Ghost and Bone Page 12

“I hope you don’t do anything stupid, Sir C,” Sally said. “Because I plan to.”

  “Steady on,” said the knight. “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I would,” snapped Lady Margaret, storming into the room. Her hair looked even more magnificent than usual. Her scowl even more menacing.

  Sally didn’t quail. “So you’ve made your move,” she said. “Villain! Tell me: What did Hieronymus offer you? Was it money you wanted? Was it power?”

  Lady Margaret blinked—and then growled as the meaning of Sally’s questions became clear. Her eyes burned with a terrible anger.

  “How dare you?!” She took a step toward Sally.

  Oscar was suddenly conscious of how sharp Lady Margaret’s nails looked, almost like the talons of an eagle.

  Sally didn’t flinch. “How dare you?!” she shot back. “Traitor! Liar!”

  The only nostril that Lady Margaret still had flared. “You have ignored my direct orders. You have run about London with this monstrous boy. You have stolen records from the Archive—did you think I wouldn’t check? And now you have broken into Mr. Mortis’s private office, and it seems you have the flaming gall to accuse me of collaborating with Hieronymus Jones himself!”

  Eyes popping, raw tendons flexing, dramatic hair flapping—she looked like a wicked witch from a story, or an avenging demon from a movie, or just about the most terrifying sight Oscar had ever seen. He took a step back.

  With vicious, cobralike speed, Lady Margaret’s claws went for Sally’s eyes.

  GONNNNG!

  Sir Cedric moved with surprising speed for a ghost in full plate armor. He stepped in front of the blow and caught it on his chest. Any ordinary person would have broken their fingers on Sir Cedric’s breastplate, but Lady Margaret’s wiry digits bounced off with a clang.

  “Tread carefully, Your Honor,” Sir Cedric warned.

  Lady Margaret snarled. For a moment, the ghost looked as if she was considering taking them all on, ripping them all to shreds. Then she unclenched her hands.

  “Thanks, Sir C,” Sally whispered.

  “You’re all finished!” Lady Margaret said. “Done. It’s over. Give me your badges. Now.” She clicked her fingers, and GLE officers stomped into the room.

  “You can’t do that!” Sally said. “You’re guilty.” She began to yell, turning to the other officers. “Listen to me! The chief’s working with Hieronymus Jones! She’s betrayed us all!”

  “Lies!” Lady Margaret snapped. “Wicked lies of a desperate ghost! If you do not hand over your badges now, I will have your visa revoked and you will be forcibly moved on to the Other Side! You too, Sir Cedric! Give them to me now.”

  The grim-faced ghost officers looked eager to carry out her orders.

  “We can’t fight all of them, old fish,” Sir Cedric muttered. “Best to do what she asks, eh?”

  He rummaged inside his armor and brought out his badge.

  “Proudest twenty years of my death, serving the GLE,” he said as he handed it over.

  Sally flung her badge in Lady Margaret’s face. “You’ll regret this.”

  “Oh, will I?” Lady Margaret smirked. “I think you’ll find you’re finished. Your sad little story is over. I think you’ll cross to the Other Side tomorrow. A failure in life. A failure in death. Pathetic.”

  She turned from Sally and pointed a bony claw at Oscar. He could see her tongue working through her jaw. It looked like an eel, hiding in a crack, waiting to pounce.

  “Grimstone. You are a monster. You have no visa. You do not belong here in my world. If I see you as a ghost again, I will assume you have made a choice. Go back where you belong, or die. I will send you to the Other Side in a speedboat. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Wait!”

  Sally was walking so fast that Oscar and Sir Cedric couldn’t keep up. She stormed out of the GLE tower in a blind fury, striding through St. James’s Park while muttering terrible threats.

  Oscar had to grab her by the shoulder to get her to stop.

  “Leave me be!” she snapped. “I’m going to climb on that boat and cross over to the Other Side. Be done with it! Be done with this. Curse that treacherous witch!”

  “Sally, you must not do that,” called Sir Cedric, hurrying to catch up. “When Mr. Mortis returns, he will sort anything out. He always has answers. Remember the soul feeder invasion!”

