself, and she didn’t want to share him.

“I know it’s hypocritical,” he explained, oblivious to her epiphany (another timely word!), “but it’s the way of the world. Girls are expected to behave with more propriety than fellows. Feminine virtue is something to be respected and saved for marriage, which is a load of rot, but it should at least be reserved for someone you love. Someone worthy.”

Virtue. She had heard the word before, but wasn’t clear on its meaning. “You mean virginity? I’m not even sure I have one of those.”

“Oh, bugger.” Jack ran a hand over his face. Were his cheeks actually red? “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“The point is that you deserve better than a meaningless tussle. You’re worth more than that.”

“What am I worth, Jack?”

He turned on his heel. She stepped toward him, closing the distance so that their chests were almost touching. He was maybe four or five inches taller than her own considerable height. There was something in his eyes she couldn’t comprehend, but it made her want to grab him by the shirtfront, haul him close and press her lips to his—press her everything to his. Maybe make a little noise of their own. A wave of warmth rushed up her neck.

“You’re worth more than I am, poppet. Worth more than any bloke, and don’t ever let anyone tell you different. You deserve a good life and a good man.”

“What if I don’t want a good man?” She knew from remarks he’d made during their time together that Jack thought of himself as the very opposite of good. He sometimes seemed to wear his underworld connections as if they were badges of honor, something to be proud of.

His eyes widened. “You’re obviously still drunk. We’ll discuss the floor and whether or not you’ll apologize when you’re sober.”

“Jack.” He kept walking toward the door. His hand closed around the crystal knob, started to turn it.... “Jack!” She moved fast—incredibly fast—and slammed her palm against the heavy oak. The wood groaned under the impact—splintered just enough to poke the tender flesh inside her hand.

He didn’t look at her, didn’t speak, but they both knew he wasn’t getting out of that room until she allowed it. He was no match for her physically. Emotionally, however, was a different story. When he finally turned his head, his eyes were like glistening pools of darkness that cast a soothing spell over her, tugging her deeper and deeper into their depths until she’d do whatever he asked.

The bounder.

Mila shook her head, clearing the fog Jack had created. He’d almost had her—almost made her open the door. Jack had a talent for getting his way.

“Not fair,” she said from between clenched teeth.

“No less than you using your strength against me. Open the door.”

“No.”

He drew his shoulders back, anger tightening his features. “Mila, open the damn door. I’ve had enough of your sulking and pouting. Sober up and I’ll take you for an ice. We can do whatever you want.”

She stared at him. He thought she was pouting? And did he truly believe a bloody ice would fix it? “You really are stupid, aren’t you?”

Jack’s brows lowered. “What the devil is wrong wit—”

Mila didn’t think, she just wanted to shut him up. She grabbed him by the shirt and lifted herself up on her toes.

And then she kissed Jack Dandy. And it was wonderful.

Chapter Four

Three weeks earlier...

“I need you to explain something,” Mila announced as they left the little theater. They had just seen a production of An Ideal Husband by Oscar Wilde.

Jack buttoned up his long, black frock coat. “All right.”

“Why didn’t the wife just tell her husband she’d gone to visit his friend? Why was it such a terrible thing?”

“Because he was a single gentleman and she called upon him at night without a companion.”

She shook her head. “That still makes no sense.”

“Ladies aren’t supposed to call on gentlemen at their homes, and certainly not without a chaperone.”

“Can a gentlemen call on a lady without a chaperone?”

“Yes, but he shouldn’t if he really likes her. People might think ill of her.”

Mila kicked at a pebble with the toe of her shoe. “That’s stupid.”

Jack laughed. “It is.” He shrugged. “But, that’s how it is.”

“But why?” She knew she asked a lot of questions, and Jack had been very good about answering them, but the world was just so bloody confusing. Sometimes she didn’t think she’d ever understand.

“Because a lady’s virtue is her greatest possession, apparently. And a gentleman might lose control of himself and take advantage of her.”

Virtue. That was pureness. It was a synonym for virginity, as well. “Do men usually lose control of themselves?”

He opened the door to his steam carriage for her, so that she might climb in. “I’d like to think that they do not, no.”

She waited until he’d walked around and climbed in the other side. “You have ladies visit you.”

