Jack hoped King knew that he planned on being part of that process. His girl wasn’t going to marry just any inbred lord. Jack would dig deep into the affairs of every prospect until he found the perfect one. Someone kind, with a good income. Someone with a decent family that would take her in. Someone strong to handle her stubbornness, but gentle enough not to hurt her emotionally. He wouldn’t have to worry about her physical care, not really. She already knew to break the arm of anyone who tried to harm her.

There had to be at least one man out there who would see Mila for the gift that she was. Someone who could love her.

He knocked on her door. As he expected, only silence followed. He reached down, turned the knob and pushed the heavy slab of wood forward. “Mi—”

As soon as he crossed the threshold he knew something was wrong. Her bed was neatly made—something she rarely did even though he nagged her about it. The door to the armoire hung open, revealing a large, empty section. There were little items missing from her dressing table. Most importantly—and more disturbing—was that the copy of The Adventures of Pinocchio that he had given her was gone.

That meant Mila was gone.

Jack’s chest tightened. And tightened. And tightened. He gasped for breath, pressing his fist against his heart because the damn thing felt as though it was trying to chew its way through his ribs. He staggered forward, his other hand coming down on the bedspread. His fingers curled around something small and cool. He gripped the unknown object and clung to it as he dragged deep breaths into his lungs, forcing the muscles of his chest to relax.

What the ruddy hell had that been all about? He’d been left before, had people run off on him when he’d served their purpose. It had started with his father, so why should it hurt so much now? She was just a girl. Not like she was Treasure or his mum.

No, Mila wasn’t either of those women. Mila was something else entirely. Mila was strong like Finley, and full of the same wonder as his mother. Nothing had been able to diminish his mother’s love of life, not even being treated like rubbish. But Mila was oddly smart and intuitive in ways that most people weren’t. She made connections that most wouldn’t make. She was so frank and so honest. Too much so, and more often than not, she was dangerously innocent and naive.

Where was she? It didn’t matter that she could throw a grown man around like a rag doll. It didn’t matter that her bones couldn’t break. She could still bleed. She could feel pain, and there were people out there who would take advantage of her. He knew this because he used to be one of them. But he hadn’t been that Jack since the day he decided he needed to save her. He wouldn’t say he was necessarily a changed man, but he was certainly an altered one.

He straightened, the pain in his chest having subsided, and opened his hand. The object he’d found on the bed was a small brass cylinder—the kind used for capturing music or voice performances. It wasn’t one that came with music already engraved because there was no stamp in the metal to identify it. It had to be one Mila had made herself.

With the brass clutched once more in his fist, Jack went to his own room—“the cave” as he liked to think of it. It was decorated in white and black, with the odd splash of color. Normally, he found the austere colors soothing and peaceful, but nothing could calm him at that moment. He put the cylinder in the small Victrola and wound the clockwork mechanism tight. Then, he sat down in a chair near the small table and pressed the switch to begin playback.

Static crackled softly. “Hello, Jack.” He smiled at the sound of her voice. “If you’re listening to this, well, it’s because I left. If you’re not listening to this...well, I guess there’s no point in saying much. I’m not terribly talented when it comes to words, but I’ll try to say things properly. I just couldn’t stay here any longer. You have been so good to me, and I...appreciate that. You’ve been a good friend, but I don’t want to be your friend, Jack. I don’t want to be your burden, your...responsibility. I want more. You already know this, and now I know that you don’t want me the same way. I can’t be your pet or your doll or whatever it is I am. I’m not a child, and I need to learn to take care of myself rather than let you or Griffin do it. You understand, don’t you? I hope you’re not upset with me, but most of all I hope you’re not glad to be rid of me. Don’t worry about me, Jack. But maybe...you could miss me just a little. I’ll miss you.” Her voice cracked on the last line, and Jack felt the lump that must have been in her throat erupt in his.

He swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. He must have gotten something in them because they began to water. Mila was out there in the dark, alone. She was strong, but she was still vulnerable, and a pretty little thing like her was easy prey for a man like his father—or a man like him. God, why couldn’t she understand that he wasn’t good? Why did she insist on making him something he wasn’t?

Miss her a little? God, was she daft? He was going to miss her more than a little.

No, he wasn’t. He leaped to his feet and practically ran to the door. He wasn’t going to miss her at all.

He was going to find her and bring her home.

* * *

When Griffin woke up, Garibaldi was blessedly gone, leaving him alone with his pain.

His eyes adjusted to the dim light—he had half expected the villain to leave him under searing lights to further torture him—as his ears opened to what sounds permeated the walls of his prison. He heard the in and out of his own breath, the soft whirls and clicks of the machines tethered to him, to this realm, preventing him from going home, and...music. It was Liszt if he wasn’t mistaken. Either his captor had an orchestra installed in his home or he had some superior recordings.

Music was good. He wouldn’t be heard above it if he screamed, but it meant that he wasn’t alone, that this was actually Garibaldi’s main base. Homes were more vulnerable than warehouses and prisons. Houses had more nooks and crannies and places a body could hide, even houses in the Aether. If he could get out of this damn bed he could find some sort of advantage, he just knew it.

He wished his parents were here, but the fact that they weren’t meant that they had either moved on to some other realm, or Garibaldi had managed to conceal him from them. There was no way they’d allow him to remain in the clutches of the man responsible for their deaths.

His limbs felt like lead, but instead of trying to move his entire body, he concentrated on just his right hand. It took almost all of his strength, but he managed to flex his fingers and rotate his wrist. Bloody hell, just that simple movement broke a sweat along his hairline. He’d take it for what it was—a victory. Griffin took all that strength and focused it on his left hand, putting it through the same exercise. It left him exhausted, but satisfied.

He could move. He wasn’t entirely helpless. He drew a deep breath and turned inside himself. In his mind he followed the path inside his body to the place where his power sat. It was all through him, but he felt it most in an area the size of a tea saucer, just between his navel and breastbone. It was into that sphere that he burrowed and breathed. He let the image of Finley fill his mind—his talisman, his reason.

His everything. She drove him to distraction, could make him laugh one second and throw his hands up in exasperation the next. She knew just how to tease him, how to engage his temper and his wit. She inspired the most tender of feelings as easily as the most passionate. Just the touch of her hand could make him tremble inside. That was the spot where he lingered now—the place where his power and Finley collided.

His soul.

Warmth filled him, cleansed him. Calm rolled down from his head to his toes, centering in that sphere in his chest until it began to swell, pushing outward against his ribs. There was nothing but Finley and a tiny spark of Aether that gave him more hope than it ought.

A little hope had been known to win more battles than the most fearsome of armies, and right now that hope was all he had.

“Do I know you?”

Griffin’s eyes snapped open. At the foot of his bed stood a man—one who looked strangely familiar. There was something about his eyes...

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Do you?”

The man frowned. He was in his late twenties or early thirties, and he was obviously a citizen of the Aether. Judging from the style of his clothes he’d been dead at least fifteen years or so. “I think I must. How else could I enter this place that I’ve never been able to enter before?”

This was interesting. “You’ve tried to infiltrate this house before?”

Looking around the room, the man nodded. “Ever since Garibaldi crossed the threshold to this place I’ve tried unsuccessfully to gain entrance. What are you doing here? It’s obvious you’re not of this realm.”

“No, I am very much alive. For the time being, at any rate. Do you think you might be able to release me?”

His visitor moved toward him. He reached out for the shackle that bound Griffin’s right foot, but the moment his fingers touched it, a flash like an exploding lightbulb filled the room, blinding the both of them. Griffin swore as color danced behind his eyelids.

“Reckon that answers that question,” the man grumbled, shaking his injured hand. “Good lord, lad. What did you do to deserve his wrath?”

“Foiled too many of his plans,” Griffin replied honestly. “And held him accountable for his crimes.”