Kady Cross - The Girl in the Clockwork Collar

Their friend Jasper Renn had been accused of murder and taken from Griff ’s house by bounty hunters five days earlier. They would have followed immediately after him if they could have, but despite having his own airship, it took Griffin almost a day to make preparations and get everything ready.

“Been sucking lemons again, Sam?” Finley asked when the other couple joined them.

The big lad arched a dark eyebrow at her but didn’t speak. Since she’d saved his life—after him trying to kill her—he had been almost nice to her, which made her try to bait him all the harder.

“We came to watch the landing,” Emily told them in her Irish lilt. “We heard that there were a couple of idiots out on the prow. Did you see them?” A slow smile curved her lips.

Finley and Griff laughed in unison, which made Sam’s scowl deepen. “Idiots indeed,” he said drily.

Emily started to roll her eyes, but then her head whipped toward the window. “Oh! There’s the Statue of Liberty! Isn’t she grand?”

Her excitement was contagious, and the four of them went to the glass to watch the Helena glide by the statue that Griffin had pointed out to her earlier. It was so big. So beautiful. They would set down on the island of Manhattan, on the landing field in Central Park, and from there, on to their hotel. Tomorrow morning they’d begin looking for Jasper. Surely it wouldn’t be difficult, given that he’d been brought back to face criminal charges.

Finley couldn’t believe Jasper would kill anyone—not in cold blood. There had to be some kind of mistake. Griffin was convinced he could fix this, but this wasn’t England, and Americans might not be so impressed by his title and his fortune. And though each of them had their own unique abilities—evolutions, Emily had taken to calling them—they weren’t above the law.

What if they couldn’t save Jasper?

As far as prisons went, this one wasn’t so bad. Jasper had certainly seen worse—been held in worse.

There were bars on the windows, but his understanding was that those were normally employed to keep folks out rather than in, as the case may be. Still, the bed was big and comfortable—an old four-poster monstrosity—and the room was big enough that he could walk around a bit and exercise.

Dalton—the fella in whose house he was now a “guest”— was an old “friend.” Jasper fell in with his gang almost two years ago, when he was too young and stupid to know better. Dalton was a couple of years older and had spouted the usual romantic nonsense about being an outlaw, which sounded good to penniless boys.

Obviously Dalton had done well for himself, if this house was any indication. It was nice—nicer than anything Jasper had seen during his time in the gang. Did Dalton think of himself as some kind of gentleman now? Was he rubbin’ elbows with the same kind of people from whom he stole? The Bowery neighborhood was close enough to Five Points to give him an in with the criminal set, but removed just enough to have a little respectability.

Respectable, however, Dalton was not. And it was painfully apparent that his old boss hadn’t forgiven him for running off. The tender bruises that covered Jasper from face to hip were proof of that. He had a perfect impression of the sole of someone’s boot on his left side. Must’ve been Little Hank—he was the only varmint in Dalton’s outfit with feet that big.

If he had some of Miss Emily’s salve, he’d be set to rights; but he didn’t, and so he had to heal the old-fashioned way instead of letting her “beasties” do it for him.

He thought of his new friends often since he’d been forcibly taken from Griffin’s mansion by men claiming they were going to bring him to America to face murder charges.

Jasper went willingly, almost eager to face his past, maybe clear his name in the process. It wasn’t until he was on the airship, without any chance of escape, that he discovered the men worked for Dalton.

Once they’d landed, he had tried to run. It had been stupid, but he had to try. They caught him, beat him, trussed him up and brought him here, where’d he’d been for more than twenty-four hours.

Finally there came the sound of a key in the lock. Jasper moved to the dresser, a heavy piece of furniture he could dive behind if someone started shooting.

It was Little Hank’s huge form that filled the doorway. Over six and a half feet tall and as wide as a bull through the chest, Little Hank was Dalton’s chief muscle. He was strong and surprisingly fast. Jasper’s only advantage came in being faster, but he didn’t want Dalton to know just how fast he had gotten.

Little Hank ducked his head into the room. “Boss wants to see you.”

“Now’s not a good time for me,” Jasper replied, words as stiff as his jaw. “Come back later.”

The behemoth hesitated, clearly uncertain of what to do. Jasper would have smiled if he thought it wouldn’t hurt so much. Then a scowl settled over Hank’s heavy-boned face and he glared at him. “Still a jackass.”

Jasper shrugged. “Sometimes a fella has to live up to expectations.” He moved stiffly toward the door. Dread twisted in his belly, but he refused to let it show.

Little Hank seized him by the back of the neck, practically dragged him out of the room, along the hall and down the scuffed staircase. From there they took a right turn and ended up in a parlor, where Jasper was finally released. He might not exactly like Griff ’s friend Sam Morgan, but he wished the large fellow was there at the moment. He’d teach Little Hank a lesson in manners.

Then again, Morgan was just as likely to sit back and smile while Jasper was pounded senseless. Miss Finley, then. She’d knock Hank on his gigantic backside. Jasper would have no problem letting a girl rescue him, but Finley was in London. They thought he’d been taken in by the law and had no idea that it was just the opposite.

Reno Dalton stood at the window, puffing on a cigarillo. He was a little shorter than Jasper’s height of six feet. Leaner, too. He was what in a woman might be called pretty, with longish dark brown hair and ice-blue eyes. He wore a perfectly tailored gray suit that made him appear a gentleman.

In truth he was more like a sleeping rattlesnake. There was just as much chance that Dalton would leave you alone as there was that he’d kill you—and with very little thought to, either.

“Ah, Jasper.” A cold smile curved Dalton’s lips. He was around twenty, but lines fanned out from his eyes—a sign of time spent out of doors. “Looking none the worse for wear, I see.”

If Jasper had been wearing his hat he would have tipped it. “I look good in black and blue.”

Dalton waved a negligent hand. “The ladies will be back to swooning over you soon enough. Have a seat.”

“I’d rather stand.”

The smile vanished. Finally the rattler revealed himself. “Sit.”

Little Hank shoved him into a nearby chair before Jasper could reply. It was spindly and felt as though it might split apart if he sneezed. He jerked free of Hank’s hand—flinching at the pain that followed—and fixed his gaze on the man before him.

“All right, I’m sitting.”

Dalton was back to looking pleasant. “Good.” His voice had a slight Southern accent. Years of living in San Francisco had almost erased all traces of the poor kid from Virginia Territory. “We have business to discuss, you and I.”

Cold—heavy and menacing—settled in Jasper’s stomach. He ignored it. “’Fraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dalton smiled—without any trace of pleasantness this time. Slowly, he moved around the desk to sit behind the large wooden structure. He plucked a plum from a bowl in front of him. “Let’s not play this game, Jasper. You know where the device is. You stole it from me, and I want it back.”