The Girl in the Steel Corset (17 page)

A brief nod of dark hair. “Samuel.”

Sam left the building, clomping down the winding stairs and out into the fading afternoon. He felt happier than he had for some time. He’d return to Mayfair and he’d make the others see what Finley Jayne really was. Then they’d see that he was right and not an idiot. They’d see the truth and Finley would run straight to Jack Dandy where she belonged.

He only hoped he could get rid of her before she hurt someone.

After the museum, Jasper left to talk to some of his own contacts, agreeing to come by later that evening. Griffin returned to the house to find Emily and Finley in the cellar laboratory with the waxwork Victoria. Their eager faces made the ride down to the cellar in that tiny box of a lift almost worthwhile.

“Did you find anything?” they asked almost in unison.

“I did,” he replied, glancing about the room. “Sam still gone?”

Emily nodded, worry plain in her big eyes. She looked like a waif swathed in her goggles and apron. Her clunky boots seemed too large for her feet, the goggles too big for her head. Even the ropes of her bright copper hair seemed out of proportion. Beside her, Finley looked like an Amazon warrior, with her leather corset, short-sleeved shirt and black knickers. The heels of her black leather boots looked sturdy enough to grind a man’s bones to dust.

“What did you discover?” Emily asked.

Griffin turned to her, ashamed to have taken even a moment to admire Finley when he should have been concentrating on the matter at hand. “It was The Machinist. We found his oil. The night watchman got some of it on his wound and it healed him—much faster than it should have. He has Organites, and he puts them in the oil he uses on his automatons.”

Emily’s brow furrowed in concentration. “I don’t know how the wee beasties could possibly benefit a joint lubricant, but I’ll run some tests.”

“Wouldn’t you have found the Organites in the other samples?” Finley asked.

Emily shook her head, ropes of hair swinging around her shoulders. “They have to have something to draw energy from in order to live, plus they imitate whatever they’re attached to. The sample would have to be fresh for me to detect them, otherwise they’re dead and look like the very stuff suspending them.”

Griffin wasn’t entirely certain how much of that Finley understood. Hell, he wasn’t even certain he understood and he’d grown up knowing about Organites and how they worked. “Tests sound like a good idea, Em,” he said.

“Come see what we found,” Emily suggested, gesturing to the wax figure.

Griffin was astounded when they pointed out the missing eyes and the supposed caliper marks. “I doubt very much you’ll find those eyes have been sold. I’d say he’s building an automaton.”

“Of Queen Victoria?” Finley’s tone was so incredulous a slight smile curved Griffin’s lips.

“Yes,” he replied. “He could take it to one of the jubilee celebrations, pretend it’s a novelty, part of the fun and then blow it up.”

“But why?” It was Emily who asked the important question. “What would be his motivation for such random violence?”

Finley shrugged. “His crimes have been pretty random so far.”

“No.” Griffin scowled, a million thoughts racing through his head. “They only seem random because we don’t know what he’s up to.” He wished Cordelia were there. She was always much better at putting together puzzles than he was, but she had gone to Devon to see what, if any, damage had been done to the caverns on his estate—and find out more about this mysterious groundskeeper of his who suddenly
vanished. It seemed obvious by now that it must have been The Machinist, but he needed to be certain.

“What about Dandy?” Finley asked. When Griffin looked at her, she seemed to have trouble meeting his gaze. “If this Machinist is such a criminal mastermind, surely Dandy should know
something
about him.”

For a moment—and just a brief one—Griffin wondered if Sam’s suspicions of Finley were correct. He really knew nothing of her. Didn’t know her at all, and yet…

He couldn’t bring himself to believe her a villain.

“No,” he said firmly, cursing silently this time when he saw her gaze drop to the floor. “I mean…” What did he mean? He cleared his throat. “I sincerely doubt Dandy will tell us anything even if he does know. There’s truth behind the saying ‘honor among thieves.’ It’s very possible the two of them might do business together. He won’t jeopardize his own standing in the underworld. He already took a big risk bringing the waxwork to us.”

Finley crossed her arms over her chest. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

Griffin’s clenched his jaw all the same. He didn’t want Finley anywhere near Jack Dandy, not because he was worried about her, but because he was worried Dandy’s “liking” for her was reciprocated.

