Kitabı oku: «The Girl in the Steel Corset»

About the Author

In her other life, KADY CROSS is a USA TODAY bestselling author of more than twenty books. She is lucky enough to have a husband who shares her love for the slightly twisted and all things geek, and a houseful of cats with whom she shares her darkest secrets. When she’s not listening to the characters in her head, she’s either trying to formulate the perfect lip gloss or teaching herself to solder. She has a weakness for all things girlie, sugar skulls and boots. Her love of books and makeup borders on addiction—of which she never, ever wants to be cured.

The

Girl in the

Steel

Corset

Kady Cross

www.miraink.co.uk

This book is for all the girls who provided inspiration:

Elsa, Katlyn, Emma, Madeline, Roxi and Rosie.

Also, for Steve, who not only inspired me,

but helped with research, helped me brainstorm,

took care of meals and never complained about all the takeout

he had to eat while I worked. Thanks, hon—not only for the

support, but for going to see Twilight with me. You so rock.

Hugs to Krista and Nancy and Miriam

for believing in this project, and in me—

even when I had my doubts.

And lastly, this book is for me.

Because, after writing 20+, I deserve one. :-)

Acknowledgments

An author rarely writes a book all on his/her own. There’s usually a put-upon friend who sits and listens while we drone on about our “fascinating” plot, or a spouse who eats takeout more often than either he/she wants. In my case, there are several people who seriously need to be thanked for this book ever finding its way into your fabulous little hands. First of all I need to thank Krista Stroever, editor extraordinaire. When I told Krista I wanted to write League of Extraordinary Gentlemen meets teen X-Men she replied, “Steampunk. Cool.” She treats me like a rock star and I love her to bits for it. I’m just waiting for her to get a restraining order!

Also, I have to give a shout-out to three fabulous writer friends who held my hand through this process and provided much need pep talks and rational thinking when I’d lost all of mine. So Jesse Petersen, Colleen Gleason and Sophie Jordan—you are the best girlfriends I could ask for. I just wish I could see more of you.

Thanks to Nancy Yost for selling this book and for years of invaluable guidance. Miriam Kriss, thanks for being your rockin’ self and not laughing at my Yoda backpack. The Force is strong in you.

More thanks have to go out to my friends for under standing when I can’t come out to play, or when I’m crazier than usual. Thank you to my family for being more incredible characters than I could ever create (I’m looking at you, Weezie). And thank you to Sarah Rose for reading this book in the early stages and giving me ideas for T-shirts.

Last, but certainly never least, I have to point the spotlight at my husband, Steve, without whom I quite literally could not have written this book. Thank you for your research, your brains, your enthusiasm and tireless support. I don’t have enough words to explain what a huge part you played in this project, which is good because if I did have the words, I’m sure you’d never let me forget them. Most of all, thanks for just being your fabulous self because there’s no one else I’d rather spend the rest of my life laughing with than you.

Oh, and I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge those awkward years I spent between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. I wouldn’t go back to you for any amount of money, but I wouldn’t change you, either. Though, I wouldn’t mind giving you a good slap or two.

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

Chapter 1

London, 1897

The moment she saw the young man walking down the darkened hall toward her, twirling his walking stick, Finley Jayne knew she’d be unemployed before the sun rose. Her third dismissal in as many months.

She tensed and slowed her steps, but she did not stop. She kept her head down, but was smart enough not to take her gaze off him. Perhaps he would walk right by her, as though she were as invisible as servants were supposed to be.

Felix August-Raynes was the son of her employer. At one and twenty years of age, he was tall and lean with curly blond hair and bright blue eyes. Every woman who saw him called him an angel. Most who knew him thought him the very devil.

The other maids in service had warned her about Lord Felix her first day in the house. A mere fortnight ago. He belonged to a gang of privileged ruffians known for their facial piercings and lack of respect for anyone else, especially females. She had been hired to replace the previous girl hurt by the young lord. Rumor had it that the maid had required serious medical attention.

Finley didn’t court trouble, but part of her—that part that was going to keep her safe, yet get her fired—hoped he’d try something. It was horribly delighted at the prospect of the violence to come.

The rest of her was terrified. Were it not for the steel boning of her leather work-corset, she fancied her heart might slam through her ribs it was pounding so hard.

Lord Felix smiled, teeth flashing in the dim light as he stopped just a few feet in front of her, blocking the only route to the servants’ quarters where she slept. The tiny brass bar that bisected his left eyebrow—and proclaimed him a member of the Dandies—glinted. “Hello, my lovely. I had hoped to run into you.”

Finley hesitated. Maybe he’d move out of her way and let her pass.

Or, a voice in her head whispered—her voice—you could kick his teeth in. She lowered her gaze, not wanting him to see the bloodlust there. Silently, she willed him to let her pass. For his own safety.

Instead, he closed the scant distance between them.

“You’re new, aren’t you?” he inquired, moving closer. He was already much too close for propriety and there was no one around to make sure he didn’t overstep his bounds. The light on the wall above them flickered as though attuned to the fluttering in Finley’s chest. This close, she could smell stale ale, cologne and the undeniable oily scent of mech-boxing on his fine suit. Lord Felix was a great patron of the sport. Though why anyone would want to watch automatons pound the gears out of each other was beyond her.

“Please, my lord,” she said softly, wincing at the pleading in her tone. Please don’t make me hurt you. “I wish to retire. It’s late.”

