Griffin tasted blood in his mouth. He shook his head to clear it. “My parents,” he replied. “They’re here.”
Garibaldi sneered at him, his expression nothing but murderous hatred. “Give them my regards.” The air around them shimmered, and Griffin saw the runes on the villain’s metal hand begin to glow. It made sense for him to have the ancient symbols, having been a part of Griff’s parents’ team before he betrayed them. For a moment their forms dimmed—all but disappeared—and he felt his own defenses slip.
Something sharp and hot thrust into his side just as he reached out for more power and let the Aether fill him again. Garibaldi held him with one hand now and Griff looked down to see what was causing that awful fire in his gut.
The handle of a dagger protruded from just beneath the edge of his chest guard. A few inches higher and Garibaldi wouldn’t have that triumphant sneer on his face. If Griffin had only been better prepared, stronger, he would have sensed the danger before it happened. The villain had bested him. “See you in hell, Your Grace.” Garibaldi shoved him aside.
Griffin staggered, but he didn’t fall, despite the numbness spreading through his lower limbs. There was more blood in his mouth. The Aether closed around him, like an embrace and he thought he could feel the warm arms of his mother, welcoming him.
He was dying.
“No,” he said hoarsely. “You won’t see me there, you son of a bitch.” It would not end this way. Garibaldi would imprison his mother if Griff couldn’t defeat him.
Griffin closed his eyes and mentally opened a door in his mind, in his soul. With joyful abandon, he let the Aether in. He let it fill him until he could feel it seeping into his veins. He couldn’t take much more.
The entire warehouse shuddered, bits of debris falling from the ceiling.
“Griffin!” It was Finley’s voice through his earpiece that pulled him back. He heard her anguished cry and realized that he didn’t want to leave his friends. He didn’t want to leave her. And if he let go now, they would perish with him. With every last ounce of his strength, he pulled the Aether to him, coiling it, gathering it. He had never done this before—never felt like he had some control over the great rush of power. It had always felt as though it controlled him, but at this moment, he wasn’t afraid of it.
He looked down and saw the most beautiful glow surrounding his body. It was his aura, bright with power. He had taken so much of the energy into him he burned like a candle in the Aetheric plane.
He flung out his hand, sending a bolt of energy into Garibaldi’s chest. The villain flew back, hitting the floor. More Aether wanted to pour out, as well, but he stopped it.
Garibaldi must be wearing some sort of armor, too, for he recovered from the blast quickly. He pointed his metal hand toward Griff and it began to glow, light dancing along the fingers like lightning in the sky. He had put on that odd crownlike device from their previous encounter.
An Aether generator. Some of the more expensive Aether dens had the machines rather than using mediums and spiritualists. The machines could access the Aetheric plane and gather energy, but they were often unstable and could explode if they absorbed too much—the Aether was not constant.
Suddenly light flew from Garibaldi’s metal fingers straight at Griffin. It hit him just below the chest guard— his opponent knowing exactly where to strike. But instead of knocking him down, the energy joined his own and filled him, stretching his skin until he thought he might burst into a million pieces.
He had to let it out, but the Aether was the only thing keeping him on his feet. Griffin placed one hand on the wall to support himself, the other he pointed at Garibaldi to direct the dark energy that filled him like life itself.
Then he let it go.
The blast sent his nemesis skidding across the floor until he crashed into the remains of several of his own machines. Energy skipped over the automatons, making them jerk even though they had been powered down. Garibaldi’s limbs twitched and he cried out in torment.
At that moment, Griffin knew he could kill the man if he so desired. He could destroy him just as Garibaldi had destroyed his parents. But killing him would give him greater access to the Aether—and Griffin’s mother.
The decision was easier than he thought. He lowered his hand, breaking the flow between himself and The Machinist. Garibaldi continued to writhe on the floor, the Aether still swarming him despite Griffin’s release.
Griffin closed his eyes, and could feel heat behind his eyelids. He had never absorbed so much before. He placed both palms on the wall now, and mentally pushed. Aether drained from him into the wall and spread through the beams of the building.
Plaster began to rain from the ceiling and the entire warehouse began to tremble, then shudder.
Griffin sagged, but someone caught him. It was Sam. “Hold it together, my friend,” Sam said. “Just till I get you out of here.”
Griffin nodded, afraid that if he opened his mouth the Aether would pour out and kill them all.
Sam picked him up like a child, mindful of the dagger sticking out of him. Griffin’s vision was narrowing, become nothing more than light, but he saw Finley run over to Garibaldi and kick him—hard. Then she ran after the rest of them and took Emily’s limp frame from Jasper. They picked up speed then, Emily’s cat leading the way up the stairs and out of the trembling warehouse.
Once outside, Griffin struck his hand against Sam’s chest, gesturing to the ground. Thankfully, his surly friend didn’t argue. He set Griffin on his feet, keeping his big hands close in case Griff fell.
The numbness in his limbs was spreading. Soon, he’d lose consciousness. Griffin placed both palms on the rough outer wall of the warehouse and pushed once more with his mind—his soul—letting go of the Aether inside him.
The building shuddered once and then imploded with a loud cracking noise. The warehouse collapsed, wood splintering as if it was nothing more than substantial than toothpicks beneath a giant boot. The force of it was so strong it knocked Griffin to the ground, where the pain in his gut came rushing back and he gasped, writhing with the agony.
His parents hovered over him, their ghostly faces etched with worry. They reached for him, and he felt his soul lift as though to join them.
Then everything went black.
There wasn’t time to get Griffin home. Emily was also still unconscious and they had to get both her and Griffin somewhere safe, fast. Already they could hear the sirens of approaching Peelers. There was no hope that someone wouldn’t report a collapsing warehouse, even at this time of night. The noise it made, people probably thought London was being invaded.
“Whitechapel,” Finley said, making a decision she hoped was the right one. She got Sam to put Griffin on her cycle while Jasper took Emily on hers—along with the cat. Sam held Emily while a quick as lightning Jasper hitched his cycle to Emily’s and Griffin’s to Sam’s.
She led the way, tearing through the city streets at full speed as much as she could. When she arrived at the familiar Whitechapel address, she was relieved to see a light from one of the windows. Good thing, because she’d been prepared to kick the door in if no one was there.
As it was, she had to have Jasper knock on the door for her because she had Griffin in her arms. Sam now held Emily, the big mechanical cat at his side. It was like a real-life pet, determined not to leave its mistress’s side.
Jack Dandy opened the door, his usual cocky grin on his face when he spotted Finley, but that grin faded when he saw Griffin and Emily. He simply stood back and held the door for them to come in.
Finley took Griffin upstairs and the rest followed.
“First on the right,” Dandy said to Sam at the top of the stairs. Finley had already taken Griffin into the room she’d slept in her one night under this roof. She had Emily’s medical bag over her shoulder, and as soon as she put Griffin on the bed, she tore open the satchel with shaking hands.
Jack was immediately beside her. One of his long, strong hands closed over hers. “I’ve seen worse, Treasure. It don’t look as though the blade is positioned properly to have hit anyfin’ important.”
“How do you know?” Finley demanded, trying very hard not to cry.
Jack squeezed her hands. “I’ve ’ad me some experience with knives and the like. Got a scar on me own hip very much like the one ’is Grace is going to have. Now, what do you ’ave in there for stitchin’ ’im up?”