  “He won’t know. He won’t care. What was he thinking? Going off to Fiji!”

  “I’m sure he had his reasons,” Sir Cedric said.

  Acid fear was bubbling through Oscar’s veins as he saw what Sally was threatening. Right now she was his only friend in the whole world. She was all he had.

  “You can’t give up,” he said. “You can’t leave us.”

  “Watch me,” Sally said, turning to go. Her anger was furnace hot, burning away everything else.

  “But I don’t exist in the other world,” Oscar said. “Someone even wiped me from my mom’s memory. Don’t you see? I can’t go back!”

  “So cross over with me,” said Sally. “I hear it’s nice on the Other Side. You can see your dad at last.”

  They had reached the river. Up ahead, Oscar could see the dock for the giant bone ship. The huge funnels were pouring out smoke. The ship’s horn bellowed like it was signaling the end of the world.

  “No, Sally!” He grabbed her sleeve. “Stop this! You can’t let Lady Margaret win! You’re better than that. What would your dad want? He was a detective, wasn’t he? He’d want to catch the crook!”

  Sally looked like she wanted to argue, then stopped. Slowly, she looked from Oscar to Sir Cedric and back again.

  “You’re bloody right,” she said.

  “I am?” said Oscar, a little shocked.

  “So he is,” Sir Cedric said. “Sound common sense from the lad. Detective Simon Cromarty was a top cop.”

  “I’m being a fool,” Sally said. “I’m doing just what that evil witch wants, like an idiot!”

  “Yes!” Oscar said. “I mean, no! You’re not an idiot, but you’re right, that is what she wants.”

  “I need to fight,” Sally said, ignoring Oscar. “We need to fight. But how?”

  “Like King Henry’s men at Agincourt!” Sir Cedric punched the air. “The odds are stacked against us. But that will not matter with truth on our side!”

  Oscar cheered. He briefly wondered if Sir Cedric was actually at the battle of Agincourt, and maybe even died there—that might explain the armor. The knight’s words shook with real feeling.

  “Well said, Sir C!” Oscar cried, hoping to pump Sally up. “They won’t be expecting it! We’ll counterattack. We’ll give them both barrels! A double broadside!”

  “Have at it!” Sir Cedric struck a pose. “We’ll storm them on the beaches! We’ll fight them in the halls! They will taste our British steel and fall back like the cursed swine they are!”

  Oscar had a feeling that this was laying it on a bit thick. Lady Margaret would certainly be expecting them to try something, but he didn’t want to jeopardize Sally’s new optimistic spirit. He felt energized by their enthusiasm too.

  “We will never surrender!” he shouted, rather wildly. Being a bit mad felt rather good.

  “That’s right, Oscar!” Sally was grinning too. “Hah! Now, if we’re going to war, we’ve got to act fast but carefully. All the case files are still back at my house. I’ll fetch them; then we can meet back at the Shallow Grave inn. Make a plan for our victory. We gather the evidence, lay it out, then take the evidence to Sir Merriweather Northcote, or some big brass at the Ministry. But not before we put a tail on Lady M. and catch her in the act.”

  “I’ll stow my gear and free my fists,” said Sir Cedric. “When do we rendezvous? Teatime? I’ll bring my sharpest sword.”

  “Teatime,” agr
eed Sally. “Oscar, you are very much in danger if you are seen—so keep your head down, all right? Stay in your room in the inn. We’ll come and fetch you, and we can discuss how we’re going to win.”

  “I’ll bring you a rapier,” said Sir Cedric. “Might serve you better than those crutches.”

  And without further ado, Sir Cedric and Sally were gone. Oscar was left alone in the street, wondering what exactly had just happened.

  He didn’t dawdle for long. The memory of Lady Margaret’s threat was still fresh in his mind. He set off toward the inn—or at least in the direction he hoped was the pub.

  He kept a careful watch—ignoring the hustle and bustle of living London was second nature. He hardly saw that now. But Londinium was just as alive. He passed apothecaries and children playing, ghosts eating lunch in cafés and all manner of old-fashioned vehicles from pedal cars to tanks. By St. Paul’s Cathedral, he hurried past some builders raising an extension to the phantom church in the graveyard. From inside the cathedral, a ghost choir was bellowing out a hymn.

