The Girl with the Windup Heart
Page 14
Why hadn’t they done this originally? Finley wondered. Oh, yes—because she hadn’t waited long enough. If she’d had patience Griffin might be home now, and Lord Felix wouldn’t be waiting for her to enter the Aether once more. And he would be waiting for her; she was certain of that. Like he’d said, she was the one that got away. Not only that, but she’d taken him down and humiliated him. That was more than enough for him to want revenge. She could only imagine the pleasure he’d take in adding her to his little harem.
Once she saved Griffin, she was going to set those poor girls free.
Emily put the helmet over her head and secured the clamps, enclosing Finley in her little bubble. Instead of trying to listen to what everyone was saying, she focused on remaining calm. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t a little nervous about going back into the Aether after her encounter with Lord Felix and his victims. How was he able to control them? Why didn’t they turn on him for what he’d done to them? It made no sense, and it was unsettling. And they had been so strong. She wasn’t accustomed to going up against more than a handful of people at one time. They would have ripped her apart had Emily not pulled her back out.
It made her all the more worried about Griffin. Not just worried, but terrified. She refused to let herself think about it, because her mind went immediately to the worst thing—and that was that Griffin was dead, or soon would be. Or even worse, that Garibaldi had totally destroyed Griffin’s mind and soul, but left him alive.
For the first time since meeting him, Griffin wasn’t there when she needed him. He was the one who gave her the strength and confidence to do half the mad things she did, even if he often gave her the very devil for doing some of them. She couldn’t afford to second-guess herself, but that didn’t stop her mind from doing it anyway. And she couldn’t seem to stop herself from thinking those awful thoughts for much longer than a few moments.
What would she do without him? Who would challenge her? Who else would want to be with her even though she tested his patience on a daily basis? Who would test her patience on a daily basis? She pushed aside the useless wondering when tears began to burn her eyes. Time to pull herself together, if not for her own sake, then for Griffin’s. If she couldn’t stop these terrible thoughts, then she would at least endeavor to ignore them.
Emily knocked on the helmet, and Finley raised her gloved hand. Within seconds she heard the suit’s system come to life. She began to breathe in the chloroform that would put her to sleep before the suit more or less killed her. Her eyelids grew heavier with every deep breath. And then, it was as though someone flicked a switch inside her, although she knew time had to have passed.
The dark that overtook her quickly faded to the familiar gray of the Aether as her eyes cleared. She stood on the side of a street lined with incredible mansions, beautiful grounds and ostentatious vehicles. It was truly an upper-class neighborhood—even more so than Mayfair, but in an overblown manner, she realized as she took a closer look. It was as though a satirist had designed the entire area—the incredibly tall homes, the perfect lawns that lacked character, and vehicles that were spotless, shiny and far more fancy than anything she’d ever seen. Everything was immaculate and pristine. She’d wager the cobblestones were all the exact same height—same for all the gates and walls and windows—and that the roads and drives were perfectly straight, any curves completely symmetrical.
It was the most god-awful place she’d ever seen. Completely lacking in personality or beauty.
“Heaven for the privileged,” said a voice beside her.
Finley jumped, and turned to find Ipsley standing with her. Or rather, a shadow of Ipsley. He was almost completely transparent—she could just make out his features. It was unsettling because he looked like a ghost.
“Aetheric projection,” he explained, seemingly reading her mind. “You can see me because I’m connected to you in our world, and I am able to travel the realm of the dead. This place is obviously the construct of someone who was very wealthy and very obnoxious in his or her life.”
“His,” Finley informed him. “Only a man could create this.”
“How so?” His interest seemed genuine.
She shrugged. “If a woman had made it, there would be curtains in the windows and birds singing. The houses wouldn’t be quite so austere. The gardens would be perfect. There’s not a flower to be seen here—women care about flowers.”
Ipsley nodded. “An interesting deduction. I hope to investigate it someday.”
