The Girl With the Iron Touch (13 page)

Meanwhile, she had a lot of reading to do if she was going to protect the world from the Machinist again. Maybe she’d get lucky and she wouldn’t have to murder him at all.

“You should have told me you were going to see Dandy.”

Finley’s hands went to her hips. He sounded jealous. “You were off checking the security system around the house. Besides, Sam was with me to make certain I didn’t throw myself at Jack.” It was shrewish and uncalled-for, and she was sorry the moment the words left her tongue.

Griffin scowled—he was becoming more and more like Sam every day and it wasn’t attractive. “I’m not jealous, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“No?” She smiled at him. This was not going to escalate into a stupid fight just because they were both on edge. “Tell me honestly—are you more bothered by the fact that I didn’t tell you where we were going, or the fact that it was Jack I went to see?”

He looked as though he’d rather eat worms than answer her. “The fact that it was Dandy. I see how he looks at you.”

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” She arched a brow. “Maybe next you can tell me why you look like you haven’t been eating or sleeping? What keeps you locked up in your rooms, passing out when you use your power and having mediums over for breakfast?”

Griffin’s jaw set mulishly. “What bothers you more— the fact that I’m doing these things, or the fact that you don’t know why?”

Leave it to him to throw her own childishness back in her face. “That I don’t know why, of course.”

She expected him to gloat a little or perhaps brush it off, but he did neither. “I won’t share you, Finley. If you want to be friends with Dandy, fine, but you have to know that he doesn’t want to be just friends.”

“I know that,” she replied. “I also know that he would never try to force the issue, and I know that Jack isn’t going to waste time pining for me, either.”

“Is that what you want?”

“This is ridiculous.” She decided to borrow a page from Emily’s book, and go for complete honesty. It was the only way to stop this conversation from becoming more of a habit than it already was.

She walked up to him and placed her hands on either side of his face so he would be forced to look at her. “I might take Jack soup if he was ill, maybe even sit with him. I would not bathe him. I would not wash his hair, and when I look at him I do not think about kissing him.” Impulsively, she traced the bow of his lower lip with her thumb. “There’s only one mouth I think about kissing.”

Griffin’s gaze warmed beneath his heavy lids. He had a way of looking at a girl that made her want to toss propriety and virtue to the wind. “Whose mouth is that?” His voice was low and rough as his fingers hooked into the front lacing of her corset and pulled her closer.

“Yours, you great daft article. Not Jack’s, only yours. Will you stop being jealous of him now?”

“He’s rich, handsome and dangerous. You like that.”

She smiled at the uncharacteristic lack of self-confidence in his tone. “My dear duke.
You
are rich, handsome and dangerous.”

His lips lifted on one side. “I would never describe myself as dangerous.”

“Could you maybe stop talking? I’d like to kiss you but your lips won’t stay still.”

Eyes twinkling, he pressed his lips shut. Finley smiled and guided his head down to hers.

Then, like a scene in a comedy—their lips but a breath away from touching—the door to the library burst open and Sam charged into the room like a bull, a map in his hands and Jasper hot on his heels.

Bloody hell, they had brilliant timing. She could’ve cheerfully strangled the pair of them—all three of them, really.

Sam didn’t even appear to notice that he’d interrupted something—again. “I found the maps of the Metropolitan system and the catacombs.” He used one big arm to wipe the desk completely clear of papers and unrolled the maps on the polished surface, oblivious to the debris floating to the floor around him.

Griffin shot Finley a glance. He looked annoyed to have been interrupted—as was she—but there was something there that told her he planned to continue their conversation later. She would make certain of it.

They gathered around the desk to look at Sam’s findings. He pointed out the St. Pancras station where Jack had delivered the crate with the automaton.

“That station gets a lot of traffic,” Griffin said, stating what Finley had already thought. “A crate couldn’t just sit there for long.”

“Jack said he left the letter
D
carved on the wall near the spot where he deposited the crate,” she informed him. “Emily and I were in the catacombs, though. Not in the station.”

Sam nodded and pointed to a spot on another map. It was a detailed drawing of the catacombs that noted London landmarks and metro stations. “This is the area around St. Pancras where you and Em were looking about.”

