The Girl with the Iron Touch
Page 12
Jack raised a brow at Sam. “Might as well come on in, too, mate. I know she won’t be leavin’ until she gets what she come for.”
“I won’t keep you from your beauty rest for long, Jack,” Finley shot back as she strode into the drawing room. She loved that room with its dark wood and deep red fabrics. It looked more like something from a high-class bordello than someone’s home—not that she had much experience with bordellos.
“I should ’ope not, luv. It takes a lot of rest to be this gorgeous.” He went straight to the bar, bare feet silent on the carpet. “Can I gets you anyfing?”
“Just some information,” Finley replied, plopping down on the sofa. Sam sat down at the other end, and for a second, she felt her side lift. How much did he bloody weigh? Or was it the tension in his metalenforced legs that created the imbalance?
“What about you, goliath?” Jack asked, pouring a measure of whiskey into a glass. “Anyfing to wet your whistle?”
“No, thank you.”
“Ah, now there’s some politeness, some manners. Observe this fellow, Treasure. Observe and learn the finer art of deportment.”
Sam grinned. Finley was so stunned by the transformation that she forgot to be miffed. So that was what Emily saw whenever she looked at Sam. She saw that smile. She had to admit, he wasn’t bad to look at when he smiled.
“Right,” she drawled. “Jack dearest, our friend Emily has disappeared. She’s been abducted.”
He came around from behind the bar to seat himself in a wing-back chair. The crimson velvet contrasted richly with the black silk of his robe. “What, the little ginger? What sort of villain would ’urt that sweet bird?”
Finley cast a glance at Sam, but he didn’t seem the least bit perturbed to hear Jack describe Emily in that fashion. “She was taken by automatons. One of them was built by the Machinist.”
Jack’s angular brows pulled together. “I thought you lot brought a buildin’ down on ’is ’ead.”
“We did,” Sam replied before she could. “I don’t think it took.”
Their host took a sip of his whiskey. “Right. ’Ad that ’appen a few times meself. Some blokes you got to hit with something a bit ’arder than a roof.”
Finley did not want to know. Well, maybe she did, but if she asked, Jack might actually tell her some of the things he’d done, and she wasn’t certain she really wanted to know that side of him. It was one thing to think he was dangerous and another to know where the bodies were buried.
“He wasn’t found in the rubble,” Sam explained. “We thought a couple of the automatons took what was left of him away, but perhaps he survived.”
“And you think a couple of ’is metal took your ladylove.” Metal was a slang term applied to automatons in general.
Sam actually blushed—poor lamb. “We know that one of them was his. It was the very one you found on your step.”
“The one what looked like Her Nibs?” At Sam’s nod, Jack started laughing. “On my step in ’er unmentionables, she were. Not something you can unsee, right? Resemblance was uncanny. Right, so you want to know if I’ve ’eard anyfing that might be useful?”
“Exactly,” Finley replied. “So, have you?”
Another drink. “Not sure, luv. Aside from my dealings, I’ve ’eard of a few incidents that involved metal as of late. Some petty theft, procurement. Weird stuff, too, like medical equipment and assorted potions from the chemist.”
Finley and Sam exchanged a glance. “Those sort of things would come in handy if you had a wounded human to attend.”
Sam nodded. “They’d need some place large and private to keep him. Like underground.”
That led to another question. “When you delivered the crate to St. Pancras station, do you remember seeing signs of automaton traffic?”
Jack looked at her as though she was mentally deficient. “’Course. Were tracks all over the place. Though, I did see a little one—one of those sweepers—tidying up. I assumed that was just more of our taxes being put to good use.”
She gave him an arch look. “You expect me to believe you pay taxes?”
“Of course I pay me taxes. I’m a law-abidin’ citizen. I want to keep Her Nibs in comfort, same as everyone else.”
“Riiight. So, I’d like you to come into the tunnels with us and show us the spot.”