It was after three in the morning, to be exact. She would have been in bed hours ago were it not for the fact that the darling debutante of the house had demanded her pink riding habit be laundered for the morning. As Lady Alyss’s maid, it was Finley’s job to take the ensemble down to the laundry where the air was thick with hot steam and the smell of overheated gears. She had washed the clothing and set it to dry. Right now her blouse and short skirts were damp, and her feet were sweating inside her high, thick-soled boots. She wanted nothing more than to unfasten the many buckles and take them off, along with her corset. She was going to be up early to collect the habit for Lady Alyss to wear.

And now this annoying twit stood in her way. Finley didn’t like it. The thing inside her truly didn’t like it. She used to think of it as an imp on her shoulder, urging her to be naughty, but lately she’d come to think of it as less mischievous and more dangerous.

Dangerous to whoever threatened her.

Lord Felix propped a palm against the plaster by her head, turning so that he pinned her against the wall with his own body. “What’s the hurry?” he asked, beer breath hot on her face. “Don’t you like me?”

Finley held her tongue. If she opened her mouth she’d tell him exactly what she thought of him, and she needed to keep this employment. She needed to get out of this situation without either of them getting hurt.

He slid his other hand behind her, down her back to her backside and squeezed. “Don’t you want to make me happy? Smart little girls want to make me happy.”

Finley turned her head as his face came down toward hers, and narrowly escaped being kissed. His wet mouth landed on her ear instead. She shuddered. “Please, my lord. Let me go.” For your own sake.

His lips fastened on her neck instead. Nausea rolled through her stomach and then suddenly stopped as she felt his palm against the striped stockings that covered her thigh. He wasn’t going to cease. He wasn’t going to let her go. He was going to take what he wanted, because that’s what rich young men did to girls under their control.

But she wasn’t under anybody’s control. Not even her own. She could feel it fracturing as something deep inside fought to get out.

Finley brought both hands up and pushed hard against his chest. He flew backward, hitting the opposite wall with enough force to crack the plaster.

Lord Felix stared at her, in both shock and outrage. “You nasty tart,” he snarled as he brushed dust from his sleeves. “Like a bit of the rough, do you?”

“You’ve no idea,” Finley heard herself reply coolly. “But make no mistake, my lord, I do not like you, so keep those damn hands of yours to yourself.”

The young man’s face reddened and his eyes shone with anger. “Bitch. No guttersnipe servant talks to me that way.” He straightened and took a step toward her, shrugging out of his purple velvet frock-coat. “Someone needs to teach you a lesson.”

She didn’t see the blow coming, but she certainly felt it when it hit. Her head jolted back under the force of his fist, striking the wall. Lights danced in the darkness of her eyes as pain shot through her skull. But she did not pass out.

It would have been so much better for Lord Felix if she had.

She could feel blood trickling from her mouth and she wiped at it with the back of her hand. Vision finally clear, she saw that Lord Felix had also removed his waistcoat and was now rolling up his sleeves. The excited glint in his eye told Finley exactly what kind of lesson he intended her to “learn.”

Something inside her stretched and pulled—still fighting to get out. There was no point in denying it anymore. She had been raised in a loving home with her mother and stepfather—a kind and honest man who doted on them both. He would never dream of such violence—no good man would.

But Lord Felix August-Raynes was not a good man. And it was time someone taught him a lesson.

The warm rush of familiar power brought a slight smile to her battered lips. She gave up all attempts to keep it reined in. It was the only way she’d survive this night with her virtue and bones intact. It was as though she was watching herself from a perch on the ceiling—all she could do was observe as her other self took over. Her boots shifted on the bare floor, right foot forward, left foot back and pointed out. She raised her fists.

“Coming back for more, eh?” Felix grinned at her. “I like a little fight in my girls.”

She grinned at him, causing blood to dribble down her chin. “Then you’re going to love me.” The voice was hers, but deeper and throatier than she’d ever heard before. It was a dangerous voice, and even Felix paused at the sound of it.

Finley, however, did not pause. She drove her fist right into her attacker’s throat. He staggered backward, eyes wide with shock as he coughed and choked and struggled for breath.

She bounced on her feet, waiting for him to recover. She should run and hide. She should be gasping in fear, lungs constrained by the tight lacing of her corset. But she wasn’t afraid anymore and she wasn’t about to run. She was going to fight.

But first, a little fun. She hadn’t hit the bully as hard as she could have. She was going to let him think he stood a chance first.

When Felix recovered enough to come at her again, she was ready for him. He swung and she ducked, landing another punch to his kidneys. When he doubled over, she grabbed his head and brought her knee up fast. Unfortunately, the layers of skirts she wore softened the blow. He struck her in the stomach, knocking the breath from her, and then hit her in the face again. She fell to the floor, rolling just in time to avoid being kicked by one of his boots.

She’d never been struck before—not like this. She’d never felt as though someone meant to kill her—or didn’t care if they did. She gasped for breath against the polished wood floor, rolling again when he struck out with his foot once more. She moved faster than she should have, the pain from his blows already easing.

He called her all kinds of horrible names—guttural and nasty sounding. But instead of making her feel awful or frightening her, they only made her want to hit him all the harder.

She pulled herself to her feet. Her stomach and face ached, but not like it should have. It never hurt like it should.

Her hands grabbed Lord Felix by the front of his shirt. She pulled him toward her, hard, and smashed her forehead against the bridge of his nose. There was a snapping sound just before he screamed. Finley thrust him backward, satisfaction tickling her when she saw the blood coursing down his face.

