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

by Jonathan Stroud

“I’m bored,” the ghost said. “It’s Lockwood’s fault. He’s such a dawdler.” “He’s being sensible. He’s checking for traps.” “He’s like an old granny crossing the road. I’ve seen algae move faster.”

i love the skull

Only I held back. “You too, Luce.” “You’re going to do something stupid,” I said. “I know you. I can tell.” He brushed hair from his eyes. “That makes two of us, then. What’s your crazy plan?” “The usual. I was hoping to talk to it and calm it down. Yours?” “Thought I’d slow it by cutting off its legs.” I grinned at him. “We’re so similar.”

Aw

The house was our sanctuary, a refuge from ghosts and other, darker things. And the happiest times of all were the breakfasts we enjoyed after a successful case, with the windows open onto the garden, and the sunlight streaming in.

“What’s that you’ve drawn, Lockwood?” I asked, eyeing the Thinking Cloth. “Looks like a piece of angry broccoli.” “What? Are you insulting my excellent sketch of a wild-haired ghost?” Lockwood threw down his pen.

No, Holly would always be the same, and that made me happy.

Aw

“This is what the Problem means,” he went on. “This is the effect it has. Lives lost, loved ones taken before their time. And then we hide our dead behind iron walls and leave them to the thorns and ivy. We lose them twice over, Lucy. Death’s not the worst of it. We turn our faces away.”

I threw the spoon in the sink and sat in the half-dark on the far side of the table, keeping clear of the jar’s halo of green other-light. I glared intently at it, pondering my next move. How much to give, how much to seek. It was always a subtle and infuriating business, bargaining with a skull.

This main Talent of mine—psychic Listening—had long been considered the most imperfect of an agent’s arts. Usually it was just about ominous sound effects: picking up the thud and drag of a body being hauled along a landing, for example, or hearing the scratches of broken fingernails along a cellar wall. Sometimes you got actual words spoken by a spirit, too, but these were always repetitive fragments, echoes of memory without true intelligence behind them. Or almost always. In her Memoirs, Marissa Fittes, the most famous Listener of all, had stated that other, more communicative Visitors did exist. She classified them as Type Three spirits, capable of full conversations. But they were very rare.

“What does freedom even mean? You’d still be tied to your moldy old skull, wouldn’t you, even if you did escape the jar? Say I let you out. What would you do?” “I’d flit about. Stretch my plasm. Might strangle Cubbins. Carry out a spot of casual ghost-touch, now and again. Just simple hobbies. It would be a darn sight more enjoyable than sitting here.” I grinned at it. “You make your case so well,”

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

lol

The first read: He will go into the dark. The second: He will sacrifice his life for you.

I so thought this was gonna be Lockwood

“You know,” I said, “a lot of trouble would be avoided if people like you just lay down and accepted they were dead.”

He smiled at me. “Hey, Luce…” I slapped him again, sharply and on both cheeks. Take it from me, that’s a hard thing to get right when you’re crying.

no this broke my heart

“I haven’t said a proper thank-you,” Lockwood said. “It’s all right.” “I know what you did for me.” My mouth tightened. “Swung down on a bloody trapeze was what I did, Lockwood.” “I know.” “I hate heights.” “I know that.” “I hate trapezes.” “Yes.” “Don’t ever make me have to do something so ridiculous and dangerous again.” “Lucy, I won’t. I promise.” He offered me a sidelong grin.

I was thinking about my sisters—and other things like that. It sensed my sadness and took advantage.” I looked at him. “What were you thinking about when it appeared to you?” Lockwood pulled his collar up against the chill. He wasn’t very good with direct questions like that. “I don’t really remember.”

ahh I need to know

But it’s fine, because I helped you then, and you’ve helped me now. We’re there to help each other. If we do that, we’ll get through.” Which was a lovely thing to say, and it made me feel a little warmer. I just had to hope it was true.

Back at Portland Row, normality was resumed, which meant arguments about who paid the taxi fare, three helpings of breakfast each, and George hogging the hot water in the bathroom.

When I woke up again, sometime after noon, the first thing I saw was the ghost-jar, still protruding from the top of my backpack where I’d slung it on my bedroom chair. It was tilted at an angle, thanks to a fair-sized pile of dirty laundry, and the spectral face inside was staring at me like I’d just shot its grandmother.

“Skull,” I said suddenly, “I’m worried about Lockwood.” The ghost seemed taken aback. “Lockwood?” “Yes.” “Hey, you know me. I love him like a brother.” The face adopted an expression of unctuous fake concern. “What seems to be the problem?”

“I mean, it’s not as if I’m renowned for my empathy, anyway,” the ghost said. “It’s a long time since I was alive. I’ve forgotten what it feels like, having mortal motivations. And of course I hardly know Lockwood at all.” “It’s all right. It’s not a problem.” “Aside from his recklessness, his deep-rooted feelings of personal loss, his mild self-absorption, his obsession with his family, and his obvious death wish, I couldn’t tell you anything about him. You and me, we’re just as clueless as each other, eh?” the skull added. “Ah, well.”

