“Sam.”
Mila and Jack waited downstairs while Finley and Griffin dressed. Jack reclined on the sofa like a lazy cat, one leg on the cushions, the other over the side. Mila walked around the perimeter of the room, mouth suspended in an O of awe. Every wall, right up to the ceiling, was lined with shelf after shelf of books. She couldn’t imagine reading all of them, and yet she would love to try.
“You could sit down, Poppet.”
“I don’t feel like being still.” She turned her head toward him. “Have you ever seen so many books in one place?”
Jack nodded. “It’s common for rich nobs to have extensive libraries. Thinks it makes them look learned. I doubt His Grace has read even half of these.”
She stopped looking at the leather-bound books to face him. “You talk differently with me. Why?”
He slipped his arm beneath his head and closed his eyes. He looked like the very definition of languid. “Can you keep a secret, Poppet?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had to keep one before.” And then, “What’s a poppet?”
Jack didn’t open his eyes, but he smiled. “It’s an endearment. A nickname.”
Endearment. That meant it was said with affection. “Are you going to tell me your secret? I promise to do my best to keep it.”
He chuckled. He had a nice laugh. “Sometimes it suits me to sound posh and other times I need to sound not so posh.”
“Isn’t that lying?”
“Not if what I say is the truth.”
That really wasn’t much of an answer. Even though she was almost completely human now, she still had much to learn about what it was to be human. She had a sinking feeling learning that was going to be more difficult than learning to recognize words and their meanings.
“That girl—Finley—has the same eyes as me.”
“Yes. You remind me a little of her.”
“You care for her very much.” Griffin obviously felt the same. And then there was Sam, who came to rescue Emily. How did it feel to matter that much to someone? The only person she meant anything to just wanted her to be his vessel, and even then he’d replaced her easily enough.
“She’s my friend.” His eyes opened. “Do you understand friendship?”
“I think so. I feel fondness for Emily. I’m concerned for her safety.”
“That sounds like friendship to me.”
“Do you think we’ll save them?”
“If anyone can it’s this lot. His Grace is a bit of a git, but he’ll do whatever’s necessary to bring them home.”
“Home.” Mila ran her hand down a line of books. “It must be nice to have a place where you belong.”
Jack’s eyes opened, and he turned his dark gaze on her. “Sometimes you have to make that place for yourself.”
“Oh, he has Pinocchio!” She took the book from the shelf and opened it. The words were gibberish to her. Panic welled up in her chest. “I can’t read it! I don’t understand.”
Jack gracefully sat up, swinging his leg off the sofa to rise in one fluid movement. He walked over to her and took the book from her hands. “It’s written in Italian,” he told her.
Italian. That was another language. Mila paused a moment to search her brain before reclaiming the book back from Jack. When she looked at it now the words made sense. Grinning, she read a passage of it aloud, and looked up to find Jack watching her with an odd expression on his face. She wasn’t very good with expressions yet. Smiles and frowns were easy, but reading a face like his would require more skill and practice. He looked as though he could be somewhat disgusted, amazed or, perhaps, constipated.
She opened her mouth to ask which but was stopped by Griffin and Finley’s arrival.
“Your Italian is very good,” Griffin praised. Mila knew she should think of him as “His Grace” but she couldn’t do that. She could call him by the title, but it just seemed…foolish. Really, what was a title but a fancy nickname? Being called “Her Majesty” hadn’t kept that old woman automaton from getting her head knocked off.
“Thank you. I just realized I know it.”
Finley arched a brow. “I wish I had such a talent.”
Did she find it as odd looking at Mila as Mila found it looking at her? Their eyes were exactly the same.
Griffin approached Mila with a gentle smile. “I assume you’ll discover many new things over the next few months. I suspect your logic engine had a capacity for learning, and that the organites caused it to not only copy bits of the genetic material introduced to your construct, but to learn from them, as well.”
Mila stared at him. What were organites? As soon as she thought the question, the answer came to her. She frowned. “This is very…confusing.”
“I imagine it is,” Griffin sympathized. “Once we’ve dealt with Garibaldi, we’ll turn all our attention to finding out what you’re capable of, and how you can access that knowledge.”
“She’s not a specimen for you to poke at,” Jack informed him, putting himself between the duke and Mila.
She put her hand on his shoulder. “That’s not what he meant, Jack. He wants to help me.”
High black brows pulled tight and low over fathomless eyes. “You’re too trusting.”
Was he angry with her or defending her? She was going to assume the latter given how he used his lean body to shield her. “No, I’m not. I know them. I can’t explain it, but I know he’s not lying to me.”
Griffin directed his attention to Jack. “It could be a side effect of the genetic bonding.”
Jack snorted. “Or it could be a powerful peer of the realm taking advantage of an innocent girl.”
The two stared at each other—two alphas vying for dominance.
“You went to Eton, didn’t you?” Griffin asked. “Who are you really, Jack Dandy?”
Mila noted that Finley seemed as eager to hear the answer to that as Griffin. She wanted to know, too. There was no hint of Jack in her head, or soul. He was not part of the genetic stew that made her who she was. Perhaps that was what made him so very interesting.
