“No,” I said. The hollow voice was still echoing in my ears.
“I think we did,” Kipps said. “Yeah…we did. We got it for sure.”
The shape lifted its head, began to rise with stiff, appalling deliberation.
“How’s it doing that?” Kipps cried. “That’s not fair! The Greek Fire should have been enough!”
“Maybe the wax protects it,” Lockwood said. He gestured for us to keep going; we were almost at the foot of the stairs. “Protects the bones and plasm. But that can’t last. As it moves, it has to break the wax. Look—it’s already cracking apart.”
And sure enough, the smooth contours of the figure were fracturing. A broken line ran around the center of the neck like a flaked and feathered ring. At the shoulder joints, the knees, and where the legs fed into the hips, the surface had disintegrated entirely. As it got to its feet in painful, jerky movements, small shards of wax fell into the coiling ghost-fog. It began to limp toward us across the stones.
“Marissa…”
The combination of sorrow and fury in the voice made me gasp. A burning wave of dark emotions flooded my head.
“It’s calling out,” I said. “Calling for Marissa.”
We were through the arch, gathered at the foot of the stairs. George brushed magnesium flecks off his glasses. “Really? Think the bones belong to someone who was murdered? Think Marissa killed them, put them here?”
“Don’t know. The thing’s certainly not happy.”
“I’d be grumpy if I’d been killed, coated in wax, and buried in a coffin with an old woman’s mask strapped to my face,” Holly said.
“Interesting…” George looked back into the chamber, where the limping, shambling figure seemed to be speeding up. “I wonder who this is….”
Kipps had thrown himself to a halt against the wall. “Yes, fascinating as the identity of the ghost is,” he panted, “I’m more concerned about the fact that it’s angry, it’s right behind us, and we’ve a booby-trapped staircase still to climb.”
“You’re right,” Lockwood said. “Flashlights on. Single file. Fast as you can, but watch for the traps. Especially you, George.” He drew his rapier. “I’ll go last.”
Kipps and George didn’t need telling; they were already scurrying up the stairs. Holly hesitated, then obeyed. Only I held back.
“You too, Luce.”
“You’re going to do something stupid,” I said. “I know you. I can tell.”
He brushed hair from his eyes. “That makes two of us, then. What’s your crazy plan?”
“The usual. I was hoping to talk to it and calm it down. Yours?”
“Thought I’d slow it by cutting off its legs.”
I grinned at him. “We’re so similar.”
We pressed close together. The mannequin wasn’t far away now; and it was certainly getting faster, its joints entirely free of their wax surround. You could see nubs of bone working at the hips and ankles. Toes protruded at the ends of lumpy feet. There was something pathetic about it. It rolled and stumbled like a seasick sailor, colliding with the arch as it passed through.
“Suppose you’d better go first,” Lockwood said. “It won’t be very calm in a minute, when it’s trying to drag itself up the stairs. I’ll give you twenty seconds.” He flashed me his brightest smile. “No pressure.”
“You spoil me.” I took a deep breath, and Listened anew to the lonely, empty voice that rattled, echoing, across the crypt. I quelled my fear, opened my mind in psychic welcome. “Who are you?” I asked. “What did Marissa do to you?” Then, when the figure didn’t answer or slow its course: “We can help you. What’s your name?”
I waited, giving it time to adjust. The dummy was in a pretty bad way. In places the wax surface glistened where it had been partially melted by the fire. Thin droplets ran down the torso, striping it, leaving it pitted and gouged. One side of the head had been smashed in, either by the fall from the coffin or by the flares. You could see a jawbone inside the hole, a few teeth embedded in the wax. Basically, it was a mess. And the ghost inside would be no better off, maddened by its physical prison and by its mysterious resentments. I reached out to it, offering what I could, which was pity and understanding.
“We can help you…” I said again.
The broken thing shuffled nearer. The eye hollows were filled with pooling wax.
“We can avenge you. We are enemies of Marissa.”
“Marissa…”
“Last chance, Luce.” Lockwood, at my side, held his rapier ready. “I think you’re being way too subtle. It doesn’t understand. Move away.”