Jack paused, and she knew he was trying to think of a way to lie to her. He did that sometimes. “That’s different.” That was what he always said when he didn’t want to talk about it.

“Do you take advantage of your ladies?”

He made a strangled sound as he ignited the engine. “No.”

“What do you do with them?”

“That’s really none of your business, poppet. Not something you need to know about.”

“Do you have intercourse with them?” She’d read about intercourse in a book she’d found underneath the sofa.

His head turned, and he looked at her with an expression of...surprise? Horror? Bloody hell, she couldn’t tell! “How do you know about that?”

If she told him, he’d take the book away. “That’s really none of your business.”

“It is so my business!” Jack’s eyes were wide and black in the dim light.

Something in his tone made her fold her arms over her chest and glare out the window. “I don’t like how there seems to be separate rules for girls and boys. It’s not fair.”

Jack steered the carriage out into traffic. An old-fashioned carriage pulled by four automaton horses, their brass gleaming, raced past them. “No, it’s not. But it’s the way of the upper class.”

“Then, I don’t want to be part of the upper class.”

“I don’t think you’ll have much choice. That’s the sphere into which His Grace will introduce you.”

“I don’t understand why I can’t stay with you.”

“Because I’m exactly the sort of fellow a girl like you should avoid. Someday you’ll see that.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at him. “But you said you don’t take advantage of those girls.”

He kept his gaze on the road. A muscle in his jaw flexed. “I don’t, but that doesn’t mean I’m a good man, poppet.”

“But you’re the best person I know. I love you.”

The carriage swerved. Jack yanked on the steering mechanism to correct it again. “You don’t know what love is.” He didn’t say it meanly, but she resented it all the same. She couldn’t argue, though. Maybe she didn’t know what love was. But Emily had told her that love was when you cared about someone very much, and she did care about Jack. He was her whole world. The idea of being without him scared her.

“Do you know what love is?” she asked.

He shook his head. “And I don’t want to. I’ve seen what love does to people.”

“What?”

Jack sneered—it was an awful expression on his lovely face. “It makes them weak. Makes it easy for other people to hurt them, use them and toss them aside.”

“Did that happen to someone you know?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer her—that meant that a conversation really was over. “My mother. She thought my father loved her, but he didn’t. Unfortunately, she loved him, and it ruined her.”

Mila didn’t quite grasp the depth of his mother’s disappointment, but she knew when Jack was upset, and when he was angry. That his father had been mean to his mother upset him and made him really angry, and that was a bad thing. “I’m sorry.”

He flashed her a slight smile before returning his attention to the street. “You’re sweet, you know that? You’re probably the nicest person I’ve ever met.”

Warmth blossomed inside her. It was like pleasure, but more—as if her heart were being blown up like a balloon. She smiled—and then remembered her manners. “Thank you.”

“That’s why I’m going to make certain you are never in a position to be dependent on a man. You’ll never go hungry. No one will look at you as less than what they are. No one will ever take away your sweetness.”

She looked at him. “Like your father did your mother?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand. Why would you even want me to marry someone of the upper class, then?”

“They’re not all awful. His Grace is all right. I want you to be comfortable and taken care of.”

“I can take care of myself,” she said, as the lamps of the carriage illuminated familiar streets. They were almost home.

Jack chuckled. “Physically, yes. But there are still a lot of things you need to learn about the world, poppet.”

“Like what?”

“Like that people lie. They steal. People can hurt you emotionally as well as physically. It’s worse than being hit.”

Mila frowned. “Who hurt you, Jack?”

For a moment, there was an odd vulnerability in his eyes, but then it was gone. “No one.” He reached across the leather seat and took her hand. “I promise you that I will never hurt you—not intentionally. No matter what happens now or in the future, you can always come to me. I will always be here for you. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “I understand.”

But she didn’t, not really. If she had, she would have known that Jack was lying again.

* * *

For the first time in the two decades he’d been alive, Jack Dandy couldn’t think.

Jack could always think. Thinking—plotting, playing out every scenario—was what had kept him alive and built him a fortune. He started thinking the moment he woke up and sometimes he even thought in his dreams. Certainly no girl had ever interfered with the process before.

Not even Treasure.

Mila’s lips turned his brain to gruel. No thoughts, only instinct, and instinct told him to enjoy this a little while, even though his conscience screamed in protest. His arms went around her waist, pulling her tight against him. His hands splayed across her back, feeling the movement of her muscles beneath cloth and skin. She was warm and soft and tasted like peppermint.

