The bastard was going to imprison his mother, bind her to that box and keep her as his.

“I see you recognize what this is.” Garibaldi held up the box and waggled it mockingly. “You also know I have power here. Power I intend to use. Now, be a good boy or I’ll use it on you.”

Griffin laughed, warmth rushing through his Aetheric self. Unlike Garibaldi, he was bound to his body even in this realm. He wasn’t a spirit, and no one—no one—had power like his. The worst Garibaldi could do to him was send him back to his body. His mother, however would become a prisoner, and even Griffin would be unable to save her then.

The villain had him and he knew it. A slow smile curved the man’s lips. “Now that we understand one another, you’ll run along if you ever want to see your mother again. If not, when I wake up, I start with your friends. Want to wager on whether or not I can pull their spirits from their bodies?”

He didn’t think such a thing was possible, but no, he didn’t want to wager the lives of his friends on it. He didn’t want to lose his mother, either—not to this monster. She belonged in Heaven—the spirit realm—with his father.

The thought of his father brought Griffin’s anger to the foreground. How dare Garibaldi involve his parents—hadn’t he done enough to them? And how dare the man meet Griffin in this place and make threats?

He couldn’t rush him, because he’d use the box on his mother. He couldn’t use his own abilities against him, because his mother might get caught in the cross fire.

Glancing at Garibaldi’s body in the chair, an idea occurred to him. He turned on the villain with a smile. “Have you an effect on the tangible world in this form, sir?”

Garibaldi scowled. “Of course not.” Only against other spirits did Aether travelers have form. But Griffin was not an ordinary traveler.

“I do,” he said. And to prove his point, he moved—teleported, for lack of better term—to the chair and wrapped his hand around Garibaldi’s throat. The spirit of the man caught his breath, his metal hand going to his throat.

Griffin looked at his mother as he squeezed harder. “Go.”

She shot him a worried glance, but didn’t argue. She simply disappeared, set free by Garibaldi’s loss of concentration.

It would be a lie if Griffin were to say he wasn’t tempted to end this then and there, but he was not a murderer. He would not make himself into the very thing he was so tempted to destroy at that moment. That didn’t stop him from holding on just a little bit longer. Garibaldi’s face began to turn blue as his spirit waned and sputtered.

A little reluctantly, Griffin let go. While the man sputtered for breath, Griffin reached down and grabbed his mother’s earring from the hand made of flesh rather than metal. For now at least, Garibaldi would have no power over his parents.

His actions cost him, however. As Garibaldi’s shocked body pulled his spirit back to it, his Aetheric self raised the metal hand and blasted Griffin with the same energy it had used on his father. Griffin’s fingers curled around the earring just as he was sucked back into his own body in his own house.

He bolted upright on the floor of his study, the warm gold in his palm digging into his flesh. He had saved his mother, but for how long? He still had no idea where Garibaldi was hiding or of his plans for his automaton. He was exactly where he had started.

Perhaps not exactly. He knew now that Garibaldi had power in the Aether, and he would be better prepared for that the next time around. He also knew that his mother was the villain’s weak spot. He’d use that if he had to. Regardless, he would make certain he knew more about Garibaldi than the man even knew about himself. The next time they met he’d destroy that Aether oscillatory transference device he wore around his villainous head.

And he would make certain Garibaldi could never hurt his parents, or threaten his friends ever again. Even if it killed him.

When Finley met Griffin in his study early that evening before dinner, she took one look at him and gasped in dismay. “What happened to you?”

He smiled wearily at her. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin had a slight grayish cast to it. “Headache,” he explained. “Spent a little too much time in the Aether earlier and now I pay the price.”

She sat down on the sofa next to him. “Are you all right?”

He nodded. “I’ll be fine. I’ve done this before.”

She wanted to believe him, but he looked so ill. “You did something you shouldn’t have, didn’t you?”

Another tired smile. “Let’s just say I pushed the boundaries of Aetheric etiquette, and leave it at that. I didn’t send for you so we could discuss how much sense I may or may not possess.” He gestured to the table in front of them.

A small pot of ink sat on a stained but laundered square of linen. With it were a few other items that made it look as though Griffin was about to write a letter. But there was one thing that did not fit.

“What’s that?” she asked, pointing at a wicked-looking needle-on-a-pistol contraption.

“That’s a tattoo needle,” he replied, taking the stopper out of the ink. “Em made it for me. I’m going to tattoo you.”

She shook her head. “No, you’re not.”

He smiled. Oh, so her fear amused him, did it? “It won’t hurt much at all. Look, I’ve got some.” He pulled aside the collar of his shirt to show her part of a celtic knot on his chest with strange symbols around it. The ink on his flesh had a slight blue cast to it, no longer fresh and black. “I did those myself. I’ve some on my back, as well, that one of Pick-a-Dilly’s tattooed performers was kind enough to transfer for me.”

For a moment she thought to remind him that showing off his na**d skin to a young woman was highly improper, but then another part of her told her to keep her mouth shut and enjoy the view, so that was what she did. This other part of her was also keenly interested in this tattooing business, so she moved closer for a better look.

“Why did you decorate yourself this way?”

“A couple are personal, but the rest come from my father’s research—and my own. The runes help me control and focus my abilities, plus keep my mind and soul sharp.”

“Why do you want to do it to me?”

“I want to give you a couple of runes,” he told her, swabbing the needle with a medicinal smelling liquid that she remembered from Emily’s laboratory. “Nothing frightening or terrible. Just something to help the two sides of you finally merge and awaken your awareness.”

She watched him warily. “That sounds like more than a couple.”

