The Empty Grave

by Jonathan Stroud

  Lockwood said, “It’s not that I’m enjoying it, Luce. But I can see the rightness of everything that’s happening now, and that’s different. You remember in the cemetery, I told you how arbitrary everything was? How nothing had any meaning? I don’t feel that anymore. Yes, my parents died. I now know why, and we have a chance to avenge them. My sister died, too. Her death-glow may help save our lives tonight. More than that, we’re getting close to a solution to the Problem. You know we are. When we get there, all this will be over and we won’t have to do it anymore. It’ll be all right, Lucy.” He touched my arm. “You’ll see.”

  “I hope that’s the case,” I said.

  “Well, anyway, I didn’t come out to tell you that.” Lockwood rummaged in his coat pocket and produced a small square box, very squashed and battered. “I came to show you this. I found it in the chest of drawers in Jessica’s room. Don’t worry, it’s not a Source or anything.”

  “If it was,” I said, “we’d have chucked it in that circle.” I took it from him and opened the creased lid. As I did so, something inside flared in the last light of the sun. It was a dazzling blue, so clear and pure that it made me gasp. The inside of the box was lined with tissue paper. Curled up in it was a golden necklace, and its pendant was a shimmering blue stone, smooth and oval and darkly translucent. It was supremely lovely. I held it up between my fingers and gazed at the heart of the stone. It was like looking into deep, fresh, clean water.

  “What is it, Lockwood?” I asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful.”

  “It’s a sapphire. My father got the gem out East somewhere, and he had this necklace made for my mother. It was her favorite piece of jewelry. That’s what my sister told me once, anyway. I’d forgotten all about it until today.”

  “So your mum didn’t have it on her when she—?”

  “I don’t think she wore it in the ordinary way. It was too special to her. My dad gave it to her soon after they met. It was a symbol of his undying devotion.”

  I let the sapphire catch the light once more, then lowered it back into the box. I handed it back to him.

  “It couldn’t be anything else,” I said.

  “No, exactly. Anyway, Luce…” Lockwood cleared his throat. “I was going to ask if you—”

  A shrill whistle came from the top of the kitchen steps. We looked up to see Kipps peering out at us. “Hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said. “Just thought you’d like to know that the Winkmans have arrived.”

  Quill was right. There was activity near Arif’s store. Just before it closed, two men had come out of the shop. They migrated to opposite sides of Portland Row and sat on walls there in the deepening dusk. Thickset and silent, they smoked occasional cigarettes; otherwise, they were as one with the bricks and the concrete. Occasionally they glanced along the road, toward number thirty-five. They sat there while the ghost-lamps came on, and the rest of our neighbors retired behind their defenses. Curtains were drawn, the street grew empty. But the red glow of the watchers’ cigarettes remained.

  They were there to make sure no one was leaving the building. Well, we certainly weren’t planning to leave that way.

  Lockwood held his final briefing in the living room. As in the rest of the house, the walls were bare and marked by stains where his parents’ artifacts had hung for so long. One lantern was on, but the room was oddly dark. The boards across the windows blocked out the streetlights. Lockwood stood there with his back to us. As we filed in, he turned and smiled. It was his old grin.

  “You all know what’s going to happen tonight,” he said. “At some point between now and dawn, some unpleasant people are going to try to get inside this building. Well, we’re not going to allow that. This is thirty-five Portland Row. We’ve always been safe here.”

  George stiffly raised a hand. “Except when that Fairfax assassin broke in one time,” he said.

  “Oh, yes. True.”

  “And that time when Annie Ward’s ghost was unleashed here,” I added.

  “And the various times the skull’s caused us grief,” Holly put in.

  George nodded. “Let’s face it, it’s always been a death trap, hasn’t it?”

  Lockwood clenched his teeth. “Yeah, but it’s my bloody death trap, and they’re not getting in. So—there are five of us to defend the place. As we know, there are only two really vulnerable points: the rear basement, and the kitchen. George is injured, so he’ll remain upstairs with the stash of weapons on the landing. That’s where the rest of us will retreat to if things go wrong. Jessica’s room is our last resort. Luce and Holly, I want you both stationed in the kitchen. Quill and I will be in the basement. Listen out. If any of us are in trouble, we whistle, and the others help if they can.” He smiled at us. “Let’s get to our stations, then. Good luck, everyone.”

