They sparred for perhaps another twenty minutes before calling an end to the sweaty production. Her earlier restlessness was gone, and she wanted to send Griffin the information Jasper had shared with her.
She shook Jasper’s hand and thanked him for the exercise, then watched as he left the room with Mei as Dalton commanded. Dalton, she noticed, didn’t bother to look at either one of them—he was staring at Finley.
This was it, she realized. This was when he would make whatever advances he was going to make. She’d known this was coming, ever since she found out that he liked “rough” girls.
It took real effort to keep her spine loose as he approached her—much like she thought a hungry cat stalked a mouse— only she didn’t think Dalton meant her any harm. He had a different set of rules for women than he did for men.
He stood so close to her that every breath threatened to push her chest against his. “You could have pounded him to a pulp. Why didn’t you?”
She arched a brow. Was he serious? “Because we’re on the same side. And because it would be difficult for him to do whatever it is we have to do tomorrow if I busted him up. I don’t always have to win.”
Dalton smiled that indolent smile of his. “That’s the difference between you and me.”
How many girls had fallen victim to him? She wouldn’t be one. Finley knew dark and charming, and Dalton was no charismatic Jack Dandy. Jack had his honor, but Dalton ... Dalton was just dangerous. Maybe if her darker self was stronger she would be tempted to run away with him, but all she could think of was that, as soon as this was over, she could return to Griffin and Emily—even Sam. Sure, she didn’t mind if it took a little bit longer, because she did enjoy the intrigue and the danger, but that was it.
Pretty soon she might make herself believe it.
He offered her his handkerchief, and she took it. She hated when sweat trickled into her eyes. Dabbing at her forehead, she glanced at him. “Would you have preferred if I had beaten him? Just because I can hurt someone, doesn’t mean I should. Sometimes, the threat of violence is more of a weapon than fists or blades.” She wasn’t sure where that had come from, but it sounded good.
Dalton reached out and touched a lock of her hair that had fallen from the sticks at the back of her head. “You are an extraordinary woman, Finley Bennet.”
She knew he was only trying to butter her up, but it was nice being referred to as a woman. “Yes,” she replied without an ounce of pride. “I am.” It was a plain and simple fact—she was extraordinary. But then again, so was Wildcat McGuire. So was Emily.
So was Mei.
“I’m not much of a fighter, I’ll admit it,” he confessed, still stroking that lock of hair. “I don’t like getting my hands dirty, so to speak. Does that make me less of a man in your estimation?”
She thought of Griffin, who was physically capable of defending himself, she was certain, but whose powers lay in something more than the tangible realm. “No,” she answered honestly. “Power doesn’t always have to equate to physical strength. Look at Mei. She’s a tiny little thing, yet she holds so much power over Jasper. A fact that you are well aware of, I’m sure.”
His chin came up. Crystalline eyes regarded her with unveiled interest as he curled her hair around his finger. “Do you know that he took the blame for a murder for her?”
“No,” she lied. “I knew they had history, but nothing like that.”
Dalton nodded, giving her hair a slight tug before releasing the ringlet he had made. “He did. He would do anything to keep her safe. Jasper’s always thought of himself as a hero.”
“You don’t like him much, do you?”
He seemed surprised by her question. “Jasper? I used to love him like a brother until he betrayed me.” His hand cupped her elbow. “I don’t really want to talk about him, or Mei, for that matter.”
“I don’t think you want to talk at all,” she remarked drily as his gaze traveled over the length of her.
Dalton chuckled, and for a moment, his features were transformed into something truly beautiful. It was almost painful to look at him. Angels had to weep at the sight of his face. “No,” he agreed quietly. “I don’t want to talk.”
She was prepared for the kiss, braced for it even. It was lovely, as far as kisses went. Her heart gave a little jolt at the contact, but that was it. There was no feeling of being struck by lightning. No desperate urge to grab hold of him and never let go. And there were absolutely no butterflies in her stomach.
