you a good thrashing.”
Were it any other person, Sam would have laughed at the idea. Physically Griffin was no match for him, but Sam had seen some of the things his oldest friend was capable of doing, and he knew better than to underestimate him. “Sounds fair.”
And then there was Emily. Dear, sweet Em. Her arms were crossed over her chest and there was a defiant brightness to her big, pretty eyes that he wasn’t accustomed to, not when she looked at him. He had changed things between them, and not for the better. Her opinion of him had fallen considerably.
“Thank you,” he said to her, so that all of them could hear, “for saving my life. Again. I’ll try to deserve it.”
That softened her up—not much, but it was a start. Her arms dropped to her sides. “You do that, lad.”
They sat down then, Sam in his usual spot beside Emily and across from Finley. It wasn’t the most comfortable of places to be, but he was glad to be there all the same. Griffin filled him in on some of the important discoveries they’d made as of late.
“The Machinist is responsible for your parents’ deaths?” It was all he could do to keep his jaw from dropping to the table. “Are you certain?”
“As certain as I can be,” Griffin replied. “I’ll know more when Aunt Cordelia returns from Devon later this afternoon.”
It seemed too fantastical to believe—like something out of the novels he liked to read about adventurous heroes and diabolical villains.
“We’re going underground later,” Griffin told him. “Back to the spot where we fought the digger. Are you able to do that?”
To be honest, Sam didn’t care if it made him look weak, he’d rather rip the mechanical heart out of his own chest and stomp on it rather than go back to that dark, awful place.
“I can,” he replied determinedly, absently rubbing his hand that was metal beneath the skin as he met his friend’s sharp gaze. “And I will.”
Conversation pretty much ceased after that. No matter that he had apologized and done what he had to, there was still tension in their party and Sam was smart enough to know it wasn’t all because of him. He wondered what was going on between Griffin and Finley that made them look at one another when they thought the other wasn’t looking.
And he wondered if Emily was going to look at him at all. He refused to think they could never be friends again. He would fix this rift between them if it killed him.
He started after lunch by offering to carry any equipment she might need up from the laboratory. She thanked him but told him, “Everything I need is in my satchel.” She patted the leather bag slung across her front.
She wore a plain kerchief over her ropey copper hair, a leather corset over a linen shirt and knee-length trousers trimmed with lace. Her boots were scuffed brown leather and laced up to just beneath her knee. There was nothing unusual about her clothing, it was the way she usually dressed, but sometimes Sam was struck by just how pretty she was, and he felt as though he was seeing her with new eyes. This was one of those moments, and it struck him dumb as a fool.
She glanced away. Had she seen the wonder in his gaze? “You can walk out with me, though,” she said softly. “If you’d like.”
She may as well have called him her hero, he was so buoyed by her words. He didn’t say anything, but when she turned to walk out the door, he fell into step beside her, no matter that he had to shorten his stride considerably to match hers.
They joined the others in the stables—Jasper Renn had arrived and was going to accompany them—and each climbed onto a velocycle. Griffin rode at the front and the others followed like geese. Traffic was heavy— understandable given that it was a jubilee year and they were in the vicinity of Buckingham Palace. It took longer than it should have to reach the entrance to the underground near the north end of Vauxhall Bridge Road. Sam wasn’t sure if he wanted them to get there quickly or never get there at all. He had such violent emotions about returning to that place where his blood had soaked into the ground.
Eventually, however, they reached their destination and Griffin led them down the stairwell into the dark caverns that ran beneath London’s bustling streets.
At the bottom, Griff, Emily, Jasper and Sam took out their “hand torches” that Emily had built for such occasions. They were long cylindrical tubes equipped with a power cell and a bulb behind a bit of glass. They made it so much easier to see into the shadows. Unfortunately, their glow made them much more noticeable, as well.
Jasper, ever the gentleman—blast him—offered his light to Finley, who refused. “It appears that I can see very well in the dark,” she informed him with a wry smile. “I seem to learn something new about myself every day.”
Was there nothing she couldn’t do? Sam wondered a little bitterly. He wouldn’t be surprised if she sprouted wings out of her arse.
They had to squeeze through a makeshift barrier designed to keep the general public out of the work area, which was now considerably farther down the track than it had been six months ago. Somehow, seeing that change made this easier.
Emily glanced over her shoulder at him. “You all right, Sam?” she asked softly.
She referred, of course, to his emotional state, returning to the place that had been the setting for many of his nightmares. Familiar anger threatened to bloom inside him. Maybe next she could ask if he needed his nappy changed. But he knew the question came from genuine concern.
“I’m good,” he said. It wasn’t a total lie. His nerves felt stretched as thin and taut as a pound note being pulled between two bankers, but it wasn’t unbearable. He wasn’t so afraid he couldn’t move, and he didn’t think every shadow was another digger waiting to come for him.
Thinking of the digger made him think of his actions the day before once again. If only they’d left the vault door open, he never would have attacked Finley. He probably would have been too terrified to even think of hurting someone. What a thing to wish for! It was proof just how much he would like to go back and do things differently.
Griffin glanced back at him, as well, but he didn’t speak. Sam knew his friend was checking to make certain he truly was all right, so he nodded sharply, letting him know that he was indeed up to the task at hand. Griff nodded, as well, and Sam noticed the strain around the other young man’s mouth. He didn’t like it down there any more than Sam did.
At last, after almost a quarter hour’s walking, they found the spot. Sam recognized it before the others did. There was nothing special about it—just a small stretch along the length of a tunnel where they were laying track for a new underground train line. But he remembered that small stone section of Roman wall that had been uncovered, darkened by centuries of dirt piled on top of it. He had stared at it as his blood soaked into the ground, and the automaton fell not far away. He remembered wondering if Heaven was as pretty as that little bit of painting on that Roman wall.
He stood there, as they began to search for clues, letting his hand torch drift lazily over the area. He was looking for blood, but there was none there, thank God. It had all been cleaned up, or lost in the daily buildup of dirt. How many workmen had tracked through that crimson stain, spreading little fragments of him wherever their boots walked?
“Keep your eye out for tunnels that don’t look like they should be here,” Griffin told them, “or rubble that might conceal an exit. It won’t be easy to find. The Machinist’s too smart for that.”
The Machinist. Five minutes alone with that bounder would do so much to improve his mood.
Epiphanies seemed to follow him everywhere lately, which was why it struck him as so terribly appropriate that the light of his torch should land upon a large heap of stone piled against the wall closest him. It didn’t feel right. Something about it looked off.
He walked over to the debris, his heart still pounding out its anxious jig. He switched his torch to his left hand and began pulling away stone with his augmented right. Within a few seconds, he’d removed enough of the large pieces to feel a draft. The torch revealed a passage beyond—approximately six feet wide and eight feet high.
