by Kady Cross
“D’accord. When and where shall we meet?”
“Thirty minutes, outside that hotel a few blocks down—the one where you met Mariska.”
At the mention of his fiancée’s name, Philippe smiled dreamily. “She picked my pocket. A good choice. I will meet you there.”
The Frenchman made his escape through another door, one that led into the maintained areas of the station. Jack and Toby followed him in, but when Philippe veered right, his companions kept going straight.
“Who do you reckon those blokes were?” Toby asked as they steered the crate down a corridor just barely wide enough for it.
“No idea. No one I ever wants to meet again, though.”
“Are we delivering this thing into the wrong hands, Jackey-boy?”
“Dunno that eever. Don’t much care at the moment.”
“Aye, understood. Is this the door?”
It was. Marked with just a number, the door was like all the rest, but it opened into a room with another door that led below the tracks, to the catacombs and tunnels below.
Going down stairs with the bloody cart was not easy, but they managed it in a few short minutes. The spot where they were to leave it was just feet away. Toby tipped the trolley when they got there, and Jack eased the crate onto the dirt floor.
There was that noise again—coming from inside the crate.
“Did you hear that?” Toby asked, glancing about.
Jack nodded but didn’t speak. Frowning, he reached out his right hand and rapped his knuckles once against the side of the crate. A second later he could have sworn something in the crate had knocked back.
This time he tapped out a pattern—a rhythm. There was a moment of silence, and then the same pattern was echoed back to him.
“What the devil?” Toby’s eyes were larger than saucers.
“Grab that pry bar, my friend.” It was luck to find one nearby, but that didn’t really surprise him. Good fortune seemed to follow him, and he was going to take full advantage of it while he could.
Toby snatched up the old, rusty bar and handed it to him. Quickly, Jack shoved it under the lip of the crate top and pulled down. There was a tearing—splintering—sound, and then the top of the crate popped open.
Jack looked inside.
Bloody hell.
Chapter 4
Toby looked inside, as well. “Sweet God!” He jumped back, face white with horror.
Jack’s attention drifted back to the contents of the crate.
At first glance it was difficult to tell what it was. Metal covered part of it. It was dirty, and looked as though it had been in this crate for a very long time. That thought disgusted him. It was cruel and barbaric.
It made a noise, but no words came out—just groaning. It was probably his imagination but it sounded like “Help me.”
“What is it?” Toby demanded.
“A girl. Somewhat.”
It was an image he would carry with him for the rest of his life. It... She stared up at him with one eye—the other was either destroyed or was still being made. Her face was half flesh, half metal, as was the rest of her. He could see her internal organs through the gaps in her metal ribs where tissue had yet to knit itself together.
She wasn’t human, but she wasn’t entirely machine either. How was such a creature even possible? And why, when he looked at her, did she remind him of Finley? Finley was beautiful. This was not. Still, his heart kicked hard inside his chest when he looked at her.
Fingers that were metal bone covered with scraps of flesh reached for him, grabbing his hand before he could jerk it away. Jack braced himself, prepared to be disgusted. Instead, her skin was warm, the exposed metal cool and smooth. Her grip was tight—any tighter and she’d break his hand.
She made that noise again—the one that sounded like a plea for help.
“That’s it,” Toby said. “I’m leaving.”
Every moment spent staring at the poor creature was another moment closer to being caught or something going wrong. Jack managed to pull his fingers free. He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t do anything.
He shut the lid.
* * *
He was at a party at Piccadilly Circus—a masked event much like the one he’d taken Finley to some time ago. He was dressed in head-to-toe black, wearing a raven mask that covered the top portion of his face.
On a nearby stage, a woman danced with fire as though she was made of it herself. On another, a man swallowed swords, and on one more, a man and woman bent themselves into contortions that shouldn’t be possible. They made it look like a beautiful ballet, intimate. Every moment was slow and controlled.
Music swelled, bodies moved and swayed. Heat rose as colors blurred.
Then he saw her. She stood apart from the crowd—she had no choice. There was no hope that a girl such as her could ever be part of a crowd. She was tall and slender, with curves in all the right places. She was dressed in a gown that started out black at the bottom but gave way to shades of red, orange and gold as it rose up around her. It draped and clung—provocative but still somehow demure. Her fair skin glowed. Exposed shoulders gave way to a long neck and firm jaw. Her lips were full beneath a mask that looked as though it was made of pure flame. Her hair—a riot of rich copper curls—only added to the image of her as a creature of fire. Her mask was similar to his—birdlike.
When she turned her head to meet his gaze, Jack’s heart slammed to a hard stop. A phoenix. That’s what she was—a gorgeous mythical creature rising from the ashes. Her eyes were amber, molten and questioning, like Finley’s, but not Finley’s.
He moved toward her, unable to stop his feet. Normally he let young ladies come to him and saved his pursuit for older women who wouldn’t expect more than what he was willing to give, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.
