The Girl in the Clockwork Collar

Regardless, when Griffin had said that he and Sam were going to see what they could find out about Dalton, Finley had taken his attitude and the fact that he’d refused to make eye contact with her to heart and decided to do a little detective work of her own. Emily, of course, had refused to let her go alone.

“Do you think the lads are here, as well?” Emily asked, glancing about.

Finley was busy trying to catalog everyone watching them. “Dunno. I’m more concerned with us at the moment, Em.”

Her friend glanced at her, face even paler beneath her freckles. “Do you think we’re in danger?”

“I think we’d be idiots to assume otherwise,” she replied, oddly calm. This was one of the things she had to accept when Griffin began the process of helping her merge the two aspects of her personality. She thought things now, did things that she wouldn’t have before. So being cocky yet anxious in the face of potential danger was new to her—and most inconvenient.

Slowly, she nudged her small friend toward the center of the square. She’d rather be out in the open than risk being hauled into a building or alley. These people weren’t the sort to shoot someone in cold blood; they were fist-and-blade sort of people—the kind that took killing personally. There was more honor in meeting a foe toe-to-toe than picking them off from a distance.

She could respect that. She was also thankful for it.

“You girls don’t belong here” came a thick Irish brogue.

Both Finley and Emily turned toward the voice. It belonged to a young man, not much older than themselves. He was tall and thin, his dark auburn hair glinting in the sun. His shirt and brown trousers had been washed so many times they were both a muddy color and mended in several spots. Still, he stood there like he owned the place.

Cheeky bloke, Finley thought. “We’re looking for someone,” she told him.

His eyebrow jumped at her voice. “There be no one you want here, English,” he informed her in a mocking tone.

Finley smiled coolly. “I haven’t even told you who it is, Irish.” She kept her gaze focused on him, but her peripheral vision was filled with the sight of a crowd gathering around them. Damnation.

“Ye’re not wanted here” came a female voice from behind. “Why don’t ye just go back from where ye come.” It wasn’t a question but a command.

Finley turned. The girl was about her own height—a little heavier built—with dark hair and bright blue eyes. Black Irish, they called it. Behind her was another girl with dusky skin and an exotic prettiness, which was heightened by the emptiness of her lavender, catlike eyes. She was the real danger here, not the mouthpiece in front of her. Still, Finley didn’t reckon they were in any immediate danger from cat-girl.

“Gladly,” she replied. “As soon as someone tells us where I can find Reno Dalton, we’ll be on our way.”

“Dalton?” It was the dark girl—the one with the catlike eyes that asked. Her voice was low and smooth, with no trace of hostility, yet Finley felt it in the base of her spine. “What do you want with him?”

“No offense,” Finley replied, “but that’s personal.” She wasn’t about to give Jasper’s name and have that get back to Dalton.

The girl nodded. “Fair enough.”

“She’s probably knocked up with his brat,” the auburn-haired boy sneered, his gaze raking over Finley like a pair of dirty hands.

The blue-eyed girl stepped forward, flanked by two more who had reddish-brown hair. One of them carried a cricket bat. “We don’t appreciate strangers comin’ into our home, bringin’ their trouble with ’em.”

Finley stood her ground. She turned her face but not her gaze toward Emily. “Get out of here,” she commanded. “Now.”

She didn’t have time to see if her friend listened to her or not. A fist came flying out of nowhere. She dodged it but got smacked with the bat for her trouble. Pain exploded in her skull. It also woke up that part of her that wasn’t used to being welcomed just yet. When the next blow came, she deflected it and countered with one of her own, her fist connecting with a jaw. She struck again and again, but for every one she knocked down, there seemed to be two to take their place. Fast as she was, she couldn’t escape them all, and if they got her to the ground she’d be in serious trouble.

Suddenly, two of her attackers—one of whom had just hit her hard enough in the mouth to make her bleed—jerked back, their bodies spasming as though they were having some sort of fit. Then two more did the same. What was left of the gang around her stopped their assault on her to step back.

Finley shook her head to clear the ringing in it and lifted her hand to her mouth before raising her gaze. What she saw was enough to make her grin—despite her split lip.

