Finley turned toward the door. Dalton’s henchman blocked her view, but she heard him clear enough. “Get lost, pikey.”

Finley stiffened at the derogatory term. No one called her Emily such an awful name. She walked up behind the man, grabbed him by the arm and slammed him face-first into the wall, twisting in a manner that popped his shoulder out of joint. He screamed and dropped to the ground.

She crouched over him. “I’ll put it back in when you apologize,” she told him in a low voice.

He swore at her, but she merely smiled. “Uh-uh. That sort of attitude just makes me want to hurt you more.”

“Finley.”

Her head jerked up, and she saw the fear in Emily’s eyes. This was real fear—not disgust at Finley’s behavior but real terror. Something had happened. Something had happened to Griffin.

It was as though someone took a rag and wiped away all her anger—all her emotions. She was numb as she snapped the bounder’s shoulder into place. She stepped over his prone body and joined her friend.

“Is he dead?” she asked, her voice surprisingly strong.

Emily shook her head as her wide eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know. He was alive when I left to get you.”

She swallowed against the lump in her throat. Griffin could not be dead. He had survived a knife wound when they fought The Machinist and rallied. He would simply have to survive this, as well.

“Take me to him.” She didn’t care if leaving meant Jasper would be on his own. She didn’t care if her absence destroyed whatever fragile trust Dalton held for her. Dalton could go to hell.

The door slammed behind her as she walked out into the bright afternoon sunlight. She barely felt the heat. At the bottom of the steps sat Emily’s big metal cat. There were bars sticking out of the side of its head. Emily straddled its back and gripped the bars.

“Get on,” she said.

Finley didn’t ask any questions—she knew better. And to be honest, she really didn’t care. She sat on the cat’s back and wrapped her arms around her friend’s waist. A moment later they were tearing through the streets, northbound toward the Waldorf-Astoria. The cat ran so fast the wind stung Finley’s eyes, or that’s what she told herself, because she was not crying.

At the hotel, she took the stairs rather than the lift because she could take them two at a time and a lot faster than most people. She reached Griffin’s room a full two minutes before Emily did. She opened the door to find him on the bed. Sam sat in a chair beside him.

Finley barely glanced at Sam, who stood up as soon as she came in. Her gaze was for Griffin alone as she approached the bed.

His face was cut in several places, and there was dried blood at the corners of his mouth. His hands, resting on the blankets, had been bandaged, and there was a large square of bloodstained linen over his bare chest.

“What happened?” she rasped, her throat so tight it hurt to breathe.

To her surprise, Sam put one of his big hands on her shoulder and gently squeezed. “We don’t know. There was a machine at Tesla’s that malfunctioned. Something to do with the Aether. Griff shut it down, and this is the result.”

Finley looked up and noticed the slim older man with dark hair and moustache sitting in a chair in the corner. He had to be Mr. Tesla—no one else could possibly look so guilty.

She wanted to blame him for this. Wanted to pound his fine-boned face until it split beneath her fists, but she didn’t. She hadn’t been there, where she should have been, to help Griffin. She’d been off scrapping in a dirty lane with Jasper to help a girl who didn’t even like her.

She hadn’t been where she belonged. Look what happened to him when she wasn’t there. Something always happened to him when she wasn’t around.

“The device shouldn’t have worked,” Tesla informed her. His accent was strange to her ears. “I do not know how this happened.”

The genuine regret in his accented voice diminished much of the turmoil inside Finley’s chest. He wasn’t to blame any more than she was or Emily and Sam. Griffin was like a white knight, rushing in to save the day with little thought for his own safety—the gorgeous idiot.

“I treated his wounds.” This came from Emily, who now stood with Sam. He had his arm around her shoulders. For the first time, Finley noticed the blood on her sleeves and vest. Griffin’s blood. “The Organites will do their job. All we can do is wait.”

Wait and see if the Organites worked fast enough, she meant. If they would heal him before he died.

“Would the three of you give me a moment with him?” Finley asked, glancing around the room.

No one said a word; they simply filed out the door and closed it behind them.

Finley didn’t bother to sit on the chair Sam had used. She sat on the edge of the bed instead, careful not to disturb Griffin for fear of hurting him.

She couldn’t even take his hand, so she wrapped her fingers around his na**d biceps—where his arm wasn’t cut. His flesh was cool beneath hers and hard with muscle.

“Why is it I only get to see you with your shirt off when you’re hurt?” she asked in a desperate attempt at humor. A sob caught in her throat. “Don’t you dare die. You have to live so I can curse you up and down for scaring me like this.”

He didn’t respond. She reached up and smoothed his hair back from his face. A tiny cut on his forehead was already healing thanks to the Organites and their magic. To think just a short while ago she was angry because she had to suffer through her natural healing, and now here was Griffin, fighting just to survive.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered, blinking furiously against the tears that dripped down her face to plop onto his skin. And then, because she didn’t know if she’d ever get another opportunity, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. She kissed his forehead, as well, before finally raising her hands to her eyes to wipe away the wetness there.

“Finley?” His voice was weak, but there was no mistaking it.

“Griffin?” Joy skipped in her chest. “You’re awake.”

His forehead wrinkled, and his eyelashes fluttered. “Are you crying? My face is wet.”

