The Girl in the Steel Corset

Chapter 22



Garibaldi spat a mouthful of blood on the dirty floor near where Griffin lay. “Just admit defeat, boy.”

Slowly, painfully, Griffin rose to his knees. “No.” He glanced toward his friends and saw them in the midst of destroying the Victoria automaton. He saw Emily and Finley hit the floor and prayed they were both all right. “It’s over, Garibaldi.”

The Italian glanced where Griffin had and saw what had become of his invention. His face contorted into a mask of rage and he lashed out, landing a savage kick to Griffin’s chest. “You’ve ruined everything!”

The guard protected Griffin from the worst of the blow, but it still knocked the breath out of him. He fell to his side on the floor, gasping. He didn’t have time to recover before he was grasped by the lapels of his coat, pulled to his feet by the infuriated madman.

“I’m going to rip your heart out,” Garibaldi seethed, spit flying as he finally went completely mad. His obsession with proving the usefulness of Organites finally broke his mind as he saw all his work in ruins. “I’m going to send you to your mommy and daddy in pieces.”

It was the thought of his parents that cleared Griffin’s mind. He thought of them and how much he’d loved them, how much he wanted to make them proud. It was almost as though he could see them, standing there behind Garibaldi.

Wait. They were there. He really could see them.

Griffin glanced around. The Aether. He was accessing the Aether without consciously reaching for it. It was all around him, like beautiful shimmering light. And there, attached to his parents by an ugly, pulsing black cord of energy, was Leonardo Garibaldi. He couldn’t stand that taint touching his parents. The cord extended to him as well, thicker and blacker. There was no goodness in Garibaldi anymore—no lightness or purity of soul. He had been corrupted by his own righteousness and was something dark and nasty now—so much so he glowed with it.

“What are you staring at?” Garibaldi demanded, shaking him. He punched him again.

Griffin tasted blood in his mouth. He shook his head to clear it. “My parents,” he replied. “They’re here.”

Garibaldi sneered at him, his expression nothing but murderous hatred. “Give them my regards.” The air around them shimmered, and Griffin saw the runes on the villain’s metal hand begin to glow. It made sense for him to have the ancient symbols, having been a part of Griff’s parents’ team before he betrayed them. For a moment their forms dimmed—all but disappeared—and he felt his own defenses slip.

Something sharp and hot thrust into his side just as he reached out for more power and let the Aether fill him again. Garibaldi held him with one hand now and Griff looked down to see what was causing that awful fire in his gut.

The handle of a dagger protruded from just beneath the edge of his chest guard. A few inches higher and Garibaldi wouldn’t have that triumphant sneer on his face. If Griffin had only been better prepared, stronger, he would have sensed the danger before it happened. The villain had bested him. “See you in hell, Your Grace.” Garibaldi shoved him aside.

Griffin staggered, but he didn’t fall, despite the numbness spreading through his lower limbs. There was more blood in his mouth. The Aether closed around him, like an embrace and he thought he could feel the warm arms of his mother, welcoming him.

He was dying.

“No,” he said hoarsely. “You won’t see me there, you son of a bitch.” It would not end this way. Garibaldi would imprison his mother if Griff couldn’t defeat him.

Griffin closed his eyes and mentally opened a door in his mind, in his soul. With joyful abandon, he let the Aether in. He let it fill him until he could feel it seeping into his veins. He couldn’t take much more.

The entire warehouse shuddered, bits of debris falling from the ceiling.

“Griffin!” It was Finley’s voice through his earpiece that pulled him back. He heard her anguished cry and realized that he didn’t want to leave his friends. He didn’t want to leave her. And if he let go now, they would perish with him. With every last ounce of his strength, he pulled the Aether to him, coiling it, gathering it. He had never done this before—never felt like he had some control over the great rush of power. It had always felt as though it controlled him, but at this moment, he wasn’t afraid of it.