Emily stood but a few feet away, hands out from her sides. She wore gloves with metal fingertips, which sparked and crackled in the sudden silence.

“Back off,” she snarled. “Or I’ll give a bit of this to the rest of ye.”

Finley could have hugged her—if she didn’t think she’d end up like the droolers in the street. Plus, Emily looked mad—really mad.

“The lot of ye ought to be ashamed of yourselves.” Her voice was strong and clear, despite a tremor of emotion, her accent strong. “Look at you. You left Ireland to escape the violence and troubles there, and now see what you’ve become—bullies who’d gang up on a girl only looking for information. Cowards who think with their fists rather than the minds God gave ’em. If your ancestors could see what you’ve done to the name and pride of Ireland on this land, they’d weep in their graves.”

A wave of shame washed over Finley, and there wasn’t even a drop of Irish blood in her veins. She glanced around at those who would have beaten her to death just a few moments ago and saw the guilt in their faces.

Emily glared at them; her eyes, which could never seem to decide if they were blue or green, sparkled with anger. “I’ve never been more ashamed than I am right now. You disgrace our homeland.”

Not even the formidable Miss Clarke—a governess Finley had once punched in the mouth—had ever reduced people to such a glum, self-loathing mass as Emily just had, with her impassioned words and sparking fingers.

“Dalton likes to watch the fights at O’Dooley’s,” the dark girl told them, as she stepped forward to stand between the girls and the crowd. She directed her attention at Finley, despite Emily’s laying low of the mob. “There’s one tonight. That’s where you’ll find him. But take care, there’s been a high-and-mighty feller sniffin’ around after him, as well. He’ll be well protected.”

Finley didn’t glance at Emily for fear of tipping anyone off that they were well acquainted with this “high-and-mighty feller.” It had to be Griffin.

Feline eyes raked over her. “Word is Dalton likes rough girls.”

Finley grinned, well aware that there was blood in her mouth. “Then he ought to love me.”

* * *

When they were back at the hotel—having snuck in through the back entrance so Finley didn’t have to walk through the foyer in her ripped and bloodstained clothes—Finley made Emily promise not to breathe a word of what had happened in Five Points to Griffin, if their paths crossed. Especially not about the fight that evening.

“You’ll tell him, right?” the redhead asked once they reached their floor. She followed Finley to her room.

Finley glanced at her out of the corner of her eye as she slipped her key into the lock. “Sure. Nice work with those conductive gloves.”

“People think they can hurt me because I’m small. I’m not going to let anyone hurt me again.” There was something in her eyes that made Finley want to hug her, but think better of it.

“Fair enough.” She knew better than to ask. Emily would share her secrets when and if she was ready.

“When are you going to tell him?” Emily demanded, changing the subject as Finley opened the door.

“Maybe when he barges in here and announces that he and Sam are attending a fight tonight and that it’s no place for girls.” She knew better than to hope that Griffin hadn’t found out about O’Dooley’s.

Emily scowled, wrinkling her little, freckled nose. “But he knows you can look after yourself.”

“Mmm, but he’s miffed at me right now.” Her own ire rose. “Maybe I won’t tell him at all. Won’t that stick a bee in his bonnet if you and I show up and do what he and Sam can’t?” She flashed a grin at the other girl.

Emily raised a brow—a wealth of warning in that simple gesture. “This is about helping Jasper, not you sticking it to Griffin. Why’s he all scurvy with you, anyway?”

Finley gestured toward the dresser and the vase of flowers there. “They’re from Jack.”

“Oh.” Emily’s big eyes widened even more as she studied the arrangement of roses. “They’re beautiful. How did he know where to send them?”

Finley chuckled, even though the situation really wasn’t that funny. “Griffin assumes he went through all manner of trouble tracking me down. Knowing Jack he simply grinned at one of the housemaids. He probably wanted to needle Griff. Regardless, it wasn’t meant as a romantic gesture.”

“They look pretty romantic to me,” Emily replied, slightly awed as she lowered her face to smell the beautiful blooms.