At one time it had been easy to pick a lock—they were practically all the same, and a master key was as good as gold. Then people starting taking their home security more seriously—a ring of body snatchers who weren’t too picky about whether or not their victims were already dead when they set upon them would do that—and locks became more intricate. Now there were punch cards and clockwork mazes, secret codes and what have you.

Fortunately, the one on this door was a simple clockwork piece. Jack could have picked it himself, but the benefit of being the one running the show meant not getting the knees of your trousers dirty.

There was a noise beside him—a muffled sliding sound. Frowning, Jack turned his head. Had it come from inside the crate? He listened again, but all he heard was the gentle clicks of Toby’s tools, and Philippe singing a French song under his breath.

“We’re in,” Toby crowed as he pushed the door open.

Jack clapped him on the back. “Well done, mate. Let’s go.” He could hear footsteps approaching, some of which did not sound human but more like the clang of metal on stone. Had their pursuers caught up to them?

Philippe pushed the trolley over the threshold with Toby holding the door. Jack followed, catching the door before it closed all the way. Through a slit no wider than his index finger, he watched as two men and an automaton appeared on the platform. He didn’t recognize them, but they certainly looked like men on a mission.

“Where do you think they went?” one asked.

The shorter one glanced toward the track. “Probably caught the train.”

“And leave that remarkable carriage? I wouldn’t.”

“Well, they’re not here. I don’t see them on the track—they wouldn’t have gotten far. They’re limited to the public areas. They must have taken the train.”

Jack stifled a chuckle. These two weren’t dressed well enough to be aristocracy, but they were gently bred all the same. Upper class, perhaps. They were the sort who naturally assumed everyone played by the same set of rules as they.

“Well, they’ll be coming back for that carriage, so I say we watch that. We can always follow them. We have to get that crate. If it falls into the wrong hands...”

The smaller man nodded. “I know, my friend. I know. Come, let’s find a porter or station worker—someone might have seen them.”

He’d heard enough. Jack carefully closed the door and turned to his companions. “Philippe, you have to get up top and move the carriage immediately. Hide it out of the way.” It was what they should have done to begin with, but there was no time for recriminations now. They had wrongly assumed their pursuers were no longer a threat, or if they were, that they wouldn’t think to look behind the station buildings for their vehicle.

“D’accord. When and where shall we meet?”

“Thirty minutes, outside that hotel a few blocks down—the one where you met Mariska.”

At the mention of his fiancée’s name, Philippe smiled dreamily. “She picked my pocket. A good choice. I will meet you there.”

The Frenchman made his escape through another door, one that led into the maintained areas of the station. Jack and Toby followed him in, but when Philippe veered right, his companions kept going straight.

“Who do you reckon those blokes were?” Toby asked as they steered the crate down a corridor just barely wide enough for it.

“No idea. No one I ever wants to meet again, though.”

“Are we delivering this thing into the wrong hands, Jackey-boy?”

“Dunno that eever. Don’t much care at the moment.”

“Aye, understood. Is this the door?”

It was. Marked with just a number, the door was like all the rest, but it opened into a room with another door that led below the tracks, to the catacombs and tunnels below.

Going down stairs with the bloody cart was not easy, but they managed it in a few short minutes. The spot where they were to leave it was just feet away. Toby tipped the trolley when they got there, and Jack eased the crate onto the dirt floor.

There was that noise again—coming from inside the crate.

“Did you hear that?” Toby asked, glancing about.

Jack nodded but didn’t speak. Frowning, he reached out his right hand and rapped his knuckles once against the side of the crate. A second later he could have sworn something in the crate had knocked back.

This time he tapped out a pattern—a rhythm. There was a moment of silence, and then the same pattern was echoed back to him.

“What the devil?” Toby’s eyes were larger than saucers.

“Grab that pry bar, my friend.” It was luck to find one nearby, but that didn’t really surprise him. Good fortune seemed to follow him, and he was going to take full advantage of it while he could.

Toby snatched up the old, rusty bar and handed it to him. Quickly, Jack shoved it under the lip of the crate top and pulled down. There was a tearing—splintering—sound, and then the top of the crate popped open.

Jack looked inside.

Bloody hell.

Chapter 4

Toby looked inside, as well. “Sweet God!” He jumped back, face white with horror.

Jack’s attention drifted back to the contents of the crate.

At first glance it was difficult to tell what it was. Metal covered part of it. It was dirty, and looked as though it had been in this crate for a very long time. That thought disgusted him. It was cruel and barbaric.

It made a noise, but no words came out—just groaning. It was probably his imagination but it sounded like “Help me.”

“What is it?” Toby demanded.

“A girl. Somewhat.”

It was an image he would carry with him for the rest of his life. It... She stared up at him with one eye—the other was either destroyed or was still being made. Her face was half flesh, half metal, as was the rest of her. He could see her internal organs through the gaps in her metal ribs where tissue had yet to knit itself together.

She wasn’t human, but she wasn’t entirely machine either. How was such a creature even possible? And why, when he looked at her, did she remind him of Finley? Finley was beautiful. This was not. Still, his heart kicked hard inside his chest when he looked at her.

