The Girl With the Windup Heart Read online

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

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

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

  And he had taken Griffin with him.

  * * *

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

  Stupid Jack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Nothing happened.

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

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

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

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

  “A sound notion.”

  Mila laughed. Now, this was a diversion!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Are you drunk?” Jack demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  What if she wanted him to treat her that way?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

  Where was he?

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

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

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

  She was probably ripping London apart looking for him.

  But he wasn’t in London.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Struggling won’t do you any good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Still Griffin said nothing.

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

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

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

  “Bastard.”

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

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

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

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

  Griffin screamed.

  Chapter Three

  Gone.

  Griffin was gone.

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