The Girl with the Windup Heart

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 impossible.

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.

Which meant that he wasn’t all right at all.

Griffin was the strongest person she knew. If Garibaldi was strong enough to imprison him, then the madman had finally achieved the power he sought during the twisted course of his life. There was no telling what the villain might be able to do now.

Her heart kicked hard against her ribs, seized by a terrible fear that refused to let go no matter how hard she pushed. Garibaldi might kill Griffin. No, there was no might about it. Garibaldi would kill him, just as he had killed Griffin’s parents and her real father. The only question was how long did she have before the terrible event took place?

The Machinist wouldn’t do it quickly, and that was as much a blessing as it was terrible. He’d want to make Griffin suffer, and that meant kept keeping him alive. Didn’t it? Or would Garibaldi decide to torture Griffin’s soul for eternity instead? God, it was too much to even think about—too many wild and awful places her imagination could go. She couldn’t think of what might happen, she had to concentrate on what she was going to do about Leonardo Garibaldi’s insane ghost. Were they never going to be free of the man? First he’d tried to take over England with a false queen, and then he’d tried to implant his brain into an automaton. Now he had Griffin.

She was not going to cry, no matter how much her eyes burned or her throat tightened. Her eyeballs could ignite and she’d still refuse to cry in order to drench the flames. Griffin didn’t need her tears, he needed her help. So, no—she was not going to throw herself on the bed they shared, bury her face in his pillow and sob herself dry. She would not bawl and snot and pray for him to return to her. What she was going to do was figure out how to bring Griffin home and rid them of Garibaldi once and forever.

But how? It wasn’t as though she could simply kill Garibaldi either. Despite all her concern about Griffin killing Lady Ash, she knew she would find it incredibly easy to kill The Machinist. The problem wasn’t whether or not she could stand to kill him, it was the fact that the villain was already dead. Unless someone figured out a way to kill a ghost, the pleasure of ending the bastard’s life would not be hers. Never mind that killing him wouldn’t necessarily save Griffin. She needed to find him first, and how the bloody hell was she to do that? It was only because of Griffin that she could see what little ghostie bits she could, so it wasn’t as though she could trust her eyes and search for him. Maybe Emily had some sort of contraption that could isolate his unique Aetheric resonance—if he had such a thing, whatever it was.

Not like she could simply kill herself and go into the Aether to rescue Griffin.

Couldn’t she? The thought came to her as though sent via divine messenger, and latched on to her mind with sharp and certain claws.

Finley pivoted on the thick heel of her boot and left the room. Her dress and tailcoat were dirty from the earlier scuffle, but she didn’t take the time to change. Clean clothes could wait; Griffin could not.

Her friends had gone to check other rooms in the house just in case Griffin had returned, but she didn’t find them in any of the rooms, which meant they were probably in Emily’s laboratory beneath the house, their search having turned up as empty and fruitless as her own. Finley took the lift down and stepped out onto the stone floor. Everyone was already there, just as she suspected.

No one asked if she’d found Griff. The fact that she was there alone meant she hadn’t.

“What are you doing?” she asked. They were all gathered around Emily at one of the worktables. The walls and shelves throughout the vast space were covered with tools, bits of machines and automatons and other bits and bobs. A large vault contained the remains of several dangerous automatons, including the one that had almost killed Sam, and the Victoria automaton Garibaldi had created.

Wildcat lifted and turned her head. Her full lips curved into a slight smile. “Emily’s trying to adjust a portable telegraph so it will pick up Aetheric transmissions.”

So Aetheric resonance just might be a thing after all.

The portable telegraphs already utilized the Aetheric realm for communicating with one another, so it was a sound idea as far as Finley was concerned. However, she understood the Aether about as well as she understood the secrets of the Javanese, which was to say, not at all. However, she’d gargle while standing on her head, reciting the Magna Carta in Latin if someone told her that was the way to get Griffin back.