When he reached her, he held out his hand to her. She took it, her long fingers soft and strong in his. He led her onto the dance floor, where couples twirled around them. His hand pressed against the small of her back as her fingers slid up to his shoulder. Jack shivered despite the heat in the room.
God, she was like looking at the sun after too many dark nights. She smelled of amber, of warmth and sweetness. It made him a little dizzy and he didn’t care. He liked it, even though part of him was terrified. Dangerous, that’s what she was. Dangerous and so very, very tempting.
She danced as if her feet didn’t touch the ground, all grace and ease. God, she was incredible. He could kiss her right there, not caring who saw, not caring if she slapped his face after. It would be worth it just to taste her lips.
As though she could read his mind, she moved closer to him, their bodies touching. She really was a creature of flame—and she could burn him to ash if she wished. Molten eyes stared up at him, inviting and unashamed. A soft flush filled her smooth cheeks.
“You’re beautiful,” Jack murmured. “The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. What’s your name?”
She opened her mouth and made a terrible moaning sound. “Help me.”
Jack awoke with a gasp, lurching upright in bed. He was drenched with sweat, heart pounding.
“Jack?” came a sleepy voice. What was her name again? “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing that concerns you,” he replied, throwing back the covers. There’d be no more sleep for him, and dawn wasn’t far away. He grabbed his trousers and pulled them on. “Nothing at all.”
He left the house a few moments later and went to the small shed for his velocycle—a sleek two-wheeled vehicle that could weave in and out of traffic with ease and outrun anything that challenged it. A hat was useless on the bloody thing, so he tied a piratelike scarf around his head to keep his hair tamed and pulled on a pair of goggles. Then he started the machine and took off down the street as fast as the velocycle would go.
St. Pancras station was busier than it had been a few hours ago but still relatively empty. Unfortunately, there were more staff than patrons. It didn’t
matter—he knew how to get in now, having escaped it earlier. He easily found the door through which he and Toby had left, and he picked the lock to gain entry once more.
Down dark steps he ran, down to that dank, bleak place where he had left the crate.
Left her.
He raced into the catacombs as if those hellish hounds were after him again. Or maybe the flames he felt were just remnants of his dream—of her.
Jack stopped.
The crate was gone. Frantic, panting for breath, his gaze scanned the area. This was the right spot. Wasn’t it? No, it was. It was. He had left it right here.
There was nothing—not even an impression in the dust and dirt. It was as though he’d never been here—or something had taken care to make it look that way.
Where had they taken it? Who had taken it? There wasn’t so much as a track—not even a footprint.
Jack sagged against the rough stone wall, folding his arms over his chest. The scent of amber teased him like a cruel joke. Was it real or just his imagination?
She was gone. Lost. Whatever happened to her now was out of his hands.
And entirely his fault.
* * *
Payment from Abernathy arrived later that day via messenger. Jack didn’t even open it. He just tossed the package on his desk and poured himself a whiskey. He wasn’t much of a drinker, preferring to keep his wits about him, but this was one of those times that getting pissy-eyed drunk appealed to him.
He had returned home from the station ill-tempered and guilt-ridden. The woman who had been in his bed was gone, leaving a thank-you note on his pillow. He tossed it in the fire without reading it, and then went to take a very hot shower. He scrubbed until his skin felt raw and the water turned icy. Only then did he dry off and pull on clean clothes.
He still felt dirty. It wasn’t a feeling he liked. Wasn’t one he’d experienced in a very long time.
He threw himself into work. Lots of business opportunities to investigate—legitimate ones. The average life expectancy of someone in his line of work wasn’t terribly long. Spending the rest of his days as a criminal wasn’t what he wanted. Making something of himself—something real and good—was the best revenge he could get on his father, and the best way he could honor the sacrifices his mother had made for him.
Finley had sent him a note. He didn’t read it either. He paced the length of the carpet in front of his desk, hands clasped behind his back. His attention kept going back to the packet from Abernathy.
Piss on it.
He grabbed the payment and stormed from the room. He snatched his hat, coat and walking stick and collected his steam carriage. He made the drive to Mayfair in record time. He drove like a madman—reckless, with no regard for himself or others. It was badly done, but he was a lucky bastard—that’s what he’d been told—and he made it unscathed. Of course he did. That was his luck. His charm, right? Finley would call it his talent. It wasn’t natural and he didn’t care.
He took the steps to Abernathy’s door two at a time and jabbed at the button. The housekeeper’s voice greeted him a moment later. “Name and business.”
“Jack Dandy to see the viscount,” he said.
“I’m sorry, but his lordship is not at home today.”
That was a lie. Jack could hear it plainly in her voice. This was what the rich did when they didn’t want to see someone. “I’m going to see him.”
“Please leave, sir—”
“Listen, woman,” he growled, stepping up to the mirror so she could see his expression. “Let me in, or I’ll go ’round back and start breaking windows til I get to the right one.”
There was a pause. Then the door opened.
Jack brushed past her without a glance and tore through the house toward the room he had been in the day before. If Abernathy wasn’t there he’d rip the house apart until he found him.
