The Empty Grave

by Jonathan Stroud

  I moved in her direction, disregarding the pain in my side.

  “Hey, Marissa,” I said. “I’ve got a message for you. I forgot to tell you earlier. You know that old doctor of yours—the one you buried in your tomb instead of you? Neil Clarke, wasn’t it? We met his ghost the other day. He was asking after you.” I corrected myself. “Actually, he was asking for you. He badly wants to be reunited with you again.”

  For a second, the woman’s expression became as static as one of the old masks we’d once had on our walls. Her hand twitched, making the green stones jangle at her wrist. Then she recovered. “Oh, dear, poor Neil. Is he still down there? And still angry? That is a shame.”

  “Maybe you’ll see for yourself soon enough,” I said.

  Marissa scowled. “You’re wounded,” she said. “Look at all that blood. I think you’re dying.”

  “Like you’re an expert on that.”

  “You’re bleeding to death.”

  “Oh, hardly.” I lifted my sword, stiffly adopted the en garde stance, ready for battle. “Come on.”

  The woman raised her weapon, too. “It’s not easy, Lucy, fighting with a wounded side. The muscles twist; they wrench and tear. I know that because I was a master with the rapier. I was the first to use one against ghosts. I invented the art. It was I who subdued the Mud Lane Phantom, I who—”

  “Oh, shut up,” I said. “That was fifty years ago and in another body. How long’s it been since you actually raised a sword in anger, Marissa? I suspect you’re a little rusty.”

  She brushed hair from her face. “Well,” she said, “let’s find out.”

  With that she darted forward; the rapier flashed down. I blocked it, twisted my blade in a Kuriashi turn—a complex series of feints and blows that came at her from either side. Gasping, she dodged and parried, kept my attack at bay.

  And after that there was near silence in the penthouse, silence apart from clashing iron. On one side of the desk, the glowing spirit sent forth tentacles of plasm to snare Lockwood. On the other, Marissa threw herself at me. Lockwood and I retreated; we dug in, we held our ground. Just for a few moments we were side by side, him slicing at whirling tentacles, me parrying the woman’s blows. Our reflections skipped along the fractured surface of the wall mirrors, swelling and shrinking, distorting on the jags of broken glass. There was no sound but the scuff and squeak and shuffle of our boots, the crack of glass, the tang of blades. In and out we went, twisting and spinning as if in synchronized flow. It must have been quite a spectacle.

  And we were being watched. Once I caught sight of the skull’s spirit looking at us from halfway across the room.

  A while ago Lockwood had scarcely been able to walk, but you wouldn’t have guessed that from his airy steps, the way he swung out of reach of the swiftest spectral blows. He moved with the utmost grace, with the same economy of effort as when practicing with Floating Joe and Esmeralda at home. I didn’t have his fluency—I’d never had—but I matched the dark-haired woman blow for blow, and soon saw her expression begin to change. Confidence fell away, to be replaced by creeping doubt.

  “Ezekiel,” she cried suddenly, “help me!”

  Lockwood’s original shots had wounded the glowing shape, preventing it from unleashing its full strength. But the trouble with powerful ghosts—and Ezekiel was powerful, whatever manner of dark spirit it actually might have been—is that when they’re inconvenienced, it’s seldom for very long. And now, as if galvanized by Marissa’s cry, it withdrew its tentacles into itself, mustered its energies, and raised its shining arms.

  A blast of psychic force swept out across the room. Lockwood and I both staggered backward—but we weren’t the focus of the assault. One of the sofas over by the wall was plucked from the ground. The spirit gestured; the sofa whirled forward with appalling speed, straight for where Lockwood and I were standing.

  Straight for our heads. We couldn’t react; we couldn’t do anything. I closed my eyes.

  And opened them.

  I hadn’t been struck dead. Nothing had happened. The sofa was hanging a few feet from me, quivering, shaking in midair.

  Over by the desk, the spirit Ezekiel gestured again; the sofa twitched, jerked toward us just a little, then sprang back, pulled by a countering force. I turned and looked…

  And saw the skull’s ghost standing there.