“I don’t,” she replied honestly. Then she turned from him and glanced down the street, as though her eyes were following an invisible finger. She felt a pull. “Down there.” She pointed. “The house at the end.”
The medium walked beside her. “Yes. I feel the same pull. His Grace is in that house.”
Of course he was. It wasn’t the biggest house, but it was the most obnoxious with finials and towers and flags flapping in the breeze. It was also a bloody fortress, complete with guards at the door. Only these guards were swirling black clouds—the things Griffin called Aether demons. They were Garibaldi’s pets, and they were nasty. Finley had gone up against them before.
“You are stronger in this world as a ghost than I am as a projection,” Ipsley told her. “You bring your strength from the living world with you when you die. You can become stronger, as well, by harnessing the energy around you. Garibaldi has had time to grow his strength, but Griffin is already strong. You are strong, and I will give you whatever strength I have.”
“Thank you.” How was she going to harness the energy around her? She had no bloody idea how to do that! But she did know how to hit, and these demons had fallen under her fists before.
“Surely you’re not planning to go through the front door?”
She stopped and turned. Ipsley stood beside a perfectly boring hedge a few feet away. It was odd, seeing leaves where his eyes ought to be. “New to this world, remember.”
“I sincerely doubt you’re new to the concept of sneaking about? Subterfuge? Those are the same here as anywhere else.”
Normally she’d be offended by his tone, but in this case he was right. “Won’t he have prepared for such a thing?”
“Men who think of themselves as geniuses often make the biggest mistakes.”
True. And no doubt Garibaldi believed that it would take them longer to get into the Aether—if he’d even entertained the notion of them having the technology. He probably thought he had plenty of time to torture Griffin. He probably didn’t think they’d find this place at all if they could access the Aether.
Really, it would be quite stupid for him to underestimate any of them that way. He had to know Sam would do whatever it took to get Griffin back, and he had to know that Emily was just as smart, if not smarter than he was. And that Finley was slightly more mad.
The two of them slipped through the hedge, skirting around to the back of the mansion where two automatons that looked like rubbish bins were stationed.
“Pretty rudimentary,” she remarked. “I expected better.”
Ipsley glanced up at the tall walls of the house. “I would wager he’s invested so much of his power into his demons, his fortress and imprisoning the duke that anything else is too much.”
It made sense. Garibaldi had worked with machines all his life. These automatons would be easy for him to build and maintain—probably taking very little of his energy. “Does that mean he’ll be easy to defeat?”
“While it would delight me to tell you that, I’m afraid I cannot. I suspect that he’s installed several defenses and safeguards. I wouldn’t put all your faith in his underestimation of you and your friends either.”
“In other words, I should be overly cautious rather than overly cocky.”
“Yes, exactly that.”
All right, so no rushing in half-cocked and impulsive as she normally did. She had to be careful. She had to think. She had to be more like Griffin.
“Do you feel him?” she asked. “I feel like he’s near.”
Ipsley nodded. “I’m almost certain...there.”
She followed his nearly invisible finger as it pointed at the third floor of the house. There, high above their heads, was a window with bars on it. From inside that room she saw a faint bluish glow, and her heart leaped for joy. She’d know that light anywhere—felt it reflected in her soul.
Griffin.
Chapter Eight
As soon as the three of them arrived at Jack’s house in Whitechapel, Wildcat removed the dark glasses she’d put on when they left Mayfair and turned those feline eyes of hers to Jack. It was deuce unsettling, that gaze of hers with the oval pupils and unflinching directness. He couldn’t help but feel like a very large mouse.
“Can I see her room?” the girl asked. “I need to get her scent in order to track her.”
She smelled of oranges, Jack almost told her, but caught himself at the last second. “Follow me.” He could have told her where Mila’s room was, but he didn’t care who they were, or how much Finley liked them, he wasn’t going to trust them to wander about unwatched in his house. It went against every instinct he had, even though he was fairly certain the Americans couldn’t care less about his business. Still, he hadn’t gotten this far by being the trusting sort.
