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

by Jonathan Stroud

On the upside, the place was clean and dry and smelled of fresh lavender, and there weren’t any obvious body parts lying underfoot, which instantly made it preferable to most of the other places we’d been that week.

“Do you always argue like this?” Kipps asked. Lockwood gave a bland smile. “Usually. I sometimes think incessant bickering is the oil that lubricates our efficient machine.”

She wore a glamorous outfit that was hard to describe, partly because there was so little of it.

I was glad to see our clients go. I disliked one, and pitied the other. In short, their presence disturbed me.

It was quite a haul. The sign-waving ghost-cultists who paraded through Trafalgar Square most days would have fallen on their knees before the items on display. Fittes researchers would have sold their grandmothers to have seen them. Rich collectors would have fought each other for them tooth and nail, while relic-men would have cut our throats for them while we slept. Inspector Barnes of DEPRAC would simply have arrested us and confiscated the lot.

As always when his family was mentioned, he remained outwardly calm. But his eyes lost focus for a moment; he was staring out at nothing, or perhaps into the past.

“Once a plump, bespectacled pyromaniac,” Sir Rupert said, “always a plump, bespectacled pyromaniac—that’s my philosophy.

Another scream made us all jump. It was higher and shriller than Holly’s, so we knew that it was Kipps.

“Lockwood’s got plenty to live for. Plenty.” The face regarded me. “Has he? What would that be, I wonder? Give it a name.” With that, the ghost did something to the light inside the ichor, so that it dimmed and went opaque, and I found myself staring at my own distorted face in the side of the jar. “Care to comment?” the skull said. I cursed and walked away.

What we saw when we arrived at the great gray building on the Strand were streams of operatives from our fellow agencies arriving in the dusk of early evening. There they all were: the lilac jackets of Grimble, the sky-blue ones of Tamworth, the striped pink blazers of Mellingcamp, and the rest. They congregated by the flower beds, where ranks of lilies had been planted in the shapes of rampant unicorns; they filed slowly through the etched glass doors. Traditionally, herding so many agents together would have been like shoveling a dozen tomcats into a sack and expecting them to cuddle up and keep the peace. Rivalry between companies was deeply ingrained, a function of their independence; in the past, chance encounters in the street often led to arguments and even duels. Tonight, with that independence threatened, the mood was different, wary and subdued. Doors were held open for old enemies; muttered greetings exchanged. Under the watchful gaze of many gray-jacketed Fittes agents, we shuffled through reception and into the conference hall.

At that moment a raucous and indescribable sound came from upstairs. I’ve never heard the noise of a hyena being ritually disemboweled, but chances are this was less attractive.

Our anger needed an outlet, and here were some senior citizens in armor trying to kill us. That pretty much fit the bill.

“Oh, is that it?” the skull said. “I was enjoying that. Bit of senseless violence does wonders for morale. You should break in somewhere every night. There are heaps of old people’s homes in London. Let’s choose another one tomorrow.”

“I’m not going to die.” “That’s what I said, too.”

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—”

This was how you did it. This was how your spirit stayed strong. This was how you looked death in the eye and defied it. Lockwood had fought his way up here to save me, past all the ghosts downstairs, and he had arrived at the perfect moment. I understood all that as I sat against the wall, bloodied and defenseless, and I loved him for it. My heart sang.

So my heart sang, and my heart despaired, which was pretty much the usual combination for me whenever Lockwood was around. But he was here, and that was that. And I wasn’t going to stay sitting with my backside on the carpet anymore. I forced myself to stand, blood welling from the glass cut in my side.

Slowly, carefully, I picked up the necklace and hung it around my neck. Then I put on my jacket and ran for the stairs.