The Girl with the Windup Heart
Page 2

Mila easily moved around his clumsiness and kept the dance going with effortless grace. Then again, he could have fallen on his arse and she would have simply swept him back onto his feet. It was enough to emasculate a fellow, her strength. “You’re surprised.”
“I am. Most girls quite enjoy the romance of Romeo and Juliet.”
Her frown grew. She was adorable when she scowled. “I don’t find tandem suicide the least bit romantic, Jack. Why didn’t they just stand up to their families?”
“Because that just wasn’t done.”
She snorted. “Ridiculous. If I was in love with someone, I wouldn’t let that stop me.”
“You haven’t lived your life by a strict code of rules.”
The gaze she leveled at him was so direct it was unsettling. “Neither have you.”
Were that true. “I did for a little while—when I was younger.”
“If you so dislike the rules, why are you imposing them on me?”
Oh, she was getting far too smart. To think that when she came to live with him she was more like a child. Now...well, there was nothing childlike about her. “Because I want you to have a better life than I had.”
Mila glanced around at the opulence of his drawing room. It looked like a brothel—an expensive one—with its crimson walls and dark furniture. “Yes, your life has been little more than tragedy and want.”
He never should have taught her sarcasm. It was yet another thing at which she excelled. He also never should have revealed to her that the atrocious cockney accent he often used wasn’t his true manner of speaking. That had opened up a whole slew of questions—and hurt her feelings when he told her he didn’t want to talk about it.
“My life has been what I’ve made of it, and it wasn’t easy.” That was the bluntest, least dramatic way to phrase it.
“You want my life to be easy?”
Yes, damn it. “I want your life to be exactly as you deserve.”
“But you’re the one deciding what I deserve.”
He whirled her around. This conversation was becoming tedious. They’d been having it quite often of late. “Just making certain every option is available, poppet.”
She whirled him around—to make a point, no doubt. “No, you’re making certain every option you want me to have is available.”
“Now you’re just splitting hairs. Put me down.” And she did, because he’d put enough will behind his gaze to give himself a headache. Mila took more of a push than normal people to bend to his will. It wasn’t an ability he used on a regular basis—not anymore. He preferred winning the old-fashioned way these days.
Mila stopped dancing and shook her head as if to clear it. “I hate it when you do that.”
“Not a big lover of being picked up like a rag doll either, love.”
Her eyes brightened. She was spoiling for a fight—and he was prepared to give it. What was happening between them? It seemed just a few days ago she was still his sweet, curious Mila. Now she was this difficult, argumentative creature that challenged him at every turn. So, why did he find this new her so bloody interesting even when he wanted to throttle her at times?
He stared at her and she at him. They were perfectly still—tense. The music continued to play in the background as they stood with their fingers entwined, his hand on the small of her back, hers on his shoulder. A few inches and they’d touch. He could haul her right up against him. What sort of reaction would that get?
The doorbell rang. Swearing, Jack stepped back, releasing her. He consulted his watch. It was ten o’clock. “Lesson’s over, poppet.”
“My heart is broken,” she drawled. “Expecting company?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.” He slipped his watch back into his pocket. “Off to your room.”
“I don’t get to meet your friend?”
Never would he use that word to describe Darla. “No.” God, the last thing he wanted was to have to explain Mila’s presence in his home. Normally he’d say she was his ward, but the changes in her lately had made that more difficult. At least one of his companions had gotten very jealous of the other girl—foolish chit. Mila was his responsibility, not his lover. There was no reason for any other woman to be threatened by her.
“Why not?” she demanded.
“Because you insulted my last visitor.”
She frowned. “I did not!”
“Hmm, you did. You commented on her hair color.”
“I simply wanted to know why the hair close to her scalp was a different color than the rest of it.”
Jack walked toward the foyer. “You don’t ask women such questions.”
“I’ll add it to the list.”
Cheeky baggage. He paused near the door and shot her a pointed gaze. “Upstairs. Now.”
