The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(13)

Except for the ghost rearing up on the steps below us. Lockwood’s rapier was still wedged in its chest. On the arms and legs, the wax was entirely gone. In our swirl of desperate torchlight, 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 rucksack 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 grey 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 rucksack, 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 dim-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 rucksack 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 rucksack, 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 backwards. Threads of white-blue ice were spreading out from the centre 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 spiralling 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 side.

‘Ee, 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-mould, tasted the loneliness of existence underground. One emaciated arm stretched out, spectral fingers cupped towards 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!’

‘Wait.’

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.