The Girl in the Clockwork Collar (Steampunk Chronicles #2)(13)
She didn’t have time to see if her friend listened to her or not. A fist came flying out of nowhere. She dodged it but got smacked with the bat for her trouble. Pain exploded in her skull. It also woke up that part of her that wasn’t used to being welcomed just yet. When the next blow came, she deflected it and countered with one of her own, her fist connecting with a jaw. She struck again and again, but for every one she knocked down, there seemed to be two to take their place. Fast as she was, she couldn’t escape them all, and if they got her to the ground she’d be in serious trouble.
Suddenly, two of her attackers—one of whom had just hit her hard enough in the mouth to make her bleed—jerked back, their bodies spasming as though they were having some sort of fit. Then two more did the same. What was left of the gang around her stopped their assault on her to step back.
Finley shook her head to clear the ringing in it and lifted her hand to her mouth before raising her gaze. What she saw was enough to make her grin—despite her split lip.
Emily stood but a few feet away, hands out from her sides. She wore gloves with metal fingertips, which sparked and crackled in the sudden silence.
“Back off,” she snarled. “Or I’ll give a bit of this to the rest of ye.”
Finley could have hugged her—if she didn’t think she’d end up like the droolers in the street. Plus, Emily looked mad—really mad.
“The lot of ye ought to be ashamed of yourselves.” Her voice was strong and clear, despite a tremor of emotion, her accent strong. “Look at you. You left Ireland to escape the violence and troubles there, and now see what you’ve become—bullies who’d gang up on a girl only looking for information. Cowards who think with their fists rather than the minds God gave ’em. If your ancestors could see what you’ve done to the name and pride of Ireland on this land, they’d weep in their graves.”
A wave of shame washed over Finley, and there wasn’t even a drop of Irish blood in her veins. She glanced around at those who would have beaten her to death just a few moments ago and saw the guilt in their faces.
Emily glared at them; her eyes, which could never seem to decide if they were blue or green, sparkled with anger. “I’ve never been more ashamed than I am right now. You disgrace our homeland.”
Not even the formidable Miss Clarke—a governess Finley had once punched in the mouth—had ever reduced people to such a glum, self-loathing mass as Emily just had, with her impassioned words and sparking fingers.
“Dalton likes to watch the fights at O’Dooley’s,” the dark girl told them, as she stepped forward to stand between the girls and the crowd. She directed her attention at Finley, despite Emily’s laying low of the mob. “There’s one tonight. That’s where you’ll find him. But take care, there’s been a high-and-mighty feller sniffin’ around after him, as well. He’ll be well protected.”
Finley didn’t glance at Emily for fear of tipping anyone off that they were well acquainted with this “high-and-mighty feller.” It had to be Griffin.
Feline eyes raked over her. “Word is Dalton likes rough girls.”
Finley grinned, well aware that there was blood in her mouth. “Then he ought to love me.”
*
When they were back at the hotel—having snuck in through the back entrance so Finley didn’t have to walk through the foyer in her ripped and bloodstained clothes— Finley made Emily promise not to breathe a word of what had happened in Five Points to Griffin, if their paths crossed. Especially not about the fight that evening.
“You’ll tell him, right?” the redhead asked once they reached their floor. She followed Finley to her room.
Finley glanced at her out of the corner of her eye as she slipped her key into the lock. “Sure. Nice work with those conductive gloves.”
“People think they can hurt me because I’m small. I’m not going to let anyone hurt me again.” There was something in her eyes that made Finley want to hug her, but think better of it.
“Fair enough.” She knew better than to ask. Emily would share her secrets when and if she was ready.
“When are you going to tell him?” Emily demanded, changing the subject as Finley opened the door.
“Maybe when he barges in here and announces that he and Sam are attending a fight tonight and that it’s no place for girls.” She knew better than to hope that Griffin hadn’t found out about O’Dooley’s.
Emily scowled, wrinkling her little, freckled nose. “But he knows you can look after yourself.”
“Mmm, but he’s miffed at me right now.” Her own ire rose. “Maybe I won’t tell him at all. Won’t that stick a bee in his bonnet if you and I show up and do what he and Sam can’t?” She flashed a grin at the other girl.
Emily raised a brow—a wealth of warning in that simple gesture. “This is about helping Jasper, not you sticking it to Griffin. Why’s he all scurvy with you, anyway?”
Finley gestured toward the dresser and the vase of flowers there. “They’re from Jack.”
“Oh.” Emily’s big eyes widened even more as she studied the arrangement of roses. “They’re beautiful. How did he know where to send them?”
Finley chuckled, even though the situation really wasn’t that funny. “Griffin assumes he went through all manner of trouble tracking me down. Knowing Jack he simply grinned at one of the housemaids. He probably wanted to needle Griff. Regardless, it wasn’t meant as a romantic gesture.”