agreeably.
“I’ll come along.”
“No, you won’t. You’re staying here.”
“Oh, do a skull a favor. I’ll get bored.”
“So dematerialize. Rotate. Turn inside out. Stick around and enjoy the view. Do whatever it is ghosts do. I’m sure you can find ways to amuse yourself.” I turned to go.
“Enjoy the view? In this hellhole?”
The face swiveled in the jar, the tip of its nose dragging against the inside of the glass.
“I’ve been in mortuaries with
better standards of housekeeping. I wish I didn’t have to see the squalor I’m surrounded by.”
I paused with my hand on the door. “I could help you with that. I could bury you in a hole and solve your problem altogether.”
Not that I was truly likely to do this. Of all the Visitors we’d encountered—of all the Visitors
anyone
had encountered in recent times—the skull was the only one
capable of true communication. Other ghosts could moan, knock, and utter snippets of coherent sound; and agents such as me, who were skilled at psychic Listening, were able to detect them. But that
was a long way from the skull’s ability to engage in proper sustained conversation. It was a Type Three Visitor, and very rare—which was why, despite great provocation, we hadn’t
thrown it in the trash.
The ghost snorted.
“Burying requires digging, and digging requires work. And that’s plainly something none of you is capable of. Let me guess…I bet it’s Whitechapel again
tonight? Those dark streets…those winding alleys…Take me! You need a companion.”
“Yep,” I said. “And I’m going with Lockwood.” In fact, I had to hurry. I could hear him putting his coat on in the hall.
“
Aha…Are you? Oh,
I
see. Better leave you to it, then.”
“Right. Good.” I paused. “Meaning what?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
The evil eyes winked at me.
“I’m no third wheel.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re going on a case.”
“Of course you are. It’s a perfect contrivance. Quick, better run upstairs and change.”
“Lucy—got to go!” That was Lockwood in the hall.
“Coming!” I shouted. “I don’t
need
to change,” I growled at the skull. “These are my work clothes.”
“They don’t have to be.”
The face regarded me critically.
“Let’s take a look at you. Leggings, T-shirt, raggedy old skirt, moth-eaten sweater….Like a
cross between a demented sailor and a bag lady. How does
that
make you look pretty? Who’s going to notice you if you go out like that?”
“Who says I want to look pretty for anybody?” I roared. “I’m an agent! I’ve got a job to do! And if you can’t talk sense…” I scuttled over to the
sideboard and grabbed the tea cozy.
“Ooh, have I hit a nerve?” The ghost grinned. “
I have! How fascin—”
Regrettably, the rest was lost. I’d turned the lever, jammed the cozy over the jar, and stalked out of the room.
Lockwood stood waiting in the hall, immaculate, inquiring. “Everything okay, Luce? Skull giving you trouble?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” I smoothed back my hair, blew out flushed cheeks, gave him a carefree smile. “Shall we go?”
No ordinary taxis were licensed in London after Curfew, but a small fleet of Night Cabs operated from well-protected night stations, catering mainly to agents and DEPRAC
officials whose business took them out after dark. These cars—shaped like conventional black cabs, but painted white—were driven by a hardy breed of often bald middle-aged men,
taciturn, unsmiling, and efficient. According to Lockwood, most of them were ex-convicts, let out of prison early in return for taking on this dangerous and unsociable task. They wore a lot of iron
jewelry and drove very fast.
The nearest Night Cab station was at Baker Street, not far from the Tube. Our driver, Jake, was one we’d had before. Silver earrings swung wildly at his neck as he pulled out of the
underground garage and accelerated eastward along Marylebone
“I’ll come along.”
“No, you won’t. You’re staying here.”
“Oh, do a skull a favor. I’ll get bored.”
“So dematerialize. Rotate. Turn inside out. Stick around and enjoy the view. Do whatever it is ghosts do. I’m sure you can find ways to amuse yourself.” I turned to go.
“Enjoy the view? In this hellhole?”
The face swiveled in the jar, the tip of its nose dragging against the inside of the glass.
“I’ve been in mortuaries with
better standards of housekeeping. I wish I didn’t have to see the squalor I’m surrounded by.”
I paused with my hand on the door. “I could help you with that. I could bury you in a hole and solve your problem altogether.”
Not that I was truly likely to do this. Of all the Visitors we’d encountered—of all the Visitors
anyone
had encountered in recent times—the skull was the only one
capable of true communication. Other ghosts could moan, knock, and utter snippets of coherent sound; and agents such as me, who were skilled at psychic Listening, were able to detect them. But that
was a long way from the skull’s ability to engage in proper sustained conversation. It was a Type Three Visitor, and very rare—which was why, despite great provocation, we hadn’t
thrown it in the trash.
The ghost snorted.
“Burying requires digging, and digging requires work. And that’s plainly something none of you is capable of. Let me guess…I bet it’s Whitechapel again
tonight? Those dark streets…those winding alleys…Take me! You need a companion.”
“Yep,” I said. “And I’m going with Lockwood.” In fact, I had to hurry. I could hear him putting his coat on in the hall.
“
Aha…Are you? Oh,
I
see. Better leave you to it, then.”
“Right. Good.” I paused. “Meaning what?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
The evil eyes winked at me.
“I’m no third wheel.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re going on a case.”
“Of course you are. It’s a perfect contrivance. Quick, better run upstairs and change.”
“Lucy—got to go!” That was Lockwood in the hall.
“Coming!” I shouted. “I don’t
need
to change,” I growled at the skull. “These are my work clothes.”
“They don’t have to be.”
The face regarded me critically.
“Let’s take a look at you. Leggings, T-shirt, raggedy old skirt, moth-eaten sweater….Like a
cross between a demented sailor and a bag lady. How does
that
make you look pretty? Who’s going to notice you if you go out like that?”
“Who says I want to look pretty for anybody?” I roared. “I’m an agent! I’ve got a job to do! And if you can’t talk sense…” I scuttled over to the
sideboard and grabbed the tea cozy.
“Ooh, have I hit a nerve?” The ghost grinned. “
I have! How fascin—”
Regrettably, the rest was lost. I’d turned the lever, jammed the cozy over the jar, and stalked out of the room.
Lockwood stood waiting in the hall, immaculate, inquiring. “Everything okay, Luce? Skull giving you trouble?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” I smoothed back my hair, blew out flushed cheeks, gave him a carefree smile. “Shall we go?”
No ordinary taxis were licensed in London after Curfew, but a small fleet of Night Cabs operated from well-protected night stations, catering mainly to agents and DEPRAC
officials whose business took them out after dark. These cars—shaped like conventional black cabs, but painted white—were driven by a hardy breed of often bald middle-aged men,
taciturn, unsmiling, and efficient. According to Lockwood, most of them were ex-convicts, let out of prison early in return for taking on this dangerous and unsociable task. They wore a lot of iron
jewelry and drove very fast.
The nearest Night Cab station was at Baker Street, not far from the Tube. Our driver, Jake, was one we’d had before. Silver earrings swung wildly at his neck as he pulled out of the
underground garage and accelerated eastward along Marylebone
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