He looked down and saw the most beautiful glow surrounding his body. It was his aura, bright with power. He had taken so much of the energy into him he burned like a candle in the Aetheric plane.

He flung out his hand, sending a bolt of energy into Garibaldi’s chest. The villain flew back, hitting the floor. More Aether wanted to pour out, as well, but he stopped it.

Garibaldi must be wearing some sort of armor, too, for he recovered from the blast quickly. He pointed his metal hand toward Griff and it began to glow, light dancing along the fingers like lightning in the sky. He had put on that odd crownlike device from their previous encounter.

An Aether generator. Some of the more expensive Aether dens had the machines rather than using mediums and spiritualists. The machines could access the Aetheric plane and gather energy, but they were often unstable and could explode if they absorbed too much—the Aether was not constant.

Suddenly light flew from Garibaldi’s metal fingers straight at Griffin. It hit him just below the chest guard—his opponent knowing exactly where to strike. But instead of knocking him down, the energy joined his own and filled him, stretching his skin until he thought he might burst into a million pieces.

He had to let it out, but the Aether was the only thing keeping him on his feet. Griffin placed one hand on the wall to support himself, the other he pointed at Garibaldi to direct the dark energy that filled him like life itself.

Then he let it go.

The blast sent his nemesis skidding across the floor until he crashed into the remains of several of his own machines. Energy skipped over the automatons, making them jerk even though they had been powered down. Garibaldi’s limbs twitched and he cried out in torment.

At that moment, Griffin knew he could kill the man if he so desired. He could destroy him just as Garibaldi had destroyed his parents. But killing him would give him greater access to the Aether—and Griffin’s mother.

The decision was easier than he thought. He lowered his hand, breaking the flow between himself and The Machinist. Garibaldi continued to writhe on the floor, the Aether still swarming him despite Griffin’s release.

Griffin closed his eyes, and could feel heat behind his eyelids. He had never absorbed so much before. He placed both palms on the wall now, and mentally pushed. Aether drained from him into the wall and spread through the beams of the building.

Plaster began to rain from the ceiling and the entire warehouse began to tremble, then shudder.

Griffin sagged, but someone caught him. It was Sam. “Hold it together, my friend,” Sam said. “Just till I get you out of here.”

Griffin nodded, afraid that if he opened his mouth the Aether would pour out and kill them all.

Sam picked him up like a child, mindful of the dagger sticking out of him. Griffin’s vision was narrowing, become nothing more than light, but he saw Finley run over to Garibaldi and kick him—hard. Then she ran after the rest of them and took Emily’s limp frame from Jasper. They picked up speed then, Emily’s cat leading the way up the stairs and out of the trembling warehouse.

Once outside, Griffin struck his hand against Sam’s chest, gesturing to the ground. Thankfully, his surly friend didn’t argue. He set Griffin on his feet, keeping his big hands close in case Griff fell.

The numbness in his limbs was spreading. Soon, he’d lose consciousness. Griffin placed both palms on the rough outer wall of the warehouse and pushed once more with his mind—his soul—letting go of the Aether inside him.

The building shuddered once and then imploded with a loud cracking noise. The warehouse collapsed, wood splintering as if it was nothing more than substantial than toothpicks beneath a giant boot. The force of it was so strong it knocked Griffin to the ground, where the pain in his gut came rushing back and he gasped, writhing with the agony.

His parents hovered over him, their ghostly faces etched with worry. They reached for him, and he felt his soul lift as though to join them.

Then everything went black.



There wasn’t time to get Griffin home. Emily was also still unconscious and they had to get both her and Griffin somewhere safe, fast. Already they could hear the sirens of approaching Peelers. There was no hope that someone wouldn’t report a collapsing warehouse, even at this time of night. The noise it made, people probably thought London was being invaded.

“Whitechapel,” Finley said, making a decision she hoped was the right one. She got Sam to put Griffin on her cycle while Jasper took Emily on hers—along with the cat. Sam held Emily while a quick as lightning Jasper hitched his cycle to Emily’s and Griffin’s to Sam’s.