He was good and mad now. He raised a hand to his nose, and when he saw the blood on his fingers, he made a growling sound in his throat. She’d ruined his pretty face and now he was going to make her pay for it. She smiled. Or rather, he was going to try to make her pay for it.

He came at her again, like a bull. Finley didn’t think, she simply reacted and took two quick steps forward. With that slight momentum, she lifted her right boot to the wall and pushed up, grabbing the scrolled brass of the wall sconce for support and whipped her left leg out.

She kicked him in the face.

He keeled over like a milk bottle knocked off a step, hitting the floor with a solid thump. He lay there, motionless, an imprint of the heel of her boot smack in the middle of his forehead, blood trickling from his already swelling nose.

She hopped down from the wall and went to stand over him, victorious and self-satisfied. Adrenaline rushed through her veins, making her practically dance in her boots. Lord Felix had promised to teach her a lesson, but he was the one who had been schooled. He’d think twice before laying a hand on another girl.

But Finley’s satisfaction was short-lived. In fact, it was over at almost the precise moment when she looked at Lord Felix’s face. He was so still, so pale except for the blood. What if he was dead? All the fight whooshed out of her, leaving her trembling and cold in its wake.

“What have I done?” she whispered.

What you had to.

She felt his neck for a pulse, relief engulfing her as she found it. She hadn’t killed him. At least she wouldn’t hang. But she had still attacked the son of a peer of the realm and there would be consequences.

Three jobs in three months and they’d all ended with an experience like this one, although this was by far the worst. She’d been let go from each position because of her behavior, something that had released this thing inside her. Urges to act in a way that was far from civilized, far beyond what she as a young woman should be capable of.

They’d bring the law down on her for this. They’d lock her up. Or worse, use her for scientific experiments in New Bethlehem Asylum—Bedlam. And they would experiment on her once they realized she was abnormal.

Run, the voice inside her whispered. Run away.

Listening to the voice had gotten her into this mess, perhaps this time it would get her out. There was no way Lord Felix wouldn’t exact retribution upon her for harming him—either by finishing what he’d started or by bringing the authorities down upon her. There was no way she was going to let him do what he wanted to her. No way she’d risk having her brain dissected for giving him less than what he really deserved.

So Finley listened to the voice and ran.

Bent low over the gleaming steering bars of his velocycle as he sped through the rainy darkness of Hyde Park, Griffin King felt a faint ripple of warning in the Aether a split second before the girl ran right out in front of him. The rune tattoos he had to heighten his senses and abilities blazed with heat, calling out the danger just in time.

He swerved, jerking hard on the bars to avoid her, but it was too late. The glare of the headlamp slashed across her surprised face and then she was thrown through the air as he struggled to maintain control of the machine and failed. The notched wheels tore into the ground as the cycle tipped to the side, tossing him to the path before skidding to a halt several feet away.

The leather duster he wore protected him from being torn up by gravel as he slid and rolled on the rough ground. When he finally came to a stop, he lay sprawled on the wet grass just for a moment to catch his breath and spit out the dirt that had flown into his mouth.

“Is she all right?” he called out as he gingerly rose to his feet, flicking mud and grass from his leather gloves. Nothing was broken, but he still felt as though he’d been slammed into a brick wall, and tomorrow he’d have bruises to match.

In the glow of the light from the second cycle—this one upright and braced on its support bar—he saw his friend, Sam Morgan, kneel over the prone body of the girl. From this angle, all Griff could see around Sam’s large frame was a pair of long legs encased in tall, thick-soled leather boots and orange-and-black-striped stockings. Servant’s garb.

At eighteen, Griff was at an age when all he should be concerned with was ensuring his allowance lasted a full term at Oxford. His parents’ death had made him the Duke of Greythorne at age fifteen, subsequently making him all too familiar with what servants wore, since he’d recently had to hire new staff. There were some chores machines couldn’t do—or weren’t wanted to do—and those demanded a host of human employees, all of whom were designated by the uniforms they wore. Orange and black made her a ladies’ maid. Too exalted a position for this girl to be out alone at this time of night.

“Sam?” he questioned, favoring his left leg as he moved closer to the pair. “Is she all right?”

“Got a pulse.” His friend’s low, laconic voice came from beneath the dripping brim of his hat as Griff crouched beside him. “It’s steady, but she’s bleeding. So are you.”

Pulling his smudged goggles down so they hung around his neck, Griff glanced down. His blood, coming through the shredded left knee of his trousers, glistened bright red in the light. “I’ll be fine. I’m more concerned about her.”

“Did you see her face?” Sam demanded, taking a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. “She looked almost wild.”

Griff had seen her face—just before he hit her. There had been something untamed in her features. Something fierce and beautiful, as well.

“What was she running from?” Sam asked, as he pressed the linen against the wound on her forehead. It was bleeding heavily. “Or who?”

Griff glanced at the girl whose head was cradled in his friend’s large hand and saw the red mark on her rain-soaked cheek, the blood at her mouth. Injuries from the accident? Or something intentional?

Regardless, until he was certain she was unharmed, she was his responsibility.

“We’ll take her with us,” he decided, lifting the limp body into his arms. A glint of steel peeked through where the leather of her corset had torn.

