The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(97)

‘Marissa’s scent,’ the skull remarked. ‘We’re getting close now.’ It hummed a jaunty tune, making extravagant faces at itself in the mirror.

I pulled back the side of my jacket and inspected the contents of my belt. My sword was there, and the hammer, and a couple of packets of iron filings; I had a silver net in one pouch too. That was about it. I had no flares. There’d been no time to take a gun from the trolley, or one of the bombs … It didn’t matter. The sword would do.

‘So, then,’ the skull said as we passed the second floor, ‘just fill us in while we’ve got a moment. What’s the plan when we meet Big M?’

I didn’t answer, just watched the dial.

‘Here’s my theory,’ the ghost went on. ‘You’ve got to take her by surprise, right? Well, nothing would be more surprising than you stripping naked now, daubing charcoal on your cheeks – I’m not specifying which ones – and rushing out of the lift, whooping and leaping about like a mad thing. She’ll be so startled, you’ll be able to lop off her head with your sword before she gets out of her chair. Plus I’ll have a good laugh. How about it?’

‘It’s great,’ I said. ‘I’m tempted.’ The arrow pointed to the fourth floor.

The face regarded me. ‘You have got a plan, I suppose?’

‘I’m going to improvise.’ It was a strange thing, but in that moment I felt no fear, no doubt and no regret. This was how it was meant to end. My friends were out of the building – I knew it with as much certainty as if I’d watched them leave with my own eyes. Lockwood was safe. I didn’t doubt that he’d seek to come back for me, but he had Kipps to tend to first, and by the time he’d done that I’d have put an end to matters. Just me and Marissa: this was how it was always meant to be.

The lift passed the fifth floor, then the sixth … You could hear the mechanism slowing.

I looked down at my frost-burned boots, my skirt and torn leggings, my old jacket with the ghost’s handprint on the side. I checked in the mirror again, smoothing down my hair a little. It was nice to look at myself, after everything. Nice to be reminded who I was. Lucy Carlyle.

Ting! The bell rang cheerfully to tell us we were there. The lift stopped with scarcely a judder.

I drew my sword as the door eased open.

It would have suited the occasion if I’d immediately had a clear view of some kind of sinister throne room with a red carpet down the middle and bowing flunkeys lined up on either side. In fact, all I got was a small vestibule or waiting room with a couple of chairs in it, and some nondescript modern art on the wall. Straight ahead, however, was a set of double doors. One was slightly open. A bright and cheerful light issued from within. Again, there was the heady scent of flowers. I tightened my grip on my rapier, pushed at the door and went inside.

And then? No thrones. No flunkeys. It was a chief executive’s office – a very large rectangular space with a deep white carpet, and low-backed sofas arranged against the walls. They looked angular, modern and uncomfortably fashionable. Each had a glass coffee table beside it, scattered with books and magazines. There was plenty more modern art – paintings, and ugly sculptures on little stands – and a fair number of floor-to-ceiling wall mirrors that made the room seem even bigger than it was.

At the far end a wide, deep window looked out over the Thames. It was night, and the river was a deep black band running between London’s brightly jewelled banks. How beautiful the city looked from so high up, stretched out dark and glittering. Its ghost-lamps were pretty lights, twinkling like stars. All its imperfections were smoothed away. You couldn’t see the people in it, either the living or the dead.

The business end of the room was up beside the window. A great oak desk sat there, piled high with books and papers; alongside it were bookshelves, a couple of safes, and one very big wooden cabinet, tall as a wardrobe, set against the wall. All this I took in with one sweep of the eye, but I didn’t pay attention to any of it.

I was looking at what waited for me behind the desk.

Two figures.

A dark-haired, smiling woman. And a ghost, floating at her shoulder.

Ms Fittes was sitting in a black leather chair. She seemed at ease, no more put out by my sudden appearance than if I was an old friend she’d bumped into in the street. There was no sign of the hooded silver cape she’d worn on the Other Side; instead she had on a bottle-green dress and high-heeled shoes. One arm rested on the desktop, the other was draped casually across her lap. She would have been the image of a slick and elegant businesswoman were it not for the golden radiance that danced around her form, a radiance that stemmed from the thing hovering at her side.

Close up, the spirit Ezekiel was no more clearly defined than when we’d seen it earlier that evening. It was a luminous figure with a crown of fire dancing above its head. It was very hard to look straight at it. If you did so out of the corner of your eye, you caught the suggestion of a man-sized form, slim and graceful and standing in mid-air. It made no sound, but I could feel the cold power that emanated from it. Long coils of light extended from its side and moved ceaselessly like squid’s limbs around the woman in the chair.

I felt the ghost in the jar give a wriggle of unease. There was the barest whisper in my ear. ‘Careful …’

The woman in the chair raised a leisurely hand. ‘Welcome, Lucy! Please come in. Don’t stand skulking at the door.’