The Girl With the Iron Touch

  Finley’s blood froze in her veins. He meant the building Griffin had brought down with his power—the building the man known as the Machinist had used as his automaton workshop. The Machinist was a man named Garibaldi, and his corpse hadn’t been found when authorities searched the wreckage.

  “The man who hired you, what did he look like?” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Emily’s tense expression and knew her friend had the same thought she had.

  “Blond and blue-eyed,” Jack responded.

  Emily glanced at her, sharing relief that it wasn’t Garibaldi. There was no way he could have survived that building coming down on top of him. Was there?

  Jack continued, “Looked almost Albinese. Great big fat ’ead. I didn’t get the feeling ’e was new in town, but I weren’t familiar with ’im. Bit of a Geordie, if my knowledge of dialects is up to snuff.”

  Finley didn’t doubt he could identify a person’s regional origin with three miles. “You didn’t ask what the cargo was?”

  He looked affronted. “Course not, but somefin about it felt off, right? I’ve survived on luck, intuition and not being a bloody idiot. Every instinct I ’ave told me this weren’t good. So, before I delivered the crate I opened it.”

  He’d lost some of his swagger and the sparkle in his eyes. That couldn’t be a good sign. He took a drink of tea and made a face. Perhaps he really wanted something a bit stronger. That didn’t bode well. Dandy was not easily disconcerted.

  “What was in the crate, Jack?”

  “An automaton. I think.” His accent lost much of its affectation. “Unlike any metal I’ve ever seen.”

  The unease pooling at the base of Finley’s spine intensified, but it was Emily who asked, “How so?”

  Jack chuckled, but there was little humor in it. “She—and it was definitely a girl—was naked, and she—” he swallowed “—she had bits of skin on her, like she was a patchwork quilt without all its pieces.”

  “It must have been a waxwork,” Emily suggested, perhaps a bit condescendingly.

  Dark eyes turned to her. “That’s what I told myself— before I touched her. Skin and hair. I fancied I could see lungs beneath her metal ribs. One eye socket was empty, the other had an eyeball in it—it was the color of amber.” He swallowed, and set his cup and saucer on the low table at his knees.

  Finley reached out and put her hand on his arm. She’d never seen him so rattled, but then she’d only known him a few months. “It must have been a frightening sight, but it was just a machine, Jack.”

  He stared at her, then at the hand on his sleeve. It was as though a curtain was pulled back into place, and he was once again the Jack Dandy she knew. “No, Treasure. I don’t fink it were.”

  She removed the hand he seemed to find so offensive. If he hadn’t called her “Treasure” she’d start to wonder if he was angry with her. “Why not?”

  Jack’s jaw tightened. “It…she spoke to me.”

  She had asked the handsome man not to put her back in the dark, but the fleshy stub in her mouth didn’t move the way she wanted and refused to form the words, so all that came out was a moaning noise.

  He had looked at her in horror, as though she were a…monster. That was the word. She didn’t quite know what it meant, but she knew it was right. He was disgusted by her. That made her sad, even though she wasn’t sure why, except that he had looked so very pretty to her.

  But then, everything looked pretty when your eyes were brand-new, as hers were. She had two now. The second one had started to appear the day after the man opened the ceiling on her wooden domicile.

  Domicile. That meant home. She lifted her chin and looked around the room. The other machines had put her here after removing her from the crate. Was this to be her home now? It was ever so much nicer than the hot, smelly box, even though they had set her inside a casket of iron. At least the casket allowed her to stand upright. If only they hadn’t shackled her inside, she might move about a bit. Perhaps that would ease the incessant pressure in her abdomen. It was almost unbear…

  Oh.

  Hot, wet liquid splashed against her feet. It was coming from inside her. Was it oil? Some sort of chemical for her inner workings? It smelled funny, but at least her belly didn’t hurt. In fact, the release of the liquid felt wonderful. Whatever it was, she’d had a surplus that obviously had to be evacuated. Would this be a regular occurrence?