“The son of an innocent girl taken advantage of by a powerful peer,” Jack replied tightly, lifting his chin. She didn’t have to be connected to him to realize this was something he expected to be judged by. She wasn’t certain of the full implication of his words because the context didn’t quite make sense to her, but she did notice the caring and sympathetic expression Finley wore as she looked at Jack. Mila—for reasons she could not deduce—wanted to march over and pinch her as hard as she could.
Griffin extended his arm and offered his hand to Jack. “I give you my word that I will not allow Mila to come to harm.”
Jack accepted the handshake. “Thanks, but ’tisn’t me who needs to hear that promise.”
Finley sighed—loudly. “If you two are finished posturing, I’d like to go rescue my friends.”
Cheeks flushing, Griffin nodded. “Finley’s right. Emily and Sam are what matters now. Mila, do you think you can lead us back to the Machinist’s lair?”
“When you say ‘Machinist’ you mean the man I was told was my master, don’t you?” At his nod, she added, “Yes. I know exactly where it is.”
“Excellent.” Griffin walked over to the wall and pulled one of the books off the shelf, turned it around and put it back into place.
The wall of books split down the middle and pulled apart to reveal a most impressive collection of devices humans used to kill one another.
Mila watched as Jack approached. “My opinion of you just improved, Your Grace.”
“My name is Griffin. If we have to trust one another not to let the other die, I prefer to have a degree of familiarity.”
Mila didn’t know what all of this nonsense was about. She only had one name—well, other than Endeavor 312. However, she sensed that this was a very important moment between Griffin and Jack.
Jack took what looked like a stick…what was the word? Cane. He took what looked like a gentleman’s can
e from the wall. Holding the silver topper with one hand, he gave it a twist and pulled. A thin, glimmering sword came free with a whisssk.
He made a sound of approval. “May I?” he asked Griffin.
The young man nodded. “Of course.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Finley sighed and went to the wall where she grabbed a few small items. Then, she went to Mila.
“Here,” she said, offering some of the items. “These will protect the skin over your knuckles.”
Mila took them. There was a space to put her fingers through. “Thank you. Is your corset metal?”
“Yes. It’s like armor.”
“Do I get one?”
Identical gazes met. “Your armor is inside.” The girl put her hand over Mila’s torso. “Feel that hardness beneath your skin and muscle? That’s metal, and it will protect your insides from injury.”
Mila put her own hand on the other side. She could feel the hardness. “Real people don’t have this, do they?”
“Not as a rule, no. That just makes you different. Griffin and I are different from most people, as well.”
“Sam and Emily are, too, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
She looked at Jack. “Are you different?”
“You don’t know the ’alf of it, Poppet,” he replied, phony accent back in place. Then to Griffin, “I thought we were going to rescue some people rather than stand around jabberin’?”
Mila frowned. He hadn’t answered her question— not properly.
Once they had taken up their weapons, Griffin sent a message to someone named Jasper via a small, strange apparatus he kept in his coat pocket. Finley gave Mila a pair of “boots”—lovely things that covered her feet and protected them. No more running about in bare feet for her!
They left the house and entered a large building where there were horses in the back and strange machines toward the front. Griffin swung his leg over one, and Finley took another. Jack chose one that was mostly black with bits of shiny metal. The vehicles each had two heavy wheels and bars for steering.
“It’s called a velocycle,” Jack told her. He waited a moment. “Do you know what that is?”
She did. Once he’d told her the name, she’d discovered the knowledge inside her memory. This was wonderfully convenient as well as maddening.
“Get on,” he said, saving her from having to find out if she could drive one or not.
Mila paused. “I’m too heavy for it.”
Finley grinned at her. “No, you’re not. That one belongs to Sam.”
Not exactly sure what that meant, because Sam hadn’t appeared to be incredibly heavy, Mila climbed onto the velocycle behind Jack. The large frame dipped a little, but not much. Three engines roared to life at the same time. A couple of the horses whinnied.
“Hold on,” Jack instructed as they took off.
The sudden burst of movement jerked her backward. Mila wrapped her arms around Jack and pressed her cheek against his back. This was not fun!
She could feel him laughing against her face and beneath her hands. Lifting her head, she dared open her eyes. The world whipped past as they sped down the darkened streets. Wind tugged at her hair and stung her eyes. She felt free.
Alive.
Perhaps this velocycle business was fun, after all.
She directed Jack to the spot where she’d come aboveground, and the others followed. Finley took the lead as they descended into the underground, Mila just behind her. Finley was very strong—she knew this because she’d actually pulled Mila when Mila hadn’t wanted to move—but she had to possess more than just strength if she was the one chosen to put herself first in the path of any danger.
“What is that smell?” Finley asked, wrinkling her nose.
“That’s death,” Jack replied, glancing at Griffin, who nodded grimly.
“It’s Her Majesty,” Mila told them, her eyes adjusting to the dark so that she could see the head and mangled body lying in the shadows. “Before I ran out I remember him hitting her with something.”
