The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(11)

And sure enough, the smooth contours of the figure were fracturing. A broken line ran around 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 towards 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 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. ‘Torches 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 twice; 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 daft plan?’

‘The usual. I was hoping to talk to it and calm it down. Yours?’

‘Thought I’d slow it up 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 lumpen 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 staved in, either by the fall from the coffin or by the flares. You could see a jawbone inside the hole, a few teeth protruding from 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 centre 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 torch from his belt, directed the beam upwards. ‘That was no good,’ he gasped. ‘You and your ghost-talking. You almost got yourself killed!’