“How do we know he’s even in the Aether?” Jasper asked. He’d removed his cowboy hat, and the tips of his hair stuck out like little wings. “That scoundrel could’ve taken him anywhere, right? I reckon Griffin’s abilities could make that possible.”

They all looked at Emily, who was uncharacteristically vexed. “Oh, right. Ye all look to me for the answer, well, I don’t have a single one! I’m going on pure assumption and grasping at straws. Being dead, it’s most likely Garibaldi has Griff in the Aether—it’s the one place he knows we can’t look, and the place he has more power. Unfortunately, I know next to nothing about the Aether—that was Griffin’s area of expertise.”

“You know more than the rest of us,” Sam reminded her in a gentle tone. He placed one of his big hands on her shoulder. “No one’s putting the responsibility of finding him on you, Em.”

“No,” Finley agreed. “In fact, I plan to take that responsibility on myself.”

Now they all turned to her, in unison like a monster with four heads. “Do ye now?” Emily asked, arching a ginger brow as she crossed her arms over her brocade waistcoat in a challenging manner reminiscent of a school matron confronting a naughty pupil. “Would you care to explain how and why to the rest of us, who I wager want him back just as much as you do?”

“Of course,” Finley replied, ignoring her friend’s attitude for the sake of their friendship. “You’re going to kill me.”

* * *

“Are you out of your ever-loving mind?”

Finley opened her mouth to speak, but Emily cut her off—the girl loved a good tirade. “Kill you? That’s your bloody solution? And then what do we do when we get Griffin back?” She banged a spanner against the workbench. “Tell him that killing you was the best we could manage?”

This time when she opened her mouth, Finley put her hand over Emily’s to prevent another detailed account of how idiotic she was, because she knew it was coming. “No, that’s when you wake me up.” Her gaze locked with her friend’s. Emily’s bright eyes snapped with annoyance, worry and fear. Emily was always the smartest person in the room, and at that moment, Finley reckoned her friend had no more answers than she did. “I’m going to use the Aetheric Mortality Disambiguation suit to go into the Aether and find Griffin.”

They gaped at her. She felt Emily’s jaw drop beneath her hand—only then did she remove her fingers.

“Oh,” Sam said. “I see.” A man of many words, he was.

Wildcat frowned and looked to Jasper, feline eyes bright against the dusky hue of her complexion. “What the heck’s an Aetheric Mortality whatchamacallit suit?”

“That Tesla fella made it,” he explained in his American drawl, casting a perplexed glance in Finley’s direction. “Don’t know much more about it than it kills folks so they can go into the Aether.”

Black curls bobbed as she shook her head, her scowl deepening. “Who’d want to die?”

His lips quirked on one side. “Says the girl with nine lives. Some folks want to know what happens after we die.”

She made a face. “Who cares? You’re dead.”

Finley would have chuckled if her stomach wasn’t in knots. “Em? Will you do it?” She intentionally chose will rather than can. She had no doubt her friend could kill her and bring her back, but whether or not she would...

Emily’s ginger brows were knit tight, the edges of each almost meeting over the bridge of her pert nose. “You know I will, you daft baggage. As if we have any other option.”

Relief struck with such force Finley almost doubled over. She wanted to fall down on her knees before her friend and babble her thanks, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. She would find Griffin. She would. She would find him and get him out of the Aether. They’d worry about Garibaldi later.

“Tesla only used the suit for a few moments,” Sam said. He’d actually been present in New York when the genius inventor showed off his creation. “Is that enough time for her to find Griff?”

That was an annoyingly astute question for the big brute to ask. Should she pinch him for asking, or herself for not? A few minutes might be enough time to find Griffin, but the Aether was a big and vast dimension—its own world. Garibaldi would have him well hidden. The villain didn’t know about the suit, but he had to know they wouldn’t just let him win.

Then again, maybe he thought he already had. In which case it might be very easy to find them. But then there was the fact that time moved at a different pace there... Oh, damnation. She had no idea how long it would take or how long the suit would give her.