  Their sweet voices followed him down the road. It sounded sad and ancient and not a little eerie.

  He turned back, trying to listen to the song, and that’s when he saw the familiar hat.

  It was bobbing through the crowd. It was wide-brimmed and dark gray, and it was about twenty yards away.

  It was definitely Hieronymus Jones again.

  Oscar quickened his pace, but in the mirrored glass of the building he saw that the hat was moving faster too.

  Oscar crossed to the other side of the road, watching carefully.

  A figure stepped out of the crowd and followed him across. It was wearing the hat and the scarf, and carrying a large gray bag. The bag looked lumpy, as if it had a lot of heavy equipment in it.

  Oscar started to run, dodging ghostly carriages and cars. As a ghost, he could move like lightning. He built up enough speed that his feet left the floor, wheeling just above the pavement and road. He even used a cart to springboard over a row of market stalls.

  “Watch it, mate!” He narrowly avoided being trampled under the hooves of a shimmering stallion after he landed. Jones followed, pounding after him, never losing ground.

  Oscar ducked sharply into an alley, but he didn’t fool Hieronymus Jones.

  Oscar could hear Jones’s gear clanking in his bag. It sounded like heavy sheets of metal banging together.

  But despite all that weight, Jones was as fast as Oscar. Faster even.

  Oscar was getting worried now. He didn’t think he could outrun Jones.

  Still sprinting as fast as he could, he burst out of the alley into a main road. He took no notice of the living cars and taxis that were driving through him. Looking around, he searched desperately for a way to get out.

  Surrounded by speeding traffic, Oscar saw a real-world bus pulling up at a bus stop. An idea sparked just as Hieronymus Jones emerged from the alley. He stopped when he saw Oscar was waiting for him.

  “I know it’s you, Hieronymus Jones!” Oscar shouted, stalling for time. A few ghost heads turned in alarm. The name was infamous.

  But Jones said nothing. He was reaching inside his coat. Oscar stared at him, trying to see his eyes. They were shining darkly under the brim of his hat.

  “I know you’re working with Lady Margaret,” Oscar said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the last few human passengers were getting on the bus. This was going to be very close.

  “We’re going to finish you,” he said, trying to waste more time. “We’re on to your game. We know what your plan is!”

  More ghosts were watching and pointing now, wondering what was going on. Oscar could hear them muttering to one another.

  “What’s all this?!” a tall ghost in a top hat shouted. “Is that Jones?”

  Hieronymus Jones pulled a brass funnel out from under his coat. As the coat flapped open, Oscar saw the glass bottle the funnel was connected to. It looked as if the bottle was strapped to his chest. A weird darkness throbbed inside the glass container.

  “He’s got a Hungry Bottle!” Oscar shouted. “Run!”

  Panicked screaming broke out around him, but Oscar stayed very still. It took all his courage not to run. He was still watching Jones’s eyes, which twinkled, as if he was smiling.

  The brass funnel was pointing straight at Oscar. Jones’s finger pressed down on a button.

  Right then, in the real world, the bus started to pull away from the bus stop.

  Too late. Oscar felt an emptiness inside him and his energy draining away as the Hungry Bottle started to suck his soul out in a stream of shimmering mist. It was a horrible, shredding feeling—and if anything, more powerful than when the Ghoul Eye was used on him. More and more of his phantasma was leeching away, rushing toward the brass funnel.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Oscar saw the bus heading right for him.

  He took a deep breath and jumped in the air as high as he could. The brass funnel followed him, sucking away. He was still watching Jones’s eyes—so he saw the surprise bursting inside them like a firework, and then the anger, as Jones realized what was going on.

  The bus accelerated forward. Oscar turned bodily and was caught neatly by a seat in the back of the bus.

  Luckily there were no living people near him when he appeared out of thin air. He sat down and waved goodbye to Jones as the bus carried him away.

  * * *

  It took Oscar another hour to circle back to the inn. He was very careful now, and rather weak. But he couldn’t stop grinning.