  The door to the room she was in opened, and in scuttled two automatons. One had a shiny porcelain doll head perched atop its squat metal body, and eight reticulated limbs that made it move like an insect. The other appeared as an elderly woman in a tattered gown. It appeared as though her head had been removed at one time and reattached by a clumsy child. It was pitched forward and slightly to the side.

  She tried to draw back from them, their monstrous countenances frightening, but there was nowhere for her to go while trapped in the lead box.

  “I told you it was going to be female,” the spider said to the woman. Its voice was like the clattering of discordant notes on a piano keyboard.

  “We must find some clothing,” the other replied in a voice that was almost human, but with a slight hitch. Whoever had put its head back on hadn’t aligned the voice box correctly. “It would not be proper for her to be seen naked, but we can no longer keep her restrained now that biological function has begun. Bring someone to clean up her mess.”

  The short one made a skittering sound. It wasn’t any kind of language her logic engine could identify, but she understood it, regardless. It was the language of metal, and the spider didn’t like being ordered about.

  A clawlike hand lashed out from the “old woman” and struck the other. “You will do as told, or face the wrath of the Master.”

  The Master. The mention of him made the gregorite vertebrae of her spine cold. Part of her insisted she bow to him, but another part…that strange part responsible for the gooey eyeballs in her head and the fleshy thing in her mouth, was afraid. Why would she be afraid? She was machine, and machines were not capable of feeling.

  Something jumped in her chest. She looked down. Between the two swells of flesh on her chest there was a small expanse of her framework not yet covered over by skin. There, through the gleaming rungs of her chasse she spied a red, wet lump of muscle, ebbing and receding in time with the pulsing throughout her form.

  What was happening to her?

  The old woman came to her, every step halting, punctuated with a dry, grinding sound. Her thin lips clicked upward into a grotesque parody of a smile.

  A smile with no emotion behind it. No humanity. The skin of the machine’s face was gray and lax. There was something wrong with it, but what? Her mind knew she should be horrified, but not why.

  And it stank. Stank like death, though she had no idea how she knew that. In fact, she didn’t even know her own name. Did she have a name?

  “What are you going to do with me?” she asked. The thing in her mouth was bigger now, and moved when she spoke, so that the words that came out sounded almost as they ought.

  How did she know how the words were supposed to sound? Why did she know so much and so very little? Why was she so afraid?

  “Don’t worry, little one,” the old woman said, reaching out and touching her with cold, foul fingers. “We have great plans for you.”

  Chapter 3

  A strange young man stood up when Finley entered the dining room the next morning. He was alone at the table, a half cup of coffee and a plate with a few bites of coddled eggs and ham in front of him.

  “Good morning,” he said. “You must be Miss Jayne.” Finley’s gaze traveled down the lanky length of him, from his reddish hair to his shiny shoes. He had a kind face, but she knew that looks could be deceiving. “And you must be?”

  He offered his hand. “Silverius Isley. I’m an associate of His Grace.”

  She looked at his fingers. They were long and soft— the kind of hands she expected from a man wearing such a well-made
jacket. Not a speck of dirt beneath his manicured fingernails. Hesitantly, she put her hand in his. “What sort of associate?”

  His entire body went rigid, fingers clamping around hers like a vise. Free hand tightening into a fist, Finley pulled back but stopped when she saw his eyes. They had rolled up in his head so far only white and tiny red veins remained. His weight tugged her forward as he wavered on his feet.

  Good Lord, did he belong in an asylum? Was he ill? And what was his connection to Griffin?

  Her free hand grabbed his arm to keep him from falling. His body jerked once…twice…then went still. She almost dropped him as the tension drained from him and he went as limp as a rag doll in her arms.

  “What…?” He looked around, noticed she was holding him. Weakly, he regained his footing. “Oh, dear.”

  Slowly, Finley helped him back into his chair. “You had some sort of fit.”

  Isley took a sip of his coffee. The hand around his cup trembled. “What I had, Miss Jayne, was a visit from an apparition.”