Griffin only had to look at her in a certain way, and her stomach quivered.
It was a terrible time to realize you were falling in love with someone—when you were kissing another bloke.
But she had to put her own acting ability to the test right now, because she wanted Dalton to trust her. Wanted him to believe she was completely on his side. She held on to the lapels of his jacket and made herself kiss him back with all the enthusiasm she would give a kiss from ... well, Griffin.
That seemed to do the trick, because he held her tighter and kissed her harder. Then just when she thought she might have to forcibly remove his mouth from hers, he lifted his head. He smiled at her, as though he expected her to melt at his feet at any moment.
Finley smiled back. Oh, she had missed her calling. She should have been an actress. “Do all you Southern boys know how to kiss like that?”
He might have chuckled; she wasn’t sure. Something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye, and she turned her head just in time to see Mei leave the room. She must have returned after leaving Jasper wherever he had gone.
How long had she stood there? Long enough to see Dalton cozy up to her. She’d stood there and watched them kiss without making a sound. Spied on them—purposefully. There was only one reason a girl did that sort of thing.
Was Mei in love with Dalton?
Chapter 12
After Kirby announced his suspicions regarding the shooting of the late Mr. Venton, Griffin suggested they continue the conversation someplace a bit more private, so they returned to his room. He called for Sam, and the three of them sat down with coffee sent up from the hotel kitchen.
Two hours later, the lawman had told them all that he knew—or all he was willing to reveal—about the murder and to what extent he believed Jasper to have been involved.
Basically Venton was a sack of shite that deserved to be killed, and Jasper took the blame for it, even though Mei Xing had no doubt only done it in self-defense. Kirby wasn’t interested in arresting Jasper, so much as he was determined to clear his name. When Griffin asked why, the marshal told him that was one piece of information he didn’t feel like sharing just yet. He’d only told them this much because he feared Jasper—and Finley—might be getting in over their heads with Dalton.
“Maybe you’d be kind enough to let them know that?” Kirby asked. “I reckon you’ll talk to your girl before I can get anywhere near either of them. Dalton’s bad news, and he’ll take them down with him if he can.”
Griffin looked him dead in the eye. “What are you after Dalton for?”
The marshal finished his coffee. “He got my wife’s brother in a heap of trouble. And he’s responsible for the death of a good friend. There’s a list of crimes as long as my arm that no one’s ever been able to pin on him. If I can catch him in the act here, I can petition to have him transported back to San Francisco to stand trial.”
“If we help you catch him, will you turn a blind eye to Jasper’s and Finley’s involvement?”
“As far as I’m concerned, they’re working to bring Dalton down, same as me.”
Griffin nodded. “I suspect Dalton will be at the Olympia Theatre tomorrow night. I’ll let you know when I know for certain. From now on, you’ll know what we know.”
“Likewise. You’ll be sure to let Renn know that I have no intention of punishing that poor girl any more than she’s already been punished? I just want to clear his name.”
“I will.” And he’
d ask Jasper why this man would go through so much trouble for him, as well.
“Well, then, I best take my leave.” The older man picked up his battered Stetson from the table and set it on his head. “Thank you for the coffee.”
Griffin rose stiffly to his feet and walked him to the door. Kirby gave him his direction. His hotel had a telegraph machine and telephones, but Griffin wanted to avoid any means that might be overheard by curious ears or seen by prying eyes. It was agreed that he would send a messenger or come himself, if at all possible.
Once the door shut, leaving him and Sam alone once more, only then did Griffin sag against the wall.
“You’ve overdone it,” Sam chastised, helping him to the bed. “Stubborn fool.”
“Look who’s talking,” Griffin shot back. “I think I need some more of Em’s vile Organite tea, Samuel.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Sam was at the phone, asking someone from the kitchen to bring up hot water.