“It was the platform, and no, I won’t come wiv you.”
“Why not?” Indignation kept her from wincing as her voice went up an octave. Jack was refusing her? Now of all times?
“Because it won’t do to have them what I’ve done business with seeing me wiv you. Sorry, Treasure, but I’ve a reputation to fink of.”
“Your reputation is more important than Emily?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice.
Jack raised one brow ever so slightly as his gaze locked with hers. “That’s right. My apologies if that stings, but it’s the way of it. This side of town if a man don’t ’ave ’is reputation, ’e ain’t got nothin’.”
That was a great, steaming pile of…
“He’s right,” Sam said. He looked at Jack as though he understood him. “But I’m willing to bet you can give us the exact location.”
Another sip of whiskey. “I can at that, my son. Marked it, in fact, as I often do in circumstances where I fink it might be ’elpful.”
“Why didn’t you tell us that before?” Finley demanded.
He turned on her with a dry expression. “Just because I adore you don’t mean you get all my secrets, Treasure. I didn’t think it was important at the time, now it is.” He didn’t apologize, just went on to tell Sam where to look. “Carved a D on the stone. Not terribly original, but does the trick. I’ll keep me ears open, too, let you know if I ’ear anyfing about the Machinist or ’is metal.”
Sam nodded. “Thanks.”
“Jack?” came a voice from outside the room. “Is everything all right?”
Finley’s head came up. Standing in the doorway was a beautiful woman, perhaps a few years older than Jack. She wore a purple velvet dressing gown that clung to her stunning figure, and had long curly black hair and flawless pale skin.
She was the kind of woman that inspired hate and feelings of inadequacy in other females, and she obviously wasn’t there to play cards.
“It’s all right, darlin’. Go back up. I’ll be there shortly.”
She smiled at him, a seductive smile that made Finley feel as feminine as Sam’s left foot. The woman was a goddess. “All right.” She wiggled her fingers at Sam and Finley. “Sorry to interrupt.”
Finley stared after her. So did Sam. The only one of them who didn’t seem enthralled by the woman was Jack. That didn’t seem right, but it wasn’t her place to judge. After all, she was the one who had knocked on his door without giving any thought to whether or not he was alone.
No, that was a lie. She had assumed he’d be alone. She’d assumed he’d be pleased to see her. She might not love him, but she liked his attention. Did that make her a horrible person? Perhaps it did, or perhaps it didn’t. Right now it didn’t matter.
“We should go,” she said, rising to her feet. Suddenly things seemed awkward and odd, and they had more pressing things to do, such as finding Emily. “Jack, thank you for your help.”
He also stood. “’Aven’t done nuffing yet, but you’re welcome. I’ll let you know if I ’ear anyfing.”
He led them to the door and held it open for them. Sam shook his hand and thanked him for his time, then crossed the threshold out into the night. Finley hung back for a moment.
“I’m sorry we intruded upon your…visit,” she said, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “Why did you even answer the door?”
“You know why. I’ll always answer for you, Treasure.”
She nodded. “I hope I never take your friendship for granted, Jack.”
He allowed a little smile. “You let me worry about that, luv. You worry about finding your little bird. Now, out you go. Back to Mayfair to your charming duke.”
Was he mocking her? It didn’t matter. “Bye, Jack.” She stepped out into the waning day.
The door clicked shut behind her. Finley wasn’t certain how she should feel at that moment, so she chose to be hopeful. “Come on,” she said to Sam, who was watching her. “Let’s go home.”
* * *
The thought of committing murder didn’t weigh as heavily on Emily’s shoulders as it should have. In fact, she was much more angry than scared. If the Machinist had just had the good manners to die when Griffin brought that building down on him none of this would be happening. She would not be plotting how to end Garibaldi without getting herself killed.
But putting that diabolical brain into a young, almost indestructible body that could have incredible powers was not something she was going to do.