But his luck was with him, and the viscount was there. The older man looked up with a start. “Dandy. What the devil are you about, man? Get out or I’ll summon the authorities.”
“What happened to her?” Jack demanded. They both knew Abernathy wasn’t going to call for the coppers.
“Her?” Abernathy was all innocence.
Jack gritted his teeth. “The girl in the crate.”
Apparently, something in Jack’s expression gave the viscount pause. He dropped the pretense. “Mr. Dandy, that wasn’t a girl. That was a complex piece of machinery.”
In his head, Jack knew that—remembered the exposed metal—but in his heart, in his conscience, he remembered that eye staring up at him, so full of fear. Her lips moving and that awful sound she’d made that haunted his dreams. Help me. That’s what he imagined she’d said.
Abernathy took advantage of his silence. “Did you go back to St. Pancras with plans of being a white knight, Dandy?”
Jack’s gaze snapped up. The viscount’s expression was one of mockery, his pale eyes glittering in amusement. He stared into that gaze, his jaw clenching. “Where. Is. She?”
The older man blinked. And swallowed. “Its whereabouts are not your concern. Rest assured it is in good hands. Take your payment like a good boy and go on back to Whitechapel.”
Where you belong. That was what he didn’t say, what he didn’t have to say.
Jack tossed the packet of bills at him. Abernathy tried to catch it, but he was too slow, and it fell to the floor at his feet. “I don’t want it,” Jack snarled.
Disbelief slackened Abernathy’s features. “We had a bargain, Dandy.”
“And I kept it. I delivered your crate.” His shoulders straightened. “But I never said I wouldn’t try to find her again. I never said I wouldn’t steal her again.” He couldn’t just leave her alone out there. He couldn’t just abandon her.
He knew what it was to be abandoned. Knew what happened to people who were abandoned. He didn’t want that for her.
The older man flushed hotly. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would.”
“You’ll never find it.”
“Yes, I will.” Or rather, he knew someone who could. “And I’ll do it for free.” He turned to leave the room.
“You’re no gentleman. You’re a liar and a thief, with no honor at all. I ought to have known what to expect from Blackstone’s whoreson bastard.”
Jack froze—for less than a second, but it felt like an eternity. He whipped around, body moving faster than his mind. A few long, purposeful strides carried him back to the older man until there were less than a few inches between them. Jack towered over him, using his height and rage to intimidate.
It worked. Abernathy drew back, but he was caught between his desk and Jack. There was nowhere for him to run.
“What are you going to do, D-Dandy? Beat me? Mur... Kill me? I have witnesses who will testify you were here. You won’t get away with it this time.”
Jack had never wanted to kill anyone so much in his entire life. No, that was a lie. He had wanted to kill his father since he was old enough to know what that meant, but now he just wanted to make the old man miserable. No, he wanted to kill this worthless sack of meat almost as much as he had wanted to kill Felix August-Raynes for taking violent advantage of young women.
But killing August-Raynes would have been worth swinging from a noose. Abernathy was not.
Jack slapped him. Wasn’t that what gentlemen did when one insulted another? He didn’t have kid gloves, so he had to use his bare hand. A nice, hard backhanded slap that snapped Abernathy’s head to the side and set his fleshy jowls to trembling. It would leave a mark. A nasty one, with the imprint of Jack’s ring as a reminder bruised into it. It wasn’t an easily identifiable ring—not a signet or the like—but that was all right. Both Abernathy and Jack would know whose mark it was, and that was all that mattered.
The older man’s hand went to his cheek as his face turned back toward Jack. He looked astonished. Afraid.
Jack smiled grimly. “I think now we understand one another.”
With that, he pivoted on his heel and strode from the room, hands in his pockets so no one could see they were clenched into fists.
He drove back to Whitechapel, his rage dropping to a low simmer. Tonight, he’d ask a few discrete acquaintances if they knew anything about the crate and its cargo. He couldn’t risk his reputation by going after it himself. If word got out that he’d stolen something for payment and then stolen it back... Well, that kind of thing didn’t look good.
So he’d be patient, and if questions didn’t yield results then he’d swallow his pride and go to the one man who truly was a gentleman. The one person he knew who could be trusted to do absolutely the right thing.
Griffin King.
The duke and his friends—especially Finley—would do all they could to find the metal girl. They would do what he couldn’t.
Save her.
* * * * *
Read the conclusion to Jack’s escapade in The Girl with the Iron Touch by Kady Cross, available now from Harlequin TEEN. Keep reading for an excerpt...
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Chapter 1
London, Autumn, 1897
A giant tentacle slapped the front of the submersible, driving the small craft backward in the water. A crack no wider than a hair split across the view screen as suckers the size of dinner plates pulled free.
“Mary and Joseph,” Emily O’Brien muttered as murky water from the Thames began to seep in through that crack. A sound like breaking ice followed as pressure from the outside pushed against the glass, demanding to get inside like a rowdy drunkard at a tavern door.