“Shortbread?” she asked. If she were going to allow herself to be bribed, it would have to be for a worthwhile prize.

“Of course. Almost done now.” The last two figures were all that remained. The needle buzzed and jabbed—annoying but still not painful. As with the others, each new mark seemed to impart its meaning, fusing the intent with her skin and her blood.

The power of the runes, Griffin explained as he worked, didn’t hinge on how large the symbols were drawn, only in the intention and will behind them. That, and his blood in the ink.

“Is that why my shoulder feels hot? Because of your blood?” The thought didn’t bother her as it should.

“Possibly. My connection to the Aether gives added power to the runes.”

Sounded like magic, Finley thought as he wiped at her skin once more with a clean cloth and more Listerine. “I’m going to put some salve on your back to help it heal.”

“Should we be using the Organites, knowing what we do about them now?” She was only slightly alarmed to feel the cool ointment on her skin as he gingerly applied it with his finger.

“They can only make us better,” he told her. “In your case, since they’ve always been part of your blood, the Organites should make the runes part of you even faster.”

His should was good enough for her. Besides, he was right—she already had them running through her entire body.

As if answering her silent question, there was the strangest tingling throughout her entire body. Warmth—almost like sinking into a hot bath—swept over her. It was like nothing she ever felt before, as though the bits and parts of her, everything inside was being re-sorted and arranged in a different order—the correct order.

“That’s bloody amazing!” Griffin exclaimed above her.

“What?” she cried, holding the front of her dress as she jumped to her feet. “Why do I feel so strange?”

An expression of amazement softened Griffin’s face as he held up a mirror. “Look.”

Finley peered in the glass. She gasped at what she saw.

There were two strips of black in her hair now—one on either side, running down from her scalp in almost perfect symmetry, all the way to the ends, which were peeking out of the bun on the back of her head.

Lowering the mirror, she gaped at Griffin, who grinned at her with a smug I-told-you-so expression on his face.

“Looks like the runes are working already.”

That night Finley found it impossible to go to sleep. The runes on her back still tingled, though not with the same intensity as before. Her skin felt sensitive, as though someone had rubbed that part of her back with a scouring pad. The black was still in her hair, and her blood was still humming, though now she felt energized rather than anxious.

She was perched on the balustrade of the small balcony off her bedroom, balanced like a bird on the plaster rail no wider than her hand. It was amazing. Before she would have been afraid to take such a precarious position, but now… Now she had faith she wouldn’t fall, and if she did, she would be able to catch herself.

She didn’t fool herself into thinking that Griffin and his tattoos had fixed her, but they were certainly doing something—perhaps opening her up to merging both sides of herself, easing the process. That frightened her as much as she wanted it.

When the two halves of her finally and completely merged, would one still have dominance? Would she even be aware of it? Would she be such a different person she wouldn’t recognize herself? All valid fears that kept her awake this night. But even though she was afraid, in her heart she knew this was the right thing to do.

So she breathed the night into her lungs, savoring the cool air. London didn’t always smell as pretty as it did right then—like roses, damp earth and jasmine with just the faintest tint of coal, steam and metal. Around her she could hear the sound of carriage wheels on cobblestones, the whirl of a dirigible in the distant sky, its headlamps like stars, the odd whinny of a horse—though why people insisted on using horses for transport when there were steam carriages, she couldn’t fathom. Poor horses.

She could also hear music coming from a nearby estate. The plaintive strains of a violin tugged at her heart. That’s where Griffin ought to be, instead of trying to save the country, or what have you. He should be dancing with some insipid debutante who didn’t need tattoos to be normal—who couldn’t toss men around like dolls.

It was uncharitable of her to think such a way about him after he’d been so good to her, but she needed a reminder that they were from two separate worlds. It would be easier that way, and maybe put an end to this schoolgirl crush she seemed to have developed upon him.

