telegraph machine and telephones, but Griffin wanted to avoid any means that might be overheard by curious ears or seen by prying eyes. It was agreed that he would send a messenger or come himself, if at all possible.
Once the door shut, leaving him and Sam alone once more, only then did Griffin sag against the wall.
“You’ve overdone it,” Sam chastised, helping him to the bed. “Stubborn fool.”
“Look who’s talking,” Griffin shot back. “I think I need some more of Em’s vile Organite tea, Samuel.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Sam was at the phone, asking someone from the kitchen to bring up hot water.
“What would I do without all of you to take care of me?” Griffin asked—perhaps a little harsher than he ought. Right now he felt like the weak link in the chain that was their group. Yes, he could fight, but not like Finley or Sam, and he couldn’t heal like them. Emily was so much smarter than he was, and Jasper so fast he was almost untouchable. Sure, he could summon the Aether as energy, but one good cosh to the head would stop that. He was entirely too vulnerable, and he hated it.
Sam glanced at him. “Feeling sorry for yourself, are you? I suppose you’re allowed. I mean, look at how bloody awful your life is.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you,” Griffin retorted as he eased out of his coat and boots. The simple action caused a fine layer of sweat to bead on his brow. He was as weak as a child.
“And wallowing doesn’t look good on you. You feel feeble. I understand that. But if you want that to change, then change it. For pity’s sake, just stop whining about it.”
Griffin arched a brow. “Is that experience speaking?”
Sam scowled. “You know it is, you great arse. You think
“A little helpless, I suppose,” Griffin allowed, suddenly sheepish.
“That’s right.” A knock sounded at the door. “There’s the water for your tea. You stay in bed, understand?”
Griffin nodded, fighting a grin. Sam was such a mother hen. He was also very nosy at times. Griffin was surprised his friend had not asked him if anything had happened between himself and Finley the other night. He and Emily must be beside themselves with curiosity. The two of them were convinced he was in love with Finley and she with him.
He didn’t know if he was—and he’d never dare guess at her feelings. He had to admit to himself that it had been nice to wake up and see her face. To know she’d dropped everything else to be—literally—by his side.
Sam brewed him a cup of Emily’s tea and a cup of Earl Grey for himself. Then he took a pack of cards from the desk and held them up. “Want to play something?”
“May as well,” Griffin replied. It wasn’t as though he was in the proper condition to do anything else at the moment. Once Emily returned from Tesla’s, then they could fill her in on Kirby’s visit and discuss where to go from here.
“So,” Sam began as he dealt the cards. Griffin took a sip of the awful tea. “What happened between you and Finley last night?”
By late that evening, Griffin felt more like himself. He had drunk several cups of Emily’s tea and had gotten Finley’s telegraph that the Olympia Theatre was indeed their destination for the following night and that Dalton had forged invitations to a gala at the Museum of Science and Invention. There hadn’t been anything in the pamphlet Sam found about the museum, but that hadn’t listed much information in the way of events.
He’d wager Mrs. Astor-Prynn would know—and gladly tell him, especially if she thought she could throw her daughter at him in the process.
He sent a note on to Kirby relaying that information and was now taking a leisurely stroll around the city. Recuperating had been necessary, but now that he had healed, he felt restless.
Sam and Emily had wanted to come with him, but he needed a little time to himself. So he’d listened to his friends’ concerns and brought along a walking stick Emily had made for him. It doubled as a club, had a sword hidden inside it and emitted a gas that would put any attackers to sleep when sprayed directly in the face. What Emily didn’t know was that he had been practicing with something new. It wasn’t a secret that he could use Aetheric energy to destroy—he had done it when he brought that warehouse down on The Machinist. What he had been toying with, however, was controlling the amount of energy he put into an item, so that the thing itself became an Aetheric weapon, charged with the power he’d siphoned.
Sam was right. He needed to stop whining. The incident at Tesla’s was the second time in a matter of weeks that he had been injured to the point where his life was in question. That didn’t sit well with him, not at all. So rather than brood on how weak he was, it was time to make himself as strong as possible.
To make his little band of “strays” —as his aunt Cordelia sometimes called them—as strong as possible.
So perhaps he should be completely honest and admit that this wasn’t just a leisurely stroll. He had intentionally walked in the direction of Reno Dalton’s house. He knew where to go because Emily had mentioned the address. He wasn’t quite certain why he walked this way—perhaps he wanted to tempt fate and maybe run into the criminal. Perhaps he simply wanted to take a measure of the man.
Or maybe he hoped to catch a glimpse of Finley. He missed her. Sometimes she drove him mad, but she was as much a part of his world as Sam or Emily. From the moment they’d met, he’d felt as though she completed the puzzle that was his life. She just seemed to fit.
When he reached Dalton’s unassuming address—a simple brick house with clean windows and freshly swept steps—he kept to the shadows so that he could spy on the occupants, unnoticed. He was surprised that Kirby wasn’t already there. The man seemed to have made a habit of watching Dalton and his companions.
The curtains were open in one of the front ground-floor windows. Lamps kept the room well lit, so he could clearly see the two people inside.
Finley and Dalton. They were playing a bizarre and dangerous game, where Dalton threw a dagger at her and she caught it by the handle before throwing it back. Did neither of them have any concept of mortality or respect for their own safety and lives?
He thought of her sitting out on the bow of the airship on the way to New York. The idea of falling hadn’t even occurred to her; she thought she was invulnerable, like many young people their age, but a fall from several thousand feet would kill Sam. It would definitely kill her, as well.
His heart stopped as she caught the dagger a mere fraction of an inch from her left eye. It would have killed her if she hadn’t grabbed it. The thought rolled around in his stomach, making him feel sick. What did she do? She laughed. The idiot.
This was not one of those moments when he wanted to kiss her. What he wanted to do was storm into that house, punch Dalton in the nose, throw Finley over his shoulder and take her back to the hotel, where she belonged.
He did neither of these things. Firstly, she had to stay there if they were going to help Jasper and make sure Dalton paid for his crimes. Secondly ... she obviously liked it there. She trusted Dalton to throw a deadly weapon at her. He trusted her to throw it back. Neither of them had any concern of betrayal or injury.
Dalton was dangerous and likely more than a little mad. That would appeal to Finley’s dark side. Lately, it seemed that darker part of her was to become the dominant half of her personality. That part of her would not be content with his world. There was excitement, but usually someone ended up getting hurt, and there wasn’t much of a reward for it.
Would she return to him when this was over? Or would she choose Dalton instead?
As the thought crossed his mind, he saw Finley’s head turn, and she looked out the window. He hadn’t realized, but he had walked out of the darkness into the pool of light from a nearby streetlamp. She could see him. Those sharp eyes of hers could probably make him out plain as day.
The smile slipped from her face as they stared at one another. She set the dagger on the table and crossed the floor to the window. Griffin watched as she placed her palm against the glass, as though to wave at him. Was that guilt he saw on her face, or did she miss him, too?
She glanced over her shoulder and said something. Then she turned back to him. Her fingers curled against the glass before she lifted her hand and took a step back.
Then she yanked the curtains closed.