He swallowed the taste of jealousy building in the back of his throat. “All right,” he acquiesced. “Ask him. But arrange to meet him somewhere. I don’t want you going to
his address alone. The Machinist knows who you are, and might still be watching you—or Dandy. I don’t want to give him an opportunity to go after you.”

She didn’t look half as afraid of that idea as she would have when she first arrived at his house, but it was obvious that the thought hadn’t crossed her mind, and that it scared her. “I will.”

Emily’s head suddenly jerked, as though an idea had literally slapped her in the face. “I know someone who might be able to tell us something.”

“Who?” the other two chorused.

Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “We found The Machinist’s oil at other crime sites. In fact, we found it in the automaton that attacked Sam.”

Griffin nodded. “That’s how we theorized The Machinist was behind the metal’s malfunction. But you said you didn’t know what he’d done to the machine,” Griffin reminded her, keeping his tone gentle so she wouldn’t mistake his words for spite.

“That was before I’d realized I developed the ability to speak machine.” With that, she stomped across the lab, boot soles hitting the floor with determined slaps as she headed toward the large iron vault in the top corner of the laboratory.

Griffin filled with unease. “Em, what are you doing?”

“Something I should have done long before this, but I was too much a coward.” She unlocked the vault, spinning
the wheel to open it. There was a hiss—the venting of steam as the gears of the vault’s mechanism turned—and then a loud
click.
Emily pulled the door open.

Inside was the automaton that had attacked Sam. Seeing it almost froze Griffin’s heart in his chest. It stood like a great iron man with a box-shaped body, one long arm with a large scoop of a hand, heavily treaded wheels and a small navigation dome where a head would be.

“Emily.” Finley stepped forward, obviously not wanting the little Irish girl to get any closer to the abomination. It took all of Griffin’s resolve to stop her instead of going after Emily himself.

“Be ready,” he whispered close to Finley’s ear. “Just in case.”

She nodded.

“I’m going to power it up,” Emily told them. “Stand clear, just in case. If anything happens, do not attack until I say so. I need a little time to make contact.”

Griffin personally thought it too great a risk, but it was one he would take himself and therefore he didn’t try to dissuade her. He merely stood there, silent and terrified as his wee Irish lass reached up and stuck a notched brass rod into the ignition port on the automaton’s front. Every metal laborer in the city had a similar port. It was to prevent accidental power outages or ignitions, but still simple enough that a machine could be shut down quickly if necessary.

Emily turned the rod. The notches made sharp clicking sounds as they found the tumblers and moved them into the proper position. There was a hollow sounding clunk, followed almost immediately by a whirring noise and the rotation of gears. The engine began to hum, preparing to run startup procedures. The automaton shuddered as the power source—made from the ore Griffin’s grandfather had discovered—worked its magic, followed by a noise that sounded like the whoosh of a heavy bellows.

The creature was coming to life.

Emily stood before it, the top of her head not even reaching three-quarters of the thing’s height. Her hands looked tiny against its scarred and dirty front panel—her left had a smear of something black across the back of it.

From where he stood, Griffin could watch her as she closed her eyes, face set with determination. However she “spoke” to the metal, it wasn’t with sound. If the thing were alive, he’d say it was telepathy. As it was, he had no word to describe it.

The automaton rumbled steadily, not making any movement whatsoever. Still, Griffin didn’t relax and neither did Finley. He was prepared to bring the entire house down on it if he had to.

Emily’s face paled with concentration, her freckles standing out against her skin. Her forehead creased, and her mouth tightened as she continued to press her hands against the metal, as though she possessed the strength to hold it
at bay. How long this went on, Griffin wasn’t sure, but suddenly he noticed that Emily was trembling—and that it wasn’t simply the machine’s vibrations running through her.

“Em?” He took a step forward. Finley glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, but didn’t move. The two of them waited, holding their breath.

Locks of thick, twisted red hair fell forward as her head bowed. That moaning sound—was it from her or the machine? He couldn’t be certain. He took another step. “Emily?”

He saw the blood at the same time Finley did. It ran from Emily’s nose and down her face to drip on her dirty apron and the floor. Drops of it splattered on the floorboards between her boots.

