Kady Cross - The Girl with the Windup Heart

“Showboat,” Sam teased as they crossed the threshold.

They entered into the parlor—the only part of the house Finley had ever seen. Maybe that was all there was—not like her father had to eat or sleep. Thomas Sheppard rose from his seat at the piano where he had been playing. He immediately came over and hugged her before offering his hand to Sam. “I knew your father. He was a good man.”

“The best,” Sam agreed. Finley had never heard him say much about his parents but then, until recently, she’d never heard Sam say much of anything.

“Fin.”

She turned in the direction of Griffin’s voice. He was on the sofa, a quilt pulled around him. And from what she could see there was absolutely no color left in him except his eyes and his hair. The shock of it was like a kick to the throat. Garibaldi had drained him, and now he just had to sit and wait while Griffin literally starved to death. In the living world he’d have more time, but time was not the same here. It moved faster in some ways and slower in others.

“Griffin.” She wasn’t going to let him see how much the sight of him upset her. Instead, she went to him and knelt beside the sofa so that she could touch him and kiss him—hold him. Because it might be the last time she got to do any of it.

And then Ipsley and his two friends—a black man and an old woman—arrived, wispy but visible. They stood in a close circle, holding hands, glowing with eerie silver light. Either her father had let them in, or the same rules didn’t apply to spiritualists.

“We’re going to begin trying to summon Garibaldi,” Ipsley explained. “Once he is here we will bind and hold him within the ring of the table.” It was so faint Finley could barely see it, but there was the actual table from the ballroom, with everyone around it holding hands. It was like a reflection in a window.

Her father’s face was grim. “We’re ready for him.”

No, they really weren’t, Finley thought. Griffin certainly wasn’t, but it wasn’t as though they had a choice in the matter. She squeezed Griffin’s hand as the spiritualists began to call The Machinist.

“Finley,” he said. “There’s something I want to tell you...”

“Don’t,” she said, not caring that it might be cruel. “I’m one sweet word away from hysteria, Griffin King. Don’t you dare send me over the edge. Whatever you have to say to me can wait until we get home.” Her bottom lip quivered as she spoke.

He managed a wan smile. He was already so ghostlike. “Fair enough.”

She gave a stiff nod, then turned her head. Just looking at him was too painful. She watched as the walls around them thinned, and became more transparent. What the devil?

“Your father is letting down his defenses,” Griffin explained, his voice a hoarse rasp. “He’s making it easy for Garibaldi.”

Finley’s attention went to her father. He looked grim but determined. If anyone could help them it was him. He’d been in the Aether for years. He knew it better than Garibaldi. He was smarter than Garibaldi.

Suddenly, a gale blew through the house—long, ragged tendrils of black smoke that Finley recognized as Garibaldi’s Aether demons—his pets. They screamed around the room, whirling and diving like vultures in the middle of a fit. They skimmed around the humans, nipping and biting. Sam didn’t waste any time, he punched one and then slammed two others together. They exploded into ash and fell away. One came rushing at Griffin, but Finley put herself in its path, and when it was within striking distance, she punched it hard. Ash rained down on her, sticking to her hair and clothes. Ugh.

“Finley!” She looked up just in time to see her father toss her a sword. She caught it with one hand. Sam had a cricket bat, and was using it to make short work of the demons. Finley jumped to her feet as two more streamed toward them. The sword swung and sliced through one, then she pivoted quickly, as though she were dancing, and brought the blade down and across another—the tip of the sword cut the air just inches above Griffin’s head. He coughed on the ash.

No sooner had they dispatched of the wisps then the very foundation of the house began to shudder and shake as though something was trying to rip it right out of the ground. Crystal toppled from shelves, books crashed to the floor. The piano rattled a discordant tune. Windows began to crack.

“Enough with the theatrics, Leonardo!” Thomas shouted. “You’re not impressing anyone, boy.”

It seemed strange, this young man referring to Garibaldi as “boy” but in life she supposed her father might have been the elder of the two. Amazingly, the house stopped shaking and went completely still. Too still.

Garibaldi appeared—hovering above the spiritualists as if he was a puppet on strings. Finley knew better than to believe that was indeed true.

The Italian grinned. “What is this? A séance. For me? How very pathetic.” He looked around the room, his glinting gaze falling on Sam. “Ah, my dear boy. It is so good to see you again. I have a special surprise for you.”

The house shook again, but this time in measured beats. It took Finley a second to realize they were footsteps, and then it was too late. The huge automaton beast tore through the wall of the house, reducing it to rubble. Sam stared at it in horror.

“Damnation,” Griffin wheezed, and Finley knew without asking that the machine was a monstrous version of the one that had killed Sam before she ever became part of the group. Emily had put him back together, brought him back to life, but Sam was terrified of anything metal.

Sword still in hand, Finley went to stand beside Sam. “I’m with you.”

Her father came up on Sam’s left. “As am I.”

Garibaldi laughed. “Destroy them!” His arrogant glee reminded her of Lord Felix with his girls. He’d been so sure they’d do as he commanded, not realizing how much they hated him. This machine probably didn’t hate Garibaldi, but that didn’t make it anymore impervious to harm. In the end, it was just a construct of Garibaldi’s mind and will. It wasn’t real metal—not really.

It still packed a mean punch—as she found out when she attacked it. It swept her aside as if she were nothing more powerful than a kitten. That made her angry. She spat blood from her mouth and attacked again. This time she went for the neck of the huge digger automaton while her father used a mace to knock out one of its legs. Sam hoisted his cricket bat and gave a mighty roar—the kind she imagined Celtic warriors made in battle. He charged at the digger without hesitation. Finley couldn’t resist a glance at Garibaldi—he looked surprised. So much so that he actually struggled against the spiritual bonds that held him. She smiled as she leaped onto the machine’s back and drove her sword into its neck.

Sam cracked the front panel with one swing, almost knocking Finley to the ground. It must be his rage that made him so strong here. Whatever it was, it worked beautifully. Two more bone-jarring swings and he’d opened a hole in the metal’s chest cavity. He reached in as Finley worked her blade back and forth, slowly decapitating the beast. Sparks flew and gears ground to a halt as Sam yanked out the logic engine and central gearbox and threw them on the ground. Finley slid down the machine’s back and jumped down.

“No!” Garibaldi shouted as his creation toppled.

Sam flashed him a grin. “Yes, you miserable bastard.”

Finley grinned, as well. For one second it looked as though they had a chance. Then Garibaldi turned his attention to her. His eyes began to glow a pale blue as he brought up his hands. Energy arced between his palms, like a tiny lightning storm, swirling and coalescing into a ball of deadly Aetheric energy.