Lockwood & Co.: The Creeping Shadow (2 page)

Same old, same old.

I opened my mouth to try once more. Then—

“
I STILL HAVE IT
….
”

“Skull, did you hear that?”

“Only just. Sounded a bit husky. Still, I have to give her credit. It’s amazing she can say anything at all with her throat torn open.
What
does she still have? That’s the question….Blisters? Bad breath? Who can tell?”

“Shh!”
I made a grand and welcoming gesture. “Emma Marchment—I hear you! If you desire to take your rest, you must first trust me!
What is it that you have?
”

A voice spoke close behind me. “Lucy?”

I cried out, ripping my rapier clear of its Velcro clasp. I spun around, sword held ready, heart throbbing against my chest. The door to the bedroom had opened. A tall, slim figure stood there, silhouetted by swirling flashlight beams and clouds of magnesium smoke. One hand was on his hip; the other rested on his sword hilt, his long coat rippling around him.

“Lucy, what
are
you doing?”

I snatched a glance back, stabilizing the mirror just in time to see the faint, pale shape, like a breath-smudge in the air, pass through the paneling behind the bureau and disappear.

So the ghost had retreated into the wall….
That
was interesting.

“Lucy?”

“All right, all right, you can come in.” I sheathed my sword and beckoned—and into the room strode Ted Daley, team leader (second class) at the Rotwell Agency.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. There were many advantages to my new life as a freelance psychic operative. I could choose my jobs. I worked whenever I wanted. I could build up a little reputation of my own. But one definite drawback was that I could never pick my fellow agents. Each case I took on, I had to fit in with whoever worked for the company that had hired me. Of course, some were okay—decent, professional, and competent. Others…well, they were more like Ted.

Seen at a distance, in a soft light, with his back turned, Ted was tolerable; closer inspection was invariably disappointing. He was a gangly, sad-eyed youth, long in all the wrong places, with a permanently semi-open mouth hanging above a scrawny neck. Somehow he always gave the impression of having just swallowed his chin. He had a reedy voice, and a tight and nitpicking manner. As team leader, he had nominal authority over me that evening, but since he ran with his arms flapping like a goose, had the personality of a limp stick of celery, and, crucially, didn’t seem particularly psychic, I more or less ignored him.

“Mr. Farnaby wants a word,” he said.

“Again?”

“Wants an update on how we’re doing.”

“Not a chance. I’ve cornered the ghost; we deal with it now. Bring the others in.”

“No, Mr. Farnaby says—” But it was too late for Ted; I knew they’d be loitering at the door. Sure enough, in an instant two nervous shapes had slipped into the room, and presto, our team was complete in all its glory.

It wasn’t exactly a breathtaking line-up. Tina Lane, Rotwell field agent (third class), was a wan girl, peculiarly colorless in a way that suggested all her warmth and vibrancy had drained out through a hole in one of her toes. She had hair like bleached straw, bone-white skin, and a slow, faint way of talking that made you lean ever closer to her in an effort to catch what she said. When you realized it wasn’t worth listening to, you leaned slowly back again and, if possible, continued in the same direction until you’d left the room.

Next up: Dave Eason, Rotwell field agent (third class). Dave had slightly more to him, in a damaged-goods sort of way. He was a dark-skinned kid, squat, burly, and belligerent, like an angry tree stump. I guessed he had strong natural abilities, but his experiences with Visitors had left him skittish and too free with his rapier. Tina had a scar where Dave had struck her on a previous occasion; and twice that very evening
I’d
almost been skewered when he’d caught sight of me in his mirror out of the corner of his eye.

Wan Tina, mediocre Ted, and jumpy Dave. Yeah, that was my team; that’s what I had to work with. It’s a wonder the ghost didn’t just evaporate in fear.