And he was not a good man.

Her fingers twisted in his shirt, tearing through the soft cotton as if it were nothing more than candy floss. She could easily crush his bones with those hands. The thought vanished as quickly as it had appeared—nothing more than a flicker in his mind. One of his hands came up and fisted in her wild hair—it felt like silk against his skin.

A loud shredding noise filled the silence—she’d torn his shirt completely open. Warm fingers found their way beneath to touch his chest, roam over his stomach and ribs. He shivered. Her hands moved up to his shoulders, shoving the ruined garment down his arms.

Mila was trying to undress him. Mila.

Mila, who he had first found in a box—not even fully formed. She’d been monstrous and heartbreaking. Guilt had made him take her in and look after her, but something else made him let her stay. Responsibility was only part of it. Watching her grow and change made his head spin, it had all happened so fast. He tried to keep up, but he had to constantly remind himself that, while she was childlike, she grew in maturity by leaps and bounds. She was gorgeous and looked like a young woman. Pretty soon she was going to be just that, but not yet. And he had no right to take advantage of her curiosity.

Logic and sense returned with a vengeance. It didn’t matter that she felt and tasted like a dream. Didn’t matter that she made his heart pound or his limbs tremble. She was his ward. His responsibility. It was his duty to protect her, not to treat her like one of his girls. She was so much better than that. Better than him. She was naive and sweet and good. He would not be the one who ruined that.

But bloody hell, he wanted to.

Jack put his palms against her shoulders and pushed. Her metal skeleton made her heavier than she looked, and stronger, too. Still, he managed to put a couple of inches between them, which was just enough to break the kiss. The moment his lips left hers he felt a profound sense of loss that was both awesome and terrifying. Damnation, what was that feeling?

“Stop, poppet.”

“Don’t call me that.” She tried to pull him close again, but he stepped back, and she ended up with nothing but a strip of his shirt in either hand. She looked at him, eyes wide and full of hurt confusion. She didn’t understand, did she? No, of course she wouldn’t. So smart in many ways, but the subtleties of humanity still escaped her grasp. She wouldn’t understand that he couldn’t treat her like that; she would only know that he’d pushed her away.

“We can’t do this, Mila,” he told her. “Do you understand that?”

“But I thought you liked it.”

A strangled laugh lurched in his throat. Liked it? Liked didn’t even begin to describe how he felt, which was all the more reason to walk out of this room right bloody now.

“It doesn’t matter what I like. What matters is what’s right.”

She frowned and shook her head. “I don’t understand. You liked it. I liked it. How can that not be right?”

He swore to himself. How could he make her understand when she hated all the bollocks about rules and expectations? “You’re right, you don’t understand, and I don’t know how to make you. I just can’t.”

“You could with your doxy.”

“You’re not like her.” No, she certainly wasn’t. “You’re not the same as those girls.” She had the world laid out before her. He could make sure she had an education, employment if she wanted. And when the time came, he’d pay all the right people to make certain she found her way into good society and caught the eye of a man who might someday deserve her.

Mila nodded. “No, I’m not. It’s all right, Jack. I understand. I’m sorry about your shirt.”

His shirt? He didn’t care about his shirt. He had other shirts. He cared about her. “It’s all right, poppet. I can’t imagine what it’s like for you, with all these changes that have been happening in the past weeks.” She’d gone from machine to human—a miracle in itself. She couldn’t possibly understand it all. “I know very little about womanly...things. I’ll ask Finley to talk to you about...how these things work.” He had to assume that by now Treasure’s relationship with His pain-in-the-arse Grace had progressed to a certain level. Not long ago that would have made him jealous enough to drink. Now he hoped for it. Hoped that Finley would know how to make Mila understand that he respected her too much to use her.

Something sparked in her eyes but quickly disappeared. “I wouldn’t want to bother her.”

“It would be no bother.” Besides, Treasure owed him a favor or two. “I’m going to let you rest now. We’ll talk about this more later, all right?” Truth was he was a top-notch coward, running away from the situation because he had no bloody idea what to do or say. His gut told him one thing and his conscience told him another. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he wanted to kiss her again. He wanted it very badly.