  The thin-faced youth wore a nonchalant, almost bored expression. He was inspecting the fingers of one hand, as if he’d noticed a trace of dirt beneath his nails. The other hand was, however, raised; it made a gentle pulling motion, and as it did so, the sofa jerked violently backward through the air, away from us, away from Ezekiel’s control. The youth flicked his arm aside, and the sofa swung with it, spinning across the room to smash into the wall.

  Ezekiel gave a cry of rage. “Foul spirit! You dare defy me?”

  “What kind of a line is that?” the skull’s ghost said. “Honestly, can you imagine spending any time with him? I mean, where’s the humor, where’s the sarcasm? Where are the gratuitous butt jokes? Eternity with him would really drag.”

  Ezekiel gestured again. A filing cabinet rose from behind the desk, came whipping toward us. The youth flapped a hand irreverently; the cabinet reversed its spin, shot back past Ezekiel’s head, and crashed through the window.

  The spirit was black with anger. It tried again. A storm of air raged around us—it was like the full fury of a Poltergeist—but met an answering wind from the skull that nullified it, canceled it out.

  All through this, Marissa Fittes had been as transfixed as Lockwood and me. Now she recovered herself; with a snarl of rage, she stabbed at me with her rapier. The skull’s ghost pointed a finger. A spirit-wind picked Marissa off her feet and sent her flying back to strike the side of the desk. She slumped across it, moaning.

  “Ooh,” the skull said. “Sore! I felt that.”

  “Lucy,” Lockwood cried. “The Source!”

  But I was already moving. I threw myself at Marissa’s side, wrenched the rapier out of her feeble grasp and hurled it away. Then I ripped the bracelet of jade stones from her wrist. It was freezing cold; the feel of it almost made me cry out. I fumbled in my pouch for the silver net I knew was there.

  The spirit Ezekiel gave a hideous yell. The nimbus of light around it died away. The radiant form shrank and hardened, became a dark and bestial shape with glowing eyes and a gaping mouth that sprang at me over the desk.

  But I’d already pulled the net out of its pouch and wrapped it around the bracelet. The spirit seemed to disintegrate as it came, pieces falling off like twists of burning paper, until it was just the eyes that kept on rushing—and even these grew pale and faded into threads of smoke that were dispersed by fresh air coming through the broken window.

  Ezekiel was gone.

  “I don’t know who he was,” Lockwood said, “but he wasn’t healthy company. That bracelet’s one for the furnaces tomorrow, Luce.” Limping slightly, he walked over to the wall cabinet and flung the doors open, casting light on the horrible contorted body within. He shook his head in wonder. “And look what a state he’s left Marissa in,” he said. “In some way, her spirit’s still bound to her body. Since she’s refused to die, since she’s in some sense still alive, this…this object must be still alive, too.” He winced. “Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?”

  He left the cabinet and came across to where I stood beside the thin, gray, cloudy apparition of the spiky haired youth. The skull’s spirit was again affecting complete unconcern, pretending to be studying the cover of one of the fallen magazines.

  Lockwood regarded the ghost. “Thanks,” he said.

  The skull’s spirit said nothing. After a pause, Lockwood turned away and went over to Marissa, who was still lying across the desk.

  I lingered by the ghost. “I want to thank you, too,” I said.

  The youth shrugged. “Just a one-off,” he said. “Almost an accident, really. It’s been so long since I stretched my energi
es….I felt like exerting myself a little, that’s all. If it also suited you, that was a coincidence.”

  “Sure.”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “I understand. So…what now?” I looked over to where the broken ghost-jar lay on the coffee table. “You’re still tied to your skull, but I don’t think you have to be. Like I told you, you could break the connection, head off to the Other Side.” The ghost said nothing. “Or,” I went on, clearing my throat awkwardly, “if you’re not yet ready, you could stay with me a while longer.”

  The dark eyes regarded me. An eyebrow was slowly, sardonically, raised. “What, just hang out with you? Become an associate member of Lockwood and Co.? Now that would be plain odd.”

  “I guess.” There wasn’t much else to say. I turned away, walked over to the desk, where Lockwood was watching the dark-haired woman as she got painfully to her feet. Marissa’s hair was disarranged, her lipstick smudged; her eyes were sunken in deep hollows. There was even a suggestion of blood about her lips. She looked as bad as I did on an average morning. It gave me a warm feeling, and it gave me an even warmer feeling to see Lockwood there, still in one piece. We’d actually done it. We’d gotten to the end.