“You reckon that’s wise?” Sam, Griff knew, wasn’t being cold, he was being practical. They already had enough to worry about with the recent robbery at the British Museum and tension within their own little group. Adding this girl and her troubles into the mix could only make things worse. Strangers were always an issue in his house. Always the fear of someone uncovering too much.

“We can’t leave her.” It was as simple as that. Although, they could take her to a hospital, but Griff’s honor wouldn’t allow that. Besides, something told him not to let this girl out of his sight, and he’d learned to trust his instincts. The times he hadn’t always ended badly.

Sam swung one leg over the seat of his cycle and took the girl from Griff’s embrace into his own. “Do you want me to send word ahead?”

Griff shook his head, rain running down his face, seeping below his jacket collar to dampen his shirt and skin. “I’ll do that. Just get her to the house—don’t leave her unattended.” As he spoke, he slipped a battered leather case from his pocket. Inside was a flat machine smaller than a deck of playing cards. It was a personal telegraph machine—all the rage now for fast communication. His machine and the ones belonging to his friends were a little “faster” than those available to the general public as not only were they based on Mr. Tesla’s “wireless” design, they’d been augmented to transmit through the Aether by the amazingly brilliant Emily, whom Griffin had hired over her less-capable brothers a year ago.

Griffin flipped the case open at the same time as Sam started up his velocycle. He punched a few of the keys and hit the transmit button. A few seconds later, as Sam drove away, the heavily treaded wheels of his cycle kicking up dirt, a reply appeared on the grainy screen. He squinted to read it in the dark and rain. He needn’t have bothered. He knew Emily would do as he asked and make preparations for their guest, and that was exactly what her response said.

He limped harder now, his leg already beginning to stiffen. He clenched his jaw against the discomfort and set about righting his own cycle. The heavy metal frame looked relatively unscathed, but he’d give it a thorough going-over in the morning. It started up immediately and Griff slipped his goggles back over his eyes before following in the direction Sam had gone.

He’d deal with the museum robbery in the morning. Nothing terribly valuable seemed to have been stolen, and that was what puzzled him. Special Branch would want answers, but they would have to wait. Right now, the girl was his first priority. An aura of danger clung to her like an oil slick. Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell if she was in danger, or if she was danger.

That was what he intended to find out.

Chapter 2

Greythorne House was a sprawling neoclassical mansion situated in London’s Mayfair district—where the important people lived. Important, of course, meaning that you were from an old family and rich. That said, you didn’t have to be incredibly rich, you just had to give the appearance of it.

Fortunately for Griff, he was very rich. His family was very old. And until a few years ago, when his parents died, his family had been very secretive. It wasn’t until almost a year after their murder that he discovered the extent of the secret rooms and laboratories below this house and the main estate in Devon. And just as long since he realized just how much Great Britain owed his family for keeping it safe. He reminded himself of that debt on the few occasions when Her Majesty Victoria suggested that it was Griff who owed something to the Crown instead.

Almost twenty years ago, his parents had taken it upon themselves to continue the work started by his grandfather, the fourteenth Duke of Greythorne, and journeyed to the center of the earth. There they discovered the Cradle of Life—the place where creation began. What they’d found there had been astounding, but would never see the light of day, at least not in the foreseeable future. The world wasn’t ready for it. Helena and Edward King had dedicated their lives to Crown and country, and they’d been killed because of it.

In return, Queen V sent a lovely arrangement of roses to the funeral.

So when Griff dedicated himself to the protection of his homeland, it wasn’t for any monarch or out of a sense of duty. He did it to honor his parents, and one day he would find the person responsible for their deaths, and he would have justice.

Right now, that justice was far in the back of his mind, though it never really left entirely. He stood at the foot of a large four-poster bed in one of the many bedrooms available in his home and watched with his arms folded across his chest as Emily O’Brien, one of the most intelligent people he knew, tended to their unconscious guest, whom the maids had relieved of her soaked clothing and put to bed.

“She doesn’t look scary,” Emily commented in her soft Irish brogue as she applied the tip of what had once been a perfume atomizer but was now a pretty glass bottle with a brass syringe tip attached, to the wound on the unconscious girl’s brow. As she squeezed the bulb, a fine mist from the glass reservoir sprayed through the syringe onto the broken skin. The mist was made up of the life-giving material Griff’s parents had found at the earth’s core—tiny little creatures that could mimic the body’s own cellular behavior. The Organites—or “beasties” as Emily called them—attached themselves to the human tissue and copied its composition, so that when applied to the wound, they worked to rebuild the flesh and heal the injury. By morning, the girl would be completely healed, without even the tiniest scar. A similar brew had been used on Griff’s torn knee and he could already feel an improvement.

This existence of these Organites was one secret Griff kept to himself. The queen hadn’t wanted to know about it when his parents first discovered it. She liked the ore that his grandfather had mined—a wondrous substance made by the Organites that emitted energy that could be used to power anything from one machine to an entire household—but the rest of it came too close to proving Mr. Darwin’s radical theories of evolution correct. Victoria thought the church might take offense to such a discovery, or worse, that man might be corrupted by it and start playing God. In fact, she’d ordered the Organites destroyed, or at least returned to the earth’s core.

Griff thought she was just a scared old woman, but no one asked his opinion.

Thankfully, Griff’s parents hadn’t obeyed their sovereign and kept a small batch of the primordial goo on hand. The Organites thrived in a small grottolike vault far beneath the mansion, replicating and producing the fantastic blue-green substance that Griffin used as his personal supply. While the rest of the world benefitted from a diluted version of the ore, Griff had the purest samples at his disposal for Emily to use in her inventions—such as the velocycles, which moved faster than those available to even the wealthiest consumer.

