“We’ve company.”
“Behind you?” Emily asked. She wouldn’t be able to see Garibaldi unless he wanted to make himself visible. She hadn’t heard him either. None of the others had, except for Griffin. Finley had only heard him because she’d spent some time in the Aether with Griffin and had begun to become attuned to it.
“Right behind me.” If the bastard had breath she’d no doubt feel it on the back of her neck.
There was a high-pitched whine and then a blast of white light so strong Finley was momentarily blinded. What the...?
Garibaldi swore—impressively. “Little bitch almost hit me!”
Another blast. This time Finley covered her eyes and dived to the ground. Emily wielded what looked like an Aether pistol, but she had modified it. This thing had a larger barrel, a smaller grip, and a flashing red light on the side. “Missed.” The Irish girl was obviously not pleased. “Where is he now?”
Suddenly, a frigid weight slammed down on Finley’s back, driving her face into the sooty carpet. She managed to turn her head at the last second to avoid being suffocated. Being able to hear and see Garibaldi—and there had been plenty of times when she knew he’d been there and she couldn’t see him—came with other issues: it made her susceptible to attack by creatures of the Aether. But if The Machinist thought she wouldn’t risk herself to bring him down, he was sorely mistaken.
“E-Em,” she called through chattering teeth. The chill of death seeped deep into her bones. “He’s on me. He’s on my back!”
But before Emily could shoot, Griffin charged. One moment she was cold as ice, and the next, the weight was off her. She flipped onto her back—a motion that was far clumsier than it ought to be thanks to every muscle in her body being frozen stiff—and saw Griffin take Garibaldi to the ground. His power made The Machinist visible. He pummeled the ghost with his fists as his eyes blazed. Garibaldi laughed with every blow. “That’s it, lose control. It feeds me, you know.”
The chill in Finley’s heart had nothing to do with Garibaldi’s touch and everything to do with his words. “Em, shoot here!” she placed her hand on the ground near The Machinist’s head. All her friends would see was Griffin’s fists flying, not what he struck. She whipped her head around as another blast struck, narrowly missing her thumb.
It also missed Garibaldi, who pushed himself up, taking Griffin with him, until they were both on their feet and The Machinist had his hands wrapped around the younger man’s wrists.
“Got you now,” he said, chuckling. “You’re mine, Your Grace.”
Finley jumped to her feet and leaped at The Machinist. She grabbed at him, but her arms took only air, and she slammed into the ground once more. Emily opened fire again, the blast aimed right at the spot where Garibaldi stood. It would have hit him if he hadn’t disappeared.
And he had taken Griffin with him.
* * *
Mila lazed on the sofa, her boots propped up on the arm as she popped grapes into her mouth. She liked grapes very much. In fact, they were one of her favorites of all the foods she’d tasted thus far. Almost as good as that Indian chicken dish Jack had bought her last night.
Stupid Jack.
She was still learning words, as well. Stupid was one of the newer additions to her vocabulary. She’d been using it a lot lately, especially where Jack was concerned.
Two months she’d been living in this house with Jack. Two months of incredible food, interesting words, extraordinary books and plays and music. Two months of filling her mind with so much information she thought she might explode, and she kept wanting more.
Two months of Jack being so stupid she wondered how he managed to function in the world. At first she thought the fault lay with her own brain, because she’d been an automaton once, but then she realized that, no, Jack was simply defective. That was bothersome, because he seemed completely adequate in many other ways. In fact, he seemed so smart in many other ways.
Just not when it came to women. Not only did he seem completely ignorant of the changes she’d gone through since coming to live with him, but he chose the most annoying, foolish, idiotic, pretentious, untrustworthy women. He had one upstairs with him right now. And judging from the noises—and the pictures she’d seen in a naughty book he’d since hidden from her—she had a pretty good idea what he was doing with her. It was enough to make even the sweetest grape sour on her tongue.
If Jack’s stupidity ruined her palate for grapes she’d gut him like a...well, whatever people gutted.
Above her head she heard a thump—her hearing was most exceptional. Apparently everything about her was exceptional, or at least that was what Emily told her. Emily was terribly smart, so it must be true. But if she was so bloody exceptional, why didn’t Jack realize it? He seemed to think of her as a child or a pet—she had yet to work out the subtle differences between the two. She knew it was something pertaining to biology and such, but emotions were complex and she didn’t completely understand them yet.
She only knew that no one could make her happier, angrier or sadder than stupid Jack Dandy. And she was stuck in the bloody house listening to him entertain another woman with dubious hair color. It didn’t matter where in the house she went, she’d hear. She could go out, but Jack didn’t like her going out at night, especially alone. What did he think would happen to her? If anyone came near her, she was physically capable of defending herself—more than capable. She wasn’t naive enough to just go off with someone, and it wasn’t as though she’d would go looking for trouble. She just didn’t want to be there, in that house. Listening.
Thump. She glared up at the ceiling. It would serve the two of them right if she climbed up on some furniture and smashed her fist through the floor. How fast would that painted-up...tart run away when she realized that Jack’s houseguest, the one he hid away but sometimes referred to as his “ward,” was not normal?
Another thump—followed by a trill of laughter that made Mila’s teeth ache, or maybe it was the clenching of her jaw that made them hurt. She swung her feet off the sofa and stood up, setting the bowl of grapes on the table. She had to do something to distract herself. She could get a book, but she didn’t feel like reading. She could listen to music, but Jack had taken the phonographic cylinder player upstairs with him.
Pity he hadn’t put some music on, but even if he had she’d still hear. The tart was loud enough she could be heard over the scream of a steam whistle.
She glanced at the polished mahogany bar in the corner. Bottles of liquor were neatly placed on shelves beneath it. She knew this because she’d seen Jack take them out. He’d taken a bottle upstairs with him earlier.
What was so amazing about the stuff? She’d tried to take a sip once and he’d torn a strip off her for it. Well, he wasn’t there to stop her now. A little smile curved her lips as she walked over to the bar and behind it. Yes, tonight seemed the perfect time to do something Jack didn’t like. Spite, she believed it was called. It was a good word, and she was full of it.
Crouching, she withdrew one of the bottles, uncorked it and poured herself a full glass of the contents. She took a sniff. Not too bad. Then she raised the glass to her lips and drained it in several long gulps. She set the glass back on the bar and waited.
Nothing happened.
She repeated