“A hammer,” Finley supplied. She stood over what was left of Her Majesty, shining a light on the ruined mass of metal and putrid flesh.
“There’s a digger.” Griffin moved quickly to where the hulking machine lay. He nudged with his boot and sniffed. “Smells as though it overheated.”
“You reckon it was Em?” Finley asked, glancing at him.
“Judging from the way it fell I’d say so. It was system failure not violence that took it down.” He squatted beside the machine and touched its front. His fingers came away glistening with bluish-green. “This fluid has organites in it.”
“It’s what is in the Master’s tank,” Mila added.
Griffin pulled a vial from his pocket and scooped up some of the substance. “Lead on, Mila.”
She led them through the dank, winding darkness. Their torches cut swaths of light through the dirt and dust. It didn’t take very long to find the door to the hidden rooms. She pulled it open and stepped over the threshold. The others followed.
“What the hell…” Griffin swung the beam of his torch over the refuse and mess.
Mila couldn’t believe her eyes. “They’re gone.”
Chapter 15
Emily’s head hurt. Again. Her whole body hurt. Was she dead?
A loud clacking noise made her open her eyes a fraction. As her vision cleared she saw the doll-headed spider creature standing above her. If she was dead, she was in hell.
“She says for you to get up, you traitorous dog.” The voice that spoke had a tinny sound to it. She knew without looking that it was another automaton.
“And if I don’t?” she challenged, not that lying on the dirt was the least bit comfortable.
She was seized by the hair and the trousers by metal clamps and jerked to her feet. Her knees bent but held as her weight settled upon them. Her head pounded, and she pressed her hand to it. At least the machine that lifted her had released her hair.
The spider approached. It reared back on its hind legs, extending three—one was hanging bent and broken near the back four—to Emily’s head and shoulders. She went rigid but didn’t move as it pressed the tip of each leg to her flesh, each in a spot that ached.
Pain lanced through her and then disappeared, leaving her with a dull ache in her head rather than a raging migraine. Emily regarded the creature warily. She’d heard of this sort of treatment before but never experienced it. Supposedly the idea was to increase blood flow to and ease tension in the affected muscles. “Thank you.”
It clacked at her, waving its delicate but strong limbs.
“She did not do it to be nice. She did it because we need you to be at your best.”
“I don’t need an interpreter,” she shot back at the annoying smooth-faced automaton. “And I don’t give a bloody hell how you need me.”
Had they caught Mila? What happened after she took down the digger? And where was Sam? He wasn’t in the room with her. What had they done with him? Panic clawed at her throat.
“For the procedure,” the automaton replied as though her burst of temper hadn’t mattered. It was like the one with the smooth face, only this one had a spot for eyes and a mouth built into it. “You will transfer the Master’s brain into its host.”
So Mila hadn’t escaped. Damnation. So she would be a murderess then. No matter how this played out she was going to take a life.
She knew it might come to this. She’d already made up her mind to kill Garibaldi if the opportunity arose. No time for second thoughts now.
“Come,” the metal instructed, and pushed her toward a door. It was then that she realized they were on board a train. When she crossed the narrow threshold she stepped out into a platform before entering yet another car. They weren’t moving, but they were definitely on a track underground. What happened if another train came along?
Then she looked at the scene before her and she didn’t care if another train crashed into them or not.<
br />
Garibaldi was still in his tank. Next to it was a sturdy cot—a surgical bed. And strapped to it with bands of steel was Sam. How much laudanum had they given him to keep him so placid?
Mila was nowhere to be seen, which meant they were keeping her elsewhere or…
Clacking. “You will put the Master’s mind into this body,” Metal Face told her. More clacking. “You will do this or die.”
She wanted to scream at him that she understood what the damned spider said, but her throat was too tight.
On the cot Sam moved. The metal holding him groaned. A small, onion-shaped automaton depressed a syringe into Sam’s neck. Within seconds he fell silent and still.
“Then I’ll die,” Emily said. There really wasn’t any choice involved at all.
Clearly this was not what the machines expected. The spider moved around to face her, clacking so fast and sharp that it reminded Emily of her mother when she was in a fine and fierce temper.
“You will do it or he will die.”
Emily’s heart clenched. This was proof that the machines might be able to think but they couldn’t feel. They didn’t understand that this was even less of a threat than the one against her own life. She’d saved Sam before and made him something he didn’t want to be. If she did this, his body would live but there wouldn’t even be a trace of her Sam left in him. He would rather die than become a vessel for a man he despised—a man they all despised.
“So kill him.” She looked at the spider. “I’ll kill him myself if it means Garibaldi loses.”
The doll head—grimy and smeared with its matted hair—turned to Metal Face. This time it chittered rather than clacked. It said something about being confused and the master. The other automaton moved gracefully across the floor. It must have been used as a server in a wealthy home or a club. It stopped at the tank and lifted a length of insulated wires, which it then plugged into the socket on the back of its skull. The metal shuddered and shook for a second and then went rigid.
A few seconds later, it spoke, “I have to say, Miss O’Brien, that you have much more of a backbone than I would have thought.”