by Kady Cross
She believed Finley had known this all along. That Finley had been using Griffin to get revenge.
Rage washed over her with the swiftness of a sudden wind, tearing down the delicate walls she’d built inside herself to protect what she considered the “good” side of herself from the bad. In an instant Finley went from sitting demurely in her chair to seizing Lady Marsden by the throat, lifting her, the fingers of her right hand like claws, itching to tear out those damnable mocking eyes.
Behind her, her mother and stepfather cried out, but neither made a move to stop her.
“Would you like to know what I’m thinking now?” Finley asked, almost fully controlled by her darker nature. She could snap this woman’s frail neck.
Lady Marsden’s eyes widened, but she made no other move. Finley felt a slight push against her mind—a sweet voice cajoling her to let go. Mentally, she squashed it like a bug beneath her boot. Crunchy.
The marchioness winced. One would think the silly woman would know better by now.
Finley smiled. “You annoy me, your ladyship. In a most vexing manner.”
And then a strong hand gripped her arm—the one poised to strike above her ladyship’s face. “She’s not the one you want to hurt,” Griffin said in that melodic voice of his.
Finley turned her head, but she didn’t let go. “No? Because I have to tell you, this feels pretty good right now.”
He reached over and took hold of her other wrist, as well. Gently, but firmly, he pulled her hand from his aunt’s neck. Finley let him do it. She knew she was physically stronger than he was, but there was something about his voice and the way he spoke to her that took the anger out of her and made her want to do what he said. That terrified her even as the darkness eased from her soul. What else could he make her do if he wanted?
She whirled on him, but he kept his hold on one of her wrists. His other hand, instead of coming up to defend himself as she thought it would, circled her waist, pulling her against him. He hugged her. Letting go of her wrist, he cupped the back of her head, holding her so her face was in the crook of his neck. He smelled warm and spicy—like cinnamon and cloves. Safe, and comforting. As he held her, he murmured soft words. She wasn’t even sure if any of them made sense, but she listened all the same, too shocked by this display of concern—of trust. It would take little effort for her to hurt him right now. She could hurt him badly.
But Griffin King could hurt her, as well, and he hadn’t. Instead of using force or violence against her, he used patience and understanding. She had no defense against that.
When he let her go, she was shaking. Tears filled her eyes as she turned to her mother who stood staring at her in horror.
“My sweet little girl,” her mother whispered. “I didn’t know. I would never…” Her words faded into a choked sob. Finley crossed the short distance between them on quivering legs and wrapped her arms around the shorter woman. She didn’t care if Griffin or his nasty aunt saw her tears. If anything was worth crying over, the discovery that her father had made her a monster had to be one.
Chapter 7
“You owe Finley an apology.” Griffin and Cordelia were alone now, having sent Finley to her room for rest—something the poor girl no doubt needed, along with time to process everything they’d learned that day.
Cordelia shot him a sharp look. “For trying to kill me? I think not.”
“For believing that she’d lied about her father,” Griff retorted, closing the study door. “She had no idea of what the man was up to.”
She picked up the chunk of teal ore he used as a paper weight and pretended to study it. “So she claims.”
“Cordelia, not even you are good enough an actress to put forth such a performance.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Finley Jayne is a victim in all of this, not our enemy. If anything, it’s my responsibility to help her.”
“For something that happened before you were born? Rubbish.”
“Why? You were content to blame her on the same criteria.”
His aunt pursed her lips and Griffin knew she couldn’t argue. “Our fathers made a mistake and now Finley’s paying for it. I think she deserves our help, don’t you?”
Cordelia shrugged somewhat sullenly. Times like this reminded Griffin that she wasn’t even ten years his senior.
Griffin sighed and pushed a button on the box atop his desk. “I’m going to have some coffee, during which I’m going to read Father’s notes on Thomas Sheppard. Then, I’m going to sit down with Finley. I can’t image how she feels knowing her father was the inspiration for Jekyll and Hyde.” That had been a tidbit that came out earlier in the afternoon—courtesy of Cordelia, of course.
His aunt set the ore on the desk once more. “Sheppard was careless. There was gossip. Of course he provoked Stevenson’s interest. Finley will do the same if she’s not careful, which she won’t be. She could call undue attention to all of us.”
And by that she meant Griffin most of all. He shook his head. “And that gives you the right to be mean to her?”
His aunt turned to stare at him, as though she could not believe he’d question her. “She pushed me out of her mind, not once but three times. Do you know the number of people who have ever been able to do that? None! Whether or not you want to admit it, that girl’s dangerous—and you treat her like a houseguest!”
“She is a guest.”
“Until she snaps someone’s neck. What if she attacks Emily?”
“She won’t.” If only he felt as certain as he sounded.
“You have no way of knowing that. Mrs. Dodsworth told me how she threw the footman as though he was nothing more than a toy. You put everyone in this house in danger by having her here. I cannot allow it.”
Griff stiffened. He met his aunt’s gaze carefully, fighting to keep his anger under control. “You have no say. It’s my house.”
Cordelia scowled, fists on her hips. “I am your guardian.”