Fingers that were metal bone covered with scraps of flesh reached for him, grabbing his hand before he could jerk it away. Jack braced himself, prepared to be disgusted. Instead, her skin was warm, the exposed metal cool and smooth. Her grip was tight—any tighter and she’d break his hand.

She made that noise again—the one that sounded like a plea for help.

“That’s it,” Toby said. “I’m leaving.”

Every moment spent staring at the poor creature was another moment closer to being caught or something going wrong. Jack managed to pull his fingers free. He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t do anything.

He shut the lid.

* * *

He was at a party at Piccadilly Circus—a masked event much like the one he’d taken Finley to some time ago. He was dressed in head-to-toe black, wearing a raven mask that covered the top portion of his face.

On a nearby stage, a woman danced with fire as though she was made of it herself. On another, a man swallowed swords, and on one more, a man and woman bent themselves into contortions that shouldn’t be possible. They made it look like a beautiful ballet, intimate. Every moment was slow and controlled.

Music swelled, bodies moved and swayed. Heat rose as colors blurred.

Then he saw her. She stood apart from the crowd—she had no choice. There was no hope that a girl such as her could ever be part of a crowd. She was tall and slender, with curves in all the right places. She was dressed in a gown that started out black at the bottom but gave way to shades of red, orange and gold as it rose up around her. It draped and clung—provocative but still somehow demure. Her fair skin glowed. Exposed shoulders gave way to a long neck and firm jaw. Her lips were full beneath a mask that looked as though it was made of pure flame. Her hair—a riot of rich copper curls—only added to the image of her as a creature of fire. Her mask was similar to his—birdlike.

When she turned her head to meet his gaze, Jack’s heart slammed to a hard stop. A phoenix. That’s what she was—a gorgeous mythical creature rising from the ashes. Her eyes were amber, molten and questioning, like Finley’s, but not Finley’s.

He moved toward her, unable to stop his feet. Normally he let young ladies come to him and saved his pursuit for older women who wouldn’t expect more than what he was willing to give, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

When he reached her, he held out his hand to her. She took it, her long fingers soft and strong in his. He led her onto the dance floor, where couples twirled around them. His hand pressed against the small of her back as her fingers slid up to his shoulder. Jack shivered despite the heat in the room.

God, she was like looking at the sun after too many dark nights. She smelled of amber, of warmth and sweetness. It made him a little dizzy and he didn’t care. He liked it, even though part of him was terrified. Dangerous, that’s what she was. Dangerous and so very, very tempting.

She danced as if her feet didn’t touch the ground, all grace and ease. God, she was incredible. He could kiss her right there, not caring who saw, not caring if she slapped his face after. It would be worth it just to taste her lips.

As though she could read his mind, she moved closer to him, their bodies touching. She really was a creature of flame—and she could burn him to ash if she wished. Molten eyes stared up at him, inviting and unashamed. A soft flush filled her smooth cheeks.

“You’re beautiful,” Jack murmured. “The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. What’s your name?”

She opened her mouth and made a terrible moaning sound. “Help me.”

Jack awoke with a gasp, lurching upright in bed. He was drenched with sweat, heart pounding.

“Jack?” came a sleepy voice. What was her name again? “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” he replied, throwing back the covers. There’d be no more sleep for him, and dawn wasn’t far away. He grabbed his trousers and pulled them on. “Nothing at all.”

He left the house a few moments later and went to the small shed for his velocycle—a sleek two-wheeled vehicle that could weave in and out of traffic with ease and outrun anything that challenged it. A hat was useless on the bloody thing, so he tied a piratelike scarf around his head to keep his hair tamed and pulled on a pair of goggles. Then he started the machine and took off down the street as fast as the velocycle would go.

St. Pancras station was busier than it had been a few hours ago but still relatively empty. Unfortunately, there were more staff than patrons. It didn’t matter—he knew how to get in now, having escaped it earlier. He easily found the door through which he and Toby had left, and he picked the lock to gain entry once more.

Down dark steps he ran, down to that dank, bleak place where he had left the crate.

Left her.

He raced into the catacombs as if those hellish hounds were after him again. Or maybe the flames he felt were just remnants of his dream—of her.

Jack stopped.

The crate was gone. Frantic, panting for breath, his gaze scanned the area. This was the right spot. Wasn’t it? No, it was. It was. He had left it right here.

There was nothing—not even an impression in the dust and dirt. It was as though he’d never been here—or something had taken care to make it look that way.

Where had they taken it? Who had taken it? There wasn’t so much as a track—not even a footprint.

Jack sagged against the rough stone wall, folding his arms over his chest. The scent of amber teased him like a cruel joke. Was it real or just his imagination?

She was gone. Lost. Whatever happened to her now was out of his hands.

And entirely his fault.

* * *

Payment from Abernathy arrived later that day via messenger. Jack didn’t even open it. He just tossed the package on his desk and poured himself a whiskey. He wasn’t much of a drinker, preferring to keep his wits about him, but this was one of those times that getting pissy-eyed drunk appealed to him.

He had returned home from the station ill-tempered and guilt-ridden. The woman who had been in his bed was gone, leaving a thank-you note on his pillow. He tossed it in the fire without reading it, and then went to take a very hot shower. He scrubbed until his skin felt raw and the water turned icy. Only then did he dry off and pull on clean clothes.