  There was one last chore to carry out before taking up my position. The skull in the jar had made so many loud attempts to speak to me over the course of the afternoon that I’d closed the lever just to get some peace. I didn’t know whether it wanted to pass on insults or over-perceptive observations, but I had time for neither. While Holly went into the kitchen, I took the jar into the hall and turned the lever.

  “Well?”

  “At last! Right. Now’s the time. I see a hammer at your belt. One quick swing, and I’ll be free. Promise I won’t kill Cubbins.”

  “That’s good of you. The answer’s no.”

  “He’s half-dead already; to be honest, it’s beneath me. Kipps, though…Now, he’s a different story. No one would miss him.”

  “I’m not letting you out. We’ve discussed this.”

  The face regarded me balefully. “Pity. You’re the only person who might have done it, and in a few hours you’ll be dead. I’ll be stuck in here for decades more.”

  “That’s not my concern. Now, if you’ve finished, I need to get to my post.”

  “How very noble. Your leader must be extremely proud.” The eyes narrowed, the green haze frothed against the glass. “You realize that I could help you in the fight, don’t you? I’d kill all Winkman’s men with ghost-touch. Might save dear Lockwood’s life…”

  The fact that a little bit of me was tempted made me angrier still. “Forget it. It’s not going to happen.”

  “Well, obviously it won’t if you keep me in here. Poor old Anthony. What was on those slips of paper you got from the fortune-telling machine? I never did quite see….”

  I picked up the jar and made for the kitchen. “You’ll never know. Now shut up.”

  “Tell you what,” the skull said. “Put me right there on the table. A stray bullet might shatter my jar. Or better still, your tumbling corpse might squash it. Here’s hoping.”

  “Argh! Will you shut up?” My head was full to bursting and I couldn’t stand the sight or sound of that skull an instant longer. I opened one of the kitchen cupboards, thrust the jar inside, turned the lever, and slammed the door on the livid, goggling face. Then I cast it from my mind and went to check my weapons.

  Time passed. In the kitchen, Holly and I sat on the floor, our backs against the cabinets, rapiers and ammunition close at hand. We had set a lantern beneath the table, and its dull red light shone within a little forest of chair legs, like an ogre’s fire seen far away. The outside door was boarded up and further secured with bars and chains. The countertops were empty; the windows hidden behind Quill’s defenses. We’d bored a couple of spy-holes in the planks, and every now and then got up to look through them at the garden. You could just see the apple tree, the garden wall, the shapes and lights of other houses. The night was still. The fridge emitted its usual hum. Faint psychic sounds also came from the cupboards by the door, where I’d stowed the ghost-jar. It was probably still complaining.

  “Faucet’s dripping,” Holly said, after a time. “We must get that fixed one day.”

  “It’s a nuisance. I don’t know why Lockwood doesn’t take care of it.”

  “Next week. We�
�ll get a plumber in next week, Lucy. That’s what we’ll do.”

  “Sounds a good plan to me, Hol.”

  Holly had her head back against a cabinet, her eyes looking up at the ceiling. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders, and her legs were stretched out in front of her, with her hands resting in her lap. She was as cool and composed as ever, but there was something artless in the posture that made me think of a very little girl.

  “You all right?” I said.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You think we’ll be okay? You think we’ll get through this?”

  Holly smiled and looked at me. “What do you think?”

  “We’re always fine.”

  Without waiting for her response I got up, leaned over the sink, and peered through the nearest spy-hole. You had to press your eye really close to the wood to see out; even then, it took a while to focus. Branches moved in the apple tree at the far end of the garden. I watched them. Just the wind.

  “All clear,” I said.

  “They may not be here for hours yet.” Holly came to stand beside me.