“I need to see what I’m working with,” she told “Victoria,” ignoring that awful bent neck.
The old woman assessed her, inner gears clicking. Something had happened to halt the automaton’s progress to humanity. It had died when its head had been ripped off, and now it was a machine in a flesh suit. To an extent, the organites had kept the flesh and tissue from decaying but couldn’t advance its evolution.
It was basically like dealing with a reanimated corpse.
“How do we know you won’t harm the Master?”
“That wouldn’t be logical of me, would it?” Machines understood logic and order—patterns. Trying to appeal to emotions would be useless, but facts were always easily computed. “If I harm your master, you’ll harm me. That’s not something I’d like to happen.”
Another few seconds ticked by as the automaton’s guts whirred and clacked. “No. Harming yourself would be illogical. We will show you what you wish to see. We will answer your questions so you will fix the Master.”
Emily’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you.” So far the morning was off to a smashing start. Earlier, after waking up determined to make it out of this situation alive, she’d managed to talk them into bringing her water so she could bathe and wash her hair. Her scalp ached and itched, but it felt divine to get rid of the blood. She also put on a fresh change of clothes from the selection of her own they’d brought with her. How had they gotten into the house?
All she had to do now was buy enough time to plot how to get herself out of this situation. She was prepared to kill if necessary, but she’d much rather free herself and come back with her friends than do it all on her own.
“Victoria” turned with a clunk of gears, then led the way out of the cell. Emily followed behind her, eyes taking in every detail of her surroundings. She noted every machine, every patched-together device and the pipes that ran steam throughout the compound. The air was moist and warm, with the slight chill that came from being underground.
An automaton that looked like a stick with long, thin arms and legs and a narrow, heart-shaped head soldered a patch onto a small, dingy machine with a cage in its midsection, and pincerlike hands designed to catch rats. A narrow-faced rodent peered out from the slender bars of the cage and squeaked. Emily shuddered and turned away. She’d never much cared for rats. They were sneaky creatures who, if backed into a corner, would fight like mad to save themselves.
Perhaps there was something to like about rats after all.
The machines watched as she went by. Some of them were still metal enough that she could reach out, touch them and have them do whatever she wanted. Good. That would be handy when the time came to get herself out of there. Hopefully they wouldn’t evolve in the meantime to the point where her touch would be useless.
A brass man turned his head as she passed, face blank except for two “eyes” and a slash of a mouth. Those were the kind that unsettled her more than the realistic machines.
Finally they arrived at what Emily thought of as the laboratory—the room where Leonardo Garibaldi lay in a glass vat of viscous, life-sustaining fluid. She stood there a moment, studying the setup, trying to determine what part all the tubes and wires and mechanisms played in keeping this monster from an unmarked grave.
She didn’t hate him just because he’d tried to kill them, or take over the empire. She didn’t hate him for the fact that he had murdered Griffin’s parents and played a hand in the death of Finley’s father. No, Emily despised Garibaldi because he’d tried to use Sam. He’d traded on Sam’s vulnerability and tried to turn him against his friends. Garibaldi had played him for a fool.
For that she could cheerfully pull all the wires out of the fluid bath and let him flop around like a beached fish.
But not yet.
Her gaze settled on the bellows that kept the Machinist breathing. Electrical current kept his heart beating and blood flowing. He was like a modern-day Frankenstein’s monster.
She turned to the Victoria automaton in one last attempt to bargain with it. “What you’re asking me to do is impossible. You can’t just cut open a person’s skull and muck about with their brain. I’m not a surgeon with years of experience. I could accidently kill him or destroy his mind.”
“You speak falsehood, Emily O’Brien,” the machine chastised. “We know about the procedure you performed on that boy in Ireland. You have ‘mucked about’ before.”
Hot pinpricks raced through her veins. How could they know? He’d fallen from a tree, and was delivered to her house because the doctor was away. She told them she had to relieve swelling on his brain, and they believed her because she was educated and they didn’t think sweet Emily O’Brien, whom they’d known her entire life, would lie.
