An automaton Victoria.

The idea was almost too preposterous to entertain, but much too awful to ignore. There were all manner of nefarious schemes The Machinist—Leonardo Garibaldi—could get up to with a mechanical matriarch. Griffin didn’t even want to try to think of them all.

If their theory was correct—and he and Emily were seldom wrong when they agreed with one another— Garibaldi was either building or had almost completed the most lifelike automaton the world had ever seen. Metal with a flesh suit and an Organite-augmented logic engine that would allow the machine to actually think. A sentient creature—or as sentient as Garibaldi allowed it to become. One that didn’t just look like the queen from a distance, but one that would be an exact physical replica. Garibaldi would have entry anywhere and everywhere, including many of the upcoming jubilee celebrations.

“Garibaldi has to be stopped,” he said. “Regardless of his intent, we cannot have a Victoria doppelganger loose in London, or anywhere else.”

“Do you reckon Garibaldi would have done it if Victoria hadn’t been so harsh to begin with?” Sam asked. The others turned surprised gazes on him, and he held up his hands. “It was just a question.”

“Regardless of his intentions to begin with, they’re no good now,” Griffin informed his friend. “Let’s not forget that he could very well be a murderer, as well. It was because of him that the digger attacked you and those workers. And he may be the person responsible for my parents’ death, and the deaths of many of their colleagues.”

Sam looked away, his jaw tight. Griffin regretted having to bring up the digger, but there could be no sympathy for The Machinist. Not now, not ever.

“Aunt Cordelia,” he said. “We need to alert Buckingham Palace right away. Since my latest visit was unorthodox to say the least, may I trust you to inform Her Majesty of this unfortunate situation?”

His aunt nodded, silver chains jingling softly. “I shall go directly.”

He turned to Emily next. “Em, I need you to equip us for any possibility. Find something to take down an automaton quickly and effectively.”

Ginger eyebrows shot up. “You’re not askin’ for much, are you, lad?”

“We have to assume the worst,” he replied grimly. “Garibaldi is obviously mad. There’s no telling what he might do, treason could be the very least of it.”

“What about me?” Jasper demanded. “Now that I’m involved in this mess, you don’t expect me to just sit around, do ya? Or Miss Finley and Sam?”

As usual, Griffin found Jasper’s allegiance to a country that wasn’t even his humbling. “Practice,” he said. “Train. I need you ready and able to control your abilities, new or otherwise.” He knew Jasper was amazingly fast, he had seen it for himself. He had also been treated with Emily’s Organite salve, enhancing that speed. “All we have on our side otherwise is the element of surprise. Emily’s created some amazing weapons. She’ll outfit you and you can practice with them.”

The cowboy nodded sharply. “Will do.”

Griffin turned his head. “Finley, Garibaldi knows of you. He knew your father. It stands to reason that he has some idea what you’re capable of—it’s imperative you learn to control yourself. I want you to work on the meditations I taught you. Later today, we’ll work on it together.”

He turned his head again. “Sam, you’re our secret weapon. Garibaldi might know you’re strong, but there’s no way he can know how close to invincible you are. I need you rested, fully healed and ready to fight.”

It was odd, but Griffin thought his friend’s face paled. Was that guilt he saw in the larger fellow’s dark eyes? Sam nodded. “I will be.” It had to be paranoia, but Griffin was certain there was an extra edge to the words.

“I’m going to find out what I can about Garibaldi through the Aether,” he confided. “I’ll update you all later.”

His companions recognized the dismissal and followed one another out of the room. Only Sam seemed to hesitate on the threshold, but Griffin ignored it—for now. He had more important things to worry about.

Left alone in the study, Griffin closed the door and immediately set to work. He removed his fine dark gray wool coat and cravat as he sipped a potion he had concocted a while back. It contained a small amount of laudanum to help relax him and lower his natural defenses so that the Aether could come more easily. He had become so good at keeping it out that sometimes it didn’t always come when he tried to access it.

