Chapter 14
Emily never traveled without her bag of “goodies,” as she called them—basic tools that allowed her to work on almost any type of problem, mechanical or organic. She also carried Organites, the primordial ooze from which all life was said to have sprung.
It was fortunate for Whip Kirby that the bullet went all the way through, just below his right collarbone. Sam placed the man on the mattress that had fallen off the cot and ripped open his shirt and leather vest, as though they were tissue paper.
After cleaning the wound, Emily was able to stick the nozzle of her special Organite syringe directly into the bloody hole and inject the unconscious lawman. Sam and Griffin helped her with bandaging and then took care of cleanup while Emily sat with Whip.
“So I guess we can say that Tesla’s machine works,” Sam commented as he washed the blood from his hands at the sink.
Griffin joined him and chuckled drily at the irony in his tone. “We can at that.” He glanced at his friend’s bloody pant leg. “Do you need medical attention?”
“I’m fine. Dalton pointed a gun at Em.” All trace of humor was gone from his voice, replaced by a hardness that froze Griffin’s insides. Dalton was lucky Sam hadn’t gotten to him, because Sam would have killed him.
“We’ll get him,” Griffin promised, even though he had no bloody idea just how to make that happen.
Sam offered him the towel. “If not for Finley, he would have shot you, too.”
Griffin kept his gaze on his hands as he dried them. “I know.”
“Hope she doesn’t break Dalton’s neck before I get a chance to.”
A reluctant grin took hold of his mouth. “That would be unfortunate. For Dalton.”
They shared a grin—the sort that couldn’t be helped after such a stressful event. Griffin would never admit it, but he was still a little jittery. He didn’t know if it was adrenaline or the Aether, but it ran through his veins like an army of sprinting spiders.
Did Dalton know they were onto him? Did he suspect that Finley was one of them, rather than someone Griffin tried to press for information? If so, Finley could be in danger. She could take care of herself, but Dalton wouldn’t hesitate to kill her.
Which meant that they would have to act soon. There had to be a way to extricate Finley and Jasper from Dalton’s control. They knew what the machine did, and they had a fair idea of where he was going to strike, so Finley didn’t need to be there anymore.
“What do we do about Whip?” Emily asked when she joined the two of them.
“How is he?” Griffin asked.
“Still unconscious, of course. But the beasties have already begun to work their magic. He’ll be stiff and sore for a day or two, but at least there’s little risk of infection, and his flesh has started to repair itself.”
Sam ran a large hand over her hair. It was an oddly gentle and intimate action, which embarrassed Griffin to witness. But it spoke volumes that Sam didn’t care if Griffin noticed or not. Usually the bigger lad was terribly self- conscious and private.
“You have such a big, fat brain,” he told her. It was obvious from his tone and his smile that Sam meant it as a compliment.
She rolled her large blue eyes at him. “Fool,” she muttered, but the only heat to her words was in her flushed cheeks.
Sam grinned. Such an amazing transformation happened when he smiled—it changed his face so much, made him look the teenager he was. Usually he stomped about looking ten years older, for all his brooding.
“What I meant,” she said, leaning into Sam’s touch, “was what are we going to do with Whip? Even though he’s recovering, it doesn’t seem right to just leave him here, but it’s going to look odd, us lugging a shot-up cowboy back to the hotel.”
Griffin nodded. “There’s no knowing if Dalton’s gang will return to finish him.”
“I’ll stay with him,” Sam offered. “I can handle whatever Dalton throws our way. Wouldn’t mind a crack at the knuckle-dragger he’s got working for him.”
Emily’s face pinched. “I don’t like the idea of you being here alone.”
He smiled, obviously both amused and touched by her concern. “I’ll be fine. Plus, I won’t be alone.”
“An unconscious man doesn’t count as company or protection,” she informed him.
“Em, I can look after myself—and an unconscious man.” As if to prove his point, Sam’s statement was followed by a
“Must be the one that was in my leg,” he remarked, as though bullets fell out of him every day.
A horrified gasp tore from Emily’s mouth as she reached for him. “Oh, Lord! Sam, I’m so sorry. In the flurry to help Mr. Kirby, I forgot that you were shot. How could I have been so stupid? Let me take a look at you.”
Sam chuckled. “Nothing to look at.” As if on cue, another bullet popped out from somewhere around his shoulder. Sam caught it before it hit the floor. And held it up between his thumb and forefinger. “See? That’s the last one.”
It was so absurd, Griffin couldn’t help but burst out laughing. Sam looked so comical, standing there, holding up the bullet that had just popped out of him with all the discomfort of a drop of water falling from a tap.
“Don’t laugh!” Emily chastised, swatting him on the arm. “It’s not funny.”
“But it is!” Griffin insisted, eyes watering. Sam began to laugh, as well, and soon the two of them were holding each other up, laughing like lunatics.
Emily shook her head at them and, at some point in their foolish fit, walked away from them in disgust. Griffin and Sam kept going. They hadn’t laughed much at all since Sam was killed by an automaton seven months ago. Emily saved him by replacing his heart with a mechanical one, but the attack had changed Sam—made him more serious.
When their laughter faded, they stood shoulder to shoulder, slumped against the counter.
“So you’ll stay with Whip long enough for him to wake and ascertain if he’s well enough to be left alone.”
Sam nodded. “If he’s not, I’ll bring him back to the hotel with me. I may, anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to have his input into whatever plan you’re scheming up.”
Of course everyone would assume he had a plan, Griffin thought with a sigh. He supposed he’d better start thinking of one. “Right. Always helpful to have another brain involved.” He clapped his friend on the back. “Any trouble, you send for us, understood?”
Sam’s dark gaze met his—intently. “I’ll send for you.”
“Oh, no.” Griffin shook his head. “Don’t put that on me. I’ll be the one who has to tell Emily you want her to stay behind—and you know how she’ll react.”
Broad shoulders shrugged. “So don’t tell her.”
“You don’t want to do that, Sam. I know you want to protect her, but she’ll not take it well, and you know it.”
“You don’t know what it’s like to worry,” Sam moaned, running a hand over his jaw. “I’m terrified she’ll get hurt.”
Didn’t know what it was like to worry? Griffin punched him in the arm—hard. It was like punching a wall. “You great arse. I worry about all of you all the time. I’ve barely eaten or slept since Finley infiltrated Dalton’s gang.”
Sam made a face. “Finley can look after herself. She could rip Dalton’s head off.”
Griffin fixed him with a pointed gaze. “She’s still human, Sam. Still mortal. And now Dalton knows we know her by sight.”
“Bugger.”
“Exactly,” Griffin agreed, fighting down the fear that churned in his stomach. “I have to get her away from him. Fast.”
Sam shook his head. “Always the hero. Now take Emmy back to the hotel where I know she’ll be safe.”
“Right,” Griffin said, clearing his throat. A bloody hero? “Hopefully Dalton doesn’t know where we’re staying.
