The Girl in the Clockwork Collar (Steampunk Chronicles #2)(57)

He’d wager Mrs. Astor-Prynn would know—and gladly tell him, especially if she thought she could throw her daughter at him in the process.

He sent a note on to Kirby relaying that information and was now taking a leisurely stroll around the city. Recuperating had been necessary, but now that he had healed, he felt restless.

Sam and Emily had wanted to come with him, but he needed a little time to himself. So he’d listened to his friends’ concerns and brought along a walking stick Emily had made for him. It doubled as a club, had a sword hidden inside it and emitted a gas that would put any attackers to sleep when sprayed directly in the face. What Emily didn’t know was that he had been practicing with something new. It wasn’t a secret that he could use Aetheric energy to destroy—he had done it when he brought that warehouse down on The Machinist. What he had been toying with, however, was controlling the amount of energy he put into an item, so that the thing itself became an Aetheric weapon, charged with the power he’d siphoned.

Sam was right. He needed to stop whining. The incident at Tesla’s was the second time in a matter of weeks that he had been injured to the point where his life was in question. That didn’t sit well with him, not at all. So rather than brood on how weak he was, it was time to make himself as strong as possible.

To make his little band of “strays” —as his aunt Cordelia sometimes called them—as strong as possible.

So perhaps he should be completely honest and admit that this wasn’t just a leisurely stroll. He had intentionally walked in the direction of Reno Dalton’s house. He knew where to go because Emily had mentioned the address. He wasn’t quite certain why he walked this way—perhaps he wanted to tempt fate and maybe run into the criminal. Perhaps he simply wanted to take a measure of the man.

Or maybe he hoped to catch a glimpse of Finley. He missed her. Sometimes she drove him mad, but she was as much a part of his world as Sam or Emily. From the moment they’d met, he’d felt as though she completed the puzzle that was his life. She just seemed to fit.

When he reached Dalton’s unassuming address—a simple brick house with clean windows and freshly swept steps—he kept to the shadows so that he could spy on the occupants, unnoticed. He was surprised that Kirby wasn’t already there. The man seemed to have made a habit of watching Dalton and his companions.

The curtains were open in one of the front ground-floor windows. Lamps kept the room well lit, so he could clearly see the two people inside.

Finley and Dalton. They were playing a bizarre and dangerous game, where Dalton threw a dagger at her and she caught it by the handle before throwing it back. Did neither of them have any concept of mortality or respect for their own safety and lives?

He thought of her sitting out on the bow of the airship on the way to New York. The idea of falling hadn’t even occurred to her; she thought she was invulnerable, like many young people their age, but a fall from several thousand feet would kill Sam. It would definitely kill her, as well.

His heart stopped as she caught the dagger a mere fraction of an inch from her left eye. It would have killed her if she hadn’t grabbed it. The thought rolled around in his stomach, making him feel sick. What did she do? She laughed. The idiot.

This was not one of those moments when he wanted to kiss her. What he wanted to do was storm into that house, punch Dalton in the nose, throw Finley over his shoulder and take her back to the hotel, where she belonged.

He did neither of these things. Firstly, she had to stay there if they were going to help Jasper and make sure Dalton paid for his crimes. Secondly … she obviously liked it there. She trusted Dalton to throw a deadly weapon at her. He trusted her to throw it back. Neither of them had any concern of betrayal or injury.

Dalton was dangerous and likely more than a little mad. That would appeal to Finley’s dark side. Lately, it seemed that darker part of her was to become the dominant half of her personality. That part of her would not be content with his world. There was excitement, but usually someone ended up getting hurt, and there wasn’t much of a reward for it.

Would she return to him when this was over? Or would she choose Dalton instead?

As the thought crossed his mind, he saw Finley’s head turn, and she looked out the window. He hadn’t realized, but he had walked out of the darkness into the pool of light from a nearby streetlamp. She could see him. Those sharp eyes of hers could probably make him out plain as day.

The smile slipped from her face as they stared at one another. She set the dagger on the table and crossed the floor to the window. Griffin watched as she placed her palm against the glass, as though to wave at him. Was that guilt he saw on her face, or did she miss him, too?

She glanced over her shoulder and said something. Then she turned back to him. Her fingers curled against the glass before she lifted her hand and took a step back.

Then she yanked the curtains closed.

Griffin shoved his hands in his pockets, turned on his heel and started walking back in the direction of his hotel. She’d done it to keep Dalton from seeing him, obviously. Not because she wanted to shut him out. He told himself that it meant nothing, that he should trust Finley. That he did trust Finley.

Only, he realized now that he didn’t trust her—not as much as he ought. Not as much as he would expect her to trust him. And that was the worst of it all.

The Olympia Theatre was in Longacre Square, situated between 44th and 45th Streets. The New York Times heralded it as “one of the most imposing facades” on Broadway, or so Dalton claimed. To Jasper, the building was ostentatious and sprawling, never mind all that “French Renaissance” nonsense Dalton spouted about its design. Architecture had nothing to do with why Jasper had chosen this particular building as the hiding place for the final piece of the device.