Emily’s knees began to buckle. Her hands left moisture prints on the grimy brass as they slid down the panel.

“Shut it down,” Griffin commanded, launching forward. Finley leaped into action, as well. It was she who caught Emily as she collapsed. Griffin grabbed the ignition rod just as the automaton began to raise its one arm—parts of the other having been used to reconstruct Sam’s. The whirring and rumbling whined and choked to a stop. The arm fell with a loud clunk and then everything went silent.

Don’t move,” Finley ordered as Emily shifted in her arms. They were on the floor of the lab—her kneeling with the smaller girl’s torso propped up on her legs. She used a hand kerchief to wipe the blood from Emily’s pale face before folding the linen into a square and using it to staunch the bright red trickling from her nose.

Bright blue-green eyes locked with hers. She could see that Emily was in pain, but there was something else—triumph.

“It spoke to me,” she whispered.

“You can tell us what it said later,” Finley told her. “Right now you just rest for a moment.” Nothing was so important that it couldn’t wait. The sight of Emily hurt had struck something deep inside her. She cared about this girl. She was the closest to a friend she’d had in such a long time, and the idea of losing that friendship terrified her.

Behind them, Finley heard the vault door creak on its hinges. She stiffened, heart hammering in her chest. Was it the machine? Then she heard the loud click of the lock followed by the turning of a wheel. Griffin had closed the vault. She closed her eyes and breathed a silent sigh of relief.

Her comfort, however, was short-lived. Just as she was about to help Emily to her feet, the door to the laboratory burst open and in stomped Sam, tails of his dark gray coat whipping out behind him. He looked around the room, and when his gaze fell on her, his eyes turned even blacker than usual.

“What the hell did you do to her?” he demanded, coming at her like a bull at a red flag.

Instinct told Finley to pass Emily to Griffin, so she did. Griffin glared at Sam, opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by Emily. “It’s only a nosebleed,” she told the large boy. “I talked to the digger, Sam.”

Sam’s head turned to look at her, shock written plainly on his features. “You what?”

“I put my hands on the digger and it spoke to me.” Emily wiped at her nose with the stained handkerchief. “I thought maybe it would tell me about The Machinist so Finley wouldn’t have to ask Dandy—”

“You started up that thing,” Sam cut her off as he jabbed a finger in Finley’s direction. “For
her?
”

Finley mentally shook her head. Emily hadn’t quite
recovered from her ordeal, or she would have known better than to say anything about having “talked” to the blasted metal for Finley’s benefit. She knew how much Sam thought of Emily, even if neither of them knew it themselves.

Sam came at her. She barely had time to brace herself, barely time to register that part of her wanted this seemingly unavoidable violence.

“It could have killed her,” Sam raged, coming to stand in front of her, a bull ready to charge. “She wouldn’t let me die, but she risked her life for
you.
You are not worth her life. You’re not worth her blood.”

It happened so fast then, she barely had time to realize what was happening. Big, strong—terribly strong—hands gripped her, lifted her and threw her. Finley flew through the air, dimly aware of Griffin’s shout and Emily’s cry. She hit the wall with a force that would have seriously injured a normal person. She crashed to the bench and then the floor, taking a pile of debris with her that included part of a velocycle frame, a clock and an assortment of tools.

Oh, God, that
hurt.
Her lungs struggled to draw breath as she lay on her belly on the floor, gasping for breath and choking on dust. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Blood stained her skin; she had bitten her tongue when she struck the wall.

Slowly, she pushed herself up, assessing the damage done. The others were still far away, up by the vault. Griffin and Emily were yelling at Sam, alternating between trying to
reason with him and berating him. Griffin tried to hold the goliath of a young man back, but Finley knew even Griffin couldn’t keep him for long.

Sam Morgan wanted a fight, and he wanted it with her. There was no one in that room who could stop him, and she was the only one who came anywhere near being a match for him. Unless Griffin did whatever it was he did, there was no alternative but to give him that fight. She knew this with both sides of herself, so in the interest of self-preservation, she let the change happen. It didn’t take much—violence always made the transition easy. This one was a little different in the fact that it hadn’t taken over already. Normally she would have already lost control rather than be given the choice.

