The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(12)

‘Well, you were going to cut off its legs! How did that part go?’

‘I lost my best rapier was how it went. Apart 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 torchlight had picked out Kipps, Holly and George stumbling back down.

‘What are you doing?’ I shouted. ‘Turn round! 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 tripwire. Above it, a hollow stone hung open in the wall. A faint figure was hovering over the stairs a few feet further on. It had the vague form of an old woman in a knee-length skirt, shirt and jacket; she had long grey hair and an unpleasantly smiling face. Everything about her was grey, 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 tripwire. 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 towards 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 towards 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 standards that’s poor. I suppose you’ll be wanting a clever solution to your problem.’

I looked back down the steps. Round 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 torch 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 torchlight.

‘False teeth? Who has false teeth for a Source?’

‘Who cares? Get rid of them.’

I was already clutching at 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 Spectre of the old woman was dragged abruptly sideways, distorting round 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 stair.