The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(100)

I looked for my rapier; no, too far away. There was the ghost-jar on the floor, with the skull upside-down, rolling its eyes at me. I had no other weapons. What could I do? Perhaps the cabinet held something in it – guns, bombs, equipment for the Other Side … I could think of nothing else.

I said, ‘So you would give me the elixir of life? And Lockwood too?’

The dark-haired woman shrugged. ‘You have no need of it yet, of course. Not for years. But I would share its secrets with you. You would live here. We would rule London.’

‘And the Orpheus Society? And the men and women who also cross to the Other Side?’

She shook her head. ‘They are fools, scrabblers in the dark. None of them know the full truth. You would know everything. Ezekiel would cradle you with his light. But what is your answer, Lucy?’

I drew myself up to my full height, every aching bit of my (almost) five feet six. I pushed white fronds of hair back from my face. ‘Marissa,’ I said, ‘I appreciate the offer. But even if you presented it to me gift-wrapped and accompanied by my bodyweight in jewels, it wouldn’t be enough.’

The woman’s face darkened. Black lines like forks of lightning flickered through the spirit’s golden light.

‘I told you,’ Ezekiel said. ‘She’s stubborn. So, then …’

‘It wouldn’t be enough,’ I said. ‘It wouldn’t balance out the countless lives ruined by the Problem, the agents killed fighting against ghosts. And it wouldn’t balance out the suffering you’ve inflicted on the spirits bottled up on the Other Side. No wonder so many are driven to return to this world instead! I’ve seen all this; I’ve seen my friends wounded, I’ve seen them almost dying! So thanks, Marissa, but no. There’s no power on earth that would make me join you, and if it costs me my life, that’s a penalty I’ll willingly accept.’

With that, I spun on my heel and threw the cabinet doors open.

Guns? Swords? Weapons of any kind?

No.

But the cabinet wasn’t empty, and what I saw there made me scream.





25




It was a body.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve seen a lot of bodies of all shapes and sizes, in all conditions. That’s part of the job, and though it doesn’t thrill me, it doesn’t freak me out. And screaming? That’s definitely not my thing. But this? It was shocking in part because it was so unexpected, in part because it was so horrible, and in part because it undermined everything I thought I knew.

The corpse was fixed upright on a sort of golden stand inside the cabinet. It was supported along its length by many golden rods and clamps that prevented sections of its black and shrivelled flesh from falling to the floor. Even so, it was in a pretty shoddy condition, starting with the head. Some of this was gone – the left eye, for starters, and most of the cheek, jaw and cranium on that side. Elsewhere, a black and rubbery rind of skin still maintained the vestiges of a face. There were sprouts of long black hair, and a bony neck like that of a plucked turkey. Below that, the torso was in a bad way too, all dried and thin and twisted like one of those horrid roasted vegetable things that Holly preferred to honest crisps. The surface was as hard and black as cooled lava, and a couple of ribs poked through splits in the skin. The arms and legs were little more than bones encased in a loose and papery sheath. In places, screws had been driven through them to keep them in position. The thing was pierced, fixed, hung and clamped. It was a parody of a body. The yellowed teeth grinned at me and the eye socket reflected no light.

None of that was what really threw me, though.

Here’s what did. It was Marissa.

It was Marissa Fittes. Even though half the head was gone, I recognized her at once. The beaky nose; the jaw and forehead; the sweep of hair – it was the face from all the statues, books and stamps. In fact it was roughly what I’d have expected to find in the crypt below the mausoleum, if everything had been natural and as it should be; if the dead had stayed in their proper places and the living in theirs.

‘Oh,’ the skull said. The ghost’s face was craning upwards from where it lay in the jar beside my feet, trying to get a decent view. Its voice sounded as hesitant as I’d ever heard it. ‘That’s … unexpected.’

‘Are you surprised?’ The woman behind me gave a husky little laugh. ‘Poor Lucy. You had everything so nearly right, as well. Turn round and look at me.’

I twisted away from the horror in the cabinet, back to the two horrors standing with me in that smart and stylish penthouse room. The spirit, Ezekiel, had drifted closer; it no longer had quite such a golden radiance, but was a darker man-shaped form. Flashes of black laced the rays that rippled out and darted around the woman’s body, shadowing the contours of her face. But she was smiling.

‘I was very young, Lucy,’ she said, ‘when I wrote Occult Theories. Very young, like you. From dear Ezekiel’s teachings I had learned that the essence of the departed would help to sustain life. I thought that it would rejuvenate my body and keep it fair and youthful – and with this in mind I began travelling to the Other Side. You have seen some of the techniques I use to gather the plasm that I need. I soon discovered that Ezekiel was right – by absorbing the essence I did replenish my own strength. And my spirit grew powerful.’ Her black eyes searched mine. ‘But there was a catch!’