He didn’t like to take the potion, as laudanum was derived from opium poppies—something Aether addicts were often also addicted to. It made the veil so much thinner, easier to traverse. The drug was every bit as dangerous, if not more so, than the energy it called forth.

He unbuttoned his collar and lay down on the rug in front of the fire. The warmth relaxed him and he tried to release the maelstrom of thoughts flying about his head, but there was one thing he held on to—his rage. It was deep within him, so cold he doubted his friends had even noticed it, but it was there. Festering.

He tried to let it go as he opened himself to the Aether. Warm energy rushed at him, but he held it at bay with more ease than he ever had before. He controlled how much of it filled him, and when he opened his eyes, it was as though he was within two worlds at the same time. He saw the real world as it was, and then another, secret layer on top. He was in the spirit realm, part of the Aetheric plane that didn’t so much require control as it did concentration. He stood up.

He didn’t have to do anything but wait and think of his parents. A few moments later they were there, standing before him, looking just as he remembered them before their deaths. His father, tall and strong with eyes exactly like Griffin’s and long sideburns barely touched with gray. His mother, small and slender with thick auburn hair, green eyes and rosy cheeks. They looked so young, but they hadn’t changed. Griffin was only getting older.

His mother smiled at him, even though her eyes were serious. “You shouldn’t be here, dearest. It’s not good for you to travel in the spirit realm.”

“I won’t stay long,” he assured them. “I promise.” Bloody hell, but it was good to see them. After they had died, he would come and visit them too often and for too long. He hadn’t been able to let them go, and they had seemed so real to him. Finally he realized that he was keeping them from doing what they needed to do in the afterlife. It hadn’t been easy, but he let them go. This was the first time he contacted them since.

Now, it was so strange to see them almost as bright and vibrant as they had been. But not quite. They weren’t flesh and blood. Perhaps he noticed this because his grief for them, while still sharp, had eased somewhat.

“What is it you need, son?” his father asked. “You would not be here were it not of great importance.”

“I want to know about Leonardo Garibaldi,” he told them. “I believe he was responsible for your deaths. And I think he’s using Organites to build an automaton doppelganger of the queen.”

As he expected, his parents were shocked. Garibaldi had been their friend.

“Leonardo never forgave Victoria for commanding the Organites stay hidden,” Helena remarked absently.

Edward looked at her. “And he never forgave you for marrying me.”

This was news to Griffin. “And now he’s directed that anger at the queen—and at me.” The Machinist might have used him only to get to the Organites, but Griffin took it personally.

His father nodded. “Be careful, Griffin. Leonardo isn’t mad, he’s driven by righteousness. He truly believes he’s doing the right thing. Those kinds of foes are always the most dangerous. Don’t make the mistake of underestimating him.”

“If you need to, remind him of me,” Helena suggested, a determined set to her jaw. “If he hurts you, I will haunt him to the ends of the earth.”

Griffin started. He’d never heard his mother use such a tone before. Her words sent a chill down his spine because he knew she would keep that promise and drive Leonardo stark raving mad.

“Can you help me find him?” he asked.

His father shook his spectral head. “You know we can’t, son. There are rules about spirits interfering in the world of the living.”

“In this case I’d break them,” his mother surprised him by saying. “But even so, we could only show you where Leonardo lived during our life, not now. Even the dead have their limitations. For us to locate him he would have to reach out…” She stopped, frowning.

“What is it?” Griffin demanded. A strange sensation assaulted him—like a finger of ice sliding down his back.

His parents shared a glance. “Do you feel that?” his mother asked.

Edward King nodded. “A summons.”

“What sort of summons?” Griffin’s gaze ricocheted between the two of them. “Why does it feel as though we are being watched?”

Ghostly eyes turned toward him, so real and yet so intangible. “Because we are. We are being summoned, as though to a séance. Whoever it is, they have something that was personal to each of us, and they’re focusing on it to call us to them.”

