“Funny,” he replied dryly. “I wouldn’t do that to a book.”
Finley blinked. Sometimes she and Sam were uncomfortably alike. “I didn’t know you read.”
He shot her a sour glance. “Emily helps me with the big words.”
Heat flooded her face. Sometimes she deliberately needled Sam, poked at him like a slumbering bear, but it was never her intent to offend him. Not really. “I mean, I didn’t think you enjoyed books.”
He shrugged before making his way to one of the shelves. “Depends on the book. Em likes to read, and she likes it when we can talk about a story. I like making her happy, so I read. Jane Austen’s not exactly my cuppa, but that Dickens bloke is all right enough. No more Shakespeare, though. Not even for her. That’s just rhyming nonsense to me.”
She couldn’t help but grin—and it was all right because he wasn’t looking. “The things we do for love, what?”
Sam pulled a leather-bound book from a shelf by his head, his expression droll. “Like risking your own death? That’s mad.”
“You’re a fine one to talk. If the suit fit you, you and I would be duking it out to see who got to go after him.”
He paused, then turned to face her, certainty etched into his rugged features. His dark gaze was blunt and clear. “No, we wouldn’t.”
Right. Because, if it was Emily who was missing, she wouldn’t even try to stop him from going after her. In fact, when Emily was kidnapped, Finley had known Sam had to take the lead on bringing her home. She hadn’t dreamed of getting in his way, even though Em was her best friend and she was worried sick about her. She played her own part, but let Sam do what he felt was best.
The big lad’s understanding of this made her turn her gaze away, to the shelves of books before them. She didn’t like that her feelings for Griffin were so transparent. It didn’t matter that they shared a bedroom, feelings were so personal. Private. Love made a person terribly vulnerable, and vulnerability was a state Finley despised. That he understood this made her want to punch him, and then perhaps give him a hug for being more of a dear than he had any right. “Why did you bring me here, Sam?”
He grabbed another book from a higher shelf—one she would have required a step stool to reach—and took them to the large desk at the front of the room. “These are books on the Aether.”
Finley was skeptical. “The Aether was only discovered a decade ago, give or take. Those books look ancient.” Really, one of them looked about ready to fall apart from its bindings.
“This one is,” he replied, pushing the less battered one toward her. “The other was written a century ago by a husband and wife who interviewed people who died and came back to life. Griff and I used to play with it as kids, that’s why it’s in such a state. Boys aren’t taught to be gentle.”
She didn’t care what boys were taught. Girls were lucky if they were taught to read. “I don’t want to read about people who resisted going into the light, or saw God or all their ancestors. I want to save Griffin, and you’re wasting my time.” So much for him being a dear.
“Remember when you told me I was smarter than I looked?”
She might have done that more than once. It certainly sounded like something she might say. “Yes.”
“Well, you’re dumber than you look. The Aether is where the dead go on the first leg of their journey. This book details what those people who came back experienced there. The Aetheric dimension is one of energy, and there are a lot of strange and dangerous things there for people who don’t belong.”
He was right: she was dumb. She should have thought of that—she’d seen enough bizarre things from the Aether to know better. “Like people whose souls are still attached to their bodies.”
Sam nodded. “This is what you’re going to be doing until Emily sends for you. When you go in there, you’re going to be as prepared as you can be. I want both you and Griff back safely.”
A lump settled in her throat, but she covered it with humor. “Aw, Sam. You must really like me.”
One of his dark brows arched, but his black eyes sparkled. “Not usually, but I do care about you, so don’t get permanently killed in there, all right?”
Finley blinked. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Sam laughed. “I wish I had a photograph of the look on your face right now.”
She shook her head. “Just wasn’t expecting such a declaration, Samson.”
“You have a habit of calling me by Biblical names. Do you find me legendary?”
“In your own mind.” Real annoyance poked at the edges of her mind. “All right, crack open those books. Griffin’s waiting.”
He did as she commanded, and together they skimmed through the narratives until they found the meat of each account.
“This one talks about the Aether demons,” she announced, full of surprise. “I thought Garibaldi made those.”
“Wraiths have been around for a long time,” Sam informed her, turning a page.
“How do you know that?”
“I started reading these books when we got back from New York, more so after we tangled with Garibaldi last time. The demons are nasty things—all hate and anger—ranging in size from small spheres to man-size.”
The ones they’d already faced hadn’t been that big, but they did a lot of damage. They had cut Griffin up pretty badly. What kind of damage would something bigger do? They could be cutting him right now. Flaying him. Tearing him apart.
Fear gripped Finley hard, crushed her lungs and stopped her heart. God, she couldn’t breathe. “I’m going to be too late, aren’t I? Garibaldi’s probably already killed him.”
Sam looked at her with an expression that offered no hope, no sympathy, but neither was it morose. “He’ll be hurt, but you’ll find him. The bastard’s not going to kill him quickly.”
His words were as effective as a dagger to the gut and just as painful. He was right. The Machinist would torture Griffin patiently—he was too caught up in his desire for revenge to rush things now. He’d want to make Griffin suffer. In a way that was good, because they had time to find him alive, but who knew what sort of shape he’d be in when she found him. It wasn’t just his spirit in the Aether, it was his physical self, and every injury would show. Would scar.
A large hand settled over hers and squeezed. She hadn’t realized how cold she was until that moment. “Griffin is the strongest person I know—stronger than you or me. You will find him, and the two of you will send Garibaldi to hell, where he belongs.” Finley’s gaze lifted to his. There was an awful lot of determination in the black depths of Sam’s eyes. “I mean it. You’re going to destroy him, you understand me? And you’re going to do that for me.”
Out of all of them Sam had the most personal vendetta against The Machinist. The man had manipulated him, kidnapped the girl he loved and now had his best friend. The man was also responsible for the automaton that had ripped Sam apart. Maybe they weren’t really friends, but they were family now, and Finley would get revenge for Sam.
“I will,” she promised.
He squeezed her hand before letting go, and they went back to the books. It was difficult to concentrate when she kept waiting for Emily to come for her, but Finley did the best she could. She needed to learn as much about the Aether as she could.
“Someone should send for Ipsley,” she said, the thought suddenly occurring to her. Ipsley