She led the way, tearing through the city streets at full speed as much as she could. When she arrived at the familiar Whitechapel address, she was relieved to see a light from one of the windows. Good thing, because she’d been prepared to kick the door in if no one was there.

As it was, she had to have Jasper knock on the door for her because she had Griffin in her arms. Sam now held Emily, the big mechanical cat at his side. It was like a real-life pet, determined not to leave its mistress’s side.

Jack Dandy opened the door, his usual cocky grin on his face when he spotted Finley, but that grin faded when he saw Griffin and Emily. He simply stood back and held the door for them to come in.

Finley took Griffin upstairs and the rest followed.

“First on the right,” Dandy said to Sam at the top of the stairs. Finley had already taken Griffin into the room she’d slept in her one night under this roof. She had Emily’s medical bag over her shoulder, and as soon as she put Griffin on the bed, she tore open the satchel with shaking hands.

Jack was immediately beside her. One of his long, strong hands closed over hers. “I’ve seen worse, Treasure. It don’t look as though the blade is positioned properly to have hit anyfin’ important.”

“How do you know?” Finley demanded, trying very hard not to cry.

Jack squeezed her hands. “I’ve ’ad me some experience with knives and the like. Got a scar on me own hip very much like the one ’is Grace is going to have. Now, what do you ’ave in there for stitchin’ ’im up?”

When it came down to it, Finley trusted Jack—perhaps not with her virtue, but certainly with Griffin’s life. Jack was smart enough to know having a duke in his debt could only be a good thing.

She helped, holding Griffin as Jack removed the blade, keeping pressure on the wound as it bled. He used the Listerine from Emily’s bag to clean the wound, which eased Finley’s mind greatly. If he knew to do what Emily would, then he must indeed know what he was doing. His stitches were small, quick and perfect.

Afterward, Jack gathered up the bloodstained linens. “Stay as long as you like,” he told her. “I’ll be ’eading out soon. Business and all that.”

Finley didn’t want to know, but she went to the tall, lanky young man and wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him. “Thank you,” she said, tears leaking out of her eyes. “Thank you so much.”

A gentle and hesitant hand came down on her back. “Don’t cry, Treasure. You’ll get me all wet and then I’ll melt. I’m made of sugar, don’t you know.”

She laughed at that and released him, swiping at her eyes with the backs of her wrists—the only parts of her hands that weren’t bloodstained. “I forgot,” she said.

Jack smiled crookedly at her, his dark eyes bright with something she didn’t want to identify. “I’m thinking that’s going to be a five-course dinner,” he informed her. “It could take the better part of the evening.”

Finley nodded, feeling so much better she didn’t care that he was extorting more time out of her. It was worth it. “Sounds fair,” she replied.

With that, Jack tipped an imaginary hat to her and left the room. Once he was gone, Finley took the atomizer of Organites from Emily’s bag, peeled back the bandage on Griffin’s side and applied a generous amount of the earthy smelling spray to Griffin’s wound. She even made herself pull at the sides of the wound so some could trickle between the stitches and raw flesh.

Now, all she could do was wait. She pulled a blanket from the foot of the bed over him and sat down on the edge of the mattress to watch him. The bruises on his face were finally beginning to fade, leaving a faint greenish-yellow cast to his skin.

Picking up his left hand, she held it in hers, ignoring the blood under her fingernails. It was his blood. She tried to concentrate solely on him, not on the horror of the evening, or the relief of knowing it was over. She didn’t want to picture that horrifying automaton Queen Victoria bleeding, or how she’d felt as though the world had ended when she saw Griffin with the blade sticking out of him.

He had brought an entire building down with his power. He’d buried the automaton queen and all her minions. He’d undoubtedly killed and buried Leonardo Garibaldi, as well. Though, no one in their right mind would call it murder.