“Do you really want to fight me, Delia? Because I’m certain the family solicitors will side with me.” Of course they would, they knew it was Griff’s fortune that paid their bills, that Cordelia ran things in name only. It was Griff who made estate decisions.
His aunt looked at him as though he’d slapped her. “She’s that important to you?”
He nodded. “She is. I can’t explain why, but I know she belongs here, with the rest of us.”
“She’ll never be able to be part of something while she’s two halves of a broken whole.”
Griff smiled slightly, knowing he’d won without driving too much of a wedge between himself and his aunt. “Then we’ll just have to put her back together.”
Cordelia arched a brow. “We?” But Griff knew she would help him. She always did. Sooner or later, she would see that he was right about Finley.
His coffee arrived—an entire silver pot full, piping hot and smelling like heaven. He poured some into the china cup and added cream and sugar. When it was the perfect color and sweetness, he took a drink. It was good.
Cordelia took her leave—she had plans for tea and had to change first. Griffin sat down at his desk after finding a journal of his father’s marked “Thomas Sheppard.” His father had kept copious notes on all aspects of his life—a habit Griffin did not share.
His father’s notes only backed up what Finley’s mother had told them—that Thomas Sheppard had been conducting experiments with his father on the dark vs. pure side of human nature. Sheppard took to experimenting on himself, unsure of what his potions might do to others. What he’d done had enabled his darker nature to totally obliterate his good, and vice versa. He split himself into two opposite halves. Apparently he tried to stop the experiments once he found out Mary was expecting Finley, but by then it was too late—the metamorphosis was happening on its own without the aid of chemistry. The damage had already been done. Though Sheppard hadn’t known it at the time, he had passed his affliction onto his unborn daughter.
Sadly, Thomas Shep
pard was killed shortly before Finley’s first birthday. He’d been overtaken by a seizure away from home, metamorphosing into his dark self. He hurt someone who got in his way and that set the Peelers after him. In his quest to escape, Sheppard had tried to steal a carriage and was shot by the owner. The officers who took the wounded man to Scotland Yard were shocked when he changed from his almost bestial form into that of a soft-spoken scholar. Thomas Sheppard died before the surgeon could attend him.
His father’s notes went on to express a sense of responsibility for Mary Sheppard and her daughter, but the woman disappeared, refusing the duke’s help. There was also regret. Griffin’s father wrote, “If only I had not provided the catalyst for Sheppard’s drastic transformation. It makes me fear for my own family.”
What had his father given Sheppard? Was it the same mysterious “catalyst” as that which had caused both Griffin and Sam to develop their abilities? If so, why hadn’t they been driven mad like Sheppard? Why were they not affected in a similar fashion?
He turned his attention to the final notes on the page. His father was worried about Mary and her child, worried what effects their experiments might have had upon Sheppard’s daughter.
Poor Finley. Not only had she discovered the tragic truth about her father, but she must be terrified that the same fate awaited her.
Despite her violence against Cordelia earlier, he believed it was possible for Finley to control her darker side. In fact, he believed that uniting the two sides of her nature was the only answer. No person was entirely good or entirely evil—one side could not exist without the other. He just had to figure out how to make Finley whole again.
He poured another cup of coffee—his third since sitting down—and rose from his desk. He wanted to research Thomas Sheppard on the Aether engine, as well, but before that he wanted to check in on Finley. He needed to go down into Emily’s laboratory and talk to her about the defective automatons—and about Sam, who was notably absent once again.
He also wanted to contact an acquaintance of his who ran in a different circle than he did. Jasper Renn was an American he’d met late last year. In fact, the cowboy had saved him from having his head coshed in by a band of ruffians intent on robbing a fancy toff. If not for Jasper, Griffin would have been forced to use his abilities in public, and that wouldn’t have been a good thing. Afterward, Griffin had brought Jasper back to the house for a drink and a little of Emily’s medical attention for his wounds. Since then, the two of them enjoyed a mutually beneficial friendship—helping each other out of trouble and occasionally attending a mech-boxing match together.
Jasper spent a lot of time in the gaming hells and clubs around Covent Garden and other east-end establishments. If there was talk about these automatons and their maker on the street, then he would know of it.
Griffin had to get to the bottom of these automaton attacks. He couldn’t ignore them just because Finley Jayne posed such an intriguing problem in such a pretty package.
And she was pretty—even when off her rocker. In that respect, she was every bit as dangerous as Aunt Cordelia seemed to think.
It was a good thing, then, that he enjoyed a little danger now and again.
“You look like a man in need of a drink.”
Sam looked up from his empty tankard. Leon, his friend with the mechanical hand, stood beside his table. “If I have another, I’m likely to fall asleep in a puddle of drool on this table.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?” Leon asked in his melodic accent—Italian, he’d said he was—as he sat down.
Sam smiled. “It’s a dirty table.”
His companion chuckled. “This is the second time I’ve found you here, my friend. You’re obviously troubled. Perhaps I can help.”
It was on the tip of Sam’s tongue to declare that an impossibility—that no one could possibly help him—but then his gaze fell upon Leon’s etched, metal hand.