They were their own “Special Branch.”

“There’s something not right about her,” Griff said finally, frowning as he studied the sleeping girl.

“She’s come to the right place then,” the redhead replied with a touch of a smile as she pushed her ropey hair out of her face. “There’s not one ‘right’ amongst the lot of us.” And then, “She must have jumped out of your way and struck her head on the ground. If you had hit her, she’d be more seriously injured.”

Griff kept frowning. “I did hit her. That’s part of what’s not right.” The girl had practically leaped onto his cycle, hadn’t she? He shook his head, uncertain whether his memories were real or imaginings.

Other than remaining unconscious and the gash on her head, there was nothing wrong with the girl. Nothing at all—except for the bruising on her face, which he could now see bore the imprint of a signet ring.

“Someone beat her,” Emily remarked. “You probably saved her.”

“Or saved whoever was after her,” Sam commented from the doorway.

Griff flashed a quick glance in his friend’s direction. He practically filled the door frame with his broad shoulders and height. His longish black hair was damp, but he’d changed into dry clothing. His dark gaze was intense as it fell on Emily. Angry but admiring.

Griffin shook his head. “You should have seen her, Em, like something out of one of those gothic novels you’re always reading.”

Finished with her patient, Emily tucked a chunk of bright red hair behind her ear, revealing a line of golden hoops that stemmed from lobe to high on the cartilage, and rose to her feet, atomizer in her hand. “Are you implying she’s a monster, then, Griffin King?”

He arched a brow at her challenging tone. “No, but she could have escaped from someone’s attic. I’m told these things happen more often than you might think.”

She actually smiled at that. Emily’s love of gothic novels was no secret, and she took a lot of teasing for it, being the only girl in the house. The only girl until now. There was Aunt Cordelia, but she was away more than she was home. He looked again at the sleeping young woman—who couldn’t be any older than Emily’s own sixteen years—before motioning them both out of the room. When the door closed behind them, Emily asked, “What happened at the museum?”

Sam caught Griff’s eye with a questioning look. Griff shrugged, indicating that he didn’t care what information he shared. Sam seemed to have this old-fashioned notion that women needed to be protected. Some of the most devious people Griff had ever encountered had been female. He didn’t share the sentiment.

Sam’s lips tightened. “Griff found a small glob of oil.”

“Oil?” Emily shot him a frown. “What kind of oil?”

Sam shook his head. Griffin said what he could not. “We took a sample. It’s in your lab. Em …” He ran a hand through his hair. “It looks like the kind of oil used to lubricate exposed automaton joints.”

The implication of that froze Emily on the spot. “An automaton robbed the museum?” Her crystalline blue eyes were wide as they turned to Griff. “Was it The Machinist?”

“It looks that way,” he replied, seeing Sam continue on without them. Recently there had been a few crimes around town seemingly perpetrated by automatons acting against their programming engines, none of them particularly dangerous. Except for one. That one had been enough. It had almost cost them one of their own. The authorities suspected a criminal calling himself The Machinist was behind the incidents.

The thought called to mind a vision of blood and smoke. Of a broken body close to death, held in the clutches of a metal man. Griff remembered leaping onto the machine’s back, tearing open its panel to reach the controls inside. He knew Sam must be reliving a few memories of his own. After all, he had been the one the thing almost killed.

They’d been chasing similar, though less violent, incidents for almost a year. Griffin figured they were looking for a man with superior mechanical knowledge, particularly that of automatons. Thus far, Emily had found nothing in the programming of the two specimens they had to even suggest they’d been tampered with.

The automatons’ power sources were the same as all standard androids—the same compound that powered most of London. Griff was a bit of an expert in this, since the compound was derived from the ore discovered by his grandfather. He owned the patent on it, owned the rights, too. So Griff knew that the small nugget inside each machine was just as it should be.

So how did the villain make the automatons act against their programming?

“We should assume that any mech involved was accompanied by a human master until we know otherwise.” He fought the fear coiling around his heart. Machines that could think for themselves. Surely it was impossible?

Emily was paler than usual, and Griff knew she was thinking of what had happened to Sam, as well. He should comfort her, but he didn’t know how. Give him a problem to solve and he would jump in with both feet, but he didn’t know how to give comfort, and he hated it.

Sam was waiting for them as they entered the library, where they took all their group meetings. As his gaze fell upon his friend, whom he had known for almost the entirety of his life, Griff couldn’t help but feel surprised that anything had ever managed to hurt him. Sam was so strong. He was a little taller than Griff and certainly more powerfully built. His rugged features only added to his intimidating demeanor. He hadn’t always looked so fierce. Less than a year ago, he’d been quick with a grin or a naughty joke.

Six months ago, an automaton had attacked him in the middle of a routine assignment and tore Sam apart. It had been brutal, a shock for them all to see their strongest member taken down like that. It had been Emily who’d saved him. Emily who’d put him back together. And sometimes when he looked at her, Griff suspected Sam had never quite forgiven her for it. In fact, when he looked at her now, the fingers of his right hand—the hand she’d repaired—twitched.

Emily saw it, too. Griff could tell because she quickly looked away, purposefully focusing on anything but Sam.

“We should have taken the girl to the hospital,” Sam muttered, leaning against the corner of a sofa. He rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand. “Bringing her here puts us all at risk. What if she’s a wanted criminal?”

