The Girl in the Clockwork Collar (Steampunk Chronicles #2)(16)
God, he hoped Emily and Finley weren’t with them. He had a soft spot for each girl—especially Emily—and the idea of being less in their estimation … Well, it hurt.
He opened the box and unwrapped the paper inside. This particular section of the device—which looked like a crown of tuning forks—was exactly as he remembered. In the back of his mind, he realized he’d been hoping to find it destroyed, so Dalton wouldn’t be able to use it.
“Is that it?” Mei asked, leaning over him with the lantern.
She smelled of cherry blossoms, he thought. He could close his eyes—just for a moment—and pretend they were somewhere else. Instead, he nodded, shoved the “crown” back into the box and rose to his feet. “Part of it. Do you have the sack?”
He could feel her confused gaze on him as she gave him the leather pouch. No doubt she wondered why he didn’t look at her, why he was so curt. But if she did have a talent for knowing what people needed, she’d know that right now he needed to put some distance between them, because the last thing he needed was to fall in love again when both their lives hung in the balance. Love was what had gotten him into this mess to begin with.
With their bounty in the sack, Jasper gestured for her to walk in front. There was nothing he could do about the bricks and mortar dust on the floor—that would be someone else’s mess to clean up.
No one was around to see them as they slipped out of the cellar opening. The crowd was louder up here—the fights being held in a nearby room. They exited into the vestibule, where spectators waited like a herd of cattle to be allowed inside. Little Hank was waiting for them by the door and corralled them toward the main hall. Apparently Dalton wanted them to stay for the fight, as well. Tarnation, there went any hope of Griffin not seeing him.
There was a bit of a commotion as the night’s fighters were brought in. These brave—or insane, however you wanted to look at it—scrappers would be put in a ring against each other and machines in a “last man standing” sort of event. Killing your opponent wasn’t encouraged, but it wasn’t against the rules, either. The only rule was that to win, you had to be the only fighter left alive and conscious. It was nasty and brutal and not at all the sort of thing Mei should see—never mind that she had been the one to teach Jasper the Chinese martial arts.
He turned his head to watch the parade of fighters, because it was less painful than looking at Mei’s pale but pretty face. Tonight’s contenders were a hard-looking lot of criminals and thugs …
“Good God!” He exclaimed.
Mei’s head whipped around. “What?”
His heart was beating hard against his ribs, and his breath seemed to have caught in his throat. One of the fighters had looked straight at him and winked.
“Jasper, do you know that girl?” She sounded jealous.
He shook his head, watching in horror as Finley walked into the hall with the rest of the fighters—her opponents. What the tarnation was she up to? She had to be there to get close to Dalton—that was the only explanation.
This night couldn’t get much worse. If he thought Griffin would never look at him the same now, it was going to be even worse if Miss Finley got herself killed.
No one had told Finley that this was an ongoing night of continuous fighting, weeding out the opponents until you were the last one left. The first time one of the fighters injured another so badly the results surely had to be fatal, she almost heaved the contents of her stomach all over the roughhewn floor.
Emily was with her, watching the violence from the sidelines, dressed in a white shirt, vest and striped green trousers with high thick-soled boots. Her ropes of hair were pinned up on the top of her head, and she sported a silver hoop through the right side of her nose. It didn’t really pierce her skin, but clamped on in order to appear as though it did. The hoop and the trousers were gang related. Apparently there was some kind of Irish gang in the city who wore the same jewelry and trousers. They were known as fighters—either being tough themselves or handling fighters who were tougher.
It was a good disguise. Emily wasn’t as tall and muscular as Finley, so the kit provided some protection. No one would mess with a member of the Uisce Beatha gang. Ish-ge Bah-hah, Emily pronounced it. It meant whiskey in Irish.
“Right,” Finley said when another man was carried— groaning in agony—from the ring. “I’m going to knock ’em out as soon as I can, Em. Do as little and take as little damage as I can.”
“A sound notion,” her friend replied in a strained voice. “Just be careful, Finley. I’m not certain this was such a grand idea after all.”
Finley’s smile pulled tight. “It’s not, but it’s the best I have, unless you think me throwing myself at Dalton would be better?”
“He is lovely to look upon, but I reckon that’s not the way to win his trust and respect. Plenty o’ women have been practically swooning over him all evening.”
Emily was right. The criminal was possessed of an uncommonly fine face. They’d spotted him shortly after their arrival, because he had Jasper with him. Dalton was almost too handsome with his silky brown hair, blue eyes and high cheekbones. It bothered her to look at him for too long.
Griffin, on the other hand, was a bit more rugged-looking, not quite so perfectly put together. He wasn’t as overtly chiseled, but she could look at him for days and not get bored.