His mother’s gaze was worried. “But not away from you. Griffin, you must go. You cannot be with us when—” But it was too late. The environment around Griffin changed, swirling mist replaced his study and he felt dizzy. There was nothing to hold on to as he felt himself torn away from the safety and grounding of his own home. It was all he could do to remain standing as his head swam and the mists finally began to clear, revealing a small, dark parlor.

A man sat in a wingback chair, one leg slung casually over the other. In his hand, he held an earring. Griffin recognized it instantly as belonging to his mother. She had been wearing the pair when they died. He knew this because when he saw their bodies she wore only one, the mate believed to be lost in the crash. The only way this man could have it was if he had been there. The realization that this was Leonardo Garibaldi—his parents’ murderer—should have filled him with rage, but all he felt was cold inside. Dead.

Garibaldi leaned his head against the back of the chair, eyes closed in meditation. He wore some kind of strange contraption on his head—a ring of metal with prongs that seemed to dig into his skull. Small gears clicked and whirred, causing the ring to slowly undulate, pressing into different areas of the man’s scalp in a careful, measured pattern. It was very similar to those used in Aether dens to summon spirits. Garibaldi had summoned his mother. Griffin and his father were there only because they had been with her at the time.

He watched as a shadow rose over Garibaldi’s body—a ghost. It was the man’s Aetheric self. It was a strong projection—indicating that Aether travel was not new to the villain. Unease settled in Griffin’s stomach, though he knew he shouldn’t be surprised. Garibaldi knew all about him, and all about his friends. He would be prepared for whatever assault any of them had to offer.

His only pleasure was seeing the surprise on Garibaldi’s spectral face. He hadn’t expected to get the whole family.

“Would you look at this,” he commented in accented English, swarthy face breaking into a smile. “The King clan. My dear boy, you’ve grown since I last saw you.”

Griffin’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, but before he could open his mouth, his mother spoke. “What do you want, Leonardo?”

The Italian’s expression changed as he turned to look at Griffin’s mother—it softened. “I wanted to see you, Helena. I hoped we could talk.”

Her face was hard. “Whatever could you and I have to discuss? You killed me. You killed my husband and now you endanger my son. I want nothing to do with you.”

A pale hand reached out and touched her cheek. She flinched and Garibaldi recoiled as though struck. “You were not supposed to die, Helena. Never you. You always supported me and my research. I had hoped to help you recover from the loss of your husband, and perhaps take his place.”

Helena paled, the translucent flesh of her cheeks going noticeably white. “I never would have married you.” As if to further prove her point, she took a step back toward her husband. Garibaldi reached out and grabbed her by the arm. His ghostly fingers held fast as she tried to pull away.

Griffin’s father moved forward. “Unhand her, you scoundrel.”

Garibaldi held up his hand—it was metal and glowed with runes etched into its surface. There was a flash of light from his palm that zipped across the space to engulf the former duke. The glow overcame him and then collapsed into nothing but a pinpoint, leaving an empty space where Griffin’s father had been.

A gasp tore from his mother’s lips. Garibaldi shushed her. “Hush, my dear. He’s not destroyed, merely exiled from this place.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Griffin told him quietly as a familiar sensation began swirling in his chest.

Garibaldi turned that strange hand toward him. In his other, he held an object that sent a chill right down to Griff’s feet. A spirit box. Such things were rare—prisons for spirits. The ghost’s essence could be captured and bound to the box—and whoever owned it—forever.

The bastard was going to imprison his mother, bind her to that box and keep her as his.

“I see you recognize what this is.” Garibaldi held up the box and waggled it mockingly. “You also know I have power here. Power I intend to use. Now, be a good boy or I’ll use it on you.”

Griffin laughed, warmth rushing through his Aetheric self. Unlike Garibaldi, he was bound to his body even in this realm. He wasn’t a spirit, and no one—no one—had power like his. The worst Garibaldi could do to him was send him back to his body. His mother, however would become a prisoner, and even Griffin would be unable to save her then.