“I’ve got to try. It’s so desolate….”
The stiff arms and wax fingers were outstretched, as in an attitude of love.
“Move away, Luce!”
“Marissa…”
“Just one more sec—Ow!”
Lockwood barged me aside, just as the shape lunged forward. It moved with sudden swiftness; Lockwood had no time to direct his rapier at the legs. His blade struck the center of the torso, plunging in deep, where it was instantly caught fast in stiff, thick wax. The rapier was torn from Lockwood’s hands. Cold air burst around us, numbing our senses. Flaking wax fingers grappled for my throat. I cried out, tried to pull free. Then Lockwood was with me, grasping one stiff arm, avoiding the swipe of another, wrenching the fingers loose. He kicked out at the figure, sending it crashing back against the wall, the sword still embedded in its chest. Great gobbets of wax fell away. I caught a flash of ribs and spine.
“Let’s go, Luce!” Lockwood grabbed me by the hand and hauled me up the steps. As we ran, he snatched his flashlight from his belt, directed the beam upward. “That was no good,” he gasped. “You and your ghost-talking. You almost got yourself killed!”
“Well, you were going to cut off its legs! How did that part go?”
“I lost my best rapier was how it went. Aside from that, it was a wild success.”
“Maybe we bought ourselves some time.” I glanced over my shoulder. “Oh. No….No, we didn’t.”
Behind us there was a clacking on the stone. The thing was on all fours now, elbows out, throwing itself up the steps like a rabid dog. Wax dropped from it like sloughing skin. Where the bone showed through, you could see the gleam of ectoplasm.
“Doesn’t matter,” Lockwood said. “It’s quick, but we’re quicker. We can still outrun it, as long as there’re no hitches up ahead….Oh, hell,” he said. “Now what?”
Because our bouncing flashlight beams had picked out Kipps, Holly, and George, stumbling back down.
“What are you doing?” I shouted. “Turn around! It’s right behind us!”
“There’s one up ahead, too,” Holly cried.
“What? How?”
“George triggered the wire. Stepped right on it. A stone moved—a ghost came out.”
“Another ghost? George!”
“Sorry. I was thinking about something else.”
“We’re running for our lives up a haunted stairway and you’re thinking about something else?” Kipps roared. “How can that be possible?”
“Where’s this new ghost?” Lockwood pushed past the others. “Come on, we’ve got to go up. Going back is not an option.”
It didn’t take long to reach the step with the trip wire. Above it, a hollow stone hung open in the wall. A faint figure was hovering above the stairs a few feet farther on. It had the vague form of an old woman in a knee-length skirt, shirt, and jacket; she had long gray hair, and an unpleasantly smiling face. Everything about her was gray, except for her black and glittering eyes.
Lockwood shook his head. “A little old lady? Terrifying. You’ve got rapiers, haven’t you? Why aren’t you using them?”
George gestured at the edge of the steps, at the dark void beyond. “We tried….The thing raises some kind of wind—nearly blew us over the side.”
Lockwood cursed. “What are we, Bunchurch and Co.? Give me that sword.” He snatched the rapier from George�
��s hands and leaped over the trip wire. The ghost’s hair came to sudden life, flaring out around its head. Cold air swept down the steps, pitching Lockwood sideways; he scrabbled desperately, and just avoided careering off the edge into the shaft. Battling the gust, he fought his way back toward the wall.
A lazy green light flared at my shoulder. I sensed the skull’s presence return. “So,” its voice said casually. “How’s it going?”
“How does it look like it’s going?” I said. Lockwood was edging toward the ghost, leaning into the spectral wind.
“Let’s see…I’ve only been gone five minutes, and you’ve managed to trigger two ghosts and get sandwiched between them on the edge of an abyss. By any standard, that’s poor. I suppose you’ll be wanting a clever solution to your problem.”
I looked back down the steps. Around the curve of the wall came the glow of other-light, the shadow of a crawling figure with a rapier through its chest.
“Well, if you’ve got any suggestions…” I said lightly.
“Always. But I want an answer. When are you going to let me out of this jar?”
“Now is not the time to discuss this.”
“It’s the perfect time.”