She just watched him with those big sad eyes. “Goodbye, Jack.”

“It’s not really goodbye, poppet. We’ll see each other at dinner.”

Mila nodded. “Right.”

Jack walked over to her and kissed her forehead. “It’s all going to be fine.” And it would be. He’d do everything in his power to make certain she had the best life she could ever have. She was not going to be tossed aside like he had been. He would care for and protect her until the world wasn’t such a danger to her.

Only then would he let her go.

* * *

A trip to the library was not what Finley had in mind when she followed Sam from the cellar laboratory. It was not the sort of room that invited violence.

“Is this a new form of fighting?” she asked, glancing around the familiar room. She remembered when she’d first come there, Griffin smiling down at her from the balcony that ran along each wall. That day she’d thought him the finest thing she’d ever seen.

Floor to ceiling was shelf after shelf of books, and the ceiling was very, very high. Griffin had more books than her stepfather’s shop, and he was a bookseller! Large, multipaned windows provided ample reading light during daylight hours, and gave the room an almost churchlike feel. Of course, that might just be her imagination, having grown up believing that knowledge gleaned through reading was close to godliness. “Are we going to throw books at each other?” Of course, she was joking. She’d never risk harming a book by throwing it at Sam’s thick skull.

“Funny,” he replied dryly. “I wouldn’t do that to a book.”

Finley blinked. Sometimes she and Sam were uncomfortably alike. “I didn’t know you read.”

He shot her a sour glance. “Emily helps me with the big words.”

Heat flooded her face. Sometimes she deliberately needled Sam, poked at him like a slumbering bear, but it was never her intent to offend him. Not really. “I mean, I didn’t think you enjoyed books.”

He shrugged before making his way to one of the shelves. “Depends on the book. Em likes to read, and she likes it when we can talk about a story. I like making her happy, so I read. Jane Austen’s not exactly my cuppa, but that Dickens bloke is all right enough. No more Shakespeare, though. Not even for her. That’s just rhyming nonsense to me.”

She couldn’t help but grin—and it was all right because he wasn’t looking. “The things we do for love, what?”

Sam pulled a leather-bound book from a shelf by his head, his expression droll. “Like risking your own death? That’s mad.”

“You’re a fine one to talk. If the suit fit you, you and I would be duking it out to see who got to go after him.”

He paused, then turned to face her, certainty etched into his rugged features. His dark gaze was blunt and clear. “No, we wouldn’t.”

Right. Because, if it was Emily who was missing, she wouldn’t even try to stop him from going after her. In fact, when Emily was kidnapped, Finley had known Sam had to take the lead on bringing her home. She hadn’t dreamed of getting in his way, even though Em was her best friend and she was worried sick about her. She played her own part, but let Sam do what he felt was best.

The big lad’s understanding of this made her turn her gaze away, to the shelves of books before them. She didn’t like that her feelings for Griffin were so transparent. It didn’t matter that they shared a bedroom, feelings were so personal. Private. Love made a person terribly vulnerable, and vulnerability was a state Finley despised. That he understood this made her want to punch him, and then perhaps give him a hug for being more of a dear than he had any right. “Why did you bring me here, Sam?”

He grabbed another book from a higher shelf—one she would have required a step stool to reach—and took them to the large desk at the front of the room. “These are books on the Aether.”

Finley was skeptical. “The Aether was only discovered a decade ago, give or take. Those books look ancient.” Really, one of them looked about ready to fall apart from its bindings.

“This one is,” he replied, pushing the less battered one toward her. “The other was written a century ago by a husband and wife who interviewed people who died and came back to life. Griff and I used to play with it as kids, that’s why it’s in such a state. Boys aren’t taught to be gentle.”

She didn’t care what boys were taught. Girls were lucky if they were taught to read. “I don’t want to read about people who resisted going into the light, or saw God or all their ancestors. I want to save Griffin, and you’re wasting my time.” So much for him being a dear.

“Remember when you told me I was smarter than I looked?”

She might have done that more than once. It certainly sounded like something she might say. “Yes.”

“Well, you’re dumber than you look. The Aether is where the dead go on the first leg of their journey. This book details what those people who came back experienced there. The Aetheric dimension is one of energy, and there are a lot of strange and dangerous things there for people who don’t belong.”