The villain had him and he knew it. A slow smile curved the man’s lips. “Now that we understand one another, you’ll run along if you ever want to see your mother again. If not, when I wake up, I start with your friends. Want to wager on whether or not I can pull their spirits from their bodies?”

He didn’t think such a thing was possible, but no, he didn’t want to wager the lives of his friends on it. He didn’t want to lose his mother, either—not to this monster. She belonged in Heaven—the spirit realm—with his father.

The thought of his father brought Griffin’s anger to the foreground. How dare Garibaldi involve his parents—hadn’t he done enough to them? And how dare the man meet Griffin in this place and make threats?

He couldn’t rush him, because he’d use the box on his mother. He couldn’t use his own abilities against him, because his mother might get caught in the cross fire.

Glancing at Garibaldi’s body in the chair, an idea occurred to him. He turned on the villain with a smile. “Have you an effect on the tangible world in this form, sir?”

Garibaldi scowled. “Of course not.” Only against other spirits did Aether travelers have form. But Griffin was not an ordinary traveler.

“I do,” he said. And to prove his point, he moved—teleported, for lack of better term—to the chair and wrapped his hand around Garibaldi’s throat. The spirit of the man caught his breath, his metal hand going to his throat.

Griffin looked at his mother as he squeezed harder. “Go.”

She shot him a worried glance, but didn’t argue. She simply disappeared, set free by Garibaldi’s loss of concentration.

It would be a lie if Griffin were to say he wasn’t tempted to end this then and there, but he was not a murderer. He would not make himself into the very thing he was so tempted to destroy at that moment. That didn’t stop him from holding on just a little bit longer. Garibaldi’s face began to turn blue as his spirit waned and sputtered.

A little reluctantly, Griffin let go. While the man sputtered for breath, Griffin reached down and grabbed his mother’s earring from the hand made of flesh rather than metal. For now at least, Garibaldi would have no power over his parents.

His actions cost him, however. As Garibaldi’s shocked body pulled his spirit back to it, his Aetheric self raised the metal hand and blasted Griffin with the same energy it had used on his father. Griffin’s fingers curled around the earring just as he was sucked back into his own body in his own house.

He bolted upright on the floor of his study, the warm gold in his palm digging into his flesh. He had saved his mother, but for how long? He still had no idea where Garibaldi was hiding or of his plans for his automaton. He was exactly where he had started.

Perhaps not exactly. He knew now that Garibaldi had power in the Aether, and he would be better prepared for that the next time around. He also knew that his mother was the villain’s weak spot. He’d use that if he had to. Regardless, he would make certain he knew more about Garibaldi than the man even knew about himself. The next time they met he’d destroy that Aether oscillatory transference device he wore around his villainous head.

And he would make certain Garibaldi could never hurt his parents, or threaten his friends ever again. Even if it killed him.

 

When Finley met Griffin in his study early that evening before dinner, she took one look at him and gasped in dismay. “What happened to you?”

He smiled wearily at her. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin had a slight grayish cast to it. “Headache,” he explained. “Spent a little too much time in the Aether earlier and now I pay the price.”

She sat down on the sofa next to him. “Are you all right?”

He nodded. “I’ll be fine. I’ve done this before.”

She wanted to believe him, but he looked so ill. “You did something you shouldn’t have, didn’t you?”

Another tired smile. “Let’s just say I pushed the boundaries of Aetheric etiquette, and leave it at that. I didn’t send for you so we could discuss how much sense I may or may not possess.” He gestured to the table in front of them.

A small pot of ink sat on a stained but laundered square of linen. With it were a few other items that made it look as though Griffin was about to write a letter. But there was one thing that did not fit.

“What’s that?” she asked, pointing at a wicked-looking needle-on-a-pistol contraption.

“That’s a tattoo needle,” he replied, taking the stopper out of the ink. “Em made it for me. I’m going to tattoo you.”

She shook her head. “No, you’re not.”