Then again, no one would ever know the truth of what had happened there. It would be months, even years before they discovered what was left of The Machinist and his plans underneath the warehouse floor.

Why had Garibaldi done it? Just because Victoria hadn’t thought the world should know about the Organites? Because Griffin’s parents—and her father—had agreed? Or was it for revenge because those three people continued their work with Organites while he could not? Maybe it was because of his lost hand. Or, perhaps it was all of the above. Garibaldi had obviously gone mad a long time ago. Who knew his true reasoning?

She was glad it was done, and now their lives didn’t have to revolve around solving this mystery or stopping the villain. Right now all that mattered was Emily and Griffin being all right. Everything else was just frosting on the cake.

She just hoped Jack was right and that Griffin would heal. Because she didn’t know what she would do if the only person who ever demanded her complete trust, and offered his in return, died.



It was Sam who thought to send word to Cordelia that they had defeated Garibaldi. He didn’t tell her about Griffin’s injury or where they were, the former because he didn’t want to worry her and the latter because, despite the fact that he was nothing more than a common criminal, Jack Dandy had taken them in and helped them when they most needed it. A good turn was a good turn as far as Sam was concerned.

He was sitting at Emily’s bedside, trying to stay awake by reading one of the dime novels he loved so much about cowboys in the American West. Odd that he found that culture so amazing yet could cheerfully strangle Jasper, though the cowboy had proven himself a friend, as well.

His eyelids were beginning to droop. He was so bloody tired. Now that the battle was over he felt as though he could sleep for a week. All he needed was to know that Emily and Griffin were fine, then he could sleep.

“Sam?”

His eyes snapped up and he pitched forward in his chair, suddenly very much awake.

“Em.” She looked like an angel against the stark white sheets, though it was doubtful an angel would ever step foot in Jack Dandy’s house. Her ropey hair was spread out around her, and her eyes as bright as jewels gazed up at him, clear and free of pain.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Like an elephant stepped on me,” she replied with a smile. “It’s not so bad, but my head…” She frowned. “My head feels so strange.”

He inched forward on the chair. “Do you need me to call for a surgeon?”

She shook her head, stopping him from getting up by grasping his hand in hers. “I don’t need a surgeon.”

“How do you know?”

She lifted her gaze to his. “I just…know. Sam, I think interacting with the Victoria automaton’s advanced engine might have changed me, made me think faster—better.”

“Bloody hell,” he whispered. “I couldn’t keep up with you before. You’re not going to want to talk to me at all if you’re even smarter now.”

She smiled at him, and squeezed his hand. “I think that’s one of the nicest and dumbest things you’ve ever said to me. Of course I want to talk to you. There’s no one I’d rather talk to than you, Sam.”

It was like someone lit a candle inside him, a small flickering flame that warmed him from the inside out. “Not even Griffin?”

“Especially not him. Faith, he thinks he’s smarter than everyone else.”

They chuckled over that and she looked around the room, realizing that they were not at home. “Where are we?”

“You’ll never believe it.” He leaned forward to whisper, “Finley brought us to Jack Dandy’s.”

And then Sam heard a voice in his ear, “I can hear you, you big dolt.” It was Finley, and of course she could hear him, she had the ears of…well, he didn’t know what. And he could hear her because he still had his earpiece in.

“Stop listening,” he hissed, and pulled the little metal device from his ear. He would have crushed it had Emily not made it.

“How’s Griffin?” Emily asked, still smiling over his exchange with Finley. “Did he defeat Garibaldi?”

Sam swallowed. “He did, but Garibaldi stabbed him. It was pretty bad. Dandy and Finley fixed him up. She remembered to use your ‘beasties’ on him, as well—not in front of Dandy, though.”

Emily pushed herself up against the pillows. “How bad?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s still out. He brought the whole building down, Em. I wish you could have seen it. He brought it down like it was made of toothpicks, or sand.”

“I would have liked to see that.” Her brow puckered. “Was Garibaldi inside?”

Sam nodded.

