The Girl with the Iron Touch

The Girl with the Iron Touch
Kady Cross

In 1897 London, something not quite human is about to awaken When mechanical genius Emily is kidnapped by rogue automatons, Finley Jayne and her fellow misfits fear the worst. What’s left of their archenemy, The Machinist, hungers to be resurrected, and Emily must transplant his consciousness into one of his automatons—or forfeit her friends’ lives.With Griffin being mysteriously tormented by the Aether, the young duke’s sanity is close to the breaking point. Seeking help, Finley turns to Jack Dandy, but trusting the master criminal is as dangerous as controlling her dark side. When Jack kisses her, Finley must finally confront her true feelings for him…and for Griffin.Meanwhile, Sam is searching everywhere for Emily, from Whitechapel’s desolate alleyways to Mayfair’s elegant mansions. He would walk into hell for her, but the choice she must make will test them more than they could imagine.To save those she cares about, Emily must confront The Machinist’s ultimate creation—an automaton more human than machine. And if she’s to have any chance at triumphing, she must summon a strength even she doesn’t know she has…

Also available fromKady Crossand

The Steampunk Chronicles (in reading sequence)

THE STRANGE CASE OF FINLEY JAYNE

(ebook prequel)

THE GIRL IN THE STEEL CORSET

THE GIRL IN THE CLOCKWORK COLLAR

Visit www.miraink.co.uk for more information or find us on Twitter @MIRAInk

The Girl with the Iron Touch

Kady Cross

www.miraink.co.uk (http://www.miraink.co.uk)

For Jess Lanigan, who has hand-sold this series, talked it up to anyone who will listen and makes me feel like a superstar. Thank you for your incredible enthusiasm and for reminding me what it feels like when the future is full of nothing but promise. You break my heart, girl, and I love you to bits.

For TS, probably the sweetest—and tallest—editor I’ve ever had. Thank you for getting behind this series, and thank you to everyone at my publisher (Natashya, Lisa, Mary) for being so fabulous to work with.

For Miriam, my agent and my friend who believes in me no matter what. You rock, my dear.

This book is also for Steve, because he lets me sing when we play Rockband, never blinks when I dye my hair or asks me, ‘Are you really going out in that?’ A long time ago I made a wish and then you came true. Thanks, babe.

Chapter 1

London, Autumn, 1897

A giant tentacle slapped the front of the submersible, driving the small craft backward in the water. A crack no wider than a hair split across the view screen as suckers the size of dinner plates pulled free.

“Mary and Joseph,” Emily O’Brien muttered as murky water from the Thames began to seep in through that crack. A sound like breaking ice followed as pressure from the outside pushed against the glass, demanding to get inside like a rowdy drunkard at a tavern door.

“Goin’ up!” she yelled. “The control room’s been breached!” She shoved hard on the guiding lever, forcing the vehicle to rise quickly.

The crack grew.

Emily held her breath.

The glass popped—another crack shot downward.

She should have covered the glass with a protective metal grid.

Water spilled onto the control panel. Sparks flew. Emily pulled her goggles down over her eyes and shoved against the lever, as though she could make the craft move faster with sheer force of will.

Well, actually she could probably do just that.

Water ran onto her boots. The glass was a spiderweb of cracks. Any second the entire thing would burst inward, cutting her to ribbons before she drowned.

Her jaw set stubbornly. Fear was for the weak. “This is not my day to die!” She tore off her gloves and set her bare hands against the sub’s control panel. She took a deep breath, ignored the tiny trickles of icy water that ran beneath her palms and commanded the craft to rise. The mechanized workings of the craft recognized the order and jumped to do her bidding.

The sub shot upward so quickly she lost her footing, landing hard on the wet floor. Daylight flooded the cabin as the glass shattered. Daylight, not water.

“Emily!” cried a voice in her ear. “Em!”

“I’m all right,” she replied. Later she’d smile over the worry in Sam’s voice. With the amount of time she’d spent worrying over him, it was nice to have the tables turned.

Her enjoyment was brief. She rose up on her hands and knees only to slip on the wet metal beneath her boots. Pain exploded in her chest as she hit the metal floor. A tentacle as thick as her waist whipped the air where her head had been not two seconds earlier as she rolled to her back. Suckers attached to the ceiling and pulled. The submersible’s nose pitched down, cold, pungent water spilling inside the jagged hole left by the shattered glass.

Emily grabbed hold of the foot of the ladder to keep from tumbling through that hole. Her chest hurt from the fall, and from her heart pounding against her ribs. Were they broken or just bruised? Would one pierce her lung?

It wouldn’t matter if the beastie pulling her under the water succeeded in killing and probably devouring her. She’d take her chances on a punctured lung.

Cold, dirty water sloshed over the tops of her boots and soaked through her woolen trousers as she pulled herself to her knees. Clinging to the ladder, she rose to her feet and began to climb. Her sodden clothes and sloshing boots worked against her, keeping her movements slow and awkward.

She turned the wheel on the ceiling hatch, arms straining as she pushed against it. The Thames rushed into the craft over the jagged opening in the front of the craft. She had but seconds before it was completely pulled under. A tentacle brushed her leg. She shuddered, heart racing. Emily put all of her strength into opening the hatch, ignoring the burning in her chest and arms.

The lock disengaged with a thunk. She pushed the hatch open and scampered up the ladder as the tentacle reached for her once more. The rubbery flesh looped around her boot, but she yanked her leg up before it closed around her leg like a vice. She climbed onto the top of the submersible and slammed the hatch on the slick, gray appendage, amputating the tip. It slid away, leaving a bloody trail.

A roar escaped from the water. Emily looked up in time to see the Kraken rise out of the river. And though it had been a long time since she’d been to church, or even believed in God, she crossed herself.

“Emily!”

It was Sam. He stood on the dock, the helmet off his underwater suit, a look of absolute terror on his rugged face. It was that look that decided her fate. She was not going to let him see her die. He might be physically the strongest person in the world, but inside he was as soft as a puppy.

And she loved him for it.

So Emily ran. The submersible shook as another tentacle hit—the Kraken was coming for her. She almost slipped but kept moving. Her fingers fumbled at her belt, pulled the gun strapped there free of its holster. She aimed it at a point just above Sam’s head—the building behind him—and pulled the trigger.

A thin rope with a claw attachment on the end shot from the gun and latched on to the wooden building. Emily wrapped both hands around the pistol and pulled the trigger again. She was yanked off her feet just as a massive tentacle came smashing down on the top of the submersible, driving it completely underwater. She sailed through the air like she’d been shot from a cannon—right into Sam’s arms.

He reached up and grabbed the taut line and pulled, yanking the claw free from the building so it could retract without pulling Emily any farther. Behind her, the monstrous sea beast thrashed in the Thames, sending waves as big as fishing boats crashing onto the dock.

Her shoulders hurt from being jerked like a fish on a hook. Sam’s chest was warm and broad. I could stay here all day, Emily thought. She glanced up into intense eyes almost as dark as his hair. “Thanks, lad.”

He didn’t speak. He just held her. Her heart thumped. Was he going to kiss her? Because she would like that, very much, even if she did have the faint whiff of chamber pot about her from the river.

A sound like the igniting of a gas lamp—a hiss and pop—broke through the air, destroying the moment. What the devil…?

Both Emily and Sam turned to see Griffin, the Duke of Greythorne, in wet shirt and trousers, kneeling on the deck as though he’d been struck by more than just a foul-smelling wave.

“Bloody hell,” Sam whispered.