He smiled. Oh, so her fear amused him, did it? “It won’t hurt much at all. Look, I’ve got some.” He pulled aside the collar of his shirt to show her part of a celtic knot on his chest with strange symbols around it. The ink on his flesh had a slight blue cast to it, no longer fresh and black. “I did those myself. I’ve some on my back, as well, that one of Pick-a-Dilly’s tattooed performers was kind enough to transfer for me.”

For a moment she thought to remind him that showing off his naked skin to a young woman was highly improper, but then another part of her told her to keep her mouth shut and enjoy the view, so that was what she did. This other part of her was also keenly interested in this tattooing business, so she moved closer for a better look.

“Why did you decorate yourself this way?”

“A couple are personal, but the rest come from my father’s research—and my own. The runes help me control and focus my abilities, plus keep my mind and soul sharp.”

“Why do you want to do it to me?”

“I want to give you a couple of runes,” he told her, swabbing the needle with a medicinal smelling liquid that she remembered from Emily’s laboratory. “Nothing frightening or terrible. Just something to help the two sides of you finally merge and awaken your awareness.”

She watched him warily. “That sounds like more than a couple.”

Another smile, this one warm and reassuring. He would make a fantastic confidence artist. “It won’t take long and I’ll make it as painless as possible. I’m good at this.”

Judging from the ones she’d seen of his, she knew that. “Fine. And I’m not afraid of it hurting. I’m not some silly girl.”

He just kept smiling. “No. I’d never call you a silly girl.” His smile faded. “Can I trust you?”

A tiny fissure of alarm tingled at the base of Finley’s spine. “You can.” She would never betray him, no matter what he told her.

He glanced away, fingers absently toying with the instruments on the tray. “I went into the Aether to talk to my parents.”

Her eyes widened. “You can do that?” How amazing! He could commune with the dead. She couldn’t help but wonder if he could somehow contact her father…

“Yes,” he replied. “I can do that, and I don’t know if I can contact your father.”

The blood rushed from her face. “How…?”

He waved a hand. “A lucky guess, nothing more. When I was in the Aether, Garibaldi showed up. He summoned my mother’s spirit and my father and I were taken along, as well. He tried to capture my mother’s ghost.”

Finley slumped onto the stool, disbelief practically leaking out her pores. “I didn’t know such things were possible. What did you do?”

A slight smile curved his lips. “I took a tip from you and grabbed him—his physical body—by the throat. That weakened him enough so that he was forced to release my mother.” The smile faded. “But he has power in the Aether—more than I’m comfortable with him having.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure. I stopped him this time, and I’m confident I can stop him again, but we need to find him and bring him to justice as soon as possible, before he tries again.”

She gestured to the tray. “Will tattooing me help make that happen?”

“I hope so.” Determination settled over his features, hardening them. “Yes.”

“Then let’s do it. What do you need me to do?”

“Just turn so that your back is to me. I’ll need you to unfasten the top of your gown so I can access your skin.”

Her back? Her naked back? Oh, this went against everything her mother ever taught her about being a “good” girl. Still, the darker part of her perked up at the thought of undressing for Griffin—even if it was just a little bit.

Bloody stars, if this was what it was going to be like having both halves of herself merged into one, she wasn’t so certain she wanted to do it. Before everything was morally black or white, and now it was becoming alarmingly gray.

Her fingers trembling, Finley unfastened the buttons that ran on an angle from the mandarin collar on her gown to where the sleeve ended at her right shoulder. Griffin was able to peel the silk away from her back, revealing her shoulder. She shouldn’t have been so alarmed. She had bared her shoulders before.

A low fire burned in the hearth a few feet away, so she wasn’t the least bit chilled. In fact, as soon as his hand touched her flesh, she felt very warm indeed.

“I’m going to clean the area first,” he told her. “This might be a little cold.”

She jumped as the wet cloth touched her shoulder blade. “Oh!” It was more than a little cold! There was that medicinal smell again. Wonderful, she was going to smell like a surgeon’s office.

