The Girl With the Windup Heart Page 2

  “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 s
hout 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 ma
ke 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.