“Is that a stairwell?” Jasper asked, leaning in for a closer look. When Finley and Griffin moved, their shoulders brushed and Finley’s foolish heart gave a jump. Stupid thing.

Warm fingers entwined with hers, blocked from Jasper and Sam’s view by the desk. She closed her hand around his.

“Exactly.” Sam’s finger slid over to the spot on the map. “This was one of the documents we managed to recover from Garibaldi’s warehouse. It marks several underground stairwells and doors that link to other parts of the system but that aren’t on any official maps.”

Griffin glanced up. “Garibaldi constructed them?”

“Em thought so.” Sam shrugged. “It makes sense. It also stands to reason that the metal that almost killed me was one of Garibaldi’s machines. He’d been using organites in his inventions, so it would explain the machine breaking its programming.”

It did make sense, and if it was true then Sam had all the more reason to hate the Machinist.

“So you reckon whoever wanted the crate collected it from the station and then took it into the catacombs via Garibaldi’s secret exits?” she asked.

Sam’s gaze met with hers, confident and determined. “I do.”

“It supports the theory that the Machinist is alive and behind this.” Griffin’s expression was suitably grim.

Finley frowned. “It could be someone who worked with him. Someone who knew him.”

There was a pause, as though Sam and Jasper were wondering which theory to support.

“Finley’s right,” Sam said finally. “We shouldn’t assume it’s him until we have more proof.”

“It sure seems like it might be him,” Jasper added, surprising her by joining the conversation, “but I also have a hard time believin’ he walked away from that building fallin’ down around him. Besides, if it was the scoundrel, wouldn’t he have sent word that he had Miss Emily by now? Seems he’d take some pleasure in letting you know he had her.” He looked from Sam to Griffin—the two most important men in Emily’s life.

Griffin’s expression was tight. Finley felt for him—a little. He wasn’t used to being questioned. He was a duke, after all. He was also decisive, perceptive and usually right. Still, it seemed his personal fears and feelings might be clouding his judgment. “Fine. We’ll treat this as though it might not be Garibaldi, but that it may be related to him.”

“You seem pretty keen on layin’ this at the Italian’s feet,” Jasper commented. “Anythin’ you want to share?”

Finley turned her gaze to Griffin to see his reaction, but he was staring at a point over Jasper’s shoulder, his eyes and expression hard. “The three of you need to leave this room. Now.”

What the devil? Finley followed his gaze. There was nothing there. “Griffin…”

“Finley, get out.
Now.
” His jaw was clenched, face etched with something that looked like a combination of hate and fear.

“We’re not going anywhere,” she informed him, pointing a warning finger at Sam as he started gathering up the maps to do what he was told.

“I’m not going argue with you,” Griffin ground out. “Get the hell out of this room.”

Finley opened her mouth to disagree, but not a sound came out. Suddenly there was a terrible banding around her throat, cutting off her breath. She tried to suck in air, but it was impossible, and the invisible hands around her neck squeezed tighter.

Hands. Yes, it felt like hands. Her vision began to waver.

Griffin swore. Out of the corner of her eye, with what vision she had, she saw him grab Jasper by the arm. “Sorry, my friend, but I need your help with this, and I don’t have time to explain.”

Jasper blinked. “What the hell… Oh, no. No.”

Finley gasped for air as she turned her gaze forward once more. Suddenly, as the world grew more narrow, she began to see a figure before her. Long black hair. Almond-shaped eyes. As her lungs strained for air, the face of her assailant became clearer.

It was Mei, the girl Jasper had once loved. The girl Griffin had accidentally killed. She glared at Finley with inky, iris-less eyes, a determined expression on her face.

Was she a ghost? She had to be—her own imagination wasn’t nearly this powerful, and Griffin had seen her first.

Blackness invaded her vision. Finley grappled for Mei’s arms, but her fingers went right through them. Her form was as insubstantial as fog. Dimly, over the roaring in her ears, she heard Jasper speak. He was pleading with Mei, asking her to stop. And Griffin was reaching for her…

And that was it. The last thought Finley had as she sank into oblivion was how it would be just her luck to be murdered by a bloody ghost.