Another smile, this one warm and reassuring. He would make a fantastic confidence artist. “It won’t take long and I’ll make it as painless as possible. I’m good at this.”

Judging from the ones she’d seen of his, she knew that. “Fine. And I’m not afraid of it hurting. I’m not some silly girl.”

He just kept smiling. “No. I’d never call you a silly girl.” His smile faded. “Can I trust you?”

A tiny fissure of alarm tingled at the base of Finley’s spine. “You can.” She would never betray him, no matter what he told her.

He glanced away, fingers absently toying with the instruments on the tray. “I went into the Aether to talk to my parents.”

Her eyes widened. “You can do that?” How amazing! He could commune with the dead. She couldn’t help but wonder if he could somehow contact her father…

“Yes,” he replied. “I can do that, and I don’t know if I can contact your father.”

The blood rushed from her face. “How…?”

He waved a hand. “A lucky guess, nothing more. When I was in the Aether, Garibaldi showed up. He summoned my mother’s spirit and my father and I were taken along, as well. He tried to capture my mother’s ghost.”

Finley slumped onto the stool, disbelief practically leaking out her pores. “I didn’t know such things were possible. What did you do?”

A slight smile curved his lips. “I took a tip from you and grabbed him—his physical body—by the throat. That weakened him enough so that he was forced to release my mother.” The smile faded. “But he has power in the Aether—more than I’m comfortable with him having.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure. I stopped him this time, and I’m confident I can stop him again, but we need to find him and bring him to justice as soon as possible, before he tries again.”

She gestured to the tray. “Will tattooing me help make that happen?”

“I hope so.” Determination settled over his features, hardening them. “Yes.”

“Then let’s do it. What do you need me to do?”

“Just turn so that your back is to me. I’ll need you to unfasten the top of your gown so I can access your skin.”

Her back? Her na**d back? Oh, this went against everything her mother ever taught her about being a “good” girl. Still, the darker part of her perked up at the thought of undressing for Griffin—even if it was just a little bit.

Bloody stars, if this was what it was going to be like having both halves of herself merged into one, she wasn’t so certain she wanted to do it. Before everything was morally black or white, and now it was becoming alarmingly gray.

Her fingers trembling, Finley unfastened the buttons that ran on an angle from the mandarin collar on her gown to where the sleeve ended at her right shoulder. Griffin was able to peel the silk away from her back, revealing her shoulder. She shouldn’t have been so alarmed. She had bared her shoulders before.

A low fire burned in the hearth a few feet away, so she wasn’t the least bit chilled. In fact, as soon as his hand touched her flesh, she felt very warm indeed.

“I’m going to clean the area first,” he told her. “This might be a little cold.”

She jumped as the wet cloth touched her shoulder blade. “Oh!” It was more than a little cold! There was that medicinal smell again. Wonderful, she was going to smell like a surgeon’s office.

“I’m going to draw the runes on you now.”

She turned her head to glance up at him. “I thought you were going to tattoo them?”

“I am, but I’ll draw them on first. Then I’ll tattoo over them—less margin for error that way.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not filling me with confidence toward your abilities in this area, Your Grace.”

“Turn around and stop squawking, woman,” he ordered, but there was too much humor in his tone for the demand to be insulting.

“I’ll begin with Uruz, for strength and to banish self-doubt and weakness.” Finley shivered as the tip of a quill moved ever so lightly on her shoulder. A straight line down, then a small diagonal line from the top that bent to run parallel to the first—like an awkward lowercase n.

“Are you cold?” Griffin asked.

“It tickled,” she replied, embarrassed.

He chuckled. “Sorry. Next is Gebo for balance, then Sowilo for self-orientation and strength of will.” He deftly drew each rune with the quill as he spoke—X followed by a sharp S. “Most important, is Ehwaz for partnership and Ingwas for centering and focus.” Each of these symbols— M and a square diamond—were written in a single line down her shoulder blade. Her skin tingled a little.

“That’s definitely more than a couple,” she reminded him, once again wondering what the devil she was about allowing him to do this. She must be barking mad.

“They’re small,” he replied—as though that made a difference. “Hold still.”

Next came the needle. Finley watched with no small amount of apprehension as he poured a small amount of ink into a reservoir on the “pistol.” He was going to put marks on her—permanent marks that she would carry for the rest of her life. It was a little daunting.

“Ready?” he asked.

She knew this was the time to decline if she was going to. He was giving her the option to run away, coward that she was. But if these markings would help her—help them— then there was no other choice.

“I’m ready,” she replied.

She could almost see him smiling despite having her back to him. “Good girl. This might feel odd, but it won’t hurt, I promise you.”

There was the faint clicking of a key being turned, or a mechanism being wound. A slight buzzing noise followed, and then the needle touched her skin, following the lines of the first rune.

Griffin was right. It didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t exactly pleasant, either. It was somewhat annoying—like being lightly stung repeatedly by a delicate bee. However, beyond that slight annoyance there was something else—a fluttering beneath her skin, a strange sense of strength—what the rune stood for—easing through her veins. The X and angular S followed, each of which imparted a new sensation as the ink seeped into her flesh. It might have been her imagination, but she thought it felt as though something unbalanced settled inside her—as though she was a scale and both sides held the same weight.

Occasionally he would stop to wipe at her back—which was a little more uncomfortable. She turned her head to look at the cloth on the table. Amongst the blotches of black ink, were smears of blood.

“I’m bleeding?” she cried, incredulous. He never said anything about bleeding!

“It’s normal,” he assured her. “Just relax, Finley. I’ll be done soon, and if you’re a good girl, I shall give you a biscuit.”