The Empty Grave

by Jonathan Stroud

  I felt Holly and George shift slightly at my side. Lockwood didn’t answer the question; he glanced around at the soaring roof, at the ghosts floating like pale fish in their prisons of glass. “You weren’t very impressed with the location for our fight last time, Sir Rupert,” he said softly. “I hope the Hall of Pillars is a glamorous enough spot?”

  Sir Rupert grinned. “I certainly have no complaints.”

  “Single combat again, then?”

  “The thing is,” Sir Rupert Gale said, “I’d like to, but that bloodthirsty young harpy, Miss Carlyle there, snagged me badly the other night.” He raised his injured wrist. “I don’t feel quite the ticket.”

  “I’m not on top form myself, either,” Lockwood said. “All the same, I’d go easy on you.”

  The gap-toothed grin widened. “That’s kind. Actually, I’m going to save us both the bother. Here’s what the papers are going to say tomorrow. You were caught breaking into Fittes House. My team tried to stop you, but you resisted. A fight broke out. Fatalities ensued.” The smile vanished; he clicked his fingers at his men. “Go ahead and kill them.”

  Raised swords shone in other-light; the men walked forward.

  “Okay, Quill,” Lockwood said.

  The prone figure on the trolley lifted an arm; with a stiff swing, Kipps flung the coat aside, revealing the rows of weapons pressed beside him. We had a fine selection of egg-shaped flares and electrical guns, black and sleek and dully gleaming. George took up a gun, and flicked the safety catch. He sent out a zigzag blast of light that caught Sir Rupert Gale in the chest and sent him whirling through the air. Meanwhile, the rest of us had each seized a flare. We turned, took aim, and threw. We didn’t aim for the men themselves, but for the columns behind them. Three flares exploded simultaneously. The results exceeded our expectations.

  The silver-glass in the Relic Columns was famously thick, due to the notorious nature of the Visitors within; yet the egg-flares, which were designed to take out whole clusters of lesser ghosts, shattered them even so.

  Great splinters of glass blew outward; shards capsized like toppling ice floes. After the first blinding flashes of magnesium fire, white smoke plumed sideways in saucer-shaped eruption clouds; and through this chaos of falling glass and spreading smoke, the liberated ghosts came swooping.

  There: the sinewy form of Long Hugh Hennratty, stalking on its severed ankle bones. There: the Gory Girl, blindly crawling in a bloody nightdress. And there: the dreaded Morden Poltergeist itself. It had escaped its broken teapot. It had no discernible form, but had lifted the fragments of its pillar and was whirling them around in an upturned cone of broken glass. It caught up to the nearest of Sir Rupert’s men and sent him screaming toward the rafters. The Specter of Long Hugh Hennratty advanced with a horrid sideways hopping motion, like a knight moving on a chessboard; it passed straight through the bodies of two adjacent men, stopping their hearts with its spectral cold, and would have jumped at me, too, had a blast from George’s gun not made it leap away.

  Lockwood had his head down; he was pushing Kipps’s trolley forward with all his might, slaloming between the broken pillars, between the rushing ghosts and screaming men. “Make for the exit!” he shouted. “Keep on going! Don’t get bottled in!”

  We ran with him, trying to keep pace. Some of Sir Rupert’s men had panicked and were fleeing for their lives; others still pursued us. I slashed at one with my rapier; he jumped aside and was engulfed by Long Hugh Hennratty’s bony arms.

  “Ah, yes,” the skull’s voice said—I still had the jar beneath my arm—“a spot of proper carnage. This is what life is all about.”

  I didn’t answer. My head was filled with the sound of people shouting; with the hoots and shrieking of the ghosts; the blasts and buffets of the bombs. Holly had broken another pillar. George, dancing like a mad thing, sent out burst after burst of electric charge.

  “My God,” I gasped as I ran. “The noise…”

  “These spirits are a bit showy,” the skull said. “All that hooting and cackling. Don’t see me doing that. I ask you, where’s the class?”

