The Girl in the Clockwork Collar (Steampunk Chronicles #2)(18)
“What are you doing here?” he growled as they stood face-to-face.
“Same thing you are—trying to fight my way into Dalton’s gang.”
“You’re mad.”
“And you’ve been seen with the Duke of Greythorne.” That drew him up straight. “Sam, Dalton’s already noticed me. He likes girls that fight. Stay with Griffin and Emily. Protect them. Let me have Dalton.”
“What are you waitin’ for?” A voice from the crowd shouted. “Fight!”
A roar rose up in the crowded room, reverberating off the walls, trembling through the floorboards.
Sam raised his fists. “Let’s do this.”
Finley adopted a fighting stance. “Are you going to take a fall?”
He nodded, jaw clenched. It would be a blow to his pride, she knew it. “But I’m going to make you work for it.”
And she did work for it. By the time Sam finally hit the floor, she had the bruised—at least she hoped they were only bruised—ribs, sore jaw, split lip and assorted other injuries to prove just how he’d made her work. She stood in the center of the ring, battered and bloody, exhausted and exhilarated, and reveled in the roar of the frenzied crowd.
She hadn’t seriously injured anyone, and she was proud of herself for that, because other fighters hadn’t been nearly so considerate. She’d taken pleasure in knocking out those who had such little regard for human life. In fact, she’d toyed with them like a cat with a mouse—taking her time in putting them down. Perhaps that didn’t say much for her character, but in the moment, she hadn’t cared.
She had achieved what she wanted: she had Dalton’s attention. He tipped his hat to her when her gaze settled on him, and she smiled in return before looking away. It wouldn’t be good to appear too eager.
With her one good eye—the other was swollen shut—she turned so that she could see Griffin. She didn’t make direct eye contact with him, because she knew Dalton was watching her, but she had to look.
Griffin stood now, as did all the other spectators, only they cheered for her—or booed her. The Duke of Greythorne just stood there, stoic and expressionless. Then he said something to Sam and turned away. Sam flashed her a quick, almost apologetic glance and followed after him. The crowd swallowed them wholly and quickly.
Finley looked away, refusing to hunt him down with her gaze. The sudden ache in her chest rivaled any of the injuries she’d suffered at the hands of her opponents. She knew he couldn’t come to her, couldn’t show any emotion because of Dalton, but she would have liked to see a little anger in his gaze, perhaps a little pride. She’d done good.
She pushed thoughts of Griffin aside as Emily joined her, supporting her physically and emotionally as Finley acknowledged the crowd with a cocky grin. Together, they made their way to the place where all the fighters had waited for their turn. Emily had to hold the ropes as far apart as she could for Finley to slip through. As it was, her ribs cried out in protest.
Bloody hell, she needed a hot bath and bed. And maybe some laudanum for the discomfort until the Organites did their work. She didn’t care if people noticed how fast she healed. She wasn’t allowing this pain to linger. The little “beasties” from far below the earth—supposedly the ooze from which life began—would fix her up in no time.
Those dreams were dashed when a behemoth of a man stepped in front of them. Finley looked up—way up. The man was bigger than Sam. A giant. Emily stiffened at the sight of him.
“Mr. Dalton wants to meet you,” he said in a voice that sounded as though it came from his toes.
Finley scowled at him. This is what she had hoped to achieve, and now that she had, she was annoyed. “Mr. Dalton can wait.”
The man straightened, making himself even taller. “Mr. Dalton doesn’t wait.”
A sharp glare wrinkled Emily’s brow. “Look, you … gargantuan, she’s hurt, and she’s not running off to meet your master until I’ve addressed her injuries. Is that understood?”
Surprise lit his large face. He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll wait here.”
As they walked away, Finley turned her head to look at her friend, admiration taking the sting out of her wounds. “You’re a fierce one, Emily O’Brien.”
“I don’t like being ordered about or bullied” was all the explanation she offered. For the second time that day, Finley had violent feelings toward whoever had hurt her friend in the past.
“I’ll clean your wounds and apply some cosmetics so no one notices that you heal faster than regular folk, but I’m going to inject beasties into your ribs to mend them—and remedy any chance of internal injury.”
Finley assumed her insides would heal just like everything else, but serious internal injuries could kill her faster than she could repair herself. She knew this because she had once injured Sam and almost killed him. She nodded in acquiescence.
They found a bench toward the back of the hall, and Finley gingerly sat down. Emily rummaged through her bag and removed a metal syringe, which she filled with an earthysmelling substance Finley recognized as Organites. Griffin’s grandfather had discovered it on his property years ago. It was also believed to be the cause of these “evolutions” she and the others had gone through. Her father had experimented with the stuff, and so she had been born with her abilities, but Emily, Sam and Griffin had developed theirs over the years. Sam was part machine and wickedly strong. Griffin could harness the Aether—a dimensional energy unnoticed by most of the living. And Emily could talk to machines.