“Do you ever regret that?”
Leon, who had at this point raised his other hand to signal for a waitress, glanced at the metallic appendage. “What, this? No. It’s not quite as good as the real thing, but you would be surprised at just how much I am able to do because of this marvel of modern science.”
Sam almost snorted, but didn’t. “You don’t mind being part machine then?”
The older man frowned—just as two tankards of ale were set on the table between them by a round-faced, ginger-haired girl. “Of course not. Does it bother you? I can wear a glove.”
“No.” Sam shook his head. Making the man wear a glove just because he couldn’t stand himself seemed stupid. “Don’t do that. It doesn’t bother me.”
Leon smiled. “You are just curious, yes? I get a lot of that. People wanting to know how I came about to have it. You have yet to ask me.”
Sam shrugged. “None of my business. I figure you’ll tell me if you want me to know.”
His companion lifted his tankard to his mouth. His dark eyes shone with something that looked like amusement. “It was an accident. I was working on a burrower automaton and my hand got caught in the gears.”
“A burrower?” Sam’s mouth went dry as he fought back memories of his own experience with a large machine. Diggers were larger as they dug into the earth rather than drilling into it as burrowers did. Still, a burrower could do a lot of damage to a man. “That’s awful.”
Leon inclined his head. “It was, but I survived. Now, I’m more careful when I work on any machine, automaton or no.”
“You still work with them? Aren’t…aren’t you afraid?”
“I was, for a bit, but the automaton did not hurt me on purpose. It was my fault, not the machine’s. I wasn’t as careful as I should have been.”
Sam lifted his tankard to his lips. He was starting to sober up. “Kind of a slap in the face, though, them giving you a metal hand.” He couldn’t help but think of all the metal in his own body.
Leon looked surprised. “My dear sir, this work of art was my choice.”
His tankard hit the table with more force than intended. “Why the devil would you choose to be partially metal when that’s what took your hand in the first place?” There were other options—wood and wax for two.
Leon flexed the shiny appendage. Sam watched, entranced as the jointed fingers gracefully opened and closed. “I chose it because I made it. There’s not an artificial limb anywhere that can compare to this one. I can do everything a whole man can do—perhaps more, because I can do work so fine and intricate it would make your eyes cross.”
But Sam hardly heard him. “You built it.” Emily would find this man fascinating.
“Yes. I told you it was my choice.”
“Wish I’d had a choice,” Sam grumbled into his ale.
Leon frowned, leaning across the table. “What do you mean?”
Sam met his gaze. There was nothing but sincerity and confusion there. He made up his mind right then that Leon was someone he could trust—someone who just might relate to what he was going through. Who might understand.
“I mean, I wasn’t given a choice when an automaton tore my arm off. It was replaced with metal.”
The older man’s perplexed gaze immediately dropped to Sam’s hands. “But…but you are flesh!”
Sam took another drink, smiling for the first time all day. “It’s a long story.”
Leon signaled for the waitress again before turning and leaning his forearms on the table. “My friend, I have all night.”
“I need to talk to you.”
Griffin glanced up from his desk. He’d been sitting there for hours, and Emily was a welcome intrusion. Now he needn’t go looking for her. He smiled as he looked at her, noticing she was paler than usual. “Come talk, then.”
He left the desk as his friend came deeper into the room. He’d been poring over Thomas Sheppard’s notes—which he’d found in his father’s safe there in the study—trying to better understand Finley and how to help her. But Sheppard had been all about is
olating parts of man’s personality, rather than bringing them together. He did have some research on rehabilitating the criminal and the insane, but Griff wasn’t about to try these methods on Finley.
At least he knew now what it was his father gave him to experiment with—the ore and a sample of Organites. He just couldn’t quite figure out how these things could have brought about the changes Sheppard mentioned. The answer was so close he could taste it, and it vexed him to the point where he was ready to break something.
“Have you found something in the automatons?” Griff asked, rubbing his eyes as he sat down on the sofa.
Emily shook her head. “Not yet.” She cast a nervous glance around the room, as though making certain they were alone. “That’s not why I’m here, lad.”
“Is it Sam?” It wasn’t like his friend to stay gone this long—though he had to be angry knowing what Griff had allowed Emily to do.
Wrapping her arms around herself, Emily shook her head. It was obvious she felt Sam’s absence, as well—and that she felt just as responsible as Griffin did for it. “No. It’s not about Sam. It’s about me.”
Griffin’s eyebrows shot up. Emily rarely talked about herself or her past. He wasn’t certain he was ready to hear whatever it was she was about to share. “What is it?”
“I’ve noticed lately I’ve been goin’ through some peculiar…changes.”
Oh, lord. Had no one ever talked to her about these things? Her mother? “What sort of changes?”
Her fingers tangled together in her lap. She had black beneath her nails from working in her laboratory. “Remember when you told me about how you first learned about your abilities?”
He nodded. “I told you about the first ghost I saw.”
“Three months ago, you told me you sometimes felt as though the Aether might swallow you whole if you let it.”
Griff closed his eyes. He shouldn’t have told her that. “I believe I said I thought my talents were increasing.”