The sleeping beauty in the fairy tale was awakened by the kiss of her prince. Finley woke up to the overwhelming and oh-so-not-delightful smell of vinegar.

“Bloody hell!” she cried, lurching upright. Her voice sounded like the scratch of metal on cobblestone and her throat was tender to the touch. Would it bruise in the form of handprints?

Griffin sat beside her. They were on the settee. Someone had elevated her feet and removed her boots and, from the feel of it, loosened her corset. Under ordinary circumstances the realization that she was partially disrobed on a sofa with Griffin would lead to heart palpitations, but not now. Not when he was looking at her as though her being attacked by a dead person was his fault.

Because she had the sinking feeling that it probably was.

Sam and Jasper lurked nearby. Sam held a small blue glass bottle and a handkerchief. He’d been the one to administer the foul-smelling restorative. No doubt he’d asked for the privilege to wake her so rudely.

At least there was no sign of Mei. Other than a broken vase on the floor, wet carpet and trampled flowers, there was no indication that Finley had almost… well, given up the ghost.

“What was that?” she demanded hoarsely. “It was Mei,” Griffin replied—rather unnecessarily. “I know that.
Why
was it Mei?”

“Yeah,” Jasper joined in. “I reckon you’ve got some explainin’ to do, Griff.” The cowboy did not look happy, and why would he? He’d loved Mei once, been betrayed by her and then held her as she died. If anyone deserved answers, it was him.

Griffin rose from the settee and walked a few feet away, then he turned to face the three of them. He looked annoyed, frightened and somewhat relieved. It was obvious he didn’t want to tell them, but also that he knew he had no other choice.

“I’m being haunted.”

They stared at him.

“Haunted?” Finley echoed, coming up on her elbows. “By Mei?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “By someone, though it’s obvious Mei is part of it.”

“Just part?” Sam asked. “Good Lord, man how many ghosts do you have chasing your tail?”

“Mei’s the only one who I see clearly. The rest are black wisps—like shadows.”

Sam again. “So this started in New York.”

Griffin nodded. “In Tesla’s apartments. At first I thought it was something strange within the Aether, but after we returned to England I realized that Mei had returned with us. The wisps, too. I’m not sure why it’s happening or how to stop it. That’s why I asked for Isley’s assistance.” He glanced at Finley. “Mei won’t speak to me. She only attacks and screams silently at me. I hoped he could ascertain just what it is she wants, or find a way to give her peace.”

“I don’t reckon peace is something she ever courted,” Jasper lamented.

Finley ignored him. Mei had played Jasper for a fool and tried to get her killed. She didn’t care if the witch suffered eternal torment. There were more important things to address right now.

“This has been going on for weeks and you never told us?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief, or the disappointment, from her voice. “I would have liked to have been prepared for the possibility that a ghost might try to strangle me to death!”

“Just how did she manage that, anyway?” Sam asked. “I thought it was rare for ghosts to interact with regular people.”

Regular people? There was nothing
regular
about any of them.

“It is,” Griffin said with a slight sigh. “It’s as though she’s siphoning strength from somewhere. Isley believes she might be using my own affinity with the Aether against me.”

That was bloody brilliant. Just wonderful.

“You should have told us,” she admonished him. “You didn’t need to go through this alone.” And that was the real issue. It wasn’t that she thought he didn’t trust her—it was the fact that he thought dealing with this was something he needed to do by himself.

“I thought I was the only one in danger.” Griffin confessed as he massaged the back of his neck. He looked like hell, but she wasn’t going to hand over her sympathy quite so easily. “Fin, if I thought for a moment she’d try to hurt you…”

“She didn’t just try, Griffin. She almost choked the life out of me.”

“I didn’t want you all to get involved,” he confided. “I knew you’d try to help and I was afraid you would get hurt.”

She actually smiled. He was such a martyr at times. “That worked out well, didn’t it?”

He returned the grin. He looked as though the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. “Rather brilliantly, I thought.”

“Right, so the two of you have kissed and made up,” Sam butted in. “Then maybe you could help me figure out how to bring Emily home. We can deal with Griffin’s ghost after that.”