  Part of that was fear, of course—fear mixed with a healthy jolt of adrenaline. He tried not to imagine what would have happened if he had timed his jump even a little bit wrong. He could see the Headlines.

  MYSTERY BOY IMPALED ON SEAT INSIDE BUS

  Or maybe:

  BUS HORROR AS BOY APPEARS INSIDE ENGINE

  No one would have known who I was, thought Oscar. My mum doesn’t even know she’s my mum. But even the chilling reminder that he didn’t exist wasn’t enough to dampen his elation.

  He ran up the stairs two at a time, practically dancing, burst through his door, and, still grinning, bounced down on the edge of the bed.

  Oscar wondered if this was how superheroes felt after they did something amazing. He’d been about to die, but he’d nailed it. Hieronymus Jones was the nastiest ghost around, and Oscar had escaped him yet again.

  He wondered if superheroes got tired of being awesome.

  Oscar certainly hadn’t.

  Even though it had been a few hours, there was still no sign of Sally or Sir Cedric. As a way to pass the time, Oscar began to page through the giant biography of Mr. Mortis that Sally had left in his room.

  It wasn’t the kind of book that you just picked up. For one thing, it was as heavy as a block of cement, but it was actually pretty interesting for a three-thousand-page tome. For another, the first parts of the book were written in languages that Oscar didn’t even recognize. As he turned the pages, he wasn’t even sure if it was writing he was looking at. It looked like tiny squiggles drawn by beetles more than something you’d read.

  Oscar gathered enough to see that Mr. Mortis has been around since the beginning of time. Although it seemed like he hadn’t always been called that. He’d had many different faces and names. Flicking through the book, Oscar saw pictures of Mr. Mortis with a dog’s head, or a strange two-faced crown, or old-fashioned Greek robes. There were even pictures of Mr. Mortis where he wasn’t a Mr. but clearly a Mrs.

  Even so, for all the different faces and costumes in the book, all of them had something in common. It was something in the eyes, and the set of the eyebrows. A flash of humor, a dash of wisdom. A gentleness.

  Oscar supposed you’d need that if you were a god of death. He also couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d met Mr. Mort
is before.

  He turned to the back of the book, hoping to find something written in English. Eventually, flicking through, his eye fell on this passage.

  Latterly, Mr. Mortis, while human in appearance, remains the embodiment of death. His existence ensures the force of death remains in the world. If he ceased to exist, no one would die anymore, which would be extremely problematic. Luckily, Mr. Mortis has been around for a very long time and has no plans to cease to exist, though some theorize it is possible that his energy could be extinguished….

  Oscar thought the forces of death sounded a bit like his own abilities. Didn’t he have the power to kill things when he touched them? Maybe he had a death force inside him?

  But before he could wonder any more about that, he turned the page. And what he saw there drove everything else from his mind.

  Oscar was staring at a picture of Mr. Mortis. He hadn’t seen one properly until now. This one was in modern dress and very recent. As in all the others, he had the same gentle expression and hint of a smile in his eyes, like he was remembering a good joke. But it wasn’t that that made Oscar gasp.

  His hands were trembling. It felt as if the world had suddenly turned around him and gone click. Everything made sense.

  He knew why he was the way he was.

  He knew why Mr. Mortis had saved him.

  It was a golden, toe-curling, hair-frying, mind-buzzing feeling. He was right. He knew it!

  Oscar started to laugh.

  “Do you see?” Oscar asked. “It’s not a coincidence, is it?”

  Sir Cedric took the dog-eared photo of Oscar’s father and laid it next to the picture of Mr. Mortis in the book. The knight had turned up at the inn an hour after Oscar, carrying files from GLE HQ that could help with the case—he’d even managed to snag Lady M’s personal file from a contact in Ghost Resources. Sally still hadn’t arrived from her house, where she must still have been gathering files.

  “Laddie, there’s no denying it,” he murmured. “The same long nose, the same high forehead. Those wide dark eyes and a widow’s peak! They are practically identical. By gad, sir, Mr. Mortis is your grandfather!”