Mila sighed with the gusto of an elephant expelling water from its trunk. She stomped from the drawing room to the stairs.
“Easy,” Jack warned. “Break my staircase and you’ll be cleaning the water closet for a week.” The girl didn’t know her own strength sometimes. Shortly after he’d taken her in she’d ripped two doors clean off their hinges by accident.
She glared at him, but her steps were light as she huffed and muttered her way upstairs. He heard just enough to decide to watch his language around her. She knew more profanity than most sailors.
When she was gone from sight, and he’d heard the door to her room slam, he greeted his visitor.
Darla arched a brow. She was a tall willowy woman, with hennaed hair and brown eyes and a feisty disposition. “Kept me waiting long enough.”
He stepped back to let her enter. “Apologies, pet. I was ’avin’ a bit of an issue with me cravat.”
She glanced at his throat as she crossed the threshold. “You’re not wearing a cravat.”
“Issue solved.” He closed the door and flicked the lock. “Drink?”
“Of course.” She removed her coat and handed it to him to hang up on the stand by the door. “Gin if you have it.”
Vile stuff. “Got a little bit of ev’ryfing.” At least his gin was top quality—not that Darla would know, or care. “Do come in.”
Her skirts swished as she entered the parlor. Jack immediately went to the bar to pour their drinks. She didn’t sit down, but glanced around, as though expecting to find someone hiding under a piece of furniture. She knew about Mila, but the two of them had never met. That was how he intended to keep it.
“’Ere you go, pet.” He handed her a glass.
“Thanks.” She took a sip. “I didn’t know you like music.”
“I like a lot of things.” Perhaps he should have turned the cylinder player off, but this way there was less chance of hearing Mila thumping about in her room.
“Are we going to dance?” she asked with a saucy smile as she took another drink.
Jack grinned in return. “No,” he informed her as he slipped an arm about her waist. “That’s not what I had in mind at all.”
Chapter Two
When they arrived at Peabody’s, the house was already on fire, with Peabody and his daughter inside.
Finley took a moment to collect herself. She was angry...and hurt and mad at herself for it. She oughtn’t be angry at Griffin for helping people—it was one of the things she adored about him, but it would be nice to have a bit of a break from the intrigue. A little extended time together—alone—would be nice. She loved her friends, but they were always around.
Sam kicked the door in so they could enter. The trail of smoke led them to a small parlor near the back of the dark, but well-appointed house. Peabody had money but he wasn’t loose with it, judging from the economy, but quality of decor. Sam kicked in that door, as well. Jasper rushed in, nothing more than a blur as he rushed to create a vacuum around the flames, stifling the fire that had already consumed draperies and a sofa.
Mr. Peabody lay gasping on the floor, a cloud of smoke hanging over him that rose toward the high ceiling. His daughter stood over him. The skirts of her beautiful gown were singed. Her dark hair was a mess, and her eyes and hands glowed like coals in a furnace. Finley could feel the heat coming off her.
“Greythorne,” she snarled.
Finley wasn’t surprised that the woman knew Griffin. Sometimes she forgot he was a duke, but this wasn’t one of those times—not when he stood there, staring down his nose at “Lady Ash” as though she was little more than dirt beneath his shoe. “It’s over, Lady Grantfarthen. The killing stops here.”
The older woman—she was perhaps in her midtwenties—smiled. “No, Your Grace. It does not.” And with that pronouncement, her right hand ignited into a ball of fantastic blue flame.
“Get him out of here,” Griffin instructed to Emily and Sam, gesturing at Peabody.
Lady Ash drew back her arm to throw her fire, but Wildcat dived into her, taking her to the ground. Out of the corner of her eye, Finley saw Sam scoop the old man off the floor and head outside. That was when she leaped into action to help Cat. Both of Lady Ash’s hands were burning now, along with her eyes. Finley didn’t think, she simply grabbed the pitcher from the small washing pedestal—obviously Peabody liked to be able to scrub the ink from his hands—and tipped it onto the woman.