Griff tilted his head. “I don’t think it would have been safe to take her to the hospital, for her or the staff.”

His friend raised a heavy brow, sarcasm written all over his face. “So you decided, ‘hell, why not bring her home with me?’ Well done.”

His doubt irked Griff, who wasn’t accustomed to being questioned. Still, he could understand Sam’s misgivings. “You said so yourself—she was scared of something, or someone,” he replied. “I’m certain that’s the August-Raynes crest on her corset.” It was common now for domestic servants to wear their master’s crests on their clothing, like the livery worn by footmen.

“He’s one of the richest men in England!” Sam’s tone was incredulous. “Are you sure he’s someone you want to cross?”

Griff smiled. “Don’t you read the scandal sheets, Sam? Supposedly I am the richest man in England. Surely that makes me more formidable? Besides, I’ve a notion it’s not the father I’d be crossing.”

“Who, then?”

Griff’s own blue gaze locked with pitch-black. “Remember that girl in Whitechapel last winter? The one who had been raped by her employer and tossed out when he discovered she was pregnant with his child?”

Sam nodded, jaw clenched.

Griff inclined his head. “Lord Felix August-Rayne, his lordship’s youngest. He’s gotten in with the Dandies and seems to have developed a habit of abusing his servants, and anyone else he considers beneath him.”

“Do you …?” Emily paused, face white as she glanced toward the door, as though afraid the girl upstairs could hear. “Do you think he hurt her?”

Griff shot her a sympathetic glance. He didn’t know much about Emily’s past, but guessed that she’d had her share of unpleasantness. She had been quick to accept his offer of employment, as though she couldn’t wait to leave her old life behind. “I don’t know.”

“It’s not safe having her here,” Sam insisted, trying to bash Griff with his will once more. “For her, or for us. We can’t afford to call attention to ourselves. Not with those … things out there.” His voice cracked on things. They all heard it. They all ignored it.

He meant the machines. Most were perfectly harmless, but there was nothing quite as frightening as metal out of control. That was why Griff had the remains of Sam’s mechanical attacker in Emily’s workshop, so they could figure out what had happened to turn an uncomplicated underground railway digger into a murderer. It had attacked five people—only Sam survived.

“What would you have me do, Sam?” Griff ran a hand through the thick mass of his hair. “Toss her out like rubbish?”

Sam’s mouth opened and Griff knew he was going to suggest just that.

Emily jumped in, “You know we can’t keep her for long, lad. She isn’t … one of us.”

Griff’s mouth lifted on one side, a half grin he always got when he thought he was right. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“What does that mean?” Sam scowled. “Why do you have to be so damn cryptic all the time?”

Sam’s frustration was so strong Griff could almost taste it. He’d known the big lad long enough to know when he was spoiling for a fight, and he also knew that, physically, he was no match. Sam was the strongest person in Britain, perhaps the world. But Griffin had his own powers that didn’t require brute strength.

He could become one with the Aether, that mysterious indiscernible force that was everywhere and in everything. It was also the realm of the dead—where ghosts existed. It was like another dimension hidden within the normal world. He didn’t know why, but he could feel it in his veins, and when he called it, the most terrific power came forth to serve him. All that universal energy filled him, making him feel as though he was part of everything and somehow everywhere. Sometimes it scared him. So much so, that he hadn’t confided any of it to his friends.

Nor had he confided just how much he believed the terrible power took from him.

Instead of giving Sam the fight he wanted, Griff turned to Emily, which just annoyed the bigger boy all the more. Wisely though, Sam held his tongue. Emily had been silent all this time, watching and listening. She nodded at him—on his side as he believed she would be.

“Did you see how she ran through the park?” he asked Sam, finally looking at his friend.

The large boy scowled. “No. I didn’t notice her at all until we were upon her.”

“Exactly.” Griff’s gaze traveled to each of them as he continued. “One second all was well and the next she was in front of us. I had barely sensed a disturbance in the Aether before I hit her. No normal human could move that fast.”

“What the hell is she, then?” Sam demanded, his fists clenched tight at his sides.

Griff shrugged. “I have no idea. But the three of us should find out, shouldn’t we?”

“Cordelia isn’t going to like this,” Emily reminded them. Griff’s aunt wasn’t due back from Yorkshire until the day after tomorrow. She was up there investigating strange circles that had appeared in a farmer’s field.

“It’s not her house, nor her decision,” Griff reminded her.

Emily held his gaze. He’d always admired her backbone. “If she is different, then it’s our duty to help her.”

Sam shot her a dark look, then one at Griff, as well. “The two of you are too bloody trusting. Being different doesn’t make her good any more than being metal makes one of those monsters a toaster.”

Normally Griff would have laughed at such an absurd comment, but the door to the library burst open at that exact moment. It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Dodsworth.

“What is it?” Griff asked, stepping forward with a frown. The woman was positively white in the face. Had one of the few automated servants left in the house turned on them? After Sam’s attack, Griff had decommissioned many of the machines out of consideration for his friend and for the safety of every living creature under his responsibility.

“It’s the girl you brung home, Your Grace. I think you should come right away. It’s as if she’s got the very devil in her!”

Griff took off running. Emily and Sam followed, chasing him up the stairs to the room where the girl had been left sleeping just a short time ago. A man came flying out of the open door frame like a child’s toy tossed aside. Sam caught him before he could hit the wall.