“I won’t keep you from your beauty rest for long, Jack,” Finley shot back as she strode into the drawing room. She loved that room with its dark wood and deep red fabrics. It looked more like something from a high-class bordello than someone’s home—not that she had much experience with bordellos.
“I should ’ope not, luv. It takes a lot of rest to be this gorgeous.” He went straight to the bar, bare feet silent on the carpet. “Can I gets you anyfing?”
“Just some information,” Finley replied, plopping down on the sofa. Sam sat down at the other end, and for a second, she felt her side lift. How much did he bloody weigh? Or was it the tension in his metalenforced legs that created the imbalance?
“What about you, goliath?” Jack asked, pouring a measure of whiskey into a glass. “Anyfing to wet your whistle?”
“No, thank you.”
“Ah, now there’s some politeness, some manners. Observe this fellow, Treasure. Observe and learn the finer art of deportment.”
Sam grinned. Finley was so stunned by the transformation that she forgot to be miffed. So that was what Emily saw whenever she looked at Sam. She saw that smile. She had to admit, he wasn’t bad to look at when he smiled.
“Right,” she drawled. “Jack dearest, our friend Emily has disappeared. She’s been abducted.”
He came around from behind the bar to seat himself in a wing-back chair. The crimson velvet contrasted richly with the black silk of his robe. “What, the little ginger? What sort of villain would ’urt that sweet bird?”
Finley cast a glance at Sam, but he didn’t seem the least bit perturbed to hear Jack describe Emily in that fashion. “She was taken by automatons. One of them was built by the Machinist.”
Jack’s angular brows pulled together. “I thought you lot brought a buildin’ down on ’is ’ead.”
“We did,” Sam replied before she could. “I don’t think it took.”
Their host took a sip of his whiskey. “Right. ’Ad that ’appen a few times meself. Some blokes you got to hit with something a bit ’arder than a roof.”
Finley did not want to know. Well, maybe she did, but if she asked, Jack might actually tell her some of the things he’d done, and she wasn’t certain she really wanted to know that side of him. It was one thing to think he was dangerous and another to know where the bodies were buried.
“He wasn’t found in the rubble,” Sam explained. “We thought a couple of the automatons took what was left of him away, but perhaps he survived.”
“And you think a couple of ’is metal took your ladylove.” Metal was a slang term applied to automatons in general.
Sam actually blushed—poor lamb. “We know that one of them was his. It was the very one you found on your step.”
“The one what looked like Her Nibs?” At Sam’s nod, Jack started laughing. “On my step in ’er unmentionables, she were. Not something you can unsee, right? Resemblance was uncanny. Right, so you want to know if I’ve ’eard anyfing that might be useful?”
“Exactly,” Finley replied. “So, have you?”
Another drink. “Not sure, luv. Aside from my dealings, I’ve ’eard of a few incidents that involved metal as of late. Some petty theft, procurement. Weird stuff, too, like medical equipment and assorted potions from the chemist.”
Finley and Sam exchanged a glance. “Those sort of things would come in handy if you had a wounded human to attend.”
Sam nodded. “They’d need some place large and private to keep him. Like underground.”
That led to another question. “When you delivered the crate to St. Pancras station, do you remember seeing signs of automaton traffic?”
Jack looked at her as though she was mentally deficient. “’Course. Were tracks all over the place. Though, I did see a little one—one of those sweepers—tidying up. I assumed that was just more of our taxes being put to good use.”
She gave him an arch look. “You expect me to believe you pay taxes?”
“Of course I pay me taxes. I’m a law-abidin’ citizen. I want to keep Her Nibs in comfort, same as everyone else.”
“Riiight. So, I’d like you to come into the tunnels with us and show us the spot.”
“It was the platform, and no, I won’t come wiv you.”
