The Girl in the Steel Corset - By Kady Cross Page 0,78
throbbed, but he didn’t move.
Emily smiled. “It’s working,” she said.
No one said anything, but their collective sigh was cheer enough. As he shut down the pump and removed the needle from his arm, Griffin frowned at the brilliant Irish girl. She was still gazing inside Sam’s chest, her hands paused in the act of removing the rib spreader.
“What is it, Em?” he asked, sticking a bandage in the crook of his arm and bending his elbow to stop the bleeding.
She shook her head. “I don’t know, but it’s amazing. Look.”
Griffin wasn’t a squeamish person, but it took all of his resolve to peer inside his friend. His unease was soon replaced by wonder. Tiny tendrils of blue and green wrapped around Sam’s mechanical heart, framing the glowing green power crystal at its enclosed center. “Is that…?”
Emily nodded, her gaze locking with his. “The Organites. When I first opened him up, I saw that they were already trying to patch the broken valve themselves.”
“How is that possible?”
She removed the spreader and Finley released the already mending ribs. “When I replaced Sam’s arm, I used Organites to regrow his flesh. They replicated his cellular composition. Obviously they spread from his shoulder into his chest. Probably the rest of his body, as well.”
Griffin shook his head in wonder. “Which would explain his increased ability to heal.”
Emily cast a brief glance at Finley as she began to stitch Sam’s flesh together with the precision and steady hand of a seamstress merely mending a hem. “Yours, as well,” she remarked. “Your father’s experiments made the Organites part of you.”
Griffin looked from Finley’s surprised expression to Sam’s peaceful face, profoundly glad that his friend was going to recover—so he could tear a strip off his hide later for being such an ass. “They looked as though they were attracted to the power core.”
“Yes.” Emily frowned in concentration. “I’ll have to run some tests, but I’ve a theory brewin’ about that, lad.”
He grinned, he couldn’t help it. Emily was one of the most soft-hearted people he knew. She cried over injured birds, but in the face of real crisis she became almost emotionless, single-minded in her purpose. It was something he admired about her, although the shock would hit her later and she’d shake like a leaf in the wind for a day or two.
When Sam was all sewn up, Emily cleaned the incision again with the Listerine, wiped it clean and then smeared a layer of her Organite-based salve to quicken the already rapid healing of Sam’s body. Then she put something that looked like the flat part of a stethoscope right over where Sam’s heart was. A long wire running from it was attached to a small gramophone on a nearby table. Through it, came the sound of a heart—Sam’s heart—pumping.
“He’ll be almost good as new when he wakes up,” she told them as she went to the sink to wash her hands. She removed her stained apron and flung it in the laundry bin in the corner.
Finley, unbidden, took the surgical instruments to the sink, as well. Emily would sterilize them later. Griffin’s attention turned to the girl who was still a relative stranger to them all, but had been pulled so quickly into their lives and the drama that surrounded them. She stood at the sink, her freshly washed hands gripping the white enamel. Her hunched shoulders began to shake.
“Finley?” He moved toward her.
Her sobs broke his heart. They weren’t the careful tears of a gently bred young lady taught never to make a scene and never to appear ugly. These were the gut-wrenching hiccups of someone in terrible and uncontrollable pain. He and Emily exchanged a glance.
“Finley.” He made his voice as gentle as possible. God only knew what she might do in this emotional state if her darker self was still lingering about, and Griffin had been battered enough for one night. So had Finley, for that matter.
She turned when he touched her shoulder, surprising him by throwing herself into his arms and sobbing against his chest. He held her for a while, stroking her hair and hushing her as Emily looked on with equal parts discomfort and concern.
“It…it’s all my fault,” she whispered. “I almost killed him.”
What she said was truth, there was no denying that, but Griffin was hardly about to take her to task for it. “He was trying to kill you.” He hated to say it, but that, too, was truth. He wasn’t certain what madness had