The Girl With the Iron Touch (12 page)

Sam nodded. “Thanks.”

“Jack?” came a voice from outside the room. “Is everything all right?”

Finley’s head came up. Standing in the doorway was a beautiful woman, perhaps a few years older than Jack. She wore a purple velvet dressing gown that clung to her stunning figure, and had long curly black hair and flawless pale skin.

She was the kind of woman that inspired hate and feelings of inadequacy in other females, and she obviously wasn’t there to play cards.

“It’s all right, darlin’. Go back up. I’ll be there shortly.”

She smiled at him, a seductive smile that made Finley feel as feminine as Sam’s left foot. The woman was a goddess. “All right.” She wiggled her fingers at Sam and Finley. “Sorry to interrupt.”

Finley stared after her. So did Sam. The only one of them who didn’t seem enthralled by the woman was Jack. That didn’t seem right, but it wasn’t her place to judge. After all, she was the one who had knocked on his door without giving any thought to whether or not he was alone.

No, that was a lie. She had assumed he’d be alone. She’d assumed he’d be pleased to see her. She might not love him, but she liked his attention. Did that make her a horrible person? Perhaps it did, or perhaps it didn’t. Right now it didn’t matter.

“We should go,” she said, rising to her feet. Suddenly things seemed awkward and odd, and they had more pressing things to do, such as finding Emily. “Jack, thank you for your help.”

He also stood. “’Aven’t done nuffing yet, but you’re welcome. I’ll let you know if I ’ear anyfing.”

He led them to the door and held it open for them. Sam shook his hand and thanked him for his time, then crossed the threshold out into the night. Finley hung back for a moment.

“I’m sorry we intruded upon your…visit,” she said, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “Why did you even answer the door?”

“You know why. I’ll always answer for you, Treasure.”

She nodded. “I hope I never take your friendship for granted, Jack.”

He allowed a little smile. “You let me worry about that, luv. You worry about finding your little bird. Now, out you go. Back to Mayfair to your charming duke.”

Was he mocking her? It didn’t matter. “Bye, Jack.” She stepped out into the waning day.

The door clicked shut behind her. Finley wasn’t certain how she should feel at that moment, so she chose to be hopeful. “Come on,” she said to Sam, who was watching her. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

The thought of committing murder didn’t weigh as heavily on Emily’s shoulders as it should have. In fact, she was much more angry than scared. If the Machinist had just had the good manners to die when Griffin brought that building down on him none of this would be happening. She would not be plotting how to end Garibaldi without getting herself killed.

But putting that diabolical brain into a young, almost indestructible body that could have incredible powers was not something she was going to do.

“I need to see what I’m working with,” she told “Victoria,” ignoring that awful bent neck.

The old woman assessed her, inner gears clicking. Something had happened to halt the automaton’s progress to humanity. It had died when its head had been ripped off, and now it was a machine in a flesh suit. To an extent, the organites had kept the flesh and tissue from decaying but couldn’t advance its evolution.

It was basically like dealing with a reanimated corpse.

“How do we know you won’t harm the Master?”

“That wouldn’t be logical of me, would it?” Machines understood logic and order—patterns. Trying to appeal to emotions would be useless, but facts were always easily computed. “If I harm your master, you’ll harm me. That’s not something I’d like to happen.”

Another few seconds ticked by as the automaton’s guts whirred and clacked. “No. Harming yourself would be illogical. We will show you what you wish to see. We will answer your questions so you will fix the Master.”

Emily’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you.” So far the morning was off to a smashing start. Earlier, after waking up determined to make it out of this situation alive, she’d managed to talk them into bringing her water so she could bathe and wash her hair. Her scalp ached and itched, but it felt divine to get rid of the blood. She also put on a fresh change of clothes from the selection of her own they’d brought with her. How had they gotten into the house?

All she had to do now was buy enough time to plot how to get herself out of this situation. She was prepared to kill if necessary, but she’d much rather free herself and come back with her friends than do it all on her own.