“Of course not,” she lied. “Sam was here before me. It must have been him.” Gently, she used her thumb to brush the drops from his cheeks.

One corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “Liar.” Then his eyes opened a fraction. When the stormy blue of his gaze locked with her own, it was as though her heart fell over.

“You are crying,” he whispered. “You didn’t think I’d actually die and leave you without anyone to boss you around?”

A huff of laughter escaped her like a hiccup, her throat was so tight. “That wouldn’t do, would it?”

His smile faded. “I think I need to sleep for a bit.”

“You do that,” she replied, but he was already gone. Frantically, she placed her fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse. She didn’t breathe until she found it—weak but steady. He was still alive.

Finley dropped her head, squeezed her eyes shut and began to silently do what some might call praying. She called it begging.

* * *

It was dark when Griffin opened his eyes. It had to be late at night, because there was hardly a sound from the streets outside. He didn’t know how he’d gotten back to the hotel, but he assumed that Sam and Emily had brought him after he passed out.

His head ached, and it felt like needles piercing his chest when he drew a deep breath, but other than that, he felt whole and healthy. Not bad, considering he’d been certain Death had finally come to collect him a few hours earlier.

He shifted between the sheets, tugging them up over his chest. It wasn’t until his efforts met with resistance that he realized there was someone else on the bed with him. He only had to draw breath—not so painful this time—to know that it was Finley. She smelled like freshly baked cookies.

He turned toward her as his eyes adjusted to the moonlight. She lay on top of the quilt, her boots still on. There was a bloodstain on her white shirt. Hers? Or someone else’s? And her hair had slipped from its usual perch on the back of her head and now lay over her shoulder.

When they first arrived in New York, he had made a comment about where else she could sleep. She should have slapped him for being such an arse, but she hadn’t. And now here she was, asleep beside him.

He reached out to touch her, but his hand was bandaged. He remembered burning it on the machine and how the black tendrils had cut into his skin. What was that thing? What was it doing in the Aether? These questions ran unanswered through his mind as he slowly peeled the gauze away. His hand was tender, but already, it was well on its way to healed. By morning, he would be back to normal. If not for the Organites, which his grandfather had discovered years ago along with the Ganite, he’d most likely be dead.

He touched the tips of his fingers to Finley’s face. Her cheek was soft and warm. Her thick eyelashes fluttered and opened, and when her gaze settled on him, she smiled.

“You’re still alive,” she whispered. The relief and joy in her voice made his battered chest tight. She had been afraid for him.

“So it seems,” he replied. “How long have you been here?”

Finley glanced away. Her sudden shyness seemed strange and out of character. “Since this afternoon.”

“You stayed here the whole time?” He was touched but surprised. “What about Dalton and Jasper?”

“They’ll wait. Neither one of them is going anywhere.”

“But Jasper—”

“Isn’t as high on my priority list as you are” came her sharp reply. “You let me worry about the Americans, all right?”

Griffin blinked. “You’re angry.”

Her gaze locked with his. In the moonlight, her eyes were eerily bright—almost like a cat’s. “You’re bloody right I’m angry. You could have been killed today. You read my head about how I go running off and all that rubbish, but you always have to be the big hero.”

She was really angry. “I had to do something. If the machine had blown up, it would have killed all of us—and a lot of other people, too.”

“I know Sam offered to smash it.”

“Emily wouldn’t let him,” he argued.

“You wouldn’t have let him do it, either, even though he would have been the best choice. You just had to be the one to save the day. What is wrong with you?”

Now he was getting angry. “Forgive me for wanting to prevent people from dying.”

“That’s not it, and you know it. Of course you wouldn’t want people to die—none of us would—but why do you always have to risk your life for other people? You daft git.”

“You’re a fine one to talk, Miss ‘I’ll risk getting beaten to death to infiltrate a gang.’”

She glared at him. “You said it was a good plan.”

Griffin glared back. “Sometimes good plans are also stupid plans.”

“You’re stupid.”

“Not as stupid as you.”

Silence fell between them as they stared each other down. Griffin wasn’t certain which of them broke first, and it didn’t matter. It was only a matter of seconds before they were both laughing at their childishness. Every chuckle was like a kick to the chest, but he couldn’t seem to stop. Finally they both quieted.

Finley wiped at her eyes. “We’re a bloody fine pair, aren’t we?”

“We are.” And he meant it—more than he would ever admit. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

She opened her mouth and hesitated. For a moment, he thought she might deny it. “You should be. I’m sorry for being such a cow about it.”

He grinned. “You should be.”

A brief smiled curved her lips but faded when she took his hand—the unbandaged one—in her own. “Promise me you’ll be careful from now on. We can’t lose you.”

Griffin noticed that she said we rather than I. There was something in her expression that made him ask, “What aren’t you telling me?”

She shook her head, but he pressed forward. “Finley, tell me.”

“Emily made me promise not to tell you until she was certain you were better.”

“I am better, and Emily’s not here. Tell me.”

Finley glanced down at his chest, which Griffin then remembered was naked. Embarrassed, he pulled the blankets up. She raised her gaze, and though it was too dark to tell, he was certain she was blushing.

“Emily showed me the paper from the ghost machine.”

The ghost machine? “The Aetheric transference device? You mean the writing actually made sense? I assumed it was nothing more than scribbles.”