The Girl in the Clockwork Collar (Steampunk Chronicles #2)(38)

“Wait here,” Jasper instructed to Little Hank, who had a look on his face that dared anyone to try and fight him. That arrogance of his—the belief that he was the baddest of the bad—was going to get him killed one day. The giant was too stupid to realize that Finley could snap his neck like a chicken bone, and even she was no match for the whole neighborhood.

Which was another reason he felt guilty. He shouldn’t have brought her here, but it wasn’t as though he had a choice.

He jerked his head toward the lane. “This way.”

Finley followed him silently, but he noticed how her amber gaze took in their surroundings, not missing anything. If there was anyone he’d want at his back going into a situation like this, it was her.

The sun was almost directly overhead as they made their way down the lane, aware of faces watching from windows and from the shadows. The flapping laundry over their heads alternately blocked out the light or let it blind them, depending on the wind.

Doors opened behind them, and Jasper knew without looking that they were being followed. He didn’t turn, and he suspected Finley didn’t, either, though she was undoubtedly even more aware of their stalkers than he was.

At the end of the lane stood a house that was in only slightly better repair than the others. Someone had tried to whitewash it, but it had turned a dull gray, and the eyelet curtains in the windows were dull and frayed. It was at the door to this house that he stopped—and knocked.

The battered wood swung open on hinges that screeched like an angry hawk—no sneaking into this house—to reveal a tall, muscular young woman, perhaps his age or a little older. She had long black hair, which she wore in two loose ponytails on either side of her handsome face, a leather vest, snug trousers and scuffed leather boots, which came up over her knees. But it was her eyes that commanded a fella’s attention—they were the color of lilacs, and while you were gazing into them, you were likely to get a knee in your privates. They were brightened by her dusky complexion.

“Jasper Renn.” Her voice was as smoky as the air in these parts. A slight smile curved her mouth as she leaned her shoulder against the door frame. “What brings you round these parts?”

He tugged the brim of his hat at her in greeting—and respect. “You look good, Wildcat. I’m here for that item I gave you a while back.”

Those brilliant eyes narrowed. “You remember what I told you before you left here last time?”

He nodded. “I surely do.” Did he ever. Their relationship had been intense and unexpected and over before it really had a chance to get started.

Wildcat turned her attention to Finley. “I know you. You’re the one that was here with the Irish witch.”

“She would prefer to be called a scientist” came Finley’s drawled reply. “I’ll give her your regards.”

The dark girl turned back to Jasper. “She’s almost as much a smart-arse as you. She all you brought?”

“I got a driver, but he’d rather see me dead than do me a favor.” Then he grinned. “But if you know my friend, you know she’s enough.”

The girl nodded, grime-streaked face serious. “All right, then. You know what has to be done.” And then she stepped across the threshold, a baseball bat in her hands. Its wood was smooth and stained brown with old blood. A dozen other girls and fellas followed after her—some armed, some not.

“Jasper?” Finley asked warily. “What the devil’s going on?” He turned to her with what he hoped was a suitably apologetic expression. “When I left the piece with Wildcat, she told me if I ever came back she’d ‘beat the snot out of me.’” Technically, he hadn’t left the part with Cat. It had gotten left behind when she kicked him out. He was simply relieved she still had it.

Finley’s eyes widened. “Are you telling me we have to fight? All of them?” She gestured at the gang standing in the street behind Wildcat.

Jasper nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“At least we don’t have to take on the entire gang,” Jasper offered with a sheepish smile. “Just Cat’s best.”

Finley was tempted to leave him to fight on his own. “Oh, that makes it so much less insane. There’s only thirteen of them. Piece of bloody cake.” She reached into her trouser pockets and pulled out the knuckle-guards Emily had made for her out of brass. They were fingerless gloves with caps of brass molded to fit over her knuckles. If all she had were her fists, she was going to have to make every punch count.

Jasper flushed, but his gaze never wavered. “You don’t have to do this.”

Of course, that immediately softened her, because she knew that he meant it. He was fully prepared to do this on his own—and probably die doing it. At the very least he’d end up severely injured.

She bent her neck to the side and was rewarded with a sharp crack. Then did the same to the other side. Jasper grimaced but made no comment. Wise boy. “Let’s get this done.”

“You sure you want to do this, San Fran?” Wildcat asked, coming down the steps.

“I have to, New York.” Jasper pushed his hat down farther on his head—Finley wondered if she would be “London” when all this was over. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

The girl shrugged. “That’s the worst apology I’ve ever heard. Break a girl’s heart and can’t even say you’re sorry? What sort of man are you?”