“Victoria” turned with a clunk of gears, then led the way out of the cell. Emily followed behind her, eyes taking in every detail of her surroundings. She noted every machine, every patched-together device and the pipes that ran steam throughout the compound. The air was moist and warm, with the slight chill that came from being underground.

An automaton that looked like a stick with long, thin arms and legs and a narrow, heart-shaped head soldered a patch onto a small, dingy machine with a cage in its midsection, and pincerlike hands designed to catch rats. A narrow-faced rodent peered out from the slender bars of the cage and squeaked. Emily shuddered and turned away. She’d never much cared for rats. They were sneaky creatures who, if backed into a corner, would fight like mad to save themselves.

Perhaps there was something to like about rats after all.

The machines watched as she went by. Some of them were still metal enough that she could reach out, touch them and have them do whatever she wanted. Good. That would be handy when the time came to get herself out of there. Hopefully they wouldn’t evolve in the meantime to the point where her touch would be useless.

A brass man turned his head as she passed, face blank except for two “eyes” and a slash of a mouth. Those were the kind that unsettled her more than the realistic machines.

Finally they arrived at what Emily thought of as the laboratory—the room where Leonardo Garibaldi lay in a glass vat of viscous, life-sustaining fluid. She stood there a moment, studying the setup, trying to determine what part all the tubes and wires and mechanisms played in keeping this monster from an unmarked grave.

She didn’t hate him just because he’d tried to kill them, or take over the empire. She didn’t hate him for the fact that he had murdered Griffin’s parents and played a hand in the death of Finley’s father. No, Emily despised Garibaldi because he’d tried to use Sam. He’d traded on Sam’s vulnerability and tried to turn him against his friends. Garibaldi had played him for a fool.

For that she could cheerfully pull all the wires out of the fluid bath and let him flop around like a beached fish.

But not yet.

Her gaze settled on the bellows that kept the Machinist breathing. Electrical current kept his heart beating and blood flowing. He was like a modern-day Frankenstein’s monster.

She turned to the Victoria automaton in one last attempt to bargain with it. “What you’re asking me to do is impossible. You can’t just cut open a person’s skull and muck about with their brain. I’m not a surgeon with years of experience. I could accidently kill him or destroy his mind.”

“You speak falsehood, Emily O’Brien,” the machine chastised. “We know about the procedure you performed on that boy in Ireland. You have ‘mucked about’ before.”

Hot pinpricks raced through her veins. How could they know? He’d fallen from a tree, and was delivered to her house because the doctor was away. She told them she had to relieve swelling on his brain, and they believed her because she was educated and they didn’t think sweet Emily O’Brien, whom they’d known her entire life, would lie.

But she had lied, just so she could make sure he never forced himself on another girl.

“I didn’t remove parts of his brain and replace it with parts from another. You have to be certain of compatibility between the two patients.”

“Endeavor 312 was designed to contain sufficient genetic material to be a suitable receptacle. The Master made certain of that.”

That was a surprise. “So, Garibaldi—your master— began work on 312 before the warehouse incident?”

“Indeed. She was to be his finest creation—after me, of course.”

“Of course.” But Garibaldi couldn’t know that the organites added to her genetic map. There might only be a small part of her creator left inside her, if any. Curiosity, or perhaps paranoia, made her ask, “What was her original intent?”

“To infiltrate the household of the Duke of Greythorne, learn his secrets and vulnerabilities.”

Emily’s heart skipped a beat even as her brow gave a dubious lift. “That’s a lofty goal.”

“The chance of success was calculated to be much higher than the chance of defeat. It no longer matters— her purpose has changed. She has been given a great honor.”

Tell that to 312, the almost-girl who deserved a name rather than a number. Never mind that she’d snap Emily’s spine like a twig if she tried to escape. No, 312 was as much a prisoner here as she was.

Though, Emily wasn’t going to let empathy get in the way of saving herself. Making certain the Machinist did not succeed was top priority. Her own safety came second. If 312 came out of it with her own budding brain in her skull that would just be a plus. Emily would figure out what to do with her then.