“Thank you, Master Samuel,” the footman said in a shaking voice as Sam set him on his feet. “I thought she was going to kill me. She’s like a demon, she is!”

Sam’s mouth tightened as he lifted his gaze to Griff’s. “I told you so.”

Chapter 3

Griff ignored his best friend’s taunt and turned his back on his friends. What in the name of all that was holy had he brought into his house? What kind of girl could hurl a full-grown man?

From the sounds of it, she was definitely angry. He couldn’t quite make out all the words, but the ones he could were … colorful.

“I’ve met dockside trollops with cleaner mouths,” Sam snarled.

“Met many of those, have you?” Emily’s tone was sharp.

Griff shot both of them an annoyed glance and turned to the open doorway once more. He wasn’t offended by her vocabulary, just surprised by it. It made him all the more curious about her.

Taking a deep breath, he walked into the room, confident without having to look that his friends were with him. Out of habit, he tugged on his waistcoat, straightening it. He should have put on a coat and tried to look more lordly, but he’d never been very good at that. His real strength wasn’t in intimidation. It was in subtlety and confidence. And in the fact that people tended to know who he was.

He didn’t bother to knock. Quite frankly, he thought better of announcing his arrival. The less time she had to prepare, the better. As it was, he narrowly missed being brained by a candlestick. It whipped past his head to embed itself in the opposite wall.

“Oy,” he said roughly. “Is that any way to act when you’re a guest in someone’s home?”

“Guest? You mean, prisoner,” came the growled reply.

The girl stood in the center of the large four-poster bed. She wore a nightgown and robe that Cordelia had generously, and unknowingly, donated. Anything of Emily’s would have been far too short and too small. Her honey-colored hair fell over her shoulders in messy waves and her similarly colored eyes were almost black with wildness, her pupils unnaturally dilated.

Fear. He felt it roll off her in great waves. It shimmered around her in a rich red aura Griff knew he alone could see, as it was viewable only on the Aetheric plane. She was afraid of them and, like a trapped animal, her answer to fear was to fight rather than flee. Interesting.

She was certainly a sight to behold. Normally she was probably quite pretty, but right now she was … she was …

She was bloody magnificent. That’s what she was. Except for the blood, of course. She’d opened the wound on her forehead and blood was trickling down toward her nose.

“What have you done to me?” Blood covered her hands as she held them out to him, not in supplication, but to make him acknowledge the mess. “Why do I feel like maggots are crawling beneath my skin?”

“The Organites,” Griffin whispered to Emily. She had come to stand on his left. “Is it possible for her to feel them?”

“I don’t know,” Emily replied in a hushed voice, her gaze glued to the girl on the bed. “She shouldn’t.”

“Organites?” the girl snarled. She looked at her hands, the sticky crimson fingers. “You mean, this excrement you smeared on me?”

She’d heard? Griff tilted his head in silent contemplation. So not only was she fast and strong, but she had heightened hearing, as well. It made him wonder if all of her senses were so acute.

“It’s to help you heal,” he informed her softly. “And now you’ve made it worse.”

She mocked him by jerking her head to the side, mirroring how he regarded her. Then, she straightened and took a step forward on the bed. She was like a cat inching toward a mouse.

It happened quickly. Sam, as he always did, stepped between Griffin and what he perceived to be a threat. Did he think Griff incapable of defending himself, like a weakling?

The girl only smiled that off-kilter smile and then lunged. Her hands came down on Sam’s head and she neatly leapfrogged over him, landing right in front of Griff.

The others instantly went into combat mode, especially Sam, who whirled around with fists raised. Brave little Emily had produced a wicked-looking dagger from somewhere on her person. Griff held up his hand. “Stand down.”

They did as he commanded, but only to the extent that they didn’t intervene. He knew that if this girl so much as sneezed on him, she would be sorry.

“So you’re the leader of this lot, Rich Boy?” She sneered as her gaze raked over the others before returning to him—she was clearly unimpressed. “You don’t look so special.”

“You’re looking in the wrong place,” he replied with a hint of a smile. “Look into my eyes.”

And she did. They always did. It never occurred to anyone that looking into his eyes was the last thing they should do. He let his guard down, letting the Aether take him a little bit deeper into its realm. The girl’s aura poured around him and he seized it—not with his hands, but with that part of him that could bend this strange element to his will. Quickly, he forced the color to change from anger to peacefulness and finally to the tranquil glow of restfulness. His power flowed around her just before her mental defenses slammed shut. Whatever she was, her instincts were fast.

But not fast enough in this case.

She swayed. Staggered a little. One thin, bloody hand grabbed his shoulder. “What …? What have you done to me?”

“You need to relax,” he told her in a low voice. “I’m going to help you do that.”

She stared at him, eyes wide now, the fear pouring off her like water from a spout. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Don’t take me back. Please! I don’t know what he’ll do to me.”

So his suspicions were correct. She had been a victim.

“I won’t,” he promised, all the while gently forcing his own calm into her. “You’re safe here.” Her defenses faltered, and he slipped inside once more.

She staggered again and seized his other shoulder, as well. He supported much of her weight now, but she wasn’t that heavy. Besides, the Aether gave him strength. He watched as her eyes changed—pupils shrinking until all that was left was warm gold. Much of the wildness left her features, and as her knees gave out she actually smiled at him.

“Thank you,” she whispered. And then her eyes rolled back into their sockets.

Griff caught her before she hit the floor. “Help me get her back into bed,” he commanded.