“Good.” Her face took on a tight expression. “I never thought I’d ever say that there was a person who the world would be better off without, but The Machinist’s one of ’em. Though, if I know Griffin, he’s bound to carry some guilt for it.”

Before Sam could agree with her, there was a knock against the open door frame. Sam turned to see Jasper standing on the threshold. Of course he would show up, just as he was about to tell Emily how glad he was that she was unhurt, that he didn’t know what he would do without her.

“Miss Emily, you are a sight for sore eyes,” he told her, and tipped his cowboy hat. “I’m glad to see you awake.”

“Thank you, Jasper. It does me good to see you upright and looking none the worse for wear, as well.”

Sam frowned. “Did you want something, Renn, or are you just going to stand there all night?” Emily pinched him—hard. He flashed a glance at her, she did not look impressed.

Jasper shrugged. “Just thought y’all might like to know that Griffin’s awake.” Then he turned on his heel and left.

“You’re so mean to him,” Emily scolded lightly.

Sam made a face, but he didn’t say anything. He especially did not apologize. “You want to go see Griff?”

She nodded and he stood and helped her out of bed. She had all her clothes on so she didn’t need to stop for anything. They walked down the hall to the other bedroom where Finley and Jasper sat on the side of the bed and Griffin lay against the pillows, pale but awake.

“It’s good to see you all,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I thought I might not ever have that pleasure again. Even your ugly mug looks pretty to me, Sam.”

Sam grinned. “Who do you think lugged you out of there, Your Grace?”

“Thank you.” Griffin was serious this time. “All of you. Thank you for helping me fight, and thank you for saving my life.”

“It’s what you’d do for us,” Jasper reminded him.

“It’s enough that you’re alive,” Finley told him. Sam noticed that the girl was holding Griffin’s hand in her own and his friend didn’t seem to mind.

“Yes,” Griff agreed. “I hear I have Mr. Dandy to thank for that. Is he here?”

Finley told him that Dandy had left some time ago, but that he’d told them to stay for as long as they needed. Griffin seemed oddly relieved that their host was missing, Sam thought. Kind of like how he felt whenever Jasper Renn wasn’t around. Jealousy, that’s what it was. He never would have thought Griffin capable of such emotion, not when he was born to a position in life that meant he could pretty much have whatever he wanted.

Although, the human heart didn’t come with a price on it.



Two days later, a fully recovered Griffin came down to breakfast to find his friends and aunt gathering. Cordelia poured him a cup of coffee, fluttering over him like a mother hen. She even tried to fix him a plate of food, but he convinced her he could get his own. When he found out whomever it was who told her how badly he’d been hurt, he’d string them up by their toes.

“I just received a note from the Director,” Cordelia told them all once they settled down to eat. “They’ve searched the warehouse. Twenty automatons were accounted for, but Garibaldi and the remains of the Victoria automaton were missing.”

Griffin froze, a knot of dread forming in his chest. “You mean, Garibaldi may still be alive?” He hadn’t wanted to kill him because that would give him better access to the Aether, but hearing the villain might still be alive chilled him.

“It’s unlikely,” Cordelia replied in one of her more soothing tones. “The Director believes Garibaldi had an accomplice, who went into the wreckage shortly after the collapse and got both man and machine out of there. I suspect one of his automatons was still operational and pulled Garibaldi’s body from the building. There’s no way he could have survived what you did to the building, Griffin.”

Griffin shook his head. “Without a body, no one can say for certain The Machinist is dead.” He might come back.

Obviously Cordelia sensed his unease because he soon heard her voice in his head, “Garibaldi is gone, Griffin. He could never have survived what you did to that place You must believe me.”

He smiled at her to show that he did. Of course he believed her. It was just that he’d feel so much better if they had proof. If he could go to the funeral and see Garibaldi in the casket with his own two eyes.