“Never on a case. I told you. We’ll talk at home.”
“Ah, but you never talk to me at home. You ignore me. I get stuffed into a corner with all the salt and iron and the rest of the equipment. Well, maybe I should ignore you now.”
“We’ll discuss it, I promise! Tomorrow! Now, about that advice…” The Revenant on the steps was clawing close. The wax on its fingers had fallen away; I could hear the clack, clack, clack of bones as it clutched the stone. Above us, Lockwood was swiping at the second ghost, its white shape veering and distorting to avoid his blade.
“It’s so simple as to be embarrassing. I hardly like to mention it. The spirit behind us carries its Source with it—you can see the bones. But what about the spirit up ahead? Where’s its Source?”
I scowled around me. “Well, how do I know where—?” But even as I said this, I saw the hollow stone hanging open above the stairs, the dark recess within. I gripped my flashlight between my teeth. Launching myself close, I clambered up the stones and peered inside. There was a tiny cavity, lined with beaten silver. Sitting in it was a set of dentures, the plastic gums glinting pinkly in the light.
“False teeth? Who has false teeth for a Source?”
“Who cares? Get rid of them.”
I was already clutching the horrid things, wincing at their glassy smoothness and icy cold. Without pause I jumped back onto the steps and hurled them out into the void. They fell without a sound. At once the Specter of the old woman was dragged abruptly sideways, distorting around the middle as if a rope were slicing through it. It held firm for only a moment, black eyes blazing—then it was gone, sucked down into the hole, following its Source. Lockwood was left swinging his sword against nothing; the spectral wind died. We were alone on the stairs.
Except for the ghost rearing up on the steps below us. Lockwood’s rapier was still wedged into its chest. On the arms and legs, the wax was entirely gone. In our swirl of desperate flashlight beams, the Visitor was revealed as a mess of jangling bones, held together by strings of plasm. The fingers were bony now—with the wax gone, they would deliver fatal ghost-touch. The head of wax and teeth grinned up at us.
It lunged. George shouted, Kipps screamed. Holly was there—she swiped sideways with her sword. The tip cut into the neck, lopping through it in a swift, clean movement. The head hung in place, then fell against the wall and bounced away down the stairs.
We paused, willing the rest of the body to follow it. Instead, it remained standing. A ghostly head, faint and cobwebby, was superimposed where the skull had been. It was a man, I thought, with a long, lined face and wild hair.
“It’s not still coming?” George groaned. “Give me a break!”
But we were already scrambling away from it, up the stairs. George was in front, and I was at the back, the backpack bouncing against my shoulders.
“Remember!” the skull’s voice said in my ear. “Tomorrow! You promised!”
“If I ever see tomorrow…”
Up ahead, the trapdoor to the mausoleum showed as a cone of faint gray light. My legs felt like lead; it was all I could do to lift them.
“Marissa…” Close behind, the hollow voice was calling. “Marissa…”
“It really wants to get to you,” the skull remarked. “The plasm’s breaking free. If you’re not careful, it’ll leave the bones behind entirely. Better speed up, Lucy.”
“I’m trying!”
Something snagged at my backpack, sought to pull me back down. I cried out, threw myself forward, barging into Kipps. He was almost on top of Lockwood, who was shoving Holly and George ahead of him. For one awful moment, we were all stumbling, about to fall. Somehow, in a flurry of flapping elbows, we stayed on our feet. We leaped up the final flight, ghostly fingernails clicking on the steps behind.
Up into the mausoleum’s dimly lit space. We burst through, one by one; I was the last. I jumped through, turned, saw the white face swimming up at me, out of the dark.
Lockwood and Kipps already held the corners of the hinged flagstone. They were hauling it up. As I rolled aside, they practically threw it shut. It slammed into position. Lanterns flickered. The building sang with the noise.
Lockwood winced. “The guards…”
I hurled my backpack away from me. It lay on the floor, steaming. Three jagged claw marks scored the back.
We sat around the edge of the stone, wheezing and gasping like defective barrel organs.
“Made it,” Holly breathed.
“Made it,” Kipps said. “Thank God.”