  The Morden Poltergeist whirled past, tearing chandeliers from the ceiling. It collided head-on with yet another pillar, cracking it like a breakfast egg. Now it blocked our path. Lockwood wrenched at the trolley; we swerved aside, continued on.

  Out of the swirling shadows ahead of us, his face and body blackened, his hair spiked like the rind of some exotic fruit, Sir Rupert Gale came staggering. He held his sword outstretched.

  “Stop!” he shouted. “Stop and fight!”

  We slowed our headlong pace, came to a standstill. Not because we were going to fight him, but because we could see the thin blue glow of other-light expanding at his back; the pale face flowing ever closer. The Gory Girl of Cumberland Place was one of the slower and quieter of the spirits; she had made no noise in her approach, and she made no noise now as her slim, pale, bloodied arms stole around Sir Rupert’s neck and drew him to her. Her jagged mouth opened in welcome; she was like a deep-sea fish swallowing her prey. As she hugged him close, blue veins of ice ran swiftly down his skin. Sir Rupert’s limbs jerked and thrashed; he tried to speak, but could only make a gargling sound as he was drawn back into the dark.

  “See?” the skull said plaintively. “That’s what I want to do. It’s honest work. Why can’t I have any fun?”

  “Come on.” Lockwood began to move again. “We’re almost at—” He gave a cry of warning. The pillar that the Morden Poltergeist had cracked was toppling. It fell toward us; I saw it coming as if in slow motion. I jumped one way; Lockwood and my friends went another. The pillar crashed down between us, shattering at my back. Blue other-light spilled out, like liquid floating in midair. I looked all around. I couldn’t see the others through the swirling smoke. There was an explosion nearby. Ghosts screamed.

  But from between the spars of the broken pillar soft streams of white were issuing. They flowed together into a squat and bulky form with gaping sockets instead of eyes. In one thick hand it held a serrated knife. The Clapham Butcher Boy swiveled its big round head and looked at me.

  “Ooh, might be worth scampering, Lucy,” the skull said. “Remember—he’s a fan of yours.”

  I didn’t need reminding. The ghost tittered. As it moved toward me, I’d already turned and was running in a panic across the chaos of the hall.

  I darted this way and that, crunching through steaming glass, jumping across the ghost-touched bodies of the Fittes men, some of them already swollen and blue. Behind me drifted a soft white shape with a knife in its hand.

  With all the smoke and eerie lights, it was impossible to see where I was going. I lost all sense of direction. I couldn’t find my friends, I couldn’t find the exit. I stumbled near a shattered pillar; on its far side, a faint green Specter, with the form of a wild-eyed man in chains, ducked into the floor like he was swimming in it, and bobbed up beside me, clawing with his hand. I slashed at him with my sword and leaped away—and suddenly saw an arch in front of me. Without pause, I ran through it, and down a corridor strewn with scattered papers. The place was empty; everyone had fled.

  I drew to an abrupt halt. I knew where I was. Urns of swords and flowers sat beneath plinths on which were burning flames. The paintings of serious-eyed children watched me from the wall, and six elevator doors waited at the far end, five bronze, and one of them silver. I was not near the exit to the Strand. Instead, in my panic, I’d backtracked and retreated deeper into the building. I was in the Hall of Fallen Heroes again. Beside the elevators.

  I looked at the corridor behind me. There was no sign of the Clapham Butcher Boy, but somewhere far off came the horrid sound of manic tittering. I stood in the hallway, regaining my breath, waiting for my intelligence to return.

  “So, you’ve gone the wrong way,” the skull said. “Nice one. Your pals will be out having tea and cream buns by now, but, frankly, you’re toast. I make it at least seven major-league Type Two ghosts you’ve got t
o get past to reach the door.” There was a distant explosion. “Make that eight. That’s another pillar gone.”

  I didn’t say anything. Yes, Lockwood and the others would be out. I was sure of it. They’d get help for Kipps. Our luck would hold.

  “That Butcher Boy,” the skull went on. “He’ll be lying in wait for certain. Feel like taking him on?”

  “No,” I said. A sudden cold, hard certainty had filled me, a distillation of all my pent-up rage. “No, I’m not going to do that.”