He’d gotten justice for his parents, but it didn’t feel as satisfying as he thought it would, and not just because Garibaldi was missing, but because no matter what he did, he couldn’t bring his parents back. As wealthy and powerful as he was, he was still as helpless as any man.

“And,” Cordelia began, smiling around the table at them as she interrupted his maudlin thoughts, “Her Majesty would like for you all to come to tea at the palace next Wednesday so she can personally thank each and every one of you for sabotaging The Machinist’s plot to replace and possibly kill her.”

“Are we certain that’s what he wanted to do?” Griffin asked. He wasn’t as flabbergasted by the queen’s invitation as the others. “Kill her?”

His aunt nodded. “My friend found bits of notes amongst the papers and blueprints in the warehouse—all of which are on your desk, by the way—that seem to indicate Garibaldi’s plan was to kill the real Victoria and replace her with his metal doppelganger. With his machine in place, he would effectively rule the country, and his revenge for what he considered his monarch’s betrayal would be complete. He had plans to take away the Devonshire mines from Greythorne and make them his own.”

“All of this for the Organites,” Griffin muttered. “So many dead for those strange little creatures.” He would have liked to see Garibaldi just try to take his home away.

“Her Majesty was right to want them kept secret.” Finley turned to him. “Look what they did to Garibaldi.”

“Well, he’s gone now,” Sam said, slathering a thick slice of toast with jam. “And I say good riddance.”

Griffin raised his coffee cup. “Hear, hear.” When everyone went back to talking amongst themselves, he directed his attention at Finley. “Would you care to take a walk with me later? I thought we might go to Hyde Park.” Where they had first met, though he didn’t say that aloud. He also pretended not to notice that everyone at the table was listening with interest, waiting to hear Finley’s reply.

She smiled. “I’d like that. Jasper’s going to teach me more kung fu later, and Emily and I have plans to discuss Da Vinci, but I’m free around two.”

He grinned. Most girls he knew would cancel those other things to conform to his whim, not tell him to wait. He liked it. “Two it is.” He then glanced at Jasper, who had become something of a regular fixture around his house as of late. In fact, they hadn’t continued that conversation Jasper began in his study before Finley interrupted.

They were just finishing up breakfast when a knock sounded upon the front door. A few moments later, Mrs. Dodsworth bustled in, four rough-looking men behind her.

“I told them to wait, Your Grace, but they refused!”

Griffin calmly rose to his feet. “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”

One of the men stepped forward and tipped his hat. “Morning, Your Grace. Sorry to barge in on you like this, but my associates and I are here to arrest Jasper Renn and take him New York City.”

A collective gasp of surprise rose from those around the table.

“What?” Griffin scowled at the man. “On what charges?”

“Murder,” the man replied, his gaze darting from Griffin to Jasper and back again. He offered Griffin a folded and tattered piece of brownish paper. “We don’t want no trouble.”

Griffin opened the paper. It was a Wanted poster, and on it was a good likeness of Jasper, along with the promise of a $5000 reward for whoever brought him in. It looked official.

“America’s laws aren’t law here,” he told the man, thrusting the poster into his hand. “Please leave.”

The man hitched up his gun belt. “I don’t think you understand. We’re not leaving without Renn.”

“Oh, yes, you are,” Finley said, rising to her feet. Sam and Emily stood, as well.

The man laughed and pulled a gun from the holster around his hips. “I got six bullets right here that say we’re taking the boy with us and you’re gonna let us.”

Since the night at the warehouse, the Aether came readily to Griffin—almost too readily. It didn’t overwhelm him as it had when he was younger, but it always seemed to be there, just waiting for his call. Right now he was going to call it to knock this yokel on his dirty arse.

“I’ll go.”

All heads turned. Jasper stood and faced the men with an expression Griffin could only term resigned. It was that expression that told him that this was what Jasper had wanted to talk about. He was in trouble and Griffin had been too caught up in his own affairs to see that.

“Griff, don’t do anything.” Jasper moved toward the Americans, eyeing them with an unflinching gaze. “I’ll go willingly, just put the gun away.”