Energy raced through her, giving her strength where there had been weakness, numbness where there had been pain and anger where there had been fear. When she rose to her feet it was with a smile and she beckoned Sam with the taunting crook of a finger.

“There it is,” Sam said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “There’s the real monster.” His face ferocious, the tall, muscled young man charged at her. Finley stood her ground and let him come. Just as he was about to strike, she grabbed him by the waist of his trousers, her left hand going behind his shoulders. She used his own momentum to lift him off the ground, flip and throw him down. His back
hit the floor hard—she could feel the shock of it tremble through the boards beneath her feet.

Within seconds, he arched his body and leaped to his feet with more grace than she would have expected from someone his size. She barely had time to duck the massive fist that swung at her, countering with a sharp uppercut under his chin. Pain raced up her arm as his head snapped back. Bloody hell, had Emily reinforced his skull with metal?

Shaking her hand, Finley drew back, waiting for him to make the next move. She wanted to be more aggressive. She wanted to climb him like a tree, lock her legs around him like a monkey and pound his face until he surrendered or passed out. However, that maneuver would probably hurt her more than him. And she wasn’t about to be the villain in this fight. She would defend herself, but she would not attack.

Something that felt very much like the side of a carriage struck her left cheek, lifting her off her feet once more. Her side struck the table holding the waxwork Victoria, sending the queen toppling to the ground as the heavy table skidded several inches, leaving grooves in the wooden floor. She felt her ribs crack, agony shooting through her as she slumped over the tabletop. She groaned.

Gentle hands touched her arm and face. It was Griffin. “Stop this,” he begged.

It hurt to breathe. Finley shook her head. “It’s not my fight to stop.”

He looked up. “Sam, stop it,
now.
Finley did nothing wrong.”

“Idiot,” Sam sneered as he stomped toward them. “You’re so infatuated with her you can’t see straight. Look at everything that’s happened since you brought her here. She was a murder suspect. She’s in league with Dandy and still you try to protect her. What does she have to do before you’ll see her for what she is? Cut one of our throats?”

Finley sat up, wincing at the movement. Staying down wouldn’t save her, and a part of her very much wanted to continue—fight until one of them could no longer fight. “If I cut anything of yours, you great stupid article, it will be your tongue—and then I’ll make you swallow it.”

He made a noise that sounded very much like a roar, picked her up by the throat as though she were a rag doll and held her above the floor as he punched her once, twice, three times. Her ears rang, her face felt hot and wet—broken. If she were normal she’d most likely be dead. But she wasn’t normal and her ribs were already healing. Unfortunately, she saw that the cut on Sam’s lip—no doubt from where his teeth had torn it when she punched his jaw—was almost healed, as well. Wonderful. He was bigger, stronger and healed faster than her.

The fingers around her throat tightened, cutting off her supply of air. She gasped like a beached fish, holding on
to his arm so all of her weight wasn’t on her neck. He was going to kill her.

“Sam!” It was Griffin’s voice. Finley’s vision was beginning to blur, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Griffin grab Sam’s arm. “Let her go!”

It was proof of how far into his rage Sam was, because instead of letting her go, he lifted his free hand and backhanded Griffin with enough force to knock the other fellow to the floor. Emily cried out.

That was what sent Finley over the edge. As blackness swarmed the edges of her mind and vision, the sight of Griffin thrown to the floor and the sound of Emily’s anguish gave her an extra shove. She opened herself up and let go of all of her fear and control, her soul reveling in a brief moment of ecstasy as the two halves of her came together.

Her vision cleared. Behind Sam she saw Griffin rising to his feet, his eyes glowing unnaturally. She’d already seen what happened when the Duke of Greythorne used his abilities, and there was no pool here to absorb the energy. She had to end this before they all died.

She looked down at Sam as she managed to pull a shallow breath into her lungs. Both of her hands tightened around his wrist and forearm. Tightening her stomach, she pulled her legs up, bent to her chest. She focused all of her strength on her lower extremities as she drew back and then snapped her legs out like a jackrabbit.

She kicked him in the chest. The heavy soles of both boots struck with all the force she could muster. She heard a sickening cracking sound as they connected. Sam grunted and dropped her, skidding backward, until he hit the wall, books raining down on him from the shelves above.