He led them upstairs to Mila’s lonely room. She’d been gone a few hours but the house felt as though it had been empty for weeks. Jack felt her absence right down to his bones, the wrongness of it. She belonged here. With him. And this foreign girl walking about looking at everything with disinterestedness rubbed his nerves raw. Mila was not something to be rooted out or hunted. She mattered.
Wildcat picked up a pillow from the bed and looked at Jack. “Mind if I take the cover off?”
He shook his head, and watched as she carefully removed the fabric. She tossed the pillow back on the bed and lifted the case to her nose, inhaling deeply. When she lowered the fabric she sniffed the air once, then twice. The pillow case crumpled in her fist, she started for the door. She was honestly going to track Mila like a cat tracked prey. It felt all manner of wrong, but Jack didn’t care if she hacked up a hair ball or ate a pigeon if it brought Mila home.
He and Jasper followed Wildcat down the stairs, through the hall and outside once more into the hustle and bustle of Whitechapel.
The afternoon had fallen to darkness, and the street lamps tried their best to illuminate the area. The girl paused on the walk, lifting her face to the chilly breeze. Her mouth opened slightly, as though she was tasting the night. When she lowered her chin and turned her head, her eyes caught the light and flashed like a cat’s. Downright bizarre, that was—and oddly thrilling at the same time. What an extraordinary creature. He could have used her in his petty-theft days.
“This way.”
When she began walking, Jack followed. He was going to suggest taking his motor carriage, but if Mila left on foot, then he wanted to proceed on foot, as well. Feet could go places wheels could not.
They walked to the Cheapside area, where the scent lingered around St. Paul’s. Jack smiled. Of course his curious Mila would pause to explore and learn. She wanted to know everything, and he had indulged her as much as he could, taking her to museums and events. Now he wished he hadn’t. Maybe she wouldn’t have run off if she hadn’t known there was so much world out there just waiting for her. It was a selfish thought, but honest.
Occasionally, Wildcat would stop and smell the pillowcase again, and then the air. No one seemed to notice the three of them trotting along despite the odd picture they had to present. Jasper was all cowboy, from his hat to his duster, right down to his worn boots. Wildcat was exotic with a huge head of curls, and feline features. And then there was Jack, looking like a lanky undertaker—or a vampire, perhaps. Vampire certainly had a more romantic edge to it, and was better suited to the sinister image he’d worked so hard to cultivate.
In the past he’d been a bad man, and sometimes he still was. He imagined he would be bad in the future, as well. Yet, for all his connections and underworld associations—all the power he’d fought for and won—he had no real idea how to solve the problem that was Mila. He was a master of denial and subterfuge, but even he couldn’t lie to himself that well. He would do everything in his power to give Mila the life she deserved, but he wanted her for himself, at least just for a little while. Maybe it was that rotten part of him that just wanted to ruin her innocence and goodness. Or maybe it was because he knew it was wrong to want her, but he wanted her in the worst possible way.
The trail led them onward to Covent Garden. He’d suspect she’d gone to a show, but the theater was closed this time of year—most of society was in the country at their grand houses, hunting and having lavish house parties. Mila knew there wouldn’t be any plays for a few months because he’d explained it to her when she’d voiced her disappointment. So, why would she venture there?
They rounded a corner onto King Street and stopped. Wildcat sniffed and looked around. Then she turned and headed straight for a pub not far away. At this point Jack didn’t care if Mila was sitting at the bar three sheets to the wind—he’d just be so happy to see her.
But Mila wasn’t at the bar when they walked in. She wasn’t at a table either.
“I don’t see her,” he said.
The American girl shook her magnificent head. “No, but I smell her. On them.” She discreetly pointed at a table near the back.
