The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(83)

We neared the bottom. All at once the mists swirled, and a faint dark shape rushed past us along the hall. It was large, hulking – the figure of a burly man. In utter silence it moved from the direction of the kitchen towards the front of the house. For a moment it was silhouetted at the threshold, then it sped onwards out of view.

Lockwood, who was in the lead, had stopped in shock at the sight. He looked back at me, eyes wide beneath his hood. ‘Who was that?’ he whispered.

I had no answer. Lockwood sped up; we came down into the entrance hall and hurried along it to where the front door gaped open under the blank black sky.

A thin mist hung over Portland Row and the street was white with frost. The dull, hard half-light shone over everything. There were no ghost-lamps on; the lamps themselves had disappeared, and the iron gates and railings that ran beside the pavements were gone too. The houses were grey slabs.

The hulking figure was just visible, racing away down the centre of the street. It did not look back. The mists swallowed it; stillness returned.

‘Who was that?’ Lockwood said again. ‘Who else is in our house?’

A thought occurred to me. I knew someone who was. I looked over my shoulder into the darkness of the hall.

‘Wait for me here,’ I said.

I turned and walked back into the house. The wall beneath the staircase was riven with cracks, some so big you could stick a finger into them. The kitchen door was partly frozen, ice melding it to the floor, and I pushed my way in with difficulty. The room inside was very dark, but I could see that there was no table there, and none of our cupboards or cabinets. Out of the corner of my eye I could sense their outlines, but they vanished if you looked at them.

As I had expected, a thin and rangy youth with spiky hair stood at the side of the room. It was the precise location where I’d left the ghost-jar. The skull’s spirit was grey and faint, but fully formed – a scrawny-looking boy, little older than me. He had a rather gaunt face with very large, dark eyes that were watching me impassively.

‘Ah,’ the youth said, ‘I wondered if you’d think of me. You got through the gate, then.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We got through.’

‘How nice for you.’

Both his shape and his voice were faint, perhaps the fault of the silver-glass jar that imprisoned him on the living side. It was the first time I’d ever really looked at him, at the spirit that he truly was. He wore a white shirt and grey trousers that were slightly too short for his bony legs. His feet were bare. He’d still been young when he died.

‘They’ve closed the gate behind us,’ I said.

One of the youth’s eyebrows lifted in sardonic amusement. ‘Have they? What a shame. How does it feel to be trapped somewhere unpleasant? Bet you wish someone could set you free.’

I looked down at my belt, where the hammer I’d been using to break the Sources still hung. I said: ‘We’re going to try to get across London. Find Marissa’s gate. I just came to tell you.’

‘How very kind of you.’ The youth’s lip curled. ‘So, walking across Dark London, eh? Good luck with that. Mind you, even if they hadn’t shut your gate, it would be best to avoid this house for a while.’

‘Why, what’s happening?’

‘In simple terms, they’re trashing the place. Sir Rupert Gale is using some very salty language. Even I’ve learned a few new words. He’s got his work cut out trying to keep control, though – most of Winkman’s men don’t have a clue about what you just did, and they’re freaked out. There’s talk of witchcraft and devils.’ The youth rolled his eyes, and for an instant he looked like the face in the jar. ‘Honestly, the average medieval serf would have more wit than them. Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know that most of that crowd are injured too – stabbed, bashed and otherwise blown up by all your flares. They haven’t got an eyebrow between them.’

‘Good,’ I said grimly.

‘Oh, and Winkman just died.’

‘What?’ I sucked in the ice-cold air. ‘What? How?’

‘As far as I can make out, you walloped him with a floorboard. When he fell back, he collided with one of his lackeys’ knives. Well, if you go running around carrying sharp objects, what can you expect?’ The youth gave a callous grin, and again I recognized the ghost I knew so well. ‘They brought him up to the kitchen, but he passed across just now. I’m surprised you didn’t bump into him.’

I thought of the bulky, stumbling shape fleeing down the hallway and off into the dark. I raised my glove to my face. There was a coating of ice on the palm; I lowered it again hurriedly. When I moved my feet, I had to break little bonds of ice that fixed my boots to the floor. Panic enveloped me again. I felt that the walls were warping in, closing off my exit. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I said. ‘But I’ll come back. When we all get home—’

‘I won’t be here,’ the youth said. The dark eyes regarded me. ‘They’ve just opened the cupboard and found me. Gale’s taking me away now. Goodbye.’

‘What? Where to?’ I felt a sudden stab of pain. ‘No, no, they can’t do that …’

The grey face flickered and broke apart, as if the connection was being disrupted. ‘Of course they can. It’s your fault, Lucy. I asked you to let me go, and now it’s too late.’