Dave was pumped up, tensed. A nerve twitched in his neck. “Where’ve you been, Carlyle? It’s a dangerous Type Two we’re dealing with here, and Mr. Farnaby—”

“Says we have to stick together,” Ted interrupted. “Yes, we’ve got to keep in strict formation. It’s no good you arguing with me and waltzing off. You have to listen to me now, Lucy. We’ve got to report back to him straightaway or—”

“Or,” I said, “we could just get on with the job.” I’d been kneeling, closing up my backpack; the others didn’t know about the skull, and I wanted it to stay that way. Now I got to my feet, put my hand on my rapier hilt, and addressed them. “Listen, there’s no use wasting time with the supervisor. He’s an adult. He can’t help us, can he? So we use our own initiative. I’ve found the probable location of the Source. The ghost disappeared into the wall just over there on the far side. Didn’t the old story say that after she was stabbed Emma Marchment fled from her husband into a secret room? Then they broke in and found her lying dead among all her pots and poisons? So my guess is we’ll find her room behind that wall somewhere. Join me, and we’ll put an end to this. Okay?”

“You’re not our leader,” Dave said.

“No, but I know what I’m doing, which is a nice alternative.”

There was a silence. Tina looked blank. Ted raised a bent finger. “Mr. Farnaby says—”

It was hard to keep my temper under control, but I’d gotten better at it these last few months. So many agents were like this: lazy, ineffectual, or just plain scared. And always so concerned about their supervisors that they never acted like proper teams. “Here’s how I see it,” I said. “The secret door’s by that bureau. One of us finds it and breaks through; the others stand guard with mirrors. Any funny business from the ghost, it’s salt-bombs and rapiers all the way. We get the Source, we shut it down, and we’re out of here before Farnaby gets halfway through his hip flask. Who’s with me?”

Tina blinked around at the silent room. Ted’s long white hands worried at the pommel of his sword. Dave just stared at the floor.

“You can do this,” I persisted. “You’re a good team.”

“They so aren’t.”
That was the skull, in whispers only I could hear.
“They’re a bunch of knock-kneed losers. You know that, right? Ghost-touch is too good for them.”

I didn’t acknowledge the voice. My smile didn’t falter, nor did my purpose. They may not have answered, but they weren’t arguing with me anymore, so I knew I’d won.

After five minutes’ further hustling, I’d gotten us all set up. We’d pushed some desks and tables to the side, to give us a good free space. A protective arc of iron chains lay on the floor, closing off the corner with the bureau. Within this, we had three lanterns glowing by the wall. I was there, too, my mirror hanging at my belt and my rapier in my hand, ready to hunt for secret doors. My three companions stood safely beyond the barrier with their mirrors in position, angled so that they had coverage of the whole area where I’d seen the ghost. I only had to look back at them to check that I was safe. Right now the only thing that was reflected in the mirrors was me, just me three times and nothing else.

“Okay,” I said, keeping the encouragement going, “that’s perfect. Well done, everyone. I’ll start looking. Keep those mirrors steady.”

“I admire your confidence,”
the skull said from my backpack.
“These idiots can barely walk and breathe at the same time, yet you’re relying on them to keep you safe. I’d say that’s risky.”

“They’ll do just fine.” I spoke so low that no one else could hear, meanwhile shining my flashlight on the old dark paneling. What would it be? A lever? A button? Most likely a simple pressure-release board that, when pushed, allowed a weighted door to open. It had been closed a long time; maybe it had all been sealed up, in which case we’d need to smash it in. I changed the angle of the beam of light. Now one section of the wood seemed slightly shinier than the rest. I pushed at it experimentally. Nothing stirred.

Or at least, nothing
natural
did. But my inner ear caught a gentle cracking noise close by, like glass shards being trodden underfoot.

The woman had been stabbed to death with broken glass. My stomach twisted, but I kept my voice upbeat. “Anything in those mirrors?” I said. I shoved at the panel again.

“No, you’re good. All’s clear.” That was Dave, his tone flat with tension.

“It’s getting colder,” Ted said. “Getting colder
really
fast.”