Sam gave him a glance, brow raised. “You can’t be serious? That scary little girl needs to go. Now.”

“No,” Griff argued, and he smiled when Emily came forward to help him, just as he knew she would. He placed the girl on the mattress as the little redhead pulled back the sheets and paused just for a moment to study the blood on her face and the dark circles beneath her eyes. “As frightening as we may think her, I believe she finds herself even more so.”

When Finley woke again, she felt more like herself than she had in some time. She felt rested and not nearly as battered as she ought. More important, she felt safe. The why of it was a mystery, because she rarely felt safe anywhere.

She sat up against the great mound of soft down-filled pillows and glanced around the room. It was a large bedroom, decorated in shades of cinnamon and cream. The bed was so big she could lie sideways on it and still her toes would not dangle over the edge. Beside her on the nightstand was a lamp and a small brass box with buttons on it labeled with titles such as kitchen, butler and maid. If she pressed one of them, would someone come? Or would they be too afraid?

Large windows to her right treated her to a view of the most lush and beautiful garden she had ever seen. Were it not for the dirigible marked L’air France high in the surprisingly blue sky, she might have thought herself in the country, it was so peaceful. She had never experienced true silence in London before. A house like this could only stand in Mayfair.

This was what it felt like to be a lady waking up in the morning. Quiet and snug.

On the desk there was one of the new candlestick-style telephones, its brass gleaming. She could call someone to come get her, but who? Her mother? No. She didn’t want to involve her mother or her stepfather in this mess.

Above the desk on the wall was a portrait of a lady from Henry VIII’s time, its frame heavy and gold-gilt. Beside it, a silver candlestick lodged in the plaster. Had she done that? Oh, Lord, she had! The events of the previous evening came rushing back at her with sickening violence. She remembered an all-too-familiar feeling—that someone else had taken over her body, leaving her an observer in her own skin. She could remember all the things she said and did, but she couldn’t begin to find reason or excuse.

Was she going mad? These spells had been coming upon her more often as of late. They’d started right around the same time she’d “become a woman” by biological standards. That had been three years ago, but never had she had an experience like these past few. She’d never lost herself so completely.

And yet … when she was in the midst of madness, it didn’t feel like madness at all. It felt right, like that awful part of her was as natural as breathing. But it could not be natural. It was something dark and wrong and—evil.

Was there anything that could save her? Anything short of death that could stop it from happening again? Felix had deserved the wallop she gave him, but the young man with the striking blue eyes and the thick red-brown hair, he didn’t deserve what she might have done to him when she leaped over the giant one to get to him.

She hadn’t wanted to hurt him, not really. Something had drawn her to him, and when she looked up into those amazing eyes, doing him harm had been the last thing on her mind. She had actually wondered what it might be like to kiss him.

It had to have been some kind of sorcery. What else could it have been? He had drained all of the fight out of her without lifting a hand. One glance had filled her with such peace and lethargy that all she had wanted to do was curl up and sleep. Which she had.

Had he—or any of them—done something to her while she slept? She couldn’t tell, as she was still somewhat tender from the tussle with Lord Felix. She didn’t want to believe the pretty gentleman capable of such violence, but she had learned the hard way that pretty gentlemen were often the worst of the lot.

But now what? She couldn’t stay here forever, and she had no idea if she could trust these people. It was obvious the others didn’t want her around. What if they turned her over to the police? Or worse, what if “Rich Boy” was a friend of Lord Felix?

A knock at the door made her heart jump. The knob turned and the door opened before she could call for whoever it was to enter.

The redheaded girl walked in. Her bright, ropey hair was pinned haphazardly on the back of her head, with thick coils hanging around her pretty face. She wore trousers tucked into high black boots, a white shirt and a tight leather vest. It had become fashionable for young women of independent thought to emulate the masculine fashion, but Finley hadn’t the nerve to do it herself. She much preferred the “Oriental” look that had come over from China. She hadn’t the nerve to copy that, either.

The girl glanced at her with large, intense blue eyes as she entered the room. Finley’s fingers went to her forehead where she’d been injured. The skin there was soft and smooth, not even a lump or slightest scab, even though she remembered tearing at it the night before. In fact, her cheek and lip felt better, as well. But then, she’d always been a fast healer.

“You … fixed me.” She couldn’t keep the awe from her voice.

The young woman’s expression was puzzled as she dipped a cloth in the washbasin on the stand near the dresser. Of course she would be expecting Finley to act as beastly as she had last night. “Yes. I did. I’m glad you left it alone this time.”

Finley smiled, hoping she looked friendly rather than demented. This girl was no threat to her and so that dark part of her was peaceful. “Thank you.”

“I’ve brought you breakfast.” She gestured to the doorway, where the large young man with longish black hair and rugged features stood holding a tray. Her dark self raised its head, but didn’t make a fuss. “And I would like to examine you, if that’s all right.”

So young and a doctor? It was impossible, of course, but that didn’t mean the Irish girl didn’t have a proper knowledge of medicine. After all, she had healed her wound. “Of course. Thank you for breakfast.”

“I’ll clean you up and we can talk while you eat.”

Finley’s smile was stronger now. She kept her attention focused on the girl while watching her companion from the corner of her eye. “I’d like that.” She felt something of a kinship with this girl. Girls didn’t normally like her, and young men tended to like her in ways she didn’t want. She didn’t understand why because it wasn’t as though she was uncommonly beautiful or anything.