She was thinking of the pale blue-gray of his eyes when she heard a sound to her right. She turned her head, amazed at how well her astounding vision picked out a figure on another balcony almost all the way down to the other end of the house. From the size of it, she’d say it was Sam. And when it vaulted over the side of the rail, she knew it was Sam. No one else but she could jump from this height and not injure themselves.

Leaning forward, she watched as he sprinted toward the stables. Where was he off to now? He’d been acting stranger than usual all day—distracted. It had started right around the time they’d had their meeting with Cordelia. She’d thought it odd after all Sam had been through and the injury he received that he seemed to pity The Machinist somewhat. He’d actually defended the villain, hadn’t he? Why was that?

Her mind told her to stay put, but instinct told her to follow, and she let instinct guide her. The alternative was to sit on this bloody balcony until the sun came up.

Instead of taking the time to climb down the wall, she went over the side of the balustrade. Stealthily, she lowered herself hand over hand down one of the carved pillars until she could go no farther. Then she dropped to the grass below. Silently, she followed, careful to keep a discreet distance between them.

At the stables, she flattened herself against the wall as Sam pushed his velocycle outside. He didn’t notice her—he was too intent on a quiet escape. Once he was far enough down the drive, she slipped into the stables, to the section where the cycles were kept and took the one she’d come to think of as hers. She pushed it outside, following Sam’s lead.

At the road, Sam pushed the cycle a little farther before swinging a long leg over the seat and starting the engine. Finley let him get a bit of a head start before starting her own and following after him. The traffic grew thicker as she drove, past a mansion that was obviously hosting a party given all the carriages about. Sam probably wouldn’t notice he was being followed, but just to be certain, she let a small, sleek steam-phaeton get in front of her. She could track him by scent and sound so long as he didn’t get too far ahead. Thank God he didn’t seem to share her heightened senses or he’d know she was shadowing him.

She followed him to an address in Covent Garden—nothing too posh, but not squalor, either. It looked like a normal, middle-class home. So what the devil was Sam doing knocking on the front door at this hour of the night? No one respectable was awake; Sam, herself and the entire aristocracy were proof of that.

Finley parked her velocycle down the street in the shadows where Sam wouldn’t notice it, and watched as the door to the house opened. Sam spoke to the person and then crossed the threshold. She couldn’t see who his host was, but as soon as the door shut, she hurried toward the house—and the nearest lit-up window. It was conveniently open, as well, so she could hear the conversation that had already started within.

“You used me,” Sam said in a voice that shook with anger and disappointment.

“Did I?” asked a strangely accented male voice. “How so?”

“To get to the Duke of Greythorne. To get information about us.”

Finley frowned. What the devil? Slowly, she rose up on her toes to peer in the window. Sam stood in the center of the room, towering over his companion. A man whose left hand was made of bright, shiny metal. She recognized the hand, and his face. Sam was talking to Leonardo Garibaldi— The Machinist.

“Son of a wench,” she whispered. How had the big dolt gotten himself into such a mess? It was obvious from his expression that he had been lied to and betrayed by The Machinist.

“And good information it was,” Garibaldi replied. Finley guessed his accent must be Italian. “You were a very generous source, my friend.”

“I’m not going to let you get away with it,” Sam vowed, jaw clenched. “I’m taking you to Scotland Yard.”

The older man smiled sadly. “No, you’re not. You underestimate me, my friend. But then you make a habit of underestimating people. It is why I like you so much. But now, like everything else, our friendship, sadly, must die. I am sorry, Samuel. Not just for betraying you, but for leaving you with my wonderful toy, which I brought here for just such an occasion.”

Finley’s eyes widened as the door to the room was flung open, revealing a metal man approximately seven and a half feet tall. Its head was like a chromium skull, with lidless eyes and metal teeth set in a lifelike grimace. It moved into the room with a graceful gait, articulated limbs moving smoothly.

It was amazing. It was terrible. And it was headed right for Sam.

Garibaldi chose that moment to make his escape. “Forgive me, my friend,” he said to Sam as he fled to the door, and then out.