  “Hol,” I said, “when you first came to the agency, I’m sorry I wasn’t very…friendly. I know I could have been nicer to you.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. We’ve talked about it before.” She pushed her hair back from her face. “I’m sure I was an utter pain as well. Anyway, it must have been odd, having me show up.”

  “It was a bit, but—”

  “But you needn’t have worried.” She smiled at me. “Funnily enough, Lockwood isn’t actually my type.”

  In my embarrassment, I’m not sure quite what my expression was right then, though I doubt the eerie red glow in the room made it massively attractive. It was sufficient to make Holly laugh. She moved to look through another spy-hole at the far end of the window, which gave a different angle on the garden. “Don’t look so shocked, Lucy,” she said. “I know how you feel about him. But, if anything, I had my eye on someone else.”

  “Good God, you don’t mean George?”

  Holly laughed again; her eyes sparkled as she glanced at me sidelong. “You must know there are other possibilities in this world.” The smile faded, her body tensed. “Hold it—we’ve got company out there.”

  I jammed my face against the nearest spy-hole. Yes—something stirring in the garden. Swift forms, soft lumps of darkness breaking free of the night, slipping over the garden wall. They flowed up toward the house, past the apple tree, spreading outward left and right.

  I stamped a warning on the kitchen floor. At the same moment someone—Lockwood, I guessed—called out sharply from downstairs. Holly and I moved away from the windows, closer to the table. We stood side by side, facing opposite directions. Our swords were out. We gripped each other’s hands.

  It was very silent.

  Silence…That was the worst of it. You hardly dared to breathe. I stared at the garden door. We had the internal doors propped open, so you could see another lantern flickering down the hall; that was the only movement—the tiny wisp of reddish light. In the whole of 35 Portland Row there was not a sound. Holly’s hand was damp in mine.

  A little scuffle on the garden steps. Holly made a small noise in her throat.

  From downstairs came the crash of broken glass.

  I glanced at Holly to see if she had heard it—

  And there was a terrific bang. The room shook; I saw bright white light shine for an instant at the edges of the boards hammered into the garden door. The light of the magnesium explosion faded. Lockwood’s trip wire had done its job. There was a thump on the wall as something collided with it, and the sound of a man howling.

  Holly was grasping my hand hard. “Lucy…!”

  I scowled at the wall. “No, Hol. No, it’s good. Maybe it’ll put them off.”

  It didn’t. Glass broke behind us; beyond the boards, the kitchen window smashed.

  “Guard the door, Holly,” I said.

  I moved to the window and stabbed my rapier out through the nearest spy-hole. I was rewarded by a gasp of pain and then a crunch of broken shrubbery as someone dropped from the window into the bushes below.

  From downstairs came a frantic whistling—Lockwood’s alarm signal. Holly and I looked at each other across the kitchen.

  “You go,” she said. “I’ll hold on here.”

  “I won’t be long….” I was already careering down the spiral staircase, boots clattering, feeling the temperature drop with every step. I reached the bottom. My skin tingled; my teeth ached with sudden cold. Strips of greenish fog lapped against my boots.

  Ghost-fog…

  From the arch on the left, from the rear of the house, I heard the ringing of steel, psychic concussions, and a screaming voice that didn’t come from a living throat. I plunged through, saw Lockwood and Kipps retreating from a massive, faintly glowing form. Its outline was rounded, knobbly, and ill-defined. There was a broad, low-slung node that might have been a head, the suggestion of sloped shoulders, gristly protrusions instead of arms—and nothing else. The rest was a shapeless, glowing mass. It hung just above the floor, palpitating slightly, drifting toward us. As Lockwood struck through it with his rapier, the plasm parted around the wound and just as swiftly reformed.

  “Hi, Luce.” Lockwood glanced back at me with frankly unnecessary calm. “Thanks for coming down. You see we’ve got a Limbless. They busted a hole in the door, threw its Source in. It rolled away somewhere in the laundry room. Can you find it? Quill and I have our hands full.”

  “Could blast it with a flare,” I said. I was already moving to the side, looking for an opportunity to dart past the apparition. Never get near a Limbless, lest it suck you in.