She actually sizzled.
Swearing and sputtering, the woman struggled beneath Cat, who straddled her, trying to trap those flailing arms with her knees. As Finley bent to help—Lady Ash grabbed for the pistol strapped to Cat’s thigh. It happened so fast that Finley barely had time to shout at Cat to move. But it wasn’t Cat she should have worried about. The pistol discharged at the same second Jasper pulled his own. That was the exact same second that Peabody’s home security automatons burst into the room, their own weapons engaged.
Being shot hurt. It hurt a lot.
Finley cried out as Lady Ash’s bullet tore through her upper chest and exploded out her back. She staggered under the impact. The second bullet—from one of the automatons—drove her to her knees in breathless silence.
“Finley!” It was Griffin. She could hear the terror in his voice. He must really care about her to be so afraid for her. Stupid that would be what she thought about at a time like this.
Not going to die. She clung to that thought as she struggled to breathe. Punctured lung? Blood soaked her shirt, ran down her front and back in hot little rivers. Both bullets went through. Good. At least Emily wouldn’t have to go hunting for them inside her. At least her body wouldn’t try to heal around them.
She just had to heal before the wounds killed her. As she fell forward onto her hands, she prayed for the abundance of Organites in her system to get to work. It seemed the reconstructing process of her body had intensified as of late. Now was not a time to regress.
Lifting her head, she sought out each of her friends who were involved in the fight. The scene before her played out like one of those moving pictures—one frame at a time. Emily was back and using her ability to communicate with machines to make one of the large automatons fighting them dismantle itself. Sam took another down with his incredible strength. Jasper used his amazing speed to grab Lady Ash and bind her limbs. He’d shot her in the arm.
She tasted copper as her gaze turned to Griffin. Finley opened her mouth, but only blood came out. Griffin wasn’t watching her. He was watching Lady Ash and he...he was glowing.
Griffin’s power was the ability to harness the Aether—the energy expelled by all living creatures, and the realm of the dead. It was a terrible power, one that he fought to control every time he used it. A power that had brought so much pain upon himself—and his friends—as of late. It was power he rarely directed at a person, and now he directed it at Lady Ash.
She’d made short work of Jasper’s restraints, burning through them like they were spider silk. Even with soot and blood on her she was beautiful. She looked like a china doll, not the destructive witch she’d proved herself to be. Finley watched as flame ignited in Lady Ash’s palm and slowly licked its way up her arm, until her entire body was engulfed. The flame didn’t harm her, dancing just above her skin. She watched in horror as the flame took on the form of a long whip in her hand.
The automaton that had shot her stomped toward Finley, pulling a large sword seemingly out of his very back as he walked. The floor between them trembled with every step. She’d be worried if those holes in her body were already starting to close themselves. Finley took two tiny capsules from her pocket, broke them open and jammed one into each entry wound, wincing as her ripped flesh protested. Organites in their pure form immediately set her insides tingling as they worked their magic. They were little beasties from the very cradle of life itself, responsible for the evolution of life. Putting them into her body might take her abilities up another notch and she didn’t bloody care.
She forced herself to her feet. She wasn’t bleeding quite so heavily now, couldn’t feel the gurgling in her chest. She was going to live.
Too bad she couldn’t say the same about the automaton. She punched her fist—with the brass knuckles Emily had fashioned for her—through the creature’s chest, smashing its logic engine and dropping it in its tracks.
Lady Ash screamed—a ragged, eardrum-piercing sound that brought them all to a standstill. All but Griffin, that was. He was the one responsible for the woman’s anguish.
Finley had no idea how he’d done it, nor how it was even possible, but somehow Griffin was using his own abilities to turn Lady Ash’s power against her, so that her fire actually began to scorch her flesh and clothing. The awful smell of burning hair began to fill the air as Griffin seemed to glow from within—as though a light had been switched on inside him. Tendrils of power radiated from him, swirling around him like opalescent ribbons. That was new. The rest of the ribbons wrapped around Lady Ash.