Kady Cross: The Girl with the Windup Heart

But Garibaldi had Griffin, and she would die a hundred times to save him. Too bad she only had to die once for everything to fail.

“How quickly can you make the changes, Em?” No sense in thinking about what bad things could happen. She had to concentrate on the task at hand.

Her friend looked at the suit, as though she could take each section and devise a dependable schedule. She probably could. Lord, Emily could probably estimate right down to the quarter hour. “Three hours and ten minutes,” Emily responded.

Better than the quarter hour. “No faster?”

Her friend shot her a cross look. “No. No faster. That’s fast enough. Maybe you’re fool enough to risk your life, but I’m quite committed to making certain both you and Griffin come back from this.”

“Fair enough.”

“However, the process would be easier, and possibly a bit faster with an assistant.”

“I’ll help you,” Sam said.

Emily wrapped her arm about his waist and squeezed herself against him. “I know you would, but your hands are too big for the delicate work.” She tilted her head back and smiled up at him. “Besides, I need you to keep me sane, not drive me mad.”

All this romance was well and good, but Finley felt it like a thorn under her fingernail. “Could you stop batting your eyelashes at each other long enough to help me save Griffin?”

To her credit, Emily didn’t seem the least bit irked by her snotty tone—which only drove the thorn deeper. What if she never got to touch Griff again? “Plus, Finley is in need of someone to fight with, and you’ve always been very good at that.”

Well, that was a bit of a surprise. Finley never thought Emily would suggest she and Sam fight especially after that time she almost killed him.

Sam regarded her thoughtfully—another aggravation. When did Sam Morgan become someone who was thoughtful? Usually she thought him fairly vacant of thought, the big dunderhead. Although, he had been surprisingly ingenious on occasion. “I can do that.”

No doubt he could. It was like fighting a mountain, sparring with him. Was it wrong that she was a little excited at the prospect? All that fear for Griffin turned so easily to bloodlust, itching to be indulged. At least she wouldn’t be sitting around feeling useless. She had to be calm when she went into the Aether. Her temper wouldn’t do her any favors when she needed to keep her wits about her.

“Run along, then,” Emily told them in her best school matron voice. “Jasper, I don’t need you right now, but I will when it comes time to engage the stasis field. Wildcat, I’d like you to stay and assist me.”

Cat looked surprised, but didn’t protest. The American girl was with Jasper now, but the two of them sometimes went off and had their own adventures outside of their group. No one begrudged them for it, but it had made it a little harder for her to become part of their little family. Hopefully this would change that. After the events in New York, it was only since Cat’s arrival that the cowboy seemed like his former self. He was one of them, and if they wanted to keep him, they needed to welcome the girl he cared about, as well. If Emily was opening up to the idea, then Sam would follow shortly—he was always the last to trust anyone, taking his role of “family” protector to new levels of over-the-top. Finley liked Cat—they trained together on occasion. Direct and honest, Cat was exactly the sort of solid person Jasper needed in his life, and she wouldn’t allow him to dwell on the past.

Although, there was something disconcerting about those fangs of hers. Sharp, they were. Then again, Jasper didn’t seem to mind, and Finley had caught them kissing once, so it couldn’t be an issue. Still, there were reasons they called her Wild cat, and Finley was pretty certain she didn’t want to know all of them.

Sam stepped in front of her, blocking out the rest of the room. “Let’s go.”

Finley peered up at him. She barely cleared his shoulder and she was tall for a girl. “Itching to go toe-to-toe with me, Goliath?”

He smiled—actually smiled! “You’re not?”

He had a point. She needed to do something about this fear simmering low in her gut. She was afraid—more afraid than she had ever been in her entire life. It threatened to take over completely, like when her other self would come out before Griffin taught her how to merge the two sides of herself. He had saved her, given her purpose, and he accepted her for who she was, flaws and all. She had a great number of flaws, but then again, so did he.

And she wanted more time putting up with them.

As she turned to follow Sam and Jasper to the lift, Finley paused. Her gaze sought out Emily, who opened the door to the locker where the Tesla “death suit” was kept. She must have felt Finley’s attention because she whirled about.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Emily must also have a talent for deciphering the movement of lips because she smiled ever so slightly, but not before Finley saw fear in her eyes, as well. This had to work. She couldn’t let Griffin die without knowing she loved him.

But she was going to die; Griffin’s life depended on it.

Mila woke up to the sound of her brain beating out a tenacious rhythm against the inside of her skull. There was a sour taste in her mouth and her tongue felt as though it had been replaced by a dirty wool sock. A few days ago she would have actually felt her tongue to make certain that hadn’t happened. Was it odd that she was disappointed she didn’t do that now? She knew her tongue was exactly as it was, and that was good, but she missed...she missed the not knowing, and the need to find out.

Regret was a word she was becoming more and more familiar with.

Cautiously, she opened her eyes. Bloody hell! She closed them again. Her brain throbbed. Her stomach rolled. There was that regret again! And Jack was sitting in a chair just a few feet away, watching her like a cat watching a newborn mouse.

So this was what the morning after a night of too much drink felt like.

Summoning all her strength, she cracked one eye open again. It didn’t hurt so much this time. She focused on him—and there was only one of him, unlike the two she’d seen after puking all over his lover. He was dressed entirely in black, as he often was, but his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat and he wasn’t wearing a waistcoat or a jacket. His dark hair fell in waves about his shoulders. No bloke—Finley had taught her that word—should have such lovely hair. No bloke should be so lovely to look at either.

She ought to have vomited on him.

“She wakes,” he commented dryly, long fingers following the scroll carved in the wooden arm of the chair. “How’s your head, poppet?”

She tried to scowl at him but it was hard to do with only one eye open and her brain trying to come out her ears. “I think you know very well how my head is.” She’d seen him the morning after indulging a little too much the night before. He looked then like she felt at that moment.

“Probably better than I ought” was his reply. He even smiled a little. He couldn’t be too angry at her, then. “Now, let’s discuss how you’re going to apologize to my friend for ruining her gown, and to me for pulling such a destructive, impulsive, childish stunt.”

Or maybe he was.

Mila pushed herself into a sitting position. Her head was starting to hurt less—the benefit of having a metal skull and a fast metabolism. She also, she realized, had her pride. Or maybe it was stubbornness. She hadn’t figured out the difference between the two yet, despite careful reading. She supposed she’d understand once she’d experienced both enough times to discern between them. “I’m not apologizing to your doxy, so you can just forget about that. I am sorry about the floor, but if the two of you weren’t making so much noise I wouldn’t have done it.”