“Why not?” Indignation kept her from wincing as her voice went up an octave. Jack was refusing her? Now of all times?
“Because it won’t do to have them what I’ve done business with seeing me wiv you. Sorry, Treasure, but I’ve a reputation to fink of.”
“Your reputation is more important than Emily?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice.
Jack raised one brow ever so slightly as his gaze locked with hers. “That’s right. My apologies if that stings, but it’s the way of it. This side of town if a man don’t ’ave ’is reputation, ’e ain’t got nothin’.”
That was a great, steaming pile of…
“He’s right,” Sam said. He looked at Jack as though he understood him. “But I’m willing to bet you can give us the exact location.”
Another sip of whiskey. “I can at that, my son. Marked it, in fact, as I often do in circumstances where I fink it might be ’elpful.”
“Why didn’t you tell us that before?” Finley demanded.
He turned on her with a dry expression. “Just because I adore you don’t mean you get all my secrets, Treasure. I didn’t think it was important at the time, now it is.” He didn’t apologize, just went on to tell Sam where to look. “Carved a D on the stone. Not terribly original, but does the trick. I’ll keep me ears open, too, let you know if I ’ear anyfing about the Machinist or ’is metal.”
Sam nodded. “Thanks.”
“Jack?” came a voice from outside the room. “Is everything all right?”
Finley’s head came up. Standing in the doorway was a beautiful woman, perhaps a few years older than Jack. She wore a purple velvet dressing gown that clung to her stunning figure, and had long curly black hair and flawless pale skin.
She was the kind of woman that inspired hate and feelings of inadequacy in other females, and she obviously wasn’t there to play cards.
“It’s all right, darlin’. Go back up. I’ll be there shortly.”
She smiled at him, a seductive smile that made Finley feel as feminine as Sam’s left foot. The woman was a goddess. “All right.” She wiggled her fingers at Sam and Finley. “Sorry to interrupt.”
Finley stared after her. So did Sam. The only one of them who didn’t seem enthralled by the woman was Jack. That didn’t seem right, but it wasn’t her place to judge. After all, she was the one who had knocked on his door without giving any thought to whether or not he was alone.
No, that was a lie. She had assumed he’d be alone. She’d assumed he’d be pleased to see her. She might not love him, but she liked his attention. Did that make her a horrible person? Perhaps it did, or perhaps it didn’t. Right now it didn’t matter.
“We should go,” she said, rising to her feet. Suddenly things seemed awkward and odd, and they had more pressing things to do, such as finding Emily. “Jack, thank you for your help.”
He also stood. “’Aven’t done nuffing yet, but you’re welcome. I’ll let you know if I ’ear anyfing.”
He led them to the door and held it open for them. Sam shook his hand and thanked him for his time, then crossed the threshold out into the night. Finley hung back for a moment.
“I’m sorry we intruded upon your…visit,” she said, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “Why did you even answer the door?”
“You know why. I’ll always answer for you, Treasure.”
She nodded. “I hope I never take your friendship for granted, Jack.”
He allowed a little smile. “You let me worry about that, luv. You worry about finding your little bird. Now, out you go. Back to Mayfair to your charming duke.”
Was he mocking her? It didn’t matter. “Bye, Jack.” She stepped out into the waning day.
The door clicked shut behind her. Finley wasn’t certain how she should feel at that moment, so she chose to be hopeful. “Come on,” she said to Sam, who was watching her. “Let’s go home.”
* * *
The thought of committing murder didn’t weigh as heavily on Emily’s shoulders as it should have. In fact, she was much more angry than scared. If the Machinist had just had the good manners to die when Griffin brought that building down on him none of this would be happening. She would not be plotting how to end Garibaldi without getting herself killed.
But putting that diabolical brain into a young, almost indestructible body that could have incredible powers was not something she was going to do.
“I need to see what I’m working with,” she told “Victoria,” ignoring that awful bent neck.
