bodies spasming as though they were having some sort of fit. Then two more did the same. What was left of the gang around her stopped their assault on her to step back.
Finley shook her head to clear the ringing in it and lifted her hand to her mouth before raising her gaze. What she saw was enough to make her grin—despite her split lip.
Emily stood but a few feet away, hands out from her sides. She wore gloves with metal fingertips, which sparked and crackled in the sudden silence.
“Back off,” she snarled. “Or I’ll give a bit of this to the rest of ye.”
Finley could have hugged her—if she didn’t think she’d end up like the droolers in the street. Plus, Emily looked mad—really mad.
“The lot of ye ought to be ashamed of yourselves.” Her voice was strong and clear, despite a tremor of emotion, her accent strong. “Look at you. You left Ireland to escape the violence and troubles there, and now see what you’ve become—bullies who’d gang up on a girl only looking for information. Cowards who think with their fists rather than the minds God gave ’em. If your ancestors could see what you’ve done to the name and pride of Ireland on this land, they’d weep in their graves.”
A wave of shame washed over Finley, and there wasn’t even a drop of Irish blood in her veins. She glanced around at those who would have beaten her to death just a few moments ago and saw the guilt in their faces.
Emily glared at them; her eyes, which could never seem to decide if they were blue or green, sparkled with anger. “I’ve never been more ashamed than I am right now. You disgrace our homeland.”
Not even the formidable Miss Clarke—a governess Finley had once punched in the mouth—had ever reduced people to such a glum, self-loathing mass as Emily just had, with her impassioned words and sparking fingers.
“Dalton likes to watch the fights at O’Dooley’s,” the dark girl told them, as she stepped forward to stand between the girls and the crowd. She directed her attention at Finley, despite Emily’s laying low of the mob. “There’s one tonight. That’s where you’ll find him. But take care, there’s been a high-and-mighty feller sniffin’ around after him, as well. He’ll be well protected.”
Finley didn’t glance at Emily for fear of tipping anyone off that they were well acquainted with this “high-and-mighty feller.” It had to be Griffin.
Feline eyes raked over her. “Word is Dalton likes rough girls.”
Finley grinned, well aware that there was blood in her mouth. “Then he ought to love me.”
* * *
When they were back at the hotel—having snuck in through the back entrance so Finley didn’t have to walk through the foyer in her ripped and bloodstained clothes—Finley made Emily promise not to breathe a word of what had happened in Five Points to Griffin, if their paths crossed. Especially not about the fight that evening.
“You’ll tell him, right?” the redhead asked once they reached their floor. She followed Finley to her room.
Finley glanced at her out of the corner of her eye as she slipped her key into the lock. “Sure. Nice work with those conductive gloves.”
“People think they can hurt me because I’m small. I’m not going to let anyone hurt me again.” There was something in her eyes that made Finley want to hug her, but think better of it.
“Fair enough.” She knew better than to ask. Emily would share her secrets when and if she was ready.
“When are you going to tell him?” Emily demanded, changing the subject as Finley opened the door.
“Maybe when he barges in here and announces that he and Sam are attending a fight tonight and that it’s no place for girls.” She knew better than to hope that Griffin hadn’t found out about O’Dooley’s.
Emily scowled, wrinkling her little, freckled nose. “But he knows you can look after yourself.”
“Mmm, but he’s miffed at me right now.” Her own ire rose. “Maybe I won’t tell him at all. Won’t that stick a bee in his bonnet if you and I show up and do what he and Sam can’t?” She flashed a grin at the other girl.
Emily raised a brow—a wealth of warning in that simple gesture. “This is about helping Jasper, not you sticking it to Griffin. Why’s he all scurvy with you, anyway?”
Finley gestured toward the dresser and the vase of flowers there. “They’re from Jack.”
“Oh.” Emily’s big eyes widened even more as she studied the arrangement of roses. “They’re beautiful. How did he know where to send them?”
Finley chuckled, even though the situation really wasn’t that funny. “Griffin assumes he went through all manner of trouble tracking me down. Knowing Jack he simply grinned at one of the housemaids. He probably wanted to needle Griff. Regardless, it wasn’t meant as a romantic gesture.”
“They look pretty romantic to me,” Emily replied, slightly awed as she lowered her face to smell the beautiful blooms.
“If Jack Dandy wanted to woo me, that arrangement would have a personality of its own—one that complemented mine. Roses are just his way of saying hello.”
Emily sighed. “I wish someone would say hello to me.”
Finley crossed the carpet to the dresser and plucked the most perfect rose from the bouquet. She offered it to her friend. “Hullo, Em.”
Her friend—it still felt wonderfully odd to call her that—beamed. Pale arms wrapped around Finley’s torso. “Thank you.” Like most Irish, she dropped the h, and it came out “tank.”
Finley gave her a squeeze before releasing her. Smoothing her hands over her violet corset—thankfully none the worse for wear—she turned her mind once again to Jasper, pushing all thoughts of Jack, and especially Griffin, away.
“I’m going to need my steel corset, and we’re going to need to rough you up a bit so you look like you could fit in with the Irish gangs. Though, you certainly made an impression on them today.”
Emily’s spine stiffened. “Don’t you worry about me, Finley Jayne. I’ll look the part. I’ve got the earbuds, so we can communicate with each other. I just wish I had time to graft metal to your knuckles. It would make you hit that much harder.”
The idea of Emily cutting open her hands and brass plating her bones made Finley vaguely queasy—never mind that she had witnessed the girl cracking open Sam’s chest cavity like an oyster.
“I’ll wrap my hands the way Jasper taught me,” she said. A silence fell between them as they both thought of him.
“He’s not a killer,” Emily insisted. “No more than you or I are.”
“Anyone can kill for the right reason,” Finley remarked absently as she picked up the newspaper Emily had brought in with her. A photograph of a man named Nikola Tesla stared up from the page. She’d heard Emily talk about him before. Apparently he had a laboratory here in New York.
“There’s a right reason to kill someone?” The smaller girl’s