The front door slammed. Finley saw Garibaldi flee toward a steam carriage waiting on the street. He jumped inside and the carriage began to roar away. She stepped back from the window, and ran after it, determined to catch The Machinist.

But the sound of metal hitting metal stopped her. From where she stood, she could just barely see inside the house, but what she saw was the metal man as it hit Sam in the face, knocking the large fellow into the wall. Plaster rained down. Finley swore, her gaze flitting from Sam to the disappearing carriage. She could go after Garibaldi and capture him, or she could help Sam. If she helped Sam, Garibaldi would get away and she would have to admit to letting that happen to Griffin.

But if she went after Garibaldi, there was a very good chance this brutal automaton would kill Sam—the one who thought her a villain. The one who had almost strangled her. The big lad was nigh on invincible against a human opponent, but metal didn’t tire. Metal didn’t give up. Metal would rip his lungs out.

Finley sighed. There really wasn’t a choice, was there?

She hoped Griffin wasn’t too disappointed—and that the metal didn’t kill Sam and her both—as she ran full tilt toward the house and leaped through the open window.

Chapter 19

How could he have been so stupid?

Facing the automaton with its metal grin and lidless eyes, Sam was certain he would never make it out of that house alive. And even if he did, he wasn’t certain he’d deserve it.

He’d thought Leon—Leonardo—was his friend. He’d basically given their enemy every bit of information he might want to know about Griffin and Finley and the others. Griff’s secret weapon indeed—he’d sold them all down the river.

And now he was going to die for it. Maybe his friends would forgive him then.

He watched the machine warily, waiting for it to strike again so he could counter and dodge. Blood from the last blow lingered on his tongue. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something come sailing through the open window. At first he thought it was an animal, judging from the sound it made, but when it rolled to its feet not far from where he stood, he saw that it wasn’t an animal at all. It was Finley.

The last person he ever expected to come to his aid. Or was she there to make sure the automaton finished its task?

But the metal man seemed as surprised to see her as Sam was. It stopped midstep and turned its torso toward her, studying the new arrival.

“Oy, scrap for brains!” Finley’s voice rang out.

Sam glanced at her, not completely surprised to see that she was talking to him. “Need some help?” she asked.

The automaton turned its head, as though interested in Sam’s reply. “Are you offering?” he countered.

She rolled her tawny-colored eyes. “Yes, genius.”

She was as surly as he was. For a second, he almost liked Finley Jayne. “Then help would be appreciated, thank you.”

Apparently picking up on the fact that it now had two opponents, the automaton made a strange whirring noise mixed with subtle clicks.

“What’s it doing?” Finley asked as she moved closer to him.

Sam had been around Emily long enough to know what those sounds meant, but usually it was a person’s tinkering that made it happen. “It’s adapting,” he replied hoarsely. “It’s changing its programming to account for both of us.”

Finley’s lips parted in a silent gasp. Sam’s jaw tightened. A bloody metal monster that could think for itself. Fear squirmed in his belly.

A panel on the thing’s back opened, and two smaller, metal arms unbent from the cabinet inside. The head spun around on its jointed neck. A panel on the skull opened, as well, and a new face emerged, identical to the one on the other side. Now it could watch and fight from both sides.

“Bugger,” Finley muttered, wide-eyed.

Sam couldn’t agree more. “I can’t see the shut-down mechanism,” he ordered. “There has to be one. If you can’t find it, rip apart any wires you can find.”

“And electrocute myself?” she demanded, incredulous.

“You’ll survive,” he reminded her, and launched himself at the metal man. He thought he heard her swear before she followed after him.

Sam kicked the automaton’s front panel, denting the polished metal. It buckled, making a place for him to fit his hand, but before he could reach inside, he was knocked across the room by a backhand that broke his jaw. Head spinning, he shook off the injury and jumped to his feet in time to see Finley, who had been hanging by her feet around the creature’s neck, pry the panel open and reach for the wires inside. The automaton peeled her off its front like a dirty shirt and discarded her in much the same manner. She flew through the air and struck the wall just above the mantel.