  “Very wise. So are you going to sit down here and cry?”

  “Oddly enough, I’m not going to do that either.” I walked toward the silver elevator. “I’ve got better things to do.”

  The elevator didn’t take long to come. There was a faint, smooth hum as it descended from the penthouse floor. Distant mechanisms whirred; I watched the arrow flicking back across the dial above the door. A ting; the humming stopped. The door opened. It was a dark interior of gold filigree and inlaid tortoiseshell, with mirrored panels on the sides.

  I stepped inside and turned to face the front. I adjusted the ghost-jar under one arm and pressed the button for the seventh floor.

  The door closed; almost imperceptibly, the elevator began to rise.

  “Going up,” the skull said. “Next floor: cutlery, condiments, and underpants.”

  We stood staring at the door. There was a mirror there, too. Thanks to that and the soft warm light on the ceiling, I had a lovely, lingering view of just how tired I looked. My skin was puffy and sallow, my hair sticking out at impossible angles. My clothes were torn and dirty. I didn’t care too much about any of this. A fire burned in my eyes.

  It was a beautiful elevator, plush and very old; a private lift for an exclusive passenger. The air was heavy with a strong perfume that I recognized very well.

  “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 elevator, 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 do have a plan, I suppose?”

  “I’m going to improvise.” It was strange, 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 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 elevator 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 elevator 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 flunkies 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 flunkies. 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 jeweled 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 of 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 at the desk 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 knee-length 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 midair. 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 squids’ 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 an elegant hand. “Welcome, Lucy! Please come in. Don’t stand skulking at the door.”

  She had a deep, melodious voice, calm and utterly self-assured. I walked forward slowly, my blackened boots scuffing on the carpet. On either side the mirrors reflected my ragged form, my drawn sword, my feral, vagrant air.

  “Come over,” Ms. Fittes said again. “There are seats for visitors.” With a flick of the fingertips she indicated a canvas armchair near the desk. “Join me. I want to talk to you.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “Because I want to talk to you.”

  I didn’t take the chair, but came to a halt a few feet away from the woman and the silent floating spirit. The cold that radiated from it was even stronger than its light. I didn’t want to get too close.

  Marissa Fittes watched me with her big black eyes. Her long dark hair
was as lush and loose and impeccably aligned as ever. I had a sudden insight into how important her beauty was to her. The mirrors told their story. The windows opened out on London, but the whole penthouse reflected in on her.

  “A sword?” she said suddenly. “I’m surprised at you, Lucy.” Her eye lit upon the jar under my arm. “And—what’s this bottled abomination? Some pet Lurker? A Pale Stench in a jar?”

  The ghost-jar vibrated furiously under my arm. “Hey!” the skull cried. “Don’t give me that! You know who I am!”

  If the woman heard the skull’s voice, she gave no sign of it. “You look so tired, my dear,” she went on, smiling. “But, as always, your initiative astounds me. How did you get here? The elevator? What about security on the front doors?”

  “Yes, I took the elevator,” I said. “I’m not sure you’ve got any security anymore, to be honest. It’s getting a little busy downstairs. But actually, I didn’t come in through the front. I came up from the basement, you see.”

  Ms. Fittes hesitated a moment. Her eyes studied me. “Ah, I do see. Then you’ve made quite a journey. Sir Rupert assured me you’d never get across the Other Side. What a fool he is sometimes. I have to applaud you.”

  I smiled slightly. “You won’t have to worry about Sir Rupert letting you down again. It’s all over, Marissa. We know who and what you are.”

  I looked for a reaction to the name. Perhaps her eyes widened just a little. “Marissa?” She gave a lazy smile. “Why do you call me that?”

  “Because we know you’re not Penelope,” I said. “We read your book—Occult Theories. Well, George read it, to be fair. Wading through the ravings of a lunatic isn’t something the rest of us do too often. George isn’t fussy. He’d read the memoir of a lavatory attendant if it were propped against his cornflakes. He told us about your theories of immortality, how the body might be rejuvenated by ectoplasm taken from spirits on the Other Side.”