  “We will if necessary, but I don’t like the idea of all that plasm flying around in such an enclosed space. Take a look, will you? Just don’t tread on the floorboards by the door.”

  I darted forward, ducking through a wall of cold, out into the laundry area at the back of the basement. Fragments of broken wood lay scattered about, and our barricade was already partly dismantled. Beyond it, dark forms worked feverishly to break their way inside.

  I threw a flare to dissuade them, and by its silvery light scrabbled on the floor among the wood and debris and the odd sock and pair of leggings left there from our washing. I couldn’t see anything that looked like a Source. White smoke plumed above me. The barricade was smoldering with white tongues of fire, and someone with an ax was attacking it in a frenzy.

  “How’s it going, Luce?” Lockwood’s call wasn’t quite as nonchalant now. From the Limbless came a horrid gurgling sigh; from Kipps, a cry of fear.

  I didn’t answer. I had my flashlight on, gripped between my teeth. I’d opened a pouch in my belt, held my fingers ready to grasp one of the silver nets that lay folded within. Where was that stupid Source? The ax was making short work of the door. I knelt close to the floor tiles, craning my neck to look down the side of the washing machine, among the lint and buttons….

  There! A roughly circular fragment of bone—a piece of neck vertebra, most likely, wedged almost beneath the machine. As I reached for it, the last remnants of the barricade splintered. Magnesium smoke swirled, and a short but powerful-looking man clambered through. It had been a while since I’d last seen Julius Winkman. He’d worn a new blue suit for his sentencing, and I’d been high up in the courtroom gallery. Today he wore black and carried a length of metal piping, and I was lying on the floor with my arm under a washing machine. Times change. We recognized each other, even so.

  Jail hadn’t made him any less muscular. His arms were still knotted like ship ropes, his chest and neck as massive as those of a horse. His lips drew back in a grimace as he saw me. He stepped into the room and put his weight on one of the loose floorboards Lockwood and Kipps had rigged up. His boot went down, the board swung up; it slammed into his face, sending him crashing backward into the men behind him.

  At the same moment I pulled the piece of bone out from the crev
ice and rolled it up in the cool, loose folds of the silver net. Across the room, the giant floating shape crumpled in on itself like a punctured balloon. My ears popped; the Limbless was gone.

  Roars of fury sounded in the garden. Someone somewhere fired a gun; I felt an impact on the wall behind me. I left the swaddled Source lying, got to my feet unsteadily. Hands grasped me; Lockwood was pulling me back across the room. “No use waiting,” he said, “the door’s broken, Luce. They’re in. Quill’s gone upstairs to help Holly. You come with me.”

  We ran through another arch into the rapier room. The air was filled with smoke, with flecks of dwindling ghost-fog, with sparks of burning magnesium. The still shapes of Esmeralda and Floating Joe hung on their chains. A thin wire extended from Esmeralda’s left leg and trailed away behind a pile of salt sacks in the furthest corner.

  Lockwood grasped the wire. He pulled me down behind the sacks.

  We waited.

  Noises beyond the arch. A man with a long knife stole into sight. Despite his bulk, he moved silently through the swirling smoke. He glanced up the iron stairs, then looked into the rapier room. This made him stop abruptly. He had seen the dummies’ misshapen forms hanging on their chains in the soft darkness. They must have been an unnerving sight. A flashlight beam winked on and off; it picked out their straw hands, their painted faces. Just dummies…The man returned the flashlight to his belt and inched into the room, knife at the ready. Softly, softly, he padded across the space, making for the doorway to the storeroom, which was near the pile of sacks where we were hiding. As he reached the middle of the room, Lockwood yanked on the wire, causing Esmeralda to swing abruptly toward him like a floating ghost. With a stifled curse, the man reacted; his knife stabbed straight into the center of her stuffed straw stomach, where it burst one of the magnesium flares we had hidden there. Searing white flames erupted from the dummy’s torso in a spreading ring, ripping her apart, engulfing the man right next to her. He toppled to the floor in a cloud of burning straw, then rose again, screaming, his hair awash with pale magnesium flames. Frantically beating at his head, he turned, collided briefly with the wall, then careered away toward the office.