“I’m going to draw the runes on you now.”

She turned her head to glance up at him. “I thought you were going to tattoo them?”

“I am, but I’ll draw them on first. Then I’ll tattoo over them—less margin for error that way.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not filling me with confidence toward your abilities in this area, Your Grace.”

“Turn around and stop squawking, woman,” he ordered, but there was too much humor in his tone for the demand to be insulting.

“I’ll begin with Uruz, for strength and to banish self-doubt and weakness.” Finley shivered as the tip of a quill moved ever so lightly on her shoulder. A straight line down, then a small diagonal line from the top that bent to run parallel to the first—like an awkward lowercase n.

“Are you cold?” Griffin asked.

“It tickled,” she replied, embarrassed.

He chuckled. “Sorry. Next is Gebo for balance, then Sowilo for self-orientation and strength of will.” He deftly drew each rune with the quill as he spoke—X followed by a sharp S. “Most important, is Ehwaz for partnership and Ingwas for centering and focus.” Each of these symbols— M and a square diamond—were written in a single line down her shoulder blade. Her skin tingled a little.

“That’s definitely more than a couple,” she reminded him, once again wondering what the devil she was about allowing him to do this. She must be barking mad.

“They’re small,” he replied—as though that made a difference. “Hold still.”

Next came the needle. Finley watched with no small amount of apprehension as he poured a small amount of ink into a reservoir on the “pistol.” He was going to put marks on her—permanent marks that she would carry for the rest of her life. It was a little daunting.

“Ready?” he asked.

She knew this was the time to decline if she was going to. He was giving her the option to run away, coward that she was. But if these markings would help her—help them— then there was no other choice.

“I’m ready,” she replied.

She could almost see him smiling despite having her back to him. “Good girl. This might feel odd, but it won’t hurt, I promise you.”

There was the faint clicking of a key being turned, or a mechanism being wound. A slight buzzing noise followed, and then the needle touched her skin, following the lines of the first rune.

Griffin was right. It didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t exactly pleasant, either. It was somewhat annoying—like being lightly stung repeatedly by a delicate bee. However, beyond that slight annoyance there was something else—a fluttering beneath her skin, a strange sense of strength—what the rune stood for—easing through her veins. The X and angular S followed, each of which imparted a new sensation as the ink seeped into her flesh. It might have been her imagination, but she thought it felt as though something unbalanced settled inside her—as though she was a scale and both sides held the same weight.

Occasionally he would stop to wipe at her back—which was a little more uncomfortable. She turned her head to look at the cloth on the table. Amongst the blotches of black ink, were smears of blood.

“I’m bleeding?” she cried, incredulous. He never said anything about bleeding!

“It’s normal,” he assured her. “Just relax, Finley. I’ll be done soon, and if you’re a good girl, I shall give you a biscuit.”

“Shortbread?” she asked. If she were going to allow herself to be bribed, it would have to be for a worthwhile prize.

“Of course. Almost done now.” The last two figures were all that remained. The needle buzzed and jabbed—annoying but still not painful. As with the others, each new mark seemed to impart its meaning, fusing the intent with her skin and her blood.

The power of the runes, Griffin explained as he worked, didn’t hinge on how large the symbols were drawn, only in the intention and will behind them. That, and his blood in the ink.

“Is that why my shoulder feels hot? Because of your blood?” The thought didn’t bother her as it should.

“Possibly. My connection to the Aether gives added power to the runes.”

Sounded like magic, Finley thought as he wiped at her skin once more with a clean cloth and more Listerine. “I’m going to put some salve on your back to help it heal.”

“Should we be using the Organites, knowing what we do about them now?” She was only slightly alarmed to feel the cool ointment on her skin as he gingerly applied it with his finger.

“They can only make us better,” he told her. “In your case, since they’ve always been part of your blood, the Organites should make the runes part of you even faster.”

His should was good enough for her. Besides, he was right—she already had them running through her entire body.