  He smiled at me. “I was just saying to Marissa that we might take an elevator ride downstairs. Barnes and his DEPRAC teams should be getting things under control by now. They’ll be having a peep into the basements and making a few arrests as well, I expect. Holly and George were planning on giving them the tour. But it’s high time that we joined them. If you’re ready, Marissa, let’s go.”

  The woman nodded slowly. She stood by the desk, head on one side, arms hanging loosely, like a broken doll’s. “You know, Anthony, you’re very like your parents,” she said.

  I frowned, stepped nearer. “Don’t listen to her, Lockwood.”

  “You look rather like your father,” Marissa said, “but it’s your mother who gave you your impulsiveness and drive. I was there when they delivered their last lecture at the Orpheus Society. It was very good.” She smiled at him. “Too good. That’s why it was their last.”

  Just for a second, Lockwood didn’t breathe. Then he laughed. “You can tell it all to Barnes,” he said. “Come on.”

  He held out his arm to usher her forward. The woman moved, then suddenly lurched away from him, bent down at the desk. A catch was sprung, a compartment opened; she turned back to us, holding a small cylinder in her hand. There was something in the twisted contours of the body, in the way it hunched before us, in the snarling lines of the face and blazing eyes, that made it seem as if Marissa’s shriveled spirit had exposed itself again.

  “Do you really think I’d give myself up to you?” she spat. “To two stupid children? No. This is my house. My London. I built it all. I made it what it is. And if I’m not going to be here to enjoy it, I’ll make certain that you’re not either.” She pressed the side of the cylinder. A small red light came on; there was a high-pitched beeping sound, a smell of oil and burning. “A cluster charge,” Marissa said. “Can level a whole block. Twenty seconds. Say your good-byes. You’re both coming with me.”

  With that she clamped the cylinder against her chest and ran toward me. I believe that in her final madness she would have clung to me, and ensured my doom. But now Lockwood moved, quickly as he always did, and grappled her from the side. He tried to wrest the cylinder from her, but she fought against him, biting, scratching, keeping him at bay.

  He turned his head. “Lucy! Run! I’ll hold her! Run—you can make it to the elevator!”

  “No! Lockwood!”

  “Go, Lucy! Do what you’re told, for once!” His eyes met mine, dark and desperate. “Please! Save yourself for me.”

  “No…” I was frozen where I stood. “No, I can’t….”

  And I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave him. What would I be running for? What would I be running toward? A world where the prophecies of evil ghosts came true, where dark predictions were fulfilled, where a third neat headstone sat atop a newly turned grave in a long-abandoned cemetery. Where all my fears were realized and all light gone.

  A world without him. I couldn’t run.

  “No,” I whispered. “I’ll stay with you.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake.”

  And then the ghost of the thin gray youth was standing beside Lockwood and Marissa. Unseen forces wrenched them apart. Marissa was flung away. The skull’s spirit turned toward us. He gave me his old grin. “Brace yourselves,” he said.

  He lifted his arms. The spirit-wind that struck Lockwood and me forced all the air from our lungs. It sent us off our feet and straight across the room.

  As we flew back, the cylinder exploded. I saw the boiling plume of black and red expanding outward to engulf the penthouse. It cut right through the windows, sending molten glass spewing out across the Thames. It cut right through the ceiling, through the sofas, cabinet, and chairs. It cut right through the figure of the youth as he watched us go. It went with blinding speed. But we were still ahead of it, Lockwood and I. We were going so fast it could not catch us. We shot right through the open doors and into the vestibule, skidding across the floor, hitting the elevator door with a mighty bang.

  Lockwood and I lay crumpled together as the fireball ballooned across the vestibule. I felt its heat upon my skin—then it drew back. Somewhere I could hear fire raging, and a mighty crash as the penthouse ceiling fell in. Black smoke swelled around us. It was hard to breathe. My mind drifted downward. My final sensation was relief that I could still feel Lockwood moving. My final thought was that I’d left the skull’s ghost-jar lying on the table.