  Had she heard him correctly? And was he, as Jasper would say, “pulling her leg”? “You mean a ghost?”

  He chuckled. “Your dubious tone says more than enough, Miss Jayne. You do not believe in my particular talent.”

  “I don’t believe in much I can’t see,” Finley replied defensively.

  “Yet you live in the home of a young man who regularly traffics in the world of the dead.”

  Fair enough. “I’ve seen what His Grace can do. I don’t know you.”

  “No, you do not. Thank you for keeping me upright. In the past I’ve done myself quite a harm during a visitation.” He pointed to a small scar above his eyebrow. “I’m fortunate this is my only souvenir.”

  Finley eyed him warily before crossing to the sideboard to load a plate with her own breakfast. Isley was odd, but she was starving, and her stomach didn’t care if he talked to ghosts or saw fairies. She sat down at the table and dug into the eggs, toast and ham like a starving beast.

  Mr. Isley arched a brow but wisely remained silent. She may not be embarrassed to eat in front of him, but no girl liked attention called to the amount of food on her plate, or the degree of enthusiasm with which she dug in to it.

  “The coffee is still hot,” he mentioned. “May I pour you a cup?”

  She swallowed the food in her mouth before answering, “Thank you.”

  He tipped the silver pot over her cup and poured just the right amount of fragrant black brew, leaving room for milk and sugar.

  “Good morning, all.”

  Finley looked up as Jasper entered the room. He was his usual tousled self. “Good morning.” A glance at Isley made her pause. The young man was looking at Jasper like…well, the way Finley fantasized about Griffin looking at her. Jasper, a typical fellow, seemed completely unaware of the attention. He had no concept of just how handsome he was, which made him all the more likable in Finley’s estimation.

  “Jasper, this is Mr. Isley, a friend of Griffin’s. Mr. Isley, this is Jasper Renn.”

  Jasper nodded in greeting. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Isley cleared his throat, a pink flush climbing his cheeks. “Likewise.”

  The American filled a plate and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Enjoy your breakfast,” he said before leaving the room. He hadn’t had breakfast at the table since moving in. He would never feel he belonged if he insisted on putting distance between himself and the rest of them.

  Then again, maybe he didn’t want to belong. Isley watched him leave. “I say, is he a real American cowboy?”

  Finley smiled. “He has the hat, too.”

  “Extraordinary.” This was said with just a hint of wistfulness.

  “Indeed.” Isley didn’t know how much. Jasper could move so fast it seemed like the rest of the world almost stopped around him. He also seemed to prefer girls to blokes, but who was she to dash Isley’s apparent infatuation?

  “I hope he didn’t break his fast elsewhere because of me?”

  Oh, poor thing. She’d gone from wariness to wanting to pat his hand. “No. Jasper often takes breakfast in one of the rooms facing the stables so he can see the horses.” She didn’t figure Jasper would mind her saying that. It was better than telling Isley that Jasper couldn’t seem to stand the sight of any of them for long.

  Mrs. Dodsworth entered the dining room. “Mr. Isley, His Grace requests that you join him in the blue parlor. If you would follow me?”

  The young man dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and rose from the table. “It was lovely to meet you, Miss Jayne.”

  “You, as well, Mr. Isley.”

  He stopped in the door, and partially turned to look at her. “Miss Jayne, would you have known a young blond man with blue eyes and a small brass bar in his left eyebrow?”

  Finley swallowed hard, her toast lodged in her throat. Lord Felix. He was the son of her former employer, and the last time she saw him he’d tried to force himself on her. She’d knocked him senseless. He was also dead. “I’m not sure.”

  He smiled slightly. “Perhaps my vision showed me the wrong person. It has been known to happen. I thought he must mean something to you.”

  “Why would you assume that?”

  “Because the spirits showed me his murder when I touched your hand.”

  * * *

  “I’m not letting you go alone.”

