about to strike, she grabbed him by the waist of his trousers, her left hand going behind his shoulders. She used his own momentum to lift him off the ground, flip and throw him down. His back hit the floor hard—she could feel the shock of it tremble through the boards beneath her feet.
Within seconds, he arched his body and leaped to his feet with more grace than she would have expected from someone his size. She barely had time to duck the massive fist that swung at her, countering with a sharp uppercut under his chin. Pain raced up her arm as his head snapped back. Bloody hell, had Emily reinforced his skull with metal?
Shaking her hand, Finley drew back, waiting for him to make the next move. She wanted to be more aggressive. She wanted to climb him like a tree, lock her legs around him like a monkey and pound his face until he surrendered or passed out. However, that maneuver would probably hurt her more than him. And she wasn’t about to be the villain in this fight. She would defend herself, but she would not attack.
Something that felt very much like the side of a carriage struck her left cheek, lifting her off her feet once more. Her side struck the table holding the waxwork Victoria, sending the queen toppling to the ground as the heavy table skidded several inches, leaving grooves in the wooden floor. She felt her ribs crack, agony shooting through her as she slumped over the tabletop. She groaned.
Gentle hands touched her arm and face. It was Griffin. “Stop this,” he begged.
It hurt to breathe. Finley shook her head. “It’s not my fight to stop.”
He looked up. “Sam, stop it,
“Idiot,” Sam sneered as he stomped toward them. “You’re so infatuated with her you can’t see straight. Look at everything that’s happened since you brought her here. She was a murder suspect. She’s in league with Dandy and still you try to protect her. What does she have to do before you’ll see her for what she is? Cut one of our throats?”
Finley sat up, wincing at the movement. Staying down wouldn’t save her, and a part of her very much wanted to continue—fight until one of them could no longer fight. “If I cut anything of yours, you great stupid article, it will be your tongue—and then I’ll make you swallow it.”
He made a noise that sounded very much like a roar, picked her up by the throat as though she were a rag doll and held her above the floor as he punched her once, twice, three times. Her ears rang, her face felt hot and wet—broken. If she were normal she’d most likely be dead. But she wasn’t normal and her ribs were already healing. Unfortunately, she saw that the cut on Sam’s lip—no doubt from where his teeth had torn it when she punched his jaw—was almost healed, as well. Wonderful. He was bigger, stronger and healed faster than her.
The fingers around her throat tightened, cutting off her supply of air. She gasped like a beached fish, holding on to his arm so all of her weight wasn’t on her neck. He was going to kill her.
“Sam!” It was Griffin’s voice. Finley’s vision was beginning to blur, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Griffin grab Sam’s arm. “Let her go!”
It was proof of how far into his rage Sam was, because instead of letting her go, he lifted his free hand and backhanded Griffin with enough force to knock the other fellow to the floor. Emily cried out.
That was what sent Finley over the edge. As blackness swarmed the edges of her mind and vision, the sight of Griffin thrown to the floor and the sound of Emily’s anguish gave her an extra shove. She opened herself up and let go of all of her fear and control, her soul reveling in a brief moment of ecstasy as the two halves of her came together.
Her vision cleared. Behind Sam she saw Griffin rising to his feet, his eyes glowing unnaturally. She’d already seen what happened when the Duke of Greythorne used his abilities, and there was no pool here to absorb the energy. She had to end this before they all died.
She looked down at Sam as she managed to pull a shallow breath into her lungs. Both of her hands tightened around his wrist and forearm. Tightening her stomach, she pulled her legs up, bent to her chest. She focused all of her strength on her lower extremities as she drew back and then snapped her legs out like a jackrabbit.
She kicked him in the chest. The heavy soles of both boots struck with all the force she could muster. She heard a sickening cracking sound as they connected. Sam grunted and dropped her, skidding backward, until he hit the wall, books raining down on him from the shelves above.
Finley knew immediately that the fight had gone too far. Whether it was that crunching noise or the look on Sam’s face that told her she wasn’t sure, but she knew before he slid to the floor that Sam was seriously hurt.
The fight fled from her with the swift intensity of a sneeze, leaving her twitchy and anxious in its wake. She ran across the room on shaking legs, falling to her knees beside her opponent just behind the others.
“Is he all right?” she asked, even though she didn’t want the answer.
Somehow, Emily had found a stethoscope in the mess made by the fight, and placed the metal part on Sam’s broad chest as she shoved the listening pods into her ears. Her face was white as she glanced at Griffin.
“His heart,” Emily whispered, her hands shaking as much as her voice.
Finley swallowed hard and looked at the young man on the floor. It sounded as though he was having trouble breathing. Blood trickled from his mouth. His wide eyes sought Emily’s and held them.
“Em,” he whispered hoarsely, blood running down his chin. His eyes were wide and he looked like a scared little boy instead of the wild man he’d been only moments before. “I don’t want to die.”
Finley’s throat clenched as the back of her eyes burned. She would never forgive herself for this—and neither would anyone else. How could she have lost control? Yes, she was only defending herself, but she never meant to harm Sam, only to keep him from seriously harming her.
Emily’s head turned toward her. Gone was the fear and wild, wide-eyed expression. She looked calm and collected—perhaps too much so. “Pick him up,” she instructed. “Take him to the infirmary.”
Finley was so numb she couldn’t even ask where the infirmary was. She simply did as she was told and picked Sam up. Obviously her darker half hadn’t left her completely, probably because she felt so terribly guilty.
Griffin guided her to another room off the lab. It was small, but frighteningly clean and well lit. A lone table stood in the center of the room, a huge chandelier hanging overhead. It was a surgery, she realized. Quickly, she carried Sam to the table. There was a terrible pallor to his face, a light sheen of sweat over his skin.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to him, her voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.”
“Open his shirt,” Emily demanded, and Finley was so eager to fix her mistake she ripped the buttons off his waistcoat and tore his shirt right down the middle, the fine lawn giving away like tissue paper.
Sam’s chest was broad and muscled, and it was already beginning to bruise where she kicked him—not a good sign.
“Wash your hands,” Emily told her. “You’re going to help me. Griffin, get the ether and Listerine out of the cabinet. Clean linen, too.”
“What are you going to do?” Finley asked.
Emily glanced at her with unnervingly steady eyes. “I’m going to cut open his chest and fix his heart.”
For a moment Griffin thought Finley might faint she went so pale, but then she gave her head a shake and went to wash her hands at the sink as Emily demanded.
The inside of his cheek had torn against his teeth when Sam backhanded him and he could taste blood in his mouth, see it on the front of his shirt. He wasn’t even angry. At this moment all that mattered was saving Sam. Again.
If Finley hadn’t done this, what would he have done? He had felt the Aether rushing to him in his anger. He would have done far more damage than this. He might have killed them all.
This was too much like the previous time they had operated on Sam. Not so much blood and carnage, but horrible all the same. He didn’t want to stand there and watch Emily do what needed to be done, but he refused to leave her alone. So, he put the ether-soaked cloth over Sam’s nose and mouth and watched as his friend slipped into a deep slumber before collecting the needles, pump and tubing for a transfusion. Last time Emily had operated, they discovered his blood was compatible with Sam’s. Quickly, he attached the equipment, piercing the vein on the inside of Sam’s large arm before doing the same with his own. Then he connected the small pump
