eyes snapped open. He was in the Aether. How was that possible? How could Garibaldi imprison him there and render him powerless? It was his element, he should be strong, but instead he was as weak as a newborn kitten trying to hold its head up. He reached out for any hint of power and felt the bands around him tighten. There was pressure on his head, as well—like a set of fingers digging into his skull. He could feel his power being siphoned through those conduits. Garibaldi was leeching the Aether from him to keep him weak. Helpless.
Still refusing to panic, he glanced around at his surroundings. The implements digging into his scalp prevented him from turning his head much, but he could see that he was in a house. Garibaldi was strong enough to construct within the Aether. Bloody hell, that was not good. The man would be practically a god in this world, while Griffin’s power was being slowly drained—probably to strengthen Garibaldi, the bastard.
Leonardo Garibaldi was a villain in every sense of the word, and the closest Griffin had ever come to having a nemesis. Not only had the man been responsible for the death of Finley’s father, but he had instigated the deaths of Griffin’s own parents, with whom Garibaldi had once been close. He had also tried to turn Sam against his friends and used him as something of a spy. They thought they had defeated him and his plans to build sentient automatons, but he’d come back again, kidnapping Emily and almost killing Sam. Some of his friends had thought Garibaldi’s death put an end to his criminal career, but apparently death only served to make him stronger, something Griffin had feared might happen.
He was trapped with a vengeful madman in the land of the dead, a land of pure energy. He’d known only one other living person who had been able to access this dimension—Nikola Tesla. Tesla had built a suit that allowed him to put himself into a deathlike state so he could access the Aether. The man had been attacked by some of Garibaldi’s “demons” and had given the suit to Griffin for safekeeping.
The suit was at his house, and if he knew Finley half as well as he thought he did...damnation. The girl was mad enough to put the suit on and come looking to rescue him. If she did that there was no way that he could protect her—not that Finley was the sort of girl who would count on that anyway. Still, the idea of her at Garibaldi’s mercy was enough to tighten his gut and seize his heart. Physically she was a match for anyone, even Sam. But in the Aether she would be at a disadvantage, vulnerable.
He had to escape before she decided to come looking for him. He pushed against the restraints, digging his booted heels into the mattress. The straps didn’t even budge and he fell back panting and sweating. A wave of dizziness washed over him, bringing with it a flush of sick heat.
“Struggling won’t do you any good.”
Griffin went still at the sound of Garibaldi’s voice. The older man drifted into the room, a gray-hued pantomime of a human. In death he’d made himself “more” than he had been in life. His hair was thicker, his face more chiseled. He might even be slightly taller. Regardless, he was still a vain madman with delusions of grandeur.
He smiled at Griffin. “I designed those restraints just for you, Your Grace. They’ll not let you go now that I’ve got you.”
“What do you want?” The straps around his head made it difficult to move his jaw so the words came out slightly slurred.
His enemy’s face darkened. “I want to be alive again, but you made certain that could never happen.”
Griffin simply stared at him. His silence obviously angered the ghost, whose eyes filled with black. He lunged forward. Griffin tried not to flinch, but it was impossible.
Garibaldi chuckled—a dry, rasp. “And so, I’m going to make you suffer, young Greythorne. Suffer like no one has ever suffered in the history of the world.”
Still Griffin said nothing.
The Machinist leaned down and whispered close to his ear, “I’m going to make your little band of misfits suffer, as well. I’m going to make you watch.”
He couldn’t help it—Griffin tried to rise up, but all he did was jerk hard against the restraints.
Garibaldi laughed again. “That’s what I want. I will so enjoy the pain their deaths will bring you.”
“Bastard.”
Dark eyes bore into his, and all trace of amusement vanished from that cruel face. “You need to learn some respect, and I need to teach you who is in charge here.”
As he spoke, he drew one of his fingers through Griffin’s face—it was like an icicle being driven through his skull. The dead weren’t tangible, but Griffin wasn’t dead. The rules of this world didn’t apply to him, especially when he couldn’t use his abilities. Garibaldi’s fingers slid through his flesh right into his chest, grabbed hold and squeezed. It hurt. Oh, hell, it hurt. He ground his teeth. He would not give the bastard the satisfaction of making a sound.
Blackness edged his vision, blurred it. His mind burned. Nothing existed but pain. Such pain.
Garibaldi smiled, cruel fingers searching. “Ah, there it is. I’ve always wanted to hold someone’s heart in my hand.” His fist tightened.
Griffin screamed.
Chapter Three
Gone.
Griffin was gone.
Finley stood in the doorway of the room they shared and looked around. She’d hoped to find him here when she came running up the stairs—hoped that he’d escaped Garibaldi and found his way back home. Honestly, she’d known he wouldn’t be here the moment they arrived. He hadn’t come to greet them and let them know he was all right.
Which meant that he wasn’t all right at all.
Griffin was the strongest person she knew. If Garibaldi was strong enough to imprison him, then the madman had finally achieved the power he sought during the twisted course of his life. There was no telling what the villain might be able to do now.
Her heart kicked hard against her ribs, seized by a terrible fear that refused to let go no matter how hard she pushed. Garibaldi might kill Griffin. No, there was no might about it. Garibaldi would kill him, just as he had killed Griffin’s parents and her real father. The only question was how long did she have before the terrible event took place?
The Machinist wouldn’t do it quickly, and that was as much a blessing as it was terrible. He’d want to make Griffin suffer, and that meant kept keeping him alive. Didn’t it? Or would Garibaldi decide to torture Griffin’s soul for eternity instead? God, it was too much to even think about—too many wild and awful places her imagination could go. She couldn’t think of what might happen, she had to concentrate on what she was going to do about Leonardo Garibaldi’s insane ghost. Were they never going to be free of the man? First he’d tried to take over England with a false queen, and then he’d tried to implant his brain into an automaton. Now he had Griffin.
She was not going to cry, no matter how much her eyes burned or her throat tightened. Her eyeballs could ignite and she’d still refuse to cry in order to drench the flames. Griffin didn’t need her tears, he needed her help. So, no—she was not going to throw herself on the bed they shared, bury her face in his pillow and sob herself dry. She would not bawl and snot and pray for him to return to her. What she was going to do was figure out how to bring Griffin home and rid them of Garibaldi once and forever.
But