Apparently Emily did, however. “The suit has a cooling system to safeguard against loss of oxygen, as well as an Aetheric field that slows down all metabolic functions. When used properly, and if monitored correctly, it acts as a bubble, or stasis field, putting the body into a near-death state.”

Sam smiled at her before turning to the others. “That means that Finley can stay in the Aether for a long time.”

Emily patted his arm like a proud mother. “That’s right, lad.”

Arching not one, but both brows, Finley resisted the urge to shake her head at them. “How long will I have?”

The little redhead turned to face her and shrugged. “Forty to sixty minutes if I had to guess.”

“And if you didn’t have to guess?”

“For most people I’d be certain of forty, but you’re not most people. You’re ability to heal and your physicality may afford you more time.”

“But there’s no way of knowing?”

“I could equip the suit with some sort of safety feature that would sound an alarm once your brain activity and oxygenation levels began to drop. It would trigger the Lazarus switch.”

“Resurrection,” Finley murmured. She wasn’t having second thoughts or cold feet, but dying was a risky thing, and she had heard about the Aether demons that had attacked Tesla when he wore the suit. They were Garibaldi’s creations and they would come for her, as well. She’d already tangled with some of his creatures before. It would not be easy. It would be dangerous and she would be totally alone.

But Garibaldi had Griffin, and she would die a hundred times to save him. Too bad she only had to die once for everything to fail.

“How quickly can you make the changes, Em?” No sense in thinking about what bad things could happen. She had to concentrate on the task at hand.

Her friend looked at the suit, as though she could take each section and devise a dependable schedule. She probably could. Lord, Emily could probably estimate right down to the quarter hour. “Three hours and ten minutes,” Emily responded.

Better than the quarter hour. “No faster?”

Her friend shot her a cross look. “No. No faster. That’s fast enough. Maybe you’re fool enough to risk your life, but I’m quite committed to making certain both you and Griffin come back from this.”

“Fair enough.”

“However, the process would be easier, and possibly a bit faster with an assistant.”

“I’ll help you,” Sam said.

Emily wrapped her arm about his waist and squeezed herself against him. “I know you would, but your hands are too big for the delicate work.” She tilted her head back and smiled up at him. “Besides, I need you to keep me sane, not drive me mad.”

All this romance was well and good, but Finley felt it like a thorn under her fingernail. “Could you stop batting your eyelashes at each other long enough to help me save Griffin?”

To her credit, Emily didn’t seem the least bit irked by her snotty tone—which only drove the thorn deeper. What if she never got to touch Griff again? “Plus, Finley is in need of someone to fight with, and you’ve always been very good at that.”

Well, that was a bit of a surprise. Finley never thought Emily would suggest she and Sam fight especially after that time she almost killed him.

Sam regarded her thoughtfully—another aggravation. When did Sam Morgan become someone who was thoughtful? Usually she thought him fairly vacant of thought, the big dunderhead. Although, he had been surprisingly ingenious on occasion. “I can do that.”

No doubt he could. It was like fighting a mountain, sparring with him. Was it wrong that she was a little excited at the prospect? All that fear for Griffin turned so easily to bloodlust, itching to be indulged. At least she wouldn’t be sitting around feeling useless. She had to be calm when she went into the Aether. Her temper wouldn’t do her any favors when she needed to keep her wits about her.

“Run along, then,” Emily told them in her best school matron voice. “Jasper, I don’t need you right now, but I will when it comes time to engage the stasis field. Wildcat, I’d like you to stay and assist me.”

Cat looked surprised, but didn’t protest. The American girl was with Jasper now, but the two of them sometimes went off and had their own adventures outside of their group. No one begrudged them for it, but it had made it a little harder for her to become part of their little family. Hopefully this would change that. After the events in New York, it was only since Cat’s arrival that the cowboy seemed like his former self. He was one of them, and if they wanted to keep him, they needed to welcome the girl he cared about, as well. If Emily was opening up to the idea, then Sam would follow shortly—he was always the last to trust anyone, taking his role of “family” protector to new levels of over-the-top. Finley liked Cat—they trained together on occasion. Direct and honest, Cat was exactly the sort of solid person Jasper needed in his life, and she wouldn’t allow him to dwell on the past.