“What would I do without all of you to take care of me?” Griffin asked—perhaps a little harsher than he ought. Right now he felt like the weak link in the chain that was their group. Yes, he could fight, but not like Finley or Sam, and he couldn’t heal like them. Emily was so much smarter than he was, and Jasper so fast he was almost untouchable. Sure, he could summon the Aether as energy, but one good cosh to the head would stop that. He was entirely too vulnerable, and he hated it.
Sam glanced at him. “Feeling sorry for yourself, are you? I suppose you’re allowed. I mean, look at how bloody awful your life is.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you,” Griffin retorted as he eased out of his coat and boots. The simple action caused a fine layer of sweat to bead on his brow. He was as weak as a child.
“And wallowing doesn’t look good on you. You feel feeble. I understand that. But if you want that to change, then change it. For pity’s sake, just stop whining about it.”
Griffin arched a brow. “Is that experience speaking?”
Sam scowled. “You know it is, you great arse. You think you’re helpless—Emily and I couldn’t even see what attacked you. How do you think that felt?” As he spoke, he casually took Griff by the arms and moved him up the bed so that he reclined on a mountain of pillows. Sometimes it wasn’t bad to have friends that were much stronger than he was.
“A little helpless, I suppose,” Griffin allowed, suddenly sheepish.
“That’s right.” A knock sounded at the door. “There’s the water for your tea. You stay in bed, understand?”
Griffin nodded, fighting a grin. Sam was such a mother hen. He was also very nosy at times. Griffin was surprised his friend had not asked him if anything had happened between himself and Finley the other night. He and Emily must be beside themselves with curiosity. The two of them were convinced he was in love with Finley and she with him.
He didn’t know if he was—and he’d never dare guess at her feelings. He had to admit to himself that it had been nice to wake up and see her face. To know she’d dropped everything else to be—literally—by his side.
Take that, Dandy, he thought smugly.
Sam brewed him a cup of Emily’s tea and a cup of Earl Grey for himself. Then he took a pack of cards from the desk and held them up. “Want to play something?”
“May as well,” Griffin replied. It wasn’t as though he was in the proper condition to do anything else at the moment. Once Emily returned from Tesla’s, then they could fill her in on Kirby’s visit and discuss where to go from here.
“So,” Sam began as he dealt the cards. Griffin took a sip of the awful tea. “What happened between you and Finley last night?”
By late that evening, Griffin felt more like himself. He had drunk several cups of Emily’s tea and had gotten Finley’s telegraph that the Olympia Theatre was indeed their destination for the following night and that Dalton had forged invitations to a gala at the Museum of Science and Invention. There hadn’t been anything in the pamphlet Sam found about the museum, but that hadn’t listed much information in the way of events.
He’d wager Mrs. Astor-Prynn would know—and gladly tell him, especially if she thought she could throw her daughter at him in the process.
He sent a note on to Kirby relaying that information and was now taking a leisurely stroll around the city. Recuperating had been necessary, but now that he had healed, he felt restless.
Sam and Emily had wanted to come with him, but he needed a little time to himself. So he’d listened to his friends’ concerns and brought along a walking stick Emily had made for him. It doubled as a club, had a sword hidden inside it and emitted a gas that would put any attackers to sleep when sprayed directly in the face. What Emily didn’t know was that he had been practicing with something new. It wasn’t a secret that he could use Aetheric energy to destroy—he had done it when he brought that warehouse down on The Machinist. What he had been toying with, however, was controlling the amount of energy he put into an item, so that the thing itself became an Aetheric weapon, charged with the power he’d siphoned.
Sam was right. He needed to stop whining. The incident at Tesla’s was the second time in a matter of weeks that he had been injured to the point where his life was in question. That didn’t sit well with him, not at all. So rather than brood on how weak he was, it was time to make himself as strong as possible.
To make his little band of “strays” —as his aunt Cordelia sometimes called them—as strong as possible.