Jack’s eyes were nowhere as keen as hers, but as he peered through the smoke-hazed light, he spied two familiar faces at that table: The Twins. They weren’t twins, of course, not even close. They weren’t even related, but that was the big joke. Several times they’d tried to insinuate themselves into Jack’s business, his circle. But they were more cruel than smart, and had a view of women Jack found deplorable, so he told them in no uncertain terms to bugger off or he’d make them very sorry.
Once she saved Griffin, she was going to set those poor girls free.
Emily put the helmet over her head and secured the clamps, enclosing Finley in her little bubble. Instead of trying to listen to what everyone was saying, she focused on remaining calm. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t a little nervous about going back into the Aether after her encounter with Lord Felix and his victims. How was he able to control them? Why didn’t they turn on him for what he’d done to them? It made no sense, and it was unsettling. And they had been so strong. She wasn’t accustomed to going up against more than a handful of people at one time. They would have ripped her apart had Emily not pulled her back out.
It made her all the more worried about Griffin. Not just worried, but terrified. She refused to let herself think about it, because her mind went immediately to the worst thing—and that was that Griffin was dead, or soon would be. Or even worse, that Garibaldi had totally destroyed Griffin’s mind and soul, but left him alive.
For the first time since meeting him, Griffin wasn’t there when she needed him. He was the one who gave her the strength and confidence to do half the mad things she did, even if he often gave her the very devil for doing some of them. She couldn’t afford to second-guess herself, but that didn’t stop her mind from doing it anyway. And she couldn’t seem to stop herself from thinking those awful thoughts for much longer than a few moments.
What would she do without him? Who would challenge her? Who else would want to be with her even though she tested his patience on a daily basis? Who would test her patience on a daily basis? She pushed aside the useless wondering when tears began to burn her eyes. Time to pull herself together, if not for her own sake, then for Griffin’s. If she couldn’t stop these terrible thoughts, then she would at least endeavor to ignore them.
Emily knocked on the helmet, and Finley raised her gloved hand. Within seconds she heard the suit’s system come to life. She began to breathe in the chloroform that would put her to sleep before the suit more or less killed her. Her eyelids grew heavier with every deep breath. And then, it was as though someone flicked a switch inside her, although she knew time had to have passed.
The dark that overtook her quickly faded to the familiar gray of the Aether as her eyes cleared. She stood on the side of a street lined with incredible mansions, beautiful grounds and ostentatious vehicles. It was truly an upper-class neighborhood—even more so than Mayfair, but in an overblown manner, she realized as she took a closer look. It was as though a satirist had designed the entire area—the incredibly tall homes, the perfect lawns that lacked character, and vehicles that were spotless, shiny and far more fancy than anything she’d ever seen. Everything was immaculate and pristine. She’d wager the cobblestones were all the exact same height—same for all the gates and walls and windows—and that the roads and drives were perfectly straight, any curves completely symmetrical.
It was the most god-awful place she’d ever seen. Completely lacking in personality or beauty.
“Heaven for the privileged,” said a voice beside her.
Finley jumped, and turned to find Ipsley standing with her. Or rather, a shadow of Ipsley. He was almost completely transparent—she could just make out his features. It was unsettling because he looked like a ghost.
“Aetheric projection,” he explained, seemingly reading her mind. “You can see me because I’m connected to you in our world, and I am able to travel the realm of the dead. This place is obviously the construct of someone who was very wealthy and very obnoxious in his or her life.”
“His,” Finley informed him. “Only a man could create this.”
“How so?” His interest seemed genuine.
She shrugged. “If a woman had made it, there would be curtains in the windows and birds singing. The houses wouldn’t be quite so austere. The gardens would be perfect. There’s not a flower to be seen here—women care about flowers.”
Ipsley nodded. “An interesting deduction. I hope to investigate it someday.”
“I don’t,” she replied honestly. Then she turned from him and glanced down the street, as though her eyes were following an invisible finger. She felt a pull. “Down there.” She pointed. “The house at the end.”
The medium walked beside her. “Yes. I feel the same pull. His Grace is in that house.”