In its jar, poking out of the top of the backpack, the skull nodded amiably. “Nice one. Shut that just in time…” It left a significant pause. “So the inside of that flagstone’s lined with iron, is it? Lucky!”
Right then I could barely speak. “No, no iron…”
“Or silver, then?”
“No….”
The skull chuckled. “Of course—silly idea! Far too expensive. Must be some kind of barrier, though.” It grinned at me. “Or…”
Or…Oh. “Lockwood…” I said.
I was already shuffling backward. Threads of white-blue ice were spreading from the center of the flagstone. As one, we retreated in all directions, bottoms bouncing, swords scraping on the ground. At the same time—as if we were pulling it on invisible strings—the ghost rose slowly through the stone. It had left its bones on the other side. First we saw the creased and cobwebbed head, the bare teeth gleaming; next the skeletal neck, then a spiraling shroud of ghost-fog. As it came, its other-light spread across the floor, fixing us where we crouched like woodlice exposed by the lifting of a log.
Somewhere near me, Kipps was trying to get his rapier clear of his belt (and failing: he was sitting on it). Lockwood, on his knees, had found a flare from somewhere. What was I doing? Continuing to retreat, because it seemed the ghost’s attention was fixed entirely on me. So I shuffled ever back, and the ghost rose ever higher, its linen-covered arms held tight at its sides.
“Eep, he’s a big one,” the skull said. It had a tone of mild scientific interest.
My back bumped up against the cold edge of the vault.
The shape quivered. At once, like a shark shooting forward with a twitch of the tail, it was above me.
The face of dirt and cobwebs lowered to my own. I smelled wax and grave mold, tasted the loneliness of existence underground. One emaciated arm stretched out, spectral fingers cupped toward me.
Someone was shouting, but I paid no attention to it. I Listened to a harsh voice, calling from far away.
“Marissa Fittes…”
“Yes!” I croaked. “What about her?”
Behind the ghost, Lockwood stepped into view. He had a flare ready in his hand. “Lucy!” he called. “Roll out of the way!”
“Wai
t.”
Still I stared into dirt and cobwebs….
“Lucy! Move!”
“Marissa…” the ghost said. “Bring her to me!”
At once, the figure blinked out of existence, vanishing as if it had never been. A great pressure left the chamber; I jerked forward, my hair swinging back against my face. In the same moment, all the remaining lanterns went out, and we were plunged into solid darkness.
Someone shone a flashlight across the room. Flakes of dust were floating down around me. Cobwebs lay scattered across my knees.
“Lucy?” Lockwood was bending at my side.
“I’m all right.”
“What did it do to you?”
“Nothing. Lockwood…” I didn’t quite know how to put this. “Have we ever had a ghost-client before?”
He stared at me. “Of course not. Why?”
I let my head fall back against the stone. “Because I think we’ve just been given a job.”
Thirty-five Portland Row, the home and headquarters of Lockwood & Co., was a very special place. Whenever the old black front door shut behind me and I saw the welcoming glint of the Aztec crystal skull lantern on the key table, the weight of the world was lifted from me like a conjurer snapping a cloak up into the air. I’d toss my rapier into the pot we used as an umbrella stand, hang my jacket on a peg, and walk up the hall past the shelves with their odd collection of jars and masks and painted gourds. If it was daytime, I’d peep into the living room to see if anyone was resting or working there; by night I’d check the library, which was where we tended to crash after a job. If all was quiet, I’d stroll past the staircase to the kitchen, where the lingering smells of toast (Lockwood) or tea cake (George and Kipps) gave clues to who might be in. Occasionally, if the tin of dried green tea had been opened, or one or two sunflower seeds lay scattered on the countertop, I knew Holly was around and probably working in the office. You couldn’t always tell, though; she was the tidiest of us, and rarely left such clues. Most rare of all, an odor of stale kippers and traces of dried river mud kicked off by the back door gave certain proof that Flo Bones had recently stopped by.
The house was our sanctuary, a refuge from ghosts and other, darker things. And the happiest times of all were the breakfasts we enjoyed after a successful case, with the windows open onto the garden, and the sunlight streaming in.
The Empty Grave Page 4