“Okay.” Yes, I could feel the temperature draining away; the wood was freezing to the touch. I struck the panel with cold and sweaty fingers, and this time felt it move.

Glass crunched.

“She’s coming back, pulling herself out of the past,”
the skull said.
“She doesn’t like you being here.”

“Someone’s weeping,” Tina said.

I’d heard it, too: a desolate, angry sound, echoing in a lonely place. And with it came the rustling of approaching linen—sodden fabric, wet with blood….

“Watch those mirrors, everyone,” I ordered. “Keep talking to me….”

“All’s clear.”

“Getting colder…”

“She’s very near.”

I shoved again, harder—and this time it was enough. The piece of wood swung in—and out seesawed a narrow door: a section of paneling cracking free of the wall, wreathed in cobwebs and trailing dust.

Beyond it? Only darkness.

I wiped the sweat from my face; both hand and brow were freezing. “There we are,” I said. “As promised—one secret room! Now all we need to do is go inside.”

I turned back to the others, gave them all a beaming smile—

—And looked into their mirrors.

There was my pale face, reflected three times. And close behind it,
another
face, its skin melting off the bone. I saw pale hair like clouds; I saw bared teeth as small and red as pomegranate seeds. I saw the black and glinting eyes; and last, in the split second I had left, the five clawed fingers reaching for my throat.

W
e all reacted, in our different, self-defining ways. Tina screamed and dropped her mirror; Ted leaped back like a scalded cat. Only Dave held his mirror firm—or firm
ish
—while he scrabbled for something at his belt. Me? Before Tina’s mirror had shattered on the floor, I’d reversed my rapier and driven it behind me. Wheeling around, I stared into emptiness. But smoke rose from the middle of my sword, and a worm of ectoplasm writhed and fizzed on the iron blade.

I slashed the rapier frantically to and fro. Then I did it some more.

“Waste of time,”
the skull said, after a pause.
“She’s gone back inside the wall.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that right away? I hit her. How badly did I hit her?”

“It was hard to see, what with your immense display of raw skill blocking my view.”

“Well, where—?” But at that point I was blown sideways by a blast of salt, iron, and white magnesium fire that erupted from the wall a few feet to the left. For a second the room shone bright as day; it was like we’d been dropped into the sun. Then the flames drew back, and darkness closed in, and I was lying in a bed of ash and glowing cinders, with my ears ringing and my hair over my eyes.

I got stiffly to my feet, tapping at my ear, supporting myself with my sword. Through the smoke I could see Ted and Tina goggling at me from a far corner of the room. Close by, Dave was crouched like a small, squat panther, a second magnesium flare ready in his hand.

“Did I get it?”

I patted down a small white flame licking from my sleeve. “No, Dave. No, you didn’t. But it was a very good try. And you don’t need to chuck another one. She’s gone into the secret room.” I coughed out a glob of ash. “We have to follow her and finish this. We—Yes, Ted?” From his corner, Ted had raised a hand.

“You’ve got a trickle of blood coming from your nose.”

“I know.” I dabbed at it with a sleeve. “But thanks for pointing it out. Right, we need to go in. Who’s coming with me?”

The three of them might have been carved from stone. Their fear was so solid it was like a fifth person in the room. They stared at the opening in the wall. I waited while wreaths of smoke spread and mingled, filling the office, blocking them from my sight.

“Mr. Farnaby says—” Ted’s voice began.

“Like I
care
what Farnaby says!” I cried. “He’s not in here! He’s not risking his life with us! Think for yourselves for once!”

I waited. No answer came. Rage and impatience filled me. I turned alone to the secret door.

I could still feel the wave of cold following the ghost like a bridal train, running away into the dark. The side of the bureau shone with nets of ice crystals, as delicate as lacework. The paneling was frosted over, too. I flicked on my flashlight.

It was a narrow passage, wooled with cobwebs, bending almost immediately to the left and out of sight. Darkness hung there, and also a faint tart tang, the smell of dust and death.