Of course he was. It wasn’t the biggest house, but it was the most obnoxious with finials and towers and flags flapping in the breeze. It was also a bloody fortress, complete with guards at the door. Only these guards were swirling black clouds—the things Griffin called Aether demons. They were Garibaldi’s pets, and they were nasty. Finley had gone up against them before.
“You are stronger in this world as a ghost than I am as a projection,” Ipsley told her. “You bring your strength from the living world with you when you die. You can become stronger, as well, by harnessing the energy around you. Garibaldi has had time to grow his strength, but Griffin is already strong. You are strong, and I will give you whatever strength I have.”
“Thank you.” How was she going to harness the energy around her? She had no bloody idea how to do that! But she did know how to hit, and these demons had fallen under her fists before.
“Surely you’re not planning to go through the front door?”
She stopped and turned. Ipsley stood beside a perfectly boring hedge a few feet away. It was odd, seeing leaves where his eyes ought to be. “New to this world, remember.”
“I sincerely doubt you’re new to the concept of sneaking about? Subterfuge? Those are the same here as anywhere else.”
Normally she’d be offended by his tone, but in this case he was right. “Won’t he have prepared for such a thing?”
“Men who think of themselves as geniuses often make the biggest mistakes.”
True. And no doubt Garibaldi believed that it would take them longer to get into the Aether—if he’d even entertained the notion of them having the technology. He probably thought he had plenty of time to torture Griffin. He probably didn’t think they’d find this place at all if they could access the Aether.
Really, it would be quite stupid for him to underestimate any of them that way. He had to know Sam would do whatever it took to get Griffin back, and he had to know that Emily was just as smart, if not smarter than he was. And that Finley was slightly more mad.
The two of them slipped through the hedge, skirting around to the back of the mansion where two automatons that looked like rubbish bins were stationed.
“Pretty rudimentary,” she remarked. “I expected better.”
Ipsley glanced up at the tall walls of the house. “I would wager he’s invested so much of his power into his demons, his fortress and imprisoning the duke that anything else is too much.”
It made sense. Garibaldi had worked with machines all his life. These automatons would be easy for him to build and maintain—probably taking very little of his energy. “Does that mean he’ll be easy to defeat?”
“While it would delight me to tell you that, I’m afraid I cannot. I suspect that he’s installed several defenses and safeguards. I wouldn’t put all your faith in his underestimation of you and your friends either.”
“In other words, I should be overly cautious rather than overly cocky.”
“Yes, exactly that.”
All right, so no rushing in half-cocked and impulsive as she normally did. She had to be careful. She had to think. She had to be more like Griffin.
“Do you feel him?” she asked. “I feel like he’s near.”
Ipsley nodded. “I’m almost certain...there.”
She followed his nearly invisible finger as it pointed at the third floor of the house. There, high above their heads, was a window with bars on it. From inside that room she saw a faint bluish glow, and her heart leaped for joy. She’d know that light anywhere—felt it reflected in her soul.
Griffin.
Chapter Eight
As soon as the three of them arrived at Jack’s house in Whitechapel, Wildcat removed the dark glasses she’d put on when they left Mayfair and turned those feline eyes of hers to Jack. It was deuce unsettling, that gaze of hers with the oval pupils and unflinching directness. He couldn’t help but feel like a very large mouse.
“Can I see her room?” the girl asked. “I need to get her scent in order to track her.”
She smelled of oranges, Jack almost told her, but caught himself at the last second. “Follow me.” He could have told her where Mila’s room was, but he didn’t care who they were, or how much Finley liked them, he wasn’t going to trust them to wander about unwatched in his house. It went against every instinct he had, even though he was fairly certain the Americans couldn’t care less about his business. Still, he hadn’t gotten this far by being the trusting sort.
He led them upstairs to Mila’s lonely room. She’d been gone a few hours but the house felt as though it had been empty for weeks. Jack felt her absence right down to his bones, the wrongness of it. She belonged here. With him. And this foreign girl walking about looking at everything with disinterestedness rubbed his nerves raw. Mila was not something to be rooted out or hunted. She mattered.