“Evening, Inspector,” Lockwood said. “Sorry we’re late.” “Didn’t expect anything else,” Barnes said. “In fact, you’re only half an hour later than I requested. I’m honored.” There followed the usual awkward interlude while we smiled at him in our young and perky fashion, and he regarded us with middle-aged distaste.

“Yes. You carrying out an exorcism or something, Mr. Barnes?” Lockwood asked. “Might be simpler just to knock the old pile down….” He hesitated. “Why are you glaring at us like that?” “Because this is my home.” Barnes gave a heartfelt sigh.

Lol i love their interactions

“We’re not doing anything untoward, Inspector,” Lockwood said. “We pay our taxes. We take proper precautions. We leave most of our clients alive.”

Even worse, the face in the jar was winking at me and nuzzling up against the glass in a decidedly overfamiliar way. “It’s like I’ve always told you, Lucy,” the skull said, “you and me, we’re a team. Hell, we’re more than that. We’re an item. Everybody knows it.” “We are not,” I growled. “Are so.” “In your dreams.”

I love this too much

Anger flared inside me. How far could recklessness stretch before it truly became a death wish?

“One day,” Lockwood said, “I’m clearly going to have to kill him. Not now, but sometime soon.”

“Four black ski masks, four sets of thin black gloves. Got them from a seedy little shop in Whitechapel. I completely cleaned them out of sinister protective clothing. There’s going to be a lot of disappointed criminals in the East End till they get their next delivery.”

They arrived at the door at the same time, and fought with each other to be the first one through. Lockwood and I walked after them, he with his rapier, me holding the gun.

this image is everything

“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.”

“Yes, it’s our intellectual debates I’m going to miss when you’re dead,” the skull remarked. “Hey…unless they stuff your skull in with mine in an extra-special double jar! Then we could bicker happily for all eternity. How about it?”

“Personally, I’d love to do it. I’d love a chance to glimpse the Other Side.” “That’s the spirit,” Lockwood said. “Well done, George.”

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.

“It’s a brilliant strategy, Holly. Well done.” She nodded. “Thanks, though personally all I really want to do is just get out alive.”

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. And yet I really didn’t want him there.

aghgjgg

So my heart sang, and my heart despaired, which was pretty much the usual combination for me whenever Lockwood was around.

I blocked it, twisted my blade in a Kuriashi turn—a complex series of feints and blows that came at her from either side.

ha so lockwood did teach her the Kuriashi turn

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.

This is always how I imagined them fighting side by side

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.

Nooo

How many times in our careers had we stood like this outside a building rendered terrible by a haunting, where some violent incident or trauma had scarred it psychically down the years? How many times had we picked up our equipment bags and strolled purposefully in? We never delayed. Dawdling on the threshold wasn’t our thing.

I'm crying, I don't want this to end

Anthony Lockwood: “My Style”: see fashion pullout, center pages

Oh, this is looking great in here. Very fresh, very modern, and not a single hellish portal to the land of the dead in sight. Now that’s what I call a guest bedroom.”

“Tea, toast, eggs, jam, and chocolate spread, various sugary cereals…Looks like a traditional Lockwood and Co. breakfast. Wait! What’s that?” Holly nodded grimly. “It’s that horrid charcoaled skull Lucy insists on carrying around with her. I wouldn’t object so much if it was actually in a jar or something.” “I don’t mean the skull. I’m talking about those bowls of sunflower seeds and funny healthy nut things. Eeesh, they’re not even salted. Where’d we get these?”

I'm gonna miss them :c

Soon I would pick the apples—I would make time for that this year—and reseed the lawns. We would repaint the windows and repair our basement office. We would build new straw dummies and hang them in the rapier room. We would restock our shelves with books and curios. New artifacts would be found to replace the ones torn from the walls, and new furniture would be bought. We had received a generous stipend from Inspector Barnes for just such a purpose. Above all, we would decide how Lockwood & Co. should begin again. It was a time of beginnings, and a time of endings.

“You freed him from the jar. He helped you in return. Maybe that has encouraged him to do what he should have done a century ago—which is move on.” She was probably right.

:(((

“Where’s your evidence for that?” I asked. “Haven’t got any. Just feel it.” “That’s not like you.” George shrugged. “Sometimes research only goes so far.”

george changed

Sparkling…? I bent close, frowning. It was only then that I saw the beautiful golden necklace curled on the papers, with the sapphire glinting at its heart. Lockwood had taken it out of the old crushed box that his mother had kept it in. Even in the dusk, the gem was glorious, undying and undimmed. It was as if all the light and love it had gathered in the past was shining out on me. I stood gazing at it for a long time. Slowly, carefully, I picked up the necklace and hung it around my neck. Then I put on my jacket and ran for the stairs.

No no whyyy it can't be over