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He did this in his boxer shorts, incidentally, sitting cross-legged on the floor of our living room. It was a sight that was frankly more disturbing than all the hauntings combined.
My name is Lucy Joan Carlyle. I talk with the living and the dead, and it sometimes gets so I can’t tell the difference anymore.
The face rolled its eyes. “Piffle. Know what this is an example of? Skullism.” “What nonsense are you spouting now?” “You’ve heard of racism. You’ve heard of sexism. Well, this is skullism, pure and simple. You’re judging me by my outward appearance. You doubt my word solely because I’m a skull, lurking in a jar of slime-green plasm. Admit it!”
Lmao what is this
There was a heavy pause. “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.”
“I prefer my misery to come at me in stages, so I can acclimatize on the way.”
Whether it was breaking into the Fittes mausoleum, or standing up to interrogation in the street, she always maintained her trademark Munro cool. It was hard to imagine her ever losing this quality, and somehow, despite everything, that made me confident that nothing really dreadful could or would happen in this world. Her unflappable demeanor used to make me seethe, yet now I found it a source of reassurance.
Of all of us, he confided most in me. We’d always been close, but since my return to the company five months earlier, we’d become closer still. We spent more time with each other than ever before. We worked together, we laughed a lot. I felt comfortable in his presence, and he in mine; it was clear to both of us, I think, that we found greater peace and pleasure in each other than in anyone else. That was the good news. The bad news? I wasn’t quite sure why.
“Well, none of us are here for very long. While we’re alive, all we can do is keep on fighting. Try to make our contribution count.
Know what my desire is?” It flashed a sudden grin at me. “Something foul, no doubt.” “To live, Lucy. To live. That’s why I talk to you. That’s why I turned my back on what waits for us on the Other Side.”
“Holly had The Hangman’s Daughter, and we know Lucy got The Sultan’s Revenge. La Belle Dame’s going through her full repertoire.” “She’s giving us her greatest hits,” Lockwood said.
“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 glared at the others. “Don’t ask me what it just said. It’s not relevant to anything.”
It was a night without darkness; you couldn’t switch off or look away.
“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?”
Skully you're the WORST (affectionate)
“Do you trust me?” the skull said. I looked at it. I didn’t see the hideous grimacing face. I thought of the sardonic spiky-haired youth standing on the Other Side. “Yes,” I said. “Sort of.” “Then break the bloody glass.”
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. And yet I really didn’t want him there.
So my heart sang, and my heart despaired, which was pretty much the usual combination for me whenever Lockwood was around.
Jessica’s presence no longer hung quite so heavily over either the house or Lockwood’s heart. It was time to begin anew.
It was a time of beginnings, and a time of endings.
