Kady Cross: The Girl in the Steel Corset

Sam came up to one of the mirrors, putting his face close. He lifted both hands to the wound on his cheek. He ignored the blood as he pried his skin apart, digging his fingers into the bleeding gash. His stomach rolled at the sight, but he kept going, widening the wound, digging until he found the hard ridge beneath. He peered through the blood. Please, let it be bone.

It wasn’t.

He dropped his bloody hands from the gore that was his cheek, stumbling backward as shock overtook him. He trembled, felt as though the world had been ripped out from beneath him.

Pain pierced his chest. What was this feeling? This hollow burning? Betrayal. It fed the rage within him, driving him from the room with great strides. He ran down the great staircase, ignoring the startled servants who gasped in horror at his appearance. He tore down the corridor to the door that led to the cellar, nearly taking it right off its hinges as he yanked it open.

The lift was too bloody slow. It was all he could do not to punch through the floor of it and jump clear to the bottom like the freak he was. Making himself wait for this damn box to take him underground was the only thing keeping him human at the moment.

Emily was alone, as she usually was, blindly believing this was her haven—her safe place. There was barely a foot of empty space anywhere. A clockwork monkey, its gears exposed, sat on a shelf next to a model rocket and a stack of punch cards. On the workbench there were designs for a gun—something for Jasper Renn no doubt. She was always making new weapons for the American, a fact that annoyed Sam. It wasn’t as though Renn was one of them, regardless of how chummy he was with Griffin.

Emily stood at another bench on the opposite side of the room. Electric lights flickered on the walls and from supports hanging from the ceiling, illuminating her workspace. She was working on her pet project—something that had been her goal for almost a year now—her cat. A mechanized beast she could control.

She looked up from her project, lifting the magnifying goggles that allowed her to do delicate work. For a second, her pretty eyes looked as big as silver dollars behind the lenses.

“Oh, my God, Sam!” She slid off the stool with an expression of horror. “What happened?”

He took a step forward before stopping himself, but he couldn’t stop her. She foolishly, trustingly, came toward him, worry etched in her every feature.

“How much?” he demanded as she approached, fists clenching at his sides.

She actually frowned—like she didn’t know what he was talking about. “What do you mean? What did you do to yourself?”

He grabbed the hand she raised to his face. Her wrist felt so tiny inside his fingers. He could snap it so easily, but he didn’t want to hurt her. It didn’t matter what she had done to him. He would never hurt Emily.

Still, she gasped at the pressure of his grasp. He shook her, on the edge of madness. “How much of me is bloody machine?”

She went white—even more than usual—but she was not afraid. He didn’t know if she was stupid, or if she truly knew him better than anyone else, but she wasn’t afraid of him. For him, but never of him.

“Your right arm,” she whispered, blue eyes locked with his. Was that shame he saw there? And relief. She was relieved to finally reveal all to him. Whose idea had it been to lie? Hers or Griff’s? “The left side of your skull and most of your ribs have been reinforced because the bones were severely shattered.”

Sam’s grip on her wrist eased as nausea blossomed in his stomach. He started to step back but her voice stopped him. “Your left shin and your right femur were both grafted and plated. And your right clavicle.”

He stared at her in horror. All of that? The machine had done all of that? How had he survived? And then he looked deep into her eyes and he saw the truth there. He hadn’t.

He hadn’t survived.

“What else, Em?” His voice was a ragged whisper. “What else did you replace?”

She lifted her chin, not the least bit sorry for what she had done to him. “I’d do it again, Sam. I don’t regret savin’ you, no matter how you might hate me for it. I’d do it again.”

“What else did you replace?” His shout reverberated through the room, seeming to shake the very foundations of the house. Emily winced, but she did not cringe. She straightened her shoulders and looked him dead in the eye.

“Your heart,” came the unapologetic reply. “I replaced your heart.”

Finley was tying the sash on the embroidered red-silk kimono a maid had brought her when there was a loud bang and the entire house seemed to quiver. A quick peek out the window showed the big fellow—Sam—stomping across the garden toward the path leading toward the stables. A few moments later as she slipped her feet into matching slippers whilst simultaneously shoving pins into her hair, she heard a loud rumbling. Another glance out the window revealed Sam charging out of the stables on one of those heavy two-wheeled contraptions that he and Griffin had been driving last night.

What had happened to make him so angry? And just how strong was he that he could make a house this size tremble by slamming a door? She wouldn’t stand a chance against him, even if her darker self took over.

The thought made her uneasy. This house, these people and this situation were just too good to be true. In her experience, no one was ever kind for no reason. They always wanted something.

But she couldn’t hide in this room forever. And since someone had absconded with her own clothing, she would have to play along. At least for now. Better she play along and find out what they wanted from her than sit around and wait. Although a naive part of her wanted to think the best of the handsome Rich Boy. Griffin, that was what Emily called him.

He intrigued her, this young man who managed to calm her beast with nothing more than a few words and his heavy-lidded eyes. He had helped her last night and, that she could tell, no liberties had been taken with her person. And the door to her room was unlocked from the outside. Surely that was a good sign?

As she left her room, she was struck by the grandeur of the house, seeing it in the full light of day. He must be very rich indeed.

A small sweeper automaton the size of a toddler cleaned the Axminster carpet that lined the corridor and staircase, its thick brushes scooping up debris and depositing it in the removal dust tray. It was one of the few machines she’d seen since her arrival—not that she had seen much of the house. Still, there seemed to be more human servants employed than mechanical ones—a fact proven by the chambermaids she spied farther down the corridor.

Portraits ranging from centuries ago to present day lined the stairs as she slowly made her way down, trying not to gawk at the white-washed walls and incredibly high ceilings. This place made the August-Rayneses’ house seem a shack.

“May I help you, miss?” asked an older lady, when she reached the bottom. The woman’s black-and-white uniform and mobcap gave her away as the housekeeper. She seemed somewhat…wary.

Someone else who was afraid of her. Lovely. “I’m supposed to go to the library,” she explained.

“Ah, yes,” the housekeeper replied. “His Grace no doubt wants to speak with you. Down the south corridor, second door on the right.”

Finley muttered her thanks and started off in the direction given on rubbery knees. His Grace? Rich Boy’s father was a duke? Bugger it. She was certain he had to know the August-Raynes family. Would he send her back? Or worse, call the Peelers—the police force named after Robert Peel—and have her arrested?