As if answering her silent question, there was the strangest tingling throughout her entire body. Warmth—almost like sinking into a hot bath—swept over her. It was like nothing she ever felt before, as though the bits and parts of her, everything inside was being re-sorted and arranged in a different order—the correct order.

“That’s bloody amazing!” Griffin exclaimed above her.

“What?” she cried, holding the front of her dress as she jumped to her feet. “Why do I feel so strange?”

An expression of amazement softened Griffin’s face as he held up a mirror. “Look.”

Finley peered in the glass. She gasped at what she saw.

There were two strips of black in her hair now—one on either side, running down from her scalp in almost perfect symmetry, all the way to the ends, which were peeking out of the bun on the back of her head.

Lowering the mirror, she gaped at Griffin, who grinned at her with a smug I-told-you-so expression on his face.

“Looks like the runes are working already.”

 

That night Finley found it impossible to go to sleep. The runes on her back still tingled, though not with the same intensity as before. Her skin felt sensitive, as though someone had rubbed that part of her back with a scouring pad. The black was still in her hair, and her blood was still humming, though now she felt energized rather than anxious.

She was perched on the balustrade of the small balcony off her bedroom, balanced like a bird on the plaster rail no wider than her hand. It was amazing. Before she would have been afraid to take such a precarious position, but now… Now she had faith she wouldn’t fall, and if she did, she would be able to catch herself.

She didn’t fool herself into thinking that Griffin and his tattoos had fixed her, but they were certainly doing something—perhaps opening her up to merging both sides of herself, easing the process. That frightened her as much as she wanted it.

When the two halves of her finally and completely merged, would one still have dominance? Would she even be aware of it? Would she be such a different person she wouldn’t recognize herself? All valid fears that kept her awake this night. But even though she was afraid, in her heart she knew this was the right thing to do.

So she breathed the night into her lungs, savoring the cool air. London didn’t always smell as pretty as it did right then—like roses, damp earth and jasmine with just the faintest tint of coal, steam and metal. Around her she could hear the sound of carriage wheels on cobblestones, the whirl of a dirigible in the distant sky, its headlamps like stars, the odd whinny of a horse—though why people insisted on using horses for transport when there were steam carriages, she couldn’t fathom. Poor horses.

She could also hear music coming from a nearby estate. The plaintive strains of a violin tugged at her heart. That’s where Griffin ought to be, instead of trying to save the country, or what have you. He should be dancing with some insipid debutante who didn’t need tattoos to be normal—who couldn’t toss men around like dolls.

It was uncharitable of her to think such a way about him after he’d been so good to her, but she needed a reminder that they were from two separate worlds. It would be easier that way, and maybe put an end to this schoolgirl crush she seemed to have developed upon him.

She was thinking of the pale blue-gray of his eyes when she heard a sound to her right. She turned her head, amazed at how well her astounding vision picked out a figure on another balcony almost all the way down to the other end of the house. From the size of it, she’d say it was Sam. And when it vaulted over the side of the rail, she knew it was Sam. No one else but she could jump from this height and not injure themselves.

Leaning forward, she watched as he sprinted toward the stables. Where was he off to now? He’d been acting stranger than usual all day—distracted. It had started right around the time they’d had their meeting with Cordelia. She’d thought it odd after all Sam had been through and the injury he received that he seemed to pity The Machinist somewhat. He’d actually defended the villain, hadn’t he? Why was that?

Her mind told her to stay put, but instinct told her to follow, and she let instinct guide her. The alternative was to sit on this bloody balcony until the sun came up.

Instead of taking the time to climb down the wall, she went over the side of the balustrade. Stealthily, she lowered herself hand over hand down one of the carved pillars until she could go no farther. Then she dropped to the grass below. Silently, she followed, careful to keep a discreet distance between them.