“The liquid he’s suspended in, what is it?”

A faint whirring came in response—the machine weighing whether or not it should share that information. “A compound derived from the organic material your kind refers to as organite, minerals, nutrients and amniotic fluid.”

Disgusting, but brilliant. “How can you be certain his brain is intact? The injuries he sustained might have very well left him an invalid.”

“Victoria” lifted her chin proudly. It only pronounced the disturbing angle of her crooked neck. “Thanks to the Master’s designs we were able to construct a device to communicate with him via the Aether. We cannot do it often, but he is there.” She stroked the tank containing her creator in a loving fashion. “He speaks to us. It was he who told us how to bring about his resurrection.”

Resurrection? Faith and
begorra.
This man was no saint or savior, but it made sense that he was guiding his machines. Obviously all efforts were being put into keeping his brain as healthy as possible—to the further detriment of his body. The organites could heal just about anything, but even they had limits. They couldn’t give life where there wasn’t any, and Garibaldi hovered on the brink of death. The organites kept his blood flowing, but everything they did was for his brain. God only knows how advanced his mind was at this point, after months of organite exposure. If he managed to have a presence on the Aetheric plane he would be able to influence their logic engines and any signals they received. He’d be able to travel the Aether as a being of pure energy.

Griffin believed that the Aether was a place of souls—the energy of every creature who ever lived. It was everywhere, and even had its own dimension. A person needed only to know how to see it to traverse in it. Of course, Griffin could also channel that energy into raw power.

If she could only get a message to Griffin he could use his abilities to search the Aether for Garibaldi. He could stop this.

Of course there was no way to get a message to Griffin. She didn’t have her portable telegraph, and even if she could find the necessary pieces to construct a new one, she didn’t have the time.

Unless…unless she could figure out some way to contact Griffin through Garibaldi’s Aetheric connection. It would be tricky—possibly endanger her life if the bounder alerted the machines to her perfidy—but it was a chance she had to take. She’d never thought of herself as particularly brave, but when she’d agreed to work for Griffin, she knew there could be consequences. That there could be real danger.

Still, she wanted to make a difference. She wanted to protect the weak and fight those who took joy in hurting others. Garibaldi was one of those sorts of people. So, as soon as she figured out how to do it, she’d contact Griffin and tell him where she was—to her best estimation. They’d find her.

“Here are our Master’s notes, computations and designs.” “Victoria” offered her a stack of journals almost a foot tall. “They will instruct you how to better understand the procedure. He was very successful with his own experiments in brain transplantation.”

The man had no decency. Bad things came to those who tampered with Mother Nature, God, whatever you wanted to call the vast wonder that made up the world, the cosmos and life itself. She had no idea what else she might find in those papers. If she was lucky there would be something about Aetheric projection. Worst-case scenario, she would determine the precise way to sabotage Garibaldi’s plans.

She took the papers—the pile was heavier than it looked. “I will begin reading immediately.” Did she sound too keen?

“Victoria” nodded. At least it looked like she tried to nod. It really wasn’t much more than an inch of forward motion from her neck and head. Just when Emily thought she might be getting used to the disturbing visage that was a horrific parody of the Queen of England, something else happened to remind her of just how terrifying it actually was.

“You will start reading now. You have two days to locate the correct procedure and begin work.”

Two days? That was it? Wait. Two days to
locate
the procedure? “I thought you already found instructions within his notes?”

Whirl. Click. Crackle. Click. Click.
Thin lips opened, moved. No sound came out except the sound of a logic engine working over a problem. Then, “We are programmed to learn, to adapt. We recognize numbers, logic. We can speak, but we have not learned to identify the written word.”

Emily stared, jaw loose. “You can’t read?” On one hand it made perfect sense that they wouldn’t recognize letters and words. On the other, why the hell hadn’t Garibaldi given them the ability through their logic engines? Maybe such complex work was outside his comprehension, or perhaps he thought he’d be around to teach them personally. Regardless, it was something she would use to her advantage if at all possible.