The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(104)

A discreet retching sound came from the jar in my lap. ‘You two make me feel ill,’ the skull said. ‘Still, he’s got timing. Got to give him that.’

Timing. Yeah, Lockwood had it, and I didn’t.

Because I hadn’t got the job done.

Marissa had said I had a deeper motive for coming to the penthouse suite alone, that I’d wanted to join forces with her. Well, she was half right. There had been a deeper motive, and I only truly understood it now. I’d wanted to get things finished on my own; I’d wanted to do it with Lockwood left behind. Now he was here, and despite the joy and relief he brought me, the old fear sank back down onto my shoulders. It was the fear that fed off the predictions made by the fortune-telling machine at Tufnell’s Theatre; that clung to the memories of the empty grave waiting for him in the cemetery; that, above all, stemmed from my meeting with the ghost that wore his face, who had said that Lockwood would die for me.

So my heart sang and my heart despaired, which was pretty much the usual combination for me whenever Lockwood was around. But he was here, and that was that. And I wasn’t going to stay sitting with my backside on the carpet any more. I forced myself to stand, blood welling from the glass cut in my side.

I wasn’t the only one to decide to act. The spirit Ezekiel had become markedly less golden than before. The crown of fire and the coils of light that spun about its figure had darkened almost to blackness. Now the coils extended; they shot towards Lockwood, who raised the gun and fired. A horizontal lightning bolt cut straight through the spirit’s body, burning a jagged hole in the centre of its chest. Ezekiel gave a horrid keening and bounded backwards across the room, almost as far as the desk. The ropes or tentacles of light that connected it to Marissa were suddenly pulled thin. She gave a yelp of pain and hurried after her companion, high heels slipping on shards of glass.

Lockwood walked over to me; he reached out, touched me with the fingers of his rapier hand. ‘You’re hurt,’ he said.

‘Not badly.’

‘That’s what Kipps said too.’

‘Kipps! Is he—?’

‘We got him to an ambulance. I don’t know, Luce … it’s touch and go. He was still making grumpy comments as he went off, so perhaps he’ll be OK.’ He looked along the room at the two retreating shapes. ‘So here they are … Anything I need to know?’

‘Couple of things. The ghost can shift stuff like a Poltergeist, and its Source is the bracelet on Marissa’s arm. Her spirit is inside Penelope’s body, possessing it, but she’s got her old body shut in that cupboard, and I think she still needs it somehow. That’s about all.’

‘Nice summary. You wait here.’ Lockwood grinned at me. ‘Don’t get cross! I have to say it! I know full well you won’t pay any notice.’

I smiled back. ‘That’s just the way it is, I’m afraid. Be careful of Ezekiel.’

‘I’ve got the gun. I’m a better shot with it than George. He almost blew Barnes’s head off downstairs.’

‘Barnes? Barnes is here?’

‘Yes, and Flo. Flo’s the one who got him down here – I’ll tell you about it later.’

He moved away from me, firing the gun, making Marissa scream and dive behind an enormous pot plant. The electric bolt set the branches alight. Part of the carpet was smouldering. Near the desk, Ezekiel was busy knitting plasm together. It raised a spirit-wind, sent it shooting outwards. The blast was less powerful than the two it had directed at me earlier, but still strong. Lockwood somehow remained on his feet. He fired the gun again.

I could see my rapier lying halfway across the room. I made to get it – and then stopped. I looked down at the ghost-jar sitting on the floor. The face inside seemed thoroughly disgruntled with the proceedings.

‘Well, you won’t be needing to get me out any more,’ the skull said. ‘Good old Lockwood. Came just in the nick of time. Looks like he’s got everything nicely under control.’

‘Looks like it.’ I picked up the jar, carried it to the nearest coffee table.

‘Don’t you stay hanging around with scum like me. You scurry on after him.’

‘I will in a minute.’ All the magazines had been blown off the table, but there was still a small stone sculpture there – a horrid pyramid of geometric pellets like a pile of cubist horse droppings. I set the jar on the table, laying it on its side, and picked up the sculpture.

The ghost behind the glass had been pulling derisive faces: all at once it paused in doubt. ‘What’s that for? Are you going to lob it at Marissa?’

I raised the sculpture above my head.

‘Being brained by some fossilized horse poo would be a pleasing way for her to—’ The skull fell silent. Its face was suddenly still.

I closed my eyes and brought the great weight down on the side of the jar with as much force as I could muster. There was a crack, a sharp odour, a hissing noise. I lifted the sculpture and struck the glass again— ‘Hey! Careful! You could smash a skull, going on like that.’ The voice came from close by. I was no longer alone. The spirit of a thin grey youth with spiky hair stood at my side. He was cloudy and translucent, but much clearer than when I’d seen him on the Other Side. When I looked down, I saw that one side of the jar had completely caved in. Pale green ichor was spilling from the cracks, floating up and outwards like mist into the air. It trailed across to merge into the substance of the youth.