The old woman assessed her, inner gears clicking. Something had happened to halt the automaton’s progress to humanity. It had died when its head had been ripped off, and now it was a machine in a flesh suit. To an extent, the organites had kept the flesh and tissue from decaying but couldn’t advance its evolution.
It was basically like dealing with a reanimated corpse.
“How do we know you won’t harm the Master?”
“That wouldn’t be logical of me, would it?” Machines understood logic and order—patterns. Trying to appeal to emotions would be useless, but facts were always easily computed. “If I harm your master, you’ll harm me. That’s not something I’d like to happen.”
Another few seconds ticked by as the automaton’s guts whirred and clacked. “No. Harming yourself would be illogical. We will show you what you wish to see. We will answer your questions so you will fix the Master.”
Emily’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you.” So far the morning was off to a smashing start. Earlier, after waking up determined to make it out of this situation alive, she’d managed to talk them into bringing her water so she could bathe and wash her hair. Her scalp ached and itched, but it felt divine to get rid of the blood. She also put on a fresh change of clothes from the selection of her own they’d brought with her. How had they gotten into the house?
All she had to do now was buy enough time to plot how to get herself out of this situation. She was prepared to kill if necessary, but she’d much rather free herself and come back with her friends than do it all on her own.
“Victoria” turned with a clunk of gears, then led the way out of the cell. Emily followed behind her, eyes taking in every detail of her surroundings. She noted every machine, every patched-together device and the pipes that ran steam throughout the compound. The air was moist and warm, with the slight chill that came from being underground.
An automaton that looked like a stick with long, thin arms and legs and a narrow, heart-shaped head soldered a patch onto a small, dingy machine with a cage in its midsection, and pincerlike hands designed to catch rats. A narrow-faced rodent peered out from the slender bars of the cage and squeaked. Emily shuddered and turned away. She’d never much cared for rats. They were sneaky creatures who, if backed into a corner, would fight like mad to save themselves.
Perhaps there was something to like about rats after all.
The machines watched as she went by. Some of them were still metal enough that she could reach out, touch them and have them do whatever she wanted. Good. That would be handy when the time came to get herself out of there. Hopefully they wouldn’t evolve in the meantime to the point where her touch would be useless.
A brass man turned his head as she passed, face blank except for two “eyes” and a slash of a mouth. Those were the kind that unsettled her more than the realistic machines.
Finally they arrived at what Emily thought of as the laboratory—the room where Leonardo Garibaldi lay in a glass vat of viscous, life-sustaining fluid. She stood there a moment, studying the setup, trying to determine what part all the tubes and wires and mechanisms played in keeping this monster from an unmarked grave.
She didn’t hate him just because he’d tried to kill them, or take over the empire. She didn’t hate him for the fact that he had murdered Griffin’s parents and played a hand in the death of Finley’s father. No, Emily despised Garibaldi because he’d tried to use Sam. He’d traded on Sam’s vulnerability and tried to turn him against his friends. Garibaldi had played him for a fool.
For that she could cheerfully pull all the wires out of the fluid bath and let him flop around like a beached fish.
But not yet.
Her gaze settled on the bellows that kept the Machinist breathing. Electrical current kept his heart beating and blood flowing. He was like a modern-day Frankenstein’s monster.
She turned to the Victoria automaton in one last attempt to bargain with it. “What you’re asking me to do is impossible. You can’t just cut open a person’s skull and muck about with their brain. I’m not a surgeon with years of experience. I could accidently kill him or destroy his mind.”
“You speak falsehood, Emily O’Brien,” the machine chastised. “We know about the procedure you performed on that boy in Ireland. You have ‘mucked about’ before.”
Hot pinpricks raced through her veins. How could they know? He’d fallen from a tree, and was delivered to her house because the doctor was away. She told them she had to relieve swelling on his brain, and they believed her because she was educated and they didn’t think sweet Emily O’Brien, whom they’d known her entire life, would lie.