Finley knew immediately that the fight had gone too far. Whether it was that crunching noise or the look on Sam’s face that told her she wasn’t sure, but she knew before he slid to the floor that Sam was seriously hurt.

The fight fled from her with the swift intensity of a sneeze, leaving her twitchy and anxious in its wake. She ran across the room on shaking legs, falling to her knees beside her opponent just behind the others.

“Is he all right?” she asked, even though she didn’t want the answer.

Somehow, Emily had found a stethoscope in the mess made by the fight, and placed the metal part on Sam’s broad chest as she shoved the listening pods into her ears. Her face was white as she glanced at Griffin.

“His heart,” Emily whispered, her hands shaking as much as her voice.

Finley swallowed hard and looked at the young man on the floor. It sounded as though he was having trouble breathing. Blood trickled from his mouth. His wide eyes sought Emily’s and held them.

“Em,” he whispered hoarsely, blood running down his chin. His eyes were wide and he looked like a scared little
boy instead of the wild man he’d been only moments before. “I don’t want to die.”

Finley’s throat clenched as the back of her eyes burned. She would never forgive herself for this—and neither would anyone else. How could she have lost control? Yes, she was only defending herself, but she never meant to harm Sam, only to keep him from seriously harming her.

Emily’s head turned toward her. Gone was the fear and wild, wide-eyed expression. She looked calm and collected—perhaps too much so. “Pick him up,” she instructed. “Take him to the infirmary.”

Finley was so numb she couldn’t even ask where the infirmary was. She simply did as she was told and picked Sam up. Obviously her darker half hadn’t left her completely, probably because she felt so terribly guilty.

Griffin guided her to another room off the lab. It was small, but frighteningly clean and well lit. A lone table stood in the center of the room, a huge chandelier hanging overhead. It was a surgery, she realized. Quickly, she carried Sam to the table. There was a terrible pallor to his face, a light sheen of sweat over his skin.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to him, her voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.”

“Open his shirt,” Emily demanded, and Finley was so eager to fix her mistake she ripped the buttons off his waistcoat and tore his shirt right down the middle, the fine lawn giving away like tissue paper.

Sam’s chest was broad and muscled, and it was already beginning to bruise where she kicked him—not a good sign.

“Wash your hands,” Emily told her. “You’re going to help me. Griffin, get the ether and Listerine out of the cabinet. Clean linen, too.”

“What are you going to do?” Finley asked.

Emily glanced at her with unnervingly steady eyes. “I’m going to cut open his chest and fix his heart.”

For a moment Griffin thought Finley might faint she went so pale, but then she gave her head a shake and went to wash her hands at the sink as Emily demanded.

The inside of his cheek had torn against his teeth when Sam backhanded him and he could taste blood in his mouth, see it on the front of his shirt. He wasn’t even angry. At this moment all that mattered was saving Sam. Again.

If Finley hadn’t done this, what would he have done? He had felt the Aether rushing to him in his anger. He would have done far more damage than this. He might have killed them all.

This was too much like the previous time they had operated on Sam. Not so much blood and carnage, but horrible all the same. He didn’t want to stand there and watch Emily do what needed to be done, but he refused to leave her alone. So, he put the ether-soaked cloth over Sam’s nose and mouth and watched as his friend slipped into a deep slumber before collecting the needles, pump and
tubing for a transfusion. Last time Emily had operated, they discovered his blood was compatible with Sam’s. Quickly, he attached the equipment, piercing the vein on the inside of Sam’s large arm before doing the same with his own. Then he connected the small pump Emily had fashioned out of parts of a sewing machine. It powered up immediately, and within a few moments was producing enough steam to pull the blood from his arm into Sam’s. It was much quicker than waiting for gravity to do its work.

While he’d been busy readying the transfusion machine, Emily had readied her own tools and poured Dr. Lister’s “Listerine” disinfectant over her hands and Sam’s torso.

Then, she raised her scalpel and quickly cut into Sam’s chest. Finley handed Emily what she needed, doing what she was told quickly and without comment. Not even when she utilized that awful contraption for spreading Sam’s broken ribs apart did she falter, although she grew terribly pale.

Emily frowned as she peered inside Sam’s chest. “What the devil…”