  The blast that wrecked Marissa’s apartments was large, but it was not the most destructive event that took place in Fittes House that night. Shortly before dawn, a series of controlled explosions cut through the Hall of Pillars and surrounding rooms on the ground floor. This was a deliberate act by a small emergency DEPRAC team, which had arrived some hours earlier, and had since been struggling to deal with the nine terrible ghosts rampaging through the building. Several investigating officers and a large number of Fittes staff had been killed or injured during attempts to corral the Gory Girl, the Morden Poltergeist, and the rest. At last the commanding officer, Inspector Montagu Barnes, gave the order to bring in heavy munitions. The lower floors were evacuated, and the charges set off. The explosions blew out part of the front wall, sending rubble spilling across the Strand. The famous glass doors, with their inscribed unicorn motifs, were utterly obliterated. One or two walls collapsed internally, as did part of the ceiling above the hall. All traces of the silver-glass pillars, their relics, and the ghosts they maintained were at once wiped out.

  Fortunately, the explosions themselves claimed no extra casualties. Since they happened at five in the morning, the surrounding streets were mostly deserted. As the smoke cleared, the surviving DEPRAC forces and evacuated Fittes staff gathered in the Strand. Smoke hung thickly over central London, and a number of onlookers began to congregate in Trafalgar Square.

  Inspector Barnes, whose raincoat had sustained significant ectoplasm damage in the battle, cast the tattered remnants aside and commandeered a leather biker’s jacket from a bystander in the street. For the next few hours he was everywhere, summoning ambulances and medi-vans, bringing reinforcements from Scotland Yard, and rousing the wandering Fittes agents, who were mostly in a state of shock, to assist with crowd control. On the advice of George Cubbins and Holly Munro, who were temporarily assisting him, he also requisitioned two cafés across the street to provide a constant stream of food and drinks to all.

  The smoke cleared; the heat in the building died down. Search-and-rescue teams went in. On the ground floor they discovered a number of white-coated scientists, wide-eyed and tremulous, who had appeared from the basement levels. The group was at once handed into DEPRAC custody. Four of Sir Rupert Gale’s men, two suffering from ghost-touch, were also located alive; they were taken off to the hosp
ital under armed guard.

  At George and Holly’s urgent behest, teams also immediately made for the seventh floor, from which black smoke could be seen pouring. The building’s elevators were out of commission, so they took the stairs. Before they had reached the top of the first flight, however, they heard footsteps descending. It was Lockwood and me, coming slowly, arm in arm. Our clothes and faces were blackened with smoke. I had something small and round, wrapped in a piece of burned cloth, tucked beneath my arm.

  By mid-morning, DEPRAC crews had cordoned off the end of the Strand, and the situation was under full control. A census of survivors was taken, and a tentative list of the dead or missing drawn up. Bodies began to be brought out of Fittes House. These included those of Penelope Fittes and Sir Rupert Gale. Another set of remains, located inside a cabinet amid the rubble of the seventh-floor penthouse, was carried out under a white sheet, placed in a DEPRAC van, and driven away at top speed.

  The members of Lockwood & Co. watched this activity from a window table in the Silver Unicorn Café, directly opposite the disaster zone. The emergency services had already taken us under their wing; our cuts had been cleaned, dressed, and bandaged, and pep-shots of adrenaline administered to counteract our close exposure to ectoplasm. A hospital visit had been offered—and declined by all. I had been forced to protest particularly strongly to avoid this fate. The stab wound in my side was the most serious of our varied injuries, and an overnight stay was recommended. But I would not leave the others. In the end I was patched up, given a painkiller and a very reluctant temporary discharge, with strict instructions to report to a doctor the next day. Then I was allowed to go to the café with the rest of them.

  There’s no point in describing how we looked. We were just as bad as before, only now with added bandages and minor burns. The soles of Lockwood’s shoes had partially melted in the explosion. Holly had the side of her face taped up—one of the blasts had burst an eardrum. George was still wrapped in one of the silver thermal blankets we’d been given by the emergency crews; it looked remarkably like a certain silver cape he’d worn recently, though none of us felt the need to mention it. As for me, my waist was so tightly wound with dressings I could barely move. We nursed our cups of tea, our toast—whatever the harried café proprietors had been able to bring us, for the place was packed. We stared out through the window condensation at the Strand.