Wildcat picked up a pillow from the bed and looked at Jack. “Mind if I take the cover off?”
He shook his head, and watched as she carefully removed the fabric. She tossed the pillow back on the bed and lifted the case to her nose, inhaling deeply. When she lowered the fabric she sniffed the air once, then twice. The pillow case crumpled in her fist, she started for the door. She was honestly going to track Mila like a cat tracked prey. It felt all manner of wrong, but Jack didn’t care if she hacked up a hair ball or ate a pigeon if it brought Mila home.
He and Jasper followed Wildcat down the stairs, through the hall and outside once more into the hustle and bustle of Whitechapel.
The afternoon had fallen to darkness, and the street lamps tried their best to illuminate the area. The girl paused on the walk, lifting her face to the chilly breeze. Her mouth opened slightly, as though she was tasting the night. When she lowered her chin and turned her head, her eyes caught the light and flashed like a cat’s. Downright bizarre, that was—and oddly thrilling at the same time. What an extraordinary creature. He could have used her in his petty-theft days.
“This way.”
When she began walking, Jack followed. He was going to suggest taking his motor carriage, but if Mila left on foot, then he wanted to proceed on foot, as well. Feet could go places wheels could not.
They walked to the Cheapside area, where the scent lingered around St. Paul’s. Jack smiled. Of course his curious Mila would pause to explore and learn. She wanted to know everything, and he had indulged her as much as he could, taking her to museums and events. Now he wished he hadn’t. Maybe she wouldn’t have run off if she hadn’t known there was so much world out there just waiting for her. It was a selfish thought, but honest.
Occasionally, Wildcat would stop and smell the pillowcase again, and then the air. No one seemed to notice the three of them trotting along despite the odd picture they had to present. Jasper was all cowboy, from his hat to his duster, right down to his worn boots. Wildcat was exotic with a huge head of curls, and feline features. And then there was Jack, looking like a lanky undertaker—or a vampire, perhaps. Vampire certainly had a more romantic edge to it, and was better suited to the sinister image he’d worked so hard to cultivate.
In the past he’d been a bad man, and sometimes he still was. He imagined he would be bad in the future, as well. Yet, for all his connections and underworld associations—all the power he’d fought for and won—he had no real idea how to solve the problem that was Mila. He was a master of denial and subterfuge, but even he couldn’t lie to himself that well. He would do everything in his power to give Mila the life she deserved, but he wanted her for himself, at least just for a little while. Maybe it was that rotten part of him that just wanted to ruin her innocence and goodness. Or maybe it was because he knew it was wrong to want her, but he wanted her in the worst possible way.
The trail led them onward to Covent Garden. He’d suspect she’d gone to a show, but the theater was closed this time of year—most of society was in the country at their grand houses, hunting and having lavish house parties. Mila knew there wouldn’t be any plays for a few months because he’d explained it to her when she’d voiced her disappointment. So, why would she venture there?
They rounded a corner onto King Street and stopped. Wildcat sniffed and looked around. Then she turned and headed straight for a pub not far away. At this point Jack didn’t care if Mila was sitting at the bar three sheets to the wind—he’d just be so happy to see her.
But Mila wasn’t at the bar when they walked in. She wasn’t at a table either.
“I don’t see her,” he said.
The American girl shook her magnificent head. “No, but I smell her. On them.” She discreetly pointed at a table near the back.
Jack’s eyes were nowhere as keen as hers, but as he peered through the smoke-hazed light, he spied two familiar faces at that table: The Twins. They weren’t twins, of course, not even close. They weren’t even related, but that was the big joke. Several times they’d tried to insinuate themselves into Jack’s business, his circle. But they were more cruel than smart, and had a view of women Jack found deplorable, so he told them in no uncertain terms to bugger off or he’d make them very sorry.