He was right: she was dumb. She should have thought of that—she’d seen enough bizarre things from the Aether to know better. “Like people whose souls are still attached to their bodies.”

Sam nodded. “This is what you’re going to be doing until Emily sends for you. When you go in there, you’re going to be as prepared as you can be. I want both you and Griff back safely.”

A lump settled in her throat, but she covered it with humor. “Aw, Sam. You must really like me.”

One of his dark brows arched, but his black eyes sparkled. “Not usually, but I do care about you, so don’t get permanently killed in there, all right?”

Finley blinked. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Sam laughed. “I wish I had a photograph of the look on your face right now.”

She shook her head. “Just wasn’t expecting such a declaration, Samson.”

“You have a habit of calling me by Biblical names. Do you find me legendary?”

“In your own mind.” Real annoyance poked at the edges of her mind. “All right, crack open those books. Griffin’s waiting.”

He did as she commanded, and together they skimmed through the narratives until they found the meat of each account.

“This one talks about the Aether demons,” she announced, full of surprise. “I thought Garibaldi made those.”

“Wraiths have been around for a long time,” Sam informed her, turning a page.

“How do you know that?”

“I started reading these books when we got back from New York, more so after we tangled with Garibaldi last time. The demons are nasty things—all hate and anger—ranging in size from small spheres to man-size.”

The ones they’d already faced hadn’t been that big, but they did a lot of damage. They had cut Griffin up pretty badly. What kind of damage would something bigger do? They could be cutting him right now. Flaying him. Tearing him apart.

Fear gripped Finley hard, crushed her lungs and stopped her heart. God, she couldn’t breathe. “I’m going to be too late, aren’t I? Garibaldi’s probably already killed him.”

Sam looked at her with an expression that offered no hope, no sympathy, but neither was it morose. “He’ll be hurt, but you’ll find him. The bastard’s not going to kill him quickly.”

His words were as effective as a dagger to the gut and just as painful. He was right. The Machinist would torture Griffin patiently—he was too caught up in his desire for revenge to rush things now. He’d want to make Griffin suffer. In a way that was good, because they had time to find him alive, but who knew what sort of shape he’d be in when she found him. It wasn’t just his spirit in the Aether, it was his physical self, and every injury would show. Would scar.

A large hand settled over hers and squeezed. She hadn’t realized how cold she was until that moment. “Griffin is the strongest person I know—stronger than you or me. You will find him, and the two of you will send Garibaldi to hell, where he belongs.” Finley’s gaze lifted to his. There was an awful lot of determination in the black depths of Sam’s eyes. “I mean it. You’re going to destroy him, you understand me? And you’re going to do that for me.”

Out of all of them Sam had the most personal vendetta against The Machinist. The man had manipulated him, kidnapped the girl he loved and now had his best friend. The man was also responsible for the automaton that had ripped Sam apart. Maybe they weren’t really friends, but they were family now, and Finley would get revenge for Sam.

“I will,” she promised.

He squeezed her hand before letting go, and they went back to the books. It was difficult to concentrate when she kept waiting for Emily to come for her, but Finley did the best she could. She needed to learn as much about the Aether as she could.

“Someone should send for Ipsley,” she said, the thought suddenly occurring to her. Ipsley was a new friend of Griffin’s and a medium. He was able to communicate with ghosts, so it stood to reason he could communicate with anyone in the Aether. “He might be able to reach out to Griffin, and even if he can’t, I might be able to talk through him.”

Sam immediately picked up the handset for the telephone that sat on the desk and tapped out a number. Griffin had had the private telephone installed just a month earlier. It was a new design by Bell that eliminated the need for an operator, and connected Aetherically to the local switchboard, opening a line on its own. Fantastic little thing, but expensive. Finley couldn’t believe how much it cost to have them installed throughout the house—more money than her stepfather made in a year.

Sometimes Griffin’s wealth frightened her. Many young men would suspect someone of her background of sniffing around after his money, but Griffin never did that. Another example of how well he knew her—if she wanted money she could think of a dozen ways she could easily make a fortune, and most of them were legal.

She half listened as Sam spoke to Ipsley, and took from his half of the conversation that the medium was all too happy to help. Sam hadn’t given him details, but he had mentioned that Griffin was in trouble. Ipsley was a good enough friend that he only needed to hear that to come running.

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