At the stables, she flattened herself against the wall as Sam pushed his velocycle outside. He didn’t notice her—he was too intent on a quiet escape. Once he was far enough down the drive, she slipped into the stables, to the section where the cycles were kept and took the one she’d come to think of as hers. She pushed it outside, following Sam’s lead.

At the road, Sam pushed the cycle a little farther before swinging a long leg over the seat and starting the engine. Finley let him get a bit of a head start before starting her own and following after him. The traffic grew thicker as she drove, past a mansion that was obviously hosting a party given all the carriages about. Sam probably wouldn’t notice he was being followed, but just to be certain, she let a small, sleek steam-phaeton get in front of her. She could track him by scent and sound so long as he didn’t get too far ahead. Thank God he didn’t seem to share her heightened senses or he’d know she was shadowing him.

She followed him to an address in Covent Garden—nothing too posh, but not squalor, either. It looked like a normal, middle-class home. So what the devil was Sam doing knocking on the front door at this hour of the night? No one respectable was awake; Sam, herself and the entire aristocracy were proof of that.

Finley parked her velocycle down the street in the shadows where Sam wouldn’t notice it, and watched as the door to the house opened. Sam spoke to the person and then crossed the threshold. She couldn’t see who his host was, but as soon as the door shut, she hurried toward the house—and the nearest lit-up window. It was conveniently open, as well, so she could hear the conversation that had already started within.

“You used me,” Sam said in a voice that shook with anger and disappointment.

“Did I?” asked a strangely accented male voice. “How so?”

“To get to the Duke of Greythorne. To get information about us.”

Finley frowned. What the devil? Slowly, she rose up on her toes to peer in the window. Sam stood in the center of the room, towering over his companion. A man whose left hand was made of bright, shiny metal. She recognized the hand, and his face. Sam was talking to Leonardo Garibaldi— The Machinist.

“Son of a wench,” she whispered. How had the big dolt gotten himself into such a mess? It was obvious from his expression that he had been lied to and betrayed by The Machinist.

“And good information it was,” Garibaldi replied. Finley guessed his accent must be Italian. “You were a very generous source, my friend.”

“I’m not going to let you get away with it,” Sam vowed, jaw clenched. “I’m taking you to Scotland Yard.”

The older man smiled sadly. “No, you’re not. You underestimate me, my friend. But then you make a habit of underestimating people. It is why I like you so much. But now, like everything else, our friendship, sadly, must die. I am sorry, Samuel. Not just for betraying you, but for leaving you with my wonderful toy, which I brought here for just such an occasion.”

Finley’s eyes widened as the door to the room was flung open, revealing a metal man approximately seven and a half feet tall. Its head was like a chromium skull, with lidless eyes and metal teeth set in a lifelike grimace. It moved into the room with a graceful gait, articulated limbs moving smoothly.

It was amazing. It was terrible. And it was headed right for Sam.

Garibaldi chose that moment to make his escape. “Forgive me, my friend,” he said to Sam as he fled to the door, and then out.

The front door slammed. Finley saw Garibaldi flee toward a steam carriage waiting on the street. He jumped inside and the carriage began to roar away. She stepped back from the window, and ran after it, determined to catch The Machinist.

But the sound of metal hitting metal stopped her. From where she stood, she could just barely see inside the house, but what she saw was the metal man as it hit Sam in the face, knocking the large fellow into the wall. Plaster rained down. Finley swore, her gaze flitting from Sam to the disappearing carriage. She could go after Garibaldi and capture him, or she could help Sam. If she helped Sam, Garibaldi would get away and she would have to admit to letting that happen to Griffin.

But if she went after Garibaldi, there was a very good chance this brutal automaton would kill Sam—the one who thought her a villain. The one who had almost strangled her. The big lad was nigh on invincible against a human opponent, but metal didn’t tire. Metal didn’t give up. Metal would rip his lungs out.

Finley sighed. There really wasn’t a choice, was there?

She hoped Griffin wasn’t too disappointed—and that the metal didn’t kill Sam and her both—as she ran full tilt toward the house and leaped through the open window.