Although, there was something disconcerting about those fangs of hers. Sharp, they were. Then again, Jasper didn’t seem to mind, and Finley had caught them kissing once, so it couldn’t be an issue. Still, there were reasons they called her Wildcat, and Finley was pretty certain she didn’t want to know all of them.

Sam stepped in front of her, blocking out the rest of the room. “Let’s go.”

Finley peered up at him. She barely cleared his shoulder and she was tall for a girl. “Itching to go toe-to-toe with me, Goliath?”

He smiled—actually smiled! “You’re not?”

He had a point. She needed to do something about this fear simmering low in her gut. She was afraid—more afraid than she had ever been in her entire life. It threatened to take over completely, like when her other self would come out before Griffin taught her how to merge the two sides of herself. He had saved her, given her purpose, and he accepted her for who she was, flaws and all. She had a great number of flaws, but then again, so did he.

And she wanted more time putting up with them.

As she turned to follow Sam and Jasper to the lift, Finley paused. Her gaze sought out Emily, who opened the door to the locker where the Tesla “death suit” was kept. She must have felt Finley’s attention because she whirled about.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Emily must also have a talent for deciphering the movement of lips because she smiled ever so slightly, but not before Finley saw fear in her eyes, as well. This had to work. She couldn’t let Griffin die without knowing she loved him.

But she was going to die; Griffin’s life depended on it.

* * *

Mila woke up to the sound of her brain beating out a tenacious rhythm against the inside of her skull. There was a sour taste in her mouth and her tongue felt as though it had been replaced by a dirty wool sock. A few days ago she would have actually felt her tongue to make certain that hadn’t happened. Was it odd that she was disappointed she didn’t do that now? She knew her tongue was exactly as it was, and that was good, but she missed...she missed the not knowing, and the need to find out.

Regret was a word she was becoming more and more familiar with.

Cautiously, she opened her eyes. Bloody hell! She closed them again. Her brain throbbed. Her stomach rolled. There was that regret again! And Jack was sitting in a chair just a few feet away, watching her like a cat watching a newborn mouse.

So this was what the morning after a night of too much drink felt like.

Summoning all her strength, she cracked one eye open again. It didn’t hurt so much this time. She focused on him—and there was only one of him, unlike the two she’d seen after puking all over his lover. He was dressed entirely in black, as he often was, but his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat and he wasn’t wearing a waistcoat or a jacket. His dark hair fell in waves about his shoulders. No bloke—Finley had taught her that word—should have such lovely hair. No bloke should be so lovely to look at either.

She ought to have vomited on him.

“She wakes,” he commented dryly, long fingers following the scroll carved in the wooden arm of the chair. “How’s your head, poppet?”

She tried to scowl at him but it was hard to do with only one eye open and her brain trying to come out her ears. “I think you know very well how my head is.” She’d seen him the morning after indulging a little too much the night before. He looked then like she felt at that moment.

“Probably better than I ought” was his reply. He even smiled a little. He couldn’t be too angry at her, then. “Now, let’s discuss how you’re going to apologize to my friend for ruining her gown, and to me for pulling such a destructive, impulsive, childish stunt.”

Or maybe he was.

Mila pushed herself into a sitting position. Her head was starting to hurt less—the benefit of having a metal skull and a fast metabolism. She also, she realized, had her pride. Or maybe it was stubbornness. She hadn’t figured out the difference between the two yet, despite careful reading. She supposed she’d understand once she’d experienced both enough times to discern between them. “I’m not apologizing to your doxy, so you can just forget about that. I am sorry about the floor, but if the two of you weren’t making so much noise I wouldn’t have done it.”