The man hesitated for a moment, then relented. “Get the cuffs on him.”

Griffin couldn’t allow his friend to be taken from his house like a criminal, but Jasper shot him a look that told him to stay out of it. It was also a look of remorse. Rather than endanger his friends, he was going to allow these ruffians to take him back to America where he’d stand trial—if he lived that long—for murder.

Griffin swallowed, hard. It was difficult for him not to try to take control of this situation, not to order the men out of his house. Very, very difficult to allow Jasper to make his own decisions. Even the others didn’t want that. Finley was one of the more vocal as they clapped irons around Jasper’s wrists.

“You can’t let them do this!” Finley cried at him.

Griffin looked at her. “It’s Jasper’s choice, not ours.”

Voices rose again, arguing with him, but it was Jasper’s that cut through the cacophony. “Stop!”

They all looked at him.

“Y’all have been real good to me—the best friends I’ve ever had—but a man can outrun his past only for so long before he’s got to pay for his sins.” His gaze locked with Griffin’s. “Thank you…for everything. Goodbye.” The last was addressed to all of them, though the cowboy’s gaze lingered just an extra half second on Emily, who had tears in her big eyes. Finley, too. Even Cordelia looked saddened.

Griff inclined his head. “Goodbye, Jas.”

They stood in silence as the men led Jasper out of the room, sandwiched between the four of them. It wasn’t until they heard the door shut that everyone turned on him, demanded to know why he hadn’t done something, and what were they going to do now? They couldn’t just let Jasper hang.

“No, we can’t,” Griffin agreed, silencing them. They gaped at him like fish in a bowl. “And we’re not going to.” Lifting his coffee cup, he drained the rest of it, set it down and then began to walk across the room.

“Where are you going?” Sam demanded. Even Sam didn’t want to see Jasper go. That was a pleasant surprise.

“To pack,” Griffin replied. He flashed a grin at Finley, who was staring at him as though he were mad. “How do you feel about taking that walk in New York City?”





Acknowledgments

An author rarely writes a book all on his/her own. There’s usually a put-upon friend who sits and listens while we drone on about our “fascinating” plot, or a spouse who eats takeout more often than either he/she wants. In my case, there are several people who seriously need to be thanked for this book ever finding its way into your fabulous little hands. First of all I need to thank Krista Stroever, editor extraordinaire. When I told Krista I wanted to write League of Extraordinary Gentlemen meets teen X-Men she replied, “Steampunk. Cool.” She treats me like a rock star and I love her to bits for it. I’m just waiting for her to get a restraining order!



Also, I have to give a shout-out to three fabulous writer friends who held my hand through this process and provided much need pep talks and rational thinking when I’d lost all of mine. So Jesse Petersen, Colleen Gleason and Sophie Jordan—you are the best girlfriends I could ask for. I just wish I could see more of you.

Thanks to Nancy Yost for selling this book and for years of invaluable guidance. Miriam Kriss, thanks for being your rockin’ self and not laughing at my Yoda backpack. The Force is strong in you.

More thanks have to go out to my friends for under standing when I can’t come out to play, or when I’m crazier than usual. Thank you to my family for being more incredible characters than I could ever create (I’m looking at you, Weezie). And thank you to Sarah Rose for reading this book in the early stages and giving me ideas for T-shirts.

Last, but certainly never least, I have to point the spotlight at my husband, Steve, without whom I quite literally could not have written this book. Thank you for your research, your brains, your enthusiasm and tireless support. I don’t have enough words to explain what a huge part you played in this project, which is good because if I did have the words, I’m sure you’d never let me forget them. Most of all, thanks for just being your fabulous self because there’s no one else I’d rather spend the rest of my life laughing with than you.

Oh, and I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge those awkward years I spent between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. I wouldn’t go back to you for any amount of money, but I wouldn’t change you, either. Though, I wouldn’t mind giving you a good slap or two.