So perhaps he should be completely honest and admit that this wasn’t just a leisurely stroll. He had intentionally walked in the direction of Reno Dalton’s house. He knew where to go because Emily had mentioned the address. He wasn’t quite certain why he walked this way—perhaps he wanted to tempt fate and maybe run into the criminal. Perhaps he simply wanted to take a measure of the man.
Or maybe he hoped to catch a glimpse of Finley. He missed her. Sometimes she drove him mad, but she was as much a part of his world as Sam or Emily. From the moment they’d met, he’d felt as though she completed the puzzle that was his life. She just seemed to fit.
When he reached Dalton’s unassuming address—a simple brick house with clean windows and freshly swept steps—he kept to the shadows so that he could spy on the occupants, unnoticed. He was surprised that Kirby wasn’t already there. The man seemed to have made a habit of watching Dalton and his companions.
The curtains were open in one of the front ground-floor windows. Lamps kept the room well lit, so he could clearly see the two people inside.
Finley and Dalton. They were playing a bizarre and dangerous game, where Dalton threw a dagger at her and she caught it by the handle before throwing it back. Did neither of them have any concept of mortality or respect for their own safety and lives?
He thought of her sitting out on the bow of the airship on the way to New York. The idea of falling hadn’t even occurred to her; she thought she was invulnerable, like many young people their age, but a fall from several thousand feet would kill Sam. It would definitely kill her, as well.
His heart stopped as she caught the dagger a mere fraction of an inch from her left eye. It would have killed her if she hadn’t grabbed it. The thought rolled around in his stomach, making him feel sick. What did she do? She laughed. The idiot.
This was not one of those moments when he wanted to kiss her. What he wanted to do was storm into that house, punch Dalton in the nose, throw Finley over his shoulder and take her back to the hotel, where she belonged.
He did neither of these things. Firstly, she had to stay there if they were going to help Jasper and make sure Dalton paid for his crimes. Secondly ... she obviously liked it there. She trusted Dalton to throw a deadly weapon at her. He trusted her to throw it back. Neither of them had any concern of betrayal or injury.
Dalton was dangerous and likely more than a little mad. That would appeal to Finley’s dark side. Lately, it seemed that darker part of her was to become the dominant half of her personality. That part of her would not be
content with his world. There was excitement, but usually someone ended up getting hurt, and there wasn’t much of a reward for it.
Would she return to him when this was over? Or would she choose Dalton instead?
As the thought crossed his mind, he saw Finley’s head turn, and she looked out the window. He hadn’t realized, but he had walked out of the darkness into the pool of light from a nearby streetlamp. She could see him. Those sharp eyes of hers could probably make him out plain as day.
The smile slipped from her face as they stared at one another. She set the dagger on the table and crossed the floor to the window. Griffin watched as she placed her palm against the glass, as though to wave at him. Was that guilt he saw on her face, or did she miss him, too?
She glanced over her shoulder and said something. Then she turned back to him. Her fingers curled against the glass before she lifted her hand and took a step back.
Then she yanked the curtains closed.
Griffin shoved his hands in his pockets, turned on his heel and started walking back in the direction of his hotel. She’d done it to keep Dalton from seeing him, obviously. Not because she wanted to shut him out. He told himself that it meant nothing, that he should trust Finley. That he did trust Finley.
Only, he realized now that he didn’t trust her—not as much as he ought. Not as much as he would expect her to trust him. And that was the worst of it all.
The Olympia Theatre was in Longacre Square, situated between 44th and 45th Streets. The New York Times heralded it as “one of the most imposing facades” on Broadway, or so Dalton claimed. To Jasper, the building was ostentatious and sprawling, never mind all that “French Renaissance” nonsense Dalton spouted about its design. Architecture had nothing to do with why Jasper had chosen this particular building as the hiding place for the final piece of the device.
He had hidden it there because he knew it would be hard to recover—even harder than the piece from Wildcat. After all, he knew Wildcat well enough to know that she would have stopped beating on him once she figured he had enough. But tonight, there was no such guarantee that they would get off quite so easily.