“What is it?” Toby demanded.
“A girl. Somewhat.”
It was an image he would carry with him for the rest of his life. It...
She wasn’t human, but she wasn’t entirely machine either. How was such a creature even possible? And why, when he looked at her, did she remind him of Finley? Finley was beautiful.
Fingers that were metal bone covered with scraps of flesh reached for him, grabbing his hand before he could jerk it away. Jack braced himself, prepared to be disgusted. Instead, her skin was warm, the exposed metal cool and smooth. Her grip was tight—any tighter and she’d break his hand.
She made that noise again—the one that sounded like a plea for help.
“That’s it,” Toby said. “I’m leaving.”
Every moment spent staring at the poor creature was another moment closer to being caught or something going wrong. Jack managed to pull his fingers free. He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t do anything.
He shut the lid.
He was at a party at Piccadilly Circus—a masked event much like the one he’d taken Finley to some time ago. He was dressed in head-to-toe black, wearing a raven mask that covered the top portion of his face.
On a nearby stage, a woman danced with fire as though she was made of it herself. On another, a man swallowed swords, and on one more, a man and woman bent themselves into contortions that shouldn’t be possible. They made it look like a beautiful ballet, intimate. Every moment was slow and controlled.
Music swelled, bodies moved and swayed. Heat rose as colors blurred.
Then he saw her. She stood apart from the crowd—she had no choice. There was no hope that a girl such as her could ever be part of a crowd. She was tall and slender, with curves in all the right places. She was dressed in a gown that started out black at the bottom but gave way to shades of red, orange and gold as it rose up around her. It draped and clung—provocative but still somehow demure. Her fair skin glowed. Exposed shoulders gave way to a long neck and firm jaw. Her lips were full beneath a mask that looked as though it was made of pure flame. Her hair—a riot of rich copper curls—only added to the image of her as a creature of fire. Her mask was similar to his—birdlike.
When she turned her head to meet his gaze, Jack’s heart slammed to a hard stop. A phoenix. That’s what she was—a gorgeous mythical creature rising from the ashes. Her eyes were amber, molten and questioning, like Finley’s, but not Finley’s.
He moved toward her, unable to stop his feet. Normally he let young ladies come to him and saved his pursuit for older women who wouldn’t expect more than what he was willing to give, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.
When he reached her, he held out his hand to her. She took it, her long fingers soft and strong in his. He led her onto the dance floor, where couples twirled around them. His hand pressed against the small of her back as her fingers slid up to his shoulder. Jack shivered despite the heat in the room.
God, she was like looking at the sun after too many dark nights. She smelled of amber, of warmth and sweetness. It made him a little dizzy and he didn’t care. He liked it, even though part of him was terrified. Dangerous, that’s what she was. Dangerous and so very, very tempting.
She danced as if her feet didn’t touch the ground, all grace and ease. God, she was incredible. He could kiss her right there, not caring who saw, not caring if she slapped his face after. It would be worth it just to taste her lips.
As though she could read his mind, she moved closer to him, their bodies touching. She really was a creature of flame—and she could burn him to ash if she wished. Molten eyes stared up at him, inviting and unashamed. A soft flush filled her smooth cheeks.
“You’re beautiful,” Jack murmured. “The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. What’s your name?”
She opened her mouth and made a terrible moaning sound. “Help me.”
Jack awoke with a gasp, lurching upright in bed. He was drenched with sweat, heart pounding.
“Jack?” came a sleepy voice. What was her name again? “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing that concerns you,” he replied, throwing back the covers. There’d be no more sleep for him, and dawn wasn’t far away. He grabbed his trousers and pulled them on. “Nothing at all.”
He left the house a few moments later and went to the small shed for his velocycle—a sleek two-wheeled vehicle that could weave in and out of traffic with ease and outrun anything that challenged it. A hat was useless on the bloody thing, so he tied a piratelike scarf around his head to keep his hair tamed and pulled on a pair of goggles. Then he started the machine and took off down the street as fast as the velocycle would go.
St. Pancras station was busier than it had been a few hours ago but still relatively empty. Unfortunately, there were more staff than patrons. It didn’t matter—he knew how to get in now, having escaped it earlier. He easily found the door through which he and Toby had left, and he picked the lock to gain entry once more.
Down dark steps he ran, down to that dank, bleak place where he had left the crate.
Left her.
He raced into the catacombs as if those hellish hounds were after him again. Or maybe the flames he felt were just remnants of his dream—of her.
Jack stopped.
The crate was gone. Frantic, panting for breath, his gaze scanned the area. This was the right spot. Wasn’t it? No, it was. It was. He had left it right here.
There was nothing—not even an impression in the dust and dirt. It was as though he’d never been here—or something had taken care to make it look that way.
Where had they taken it? Who had taken it? There wasn’t so much as a track—not even a footprint.
Jack sagged against the rough stone wall, folding his arms over his chest. The scent of amber teased him like a cruel joke. Was it real or just his imagination?
She was gone. Lost. Whatever happened to her now was out of his hands.
And entirely his fault.
Payment from Abernathy arrived later that day via messenger. Jack didn’t even open it. He just tossed the package on his desk and poured himself a whiskey. He wasn’t much of a drinker, preferring to keep his wits about him, but this was one of those times that getting pissy-eyed drunk appealed to him.
He had returned home from the station ill-tempered and guilt-ridden. The woman who had been in his bed was gone, leaving a thank-you note on his pillow. He tossed it in the fire without reading it, and then went to take a very hot shower. He scrubbed until his skin felt raw and the water turned icy. Only then did he dry off and pull on clean clothes.
He still felt dirty. It wasn’t a feeling he liked. Wasn’t one he’d experienced in a very long time.
He threw himself into work. Lots of business opportunities to investigate—legitimate ones. The average life expectancy of someone in his line of work wasn’t terribly long. Spending the rest of his days as a criminal wasn’t what he wanted. Making something of himself—something real and good—was the best revenge he could get on his father, and the best way he could honor the sacrifices his mother had made for him.
Finley had sent him a note. He didn’t read it either. He paced the length of the carpet in front of his desk, hands clasped behind his back. His attention kept going back to the packet from Abernathy.
He grabbed the payment and stormed from the room. He snatched his hat, coat and walking stick and collected his steam carriage. He made the drive to Mayfair in record time. He drove like a madman—reckless, with no regard for himself or others. It was badly done, but he was a lucky bastard—that’s what he’d been told—and he made it unscathed. Of course he did. That was his luck. His charm, right? Finley would call it his talent. It wasn’t natural and he didn’t care.
He took the steps to Abernathy’s door two at a time and jabbed at the button. The housekeeper’s voice greeted him a moment later. “Name and business.”