  Emily put down the hammer before she could be tempted to use it on Sam’s metal-enhanced skull. Slowly, she turned from her workbench far below King House and faced the infuriatingly overprotective, overbearing, overly gorgeous mutton head standing a few feet away.

  Not long ago in this very room she’d saved his life for the second time when a fight with Finley turned bad. He was so very concerned with her life that he seemed to forget he was the one who had almost died. Twice.

  “Are ye volunteering to come with me, then?”

  “No. I’ll go by myself.”

  She didn’t try to hide her annoyance. “Oh, right, Mr. ‘I’m not afraid of anything.’ What happens if you encounter a chunk of metal intent on beating you into the ground?” It was unfair of her to bring it up, but he’d almost been killed by a machine once, and he’d been deeply afraid of them ever since.

  So had she, and it wasn’t made any easier by being able to communicate with the logic engines in the things.

  “Better I face it alone than have to worry about you,” he retorted.

  All thought of unfairness went out the bloody window. “You foolish, ridiculous, backward—” Her tongue seized when he grabbed her by the arms and hauled her close.

  “Seeing you fight that Kraken almost did me in, Em. I can’t go through that again. The thought of losing you…” Sam’s gaze locked with hers. “I can’t live in a world without you in it.”

  Oh. Oh. A few pretty words and her heart melted. Her resolve, however, didn’t waiver. “You’re going to have to accept it, boyo, because I can’t wait here for you to return, wondering if I’ll be able to put you back together again. You’re not going without me.”

  “Stubborn wench.”

  “Thick-skulled jackanapes.”

  “That’s your fault, isn’t it? You put metal in my head, no wonder it’s thick!”

  She stared at him a second, fighting the laughter bubbling up inside her. It was no use; it poured out from her belly until she had to wipe her eyes, and even then it was difficult to stop.

  “This is funny to you, is it?” Sam demanded.

  There had been a time when he would have laughed, as well. Finley and Jasper wouldn’t believe her, but Emily remembered a time when consternation and anger weren’t etched into his handsome face. A time when he didn’t take everything as a personal insult. A time when he hadn’t treated her as though she were made of the thinnest glass.

  She took his hand in his. “Smile a wee bit, Sam. Please? Just for me.”

  “I don’t think your safety is anything to smile over.” He made it sound like some
thing nasty.

  “You don’t find much worth smiling over anymore.” She tried to keep the disappointment from her voice, but he stiffened at the remark, regardless.

  “No, I don’t.” Hesitation turned his expression from anger to uncertainty. “I don’t like being like this, Em. I can’t seem to stop it.”

  Was that her fault? When she put him back together the first time, had it been a mistake? She refused to think of it like that, but there was no denying that he had changed.

  She swallowed. “Do you blame me?”

  He started. “No. You saved me. I wouldn’t be alive if not for you.”

  “You wouldn’t be partially metal, either. You wouldn’t be so unhappy.”

  “Do you regret it? Do you ever wish you’d just let me die?”

  Pain pierced her heart. “No, Sam. Lord, no.” She reached up and took his rugged face in her hands. He was so big, so strong. So vulnerable. “I would give anything for you to be happy again.”

  “I’m happy when I’m with you.”

  Tears burned the backs of her eyes. “Oh, lad.”

  He picked her up as though she weighed no more than a child and set her on the workbench so that they were practically eye to eye. His size and strength should frighten her—men often did frighten her—but with Sam she never felt anything but safe. He treated her with tenderness when she was used to violence.

  He was the first—and the only—male she ever thought it would be nice to have touch her.

  “I have to go,” she explained. “If we run into an automaton that hasn’t learned language I’m the only one who can communicate with it. We’ll have a device that interferes with mechanical armatures. I don’t know if it will affect you or not.” Meaning that this was one time when she was the best person for the job and he was not. “Finley will be with me. You know she won’t let anything hurt me.” Though, if metal went berserk, she was just as capable of bringing it down as Finley, perhaps more so.

  “I can’t tell you what to do,” he said in a soft tone. “I don’t want to boss you around. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”