Jonathan Stroud - The Creeping Shadow

He stood before a metal rack, on which was sat a large weapon. It had a black stock, a long barrel, and, just in front of the trigger, a silver-glass orb strapped to the magazine with iron bands. You could see tiny bones lying in the orb. It glowed faintly.

“It’s basically a traditional shotgun,” Lockwood said, “but it’s been adapted. I may be wrong, but I think that if you fire it, a ghost flies out….” He shook his head. “It’s weird. I’m not sure DEPRAC would approve of it.”

“They wouldn’t,” I said in a small voice. I was staring at a tray of neat little wooden cylinders—batons, really—each with a glass bulb on the end. “They wouldn’t approve of any of this.” I picked up one of the batons and held it up to them. Supernatural light swirled in the bulb at the end. “Recognize these, anybody?”

No one spoke. They stared at the baton, openmouthed.

I took that as a yes.

The previous autumn, at a carnival in central London, two armed men had attacked a float on which Penelope Fittes and Steve Rotwell were riding. Guns had been used in an attempt on Ms. Fittes’s life, but the attack had begun with a bombardment by ghost-bombs just like these. When broken, Specters had emerged from them, threatening many lives. Where the ghost-bombs had come from was unknown.

Until now.

“Well… that’s interesting,” Lockwood said.

“But—but surely,” Holly said, “Mr. Rotwell can’t be responsible. The assassins tried to kill him, too….”

“ Did they?” I said. “I don’t remember them turning their guns on him. It was Penelope Fittes they actually shot at—”

“No! What are you saying? He fought against them! He killed one of the attackers!”

“Yes, that was good of him,” Lockwood said quietly. “He came out of it quite the hero, didn’t he? Even though we saved Ms. Fittes’s life, and his primary purpose failed. It was always going to be a win-win for him.”

“I knew the Rotwell organization hated Fittes,” Kipps said, “but I never thought they’d go that far.”

“I can’t believe it,” Holly said. She had tears in her eyes. “No, I can’t. I worked for him.”

Kipps frowned. “We’ve seen enough. We ought to get out of here. Go and find a phone, call DEPRAC, get Barnes over now.”

“Not yet,” Lockwood said.

“Are you insane? This is critical evidence, Lockwood.”

“What would DEPRAC do? They wouldn’t just barge into a Rotwell site, would they? Even if they believed us, which is a stretch, they’d delay things by getting search warrants, talking with lawyers—by the time anyone actually set foot in here, all this would be gone.”

Kipps slapped the work table in frustration. “So what do you suggest? Keep strolling around in here until Rotwell finds us and stuffs one of these ghost-bombs up our nose?”

“The only place I want to stroll,” Lockwood said, “is that central building. We’ve got to see the main event. That’s where it is—through there.” Eyes shining, he jerked his thumb toward the opening in the sidewall. You could see the ribbed interior of one of the makeshift canvas passageways stretching away, lit by dim lighting.

“Yeah, it’s there,” Kipps said, “and so are all the Rotwell crew. It’s suicide to try it. We’ve done what we can.” He looked around at us. “Am I really the only one who thinks so?”

No one answered. We were loyal enough to Lockwood not to want to stand against him. Even so, the logic of Kipps’s argument couldn’t be denied.

“Let me make it even easier.” Kipps plucked one of the batons from the pile. “We take one of these babies with us. We keep it as proof of what we’ve seen. We hold it under Barnes’s mustache so even he can’t deny the evidence of his eyes. That’ll get the DEPRAC vans rolling out of London fast enough, I can tell you.”

Lockwood shook his head. “No. We can’t miss this opportunity. The stakes are too high. These batons are nothing compared to what’s down that passage. You know it, and I know it. And we’re wasting time—”

“What I know,” Kipps interrupted, “is that you’re putting your own curiosity over the safety of your team! Risk your own skin if you must, but—Holly’s? Lucy’s? Do you want any other deaths connected to your name?”

It seemed for a moment that Kipps had gone too far. Beneath the makeup, Lockwood’s face was swept clean of expression. He took a step in Kipps’s direction; then the emotional safety-switch went off inside him and he regained control.

“No, you’re quite right,” Lockwood said softly. “I won’t deny it. I’ve not been thinking straight.” He took a breath. “Okay, this is what we’ll do. The rest of you are going to leave. Take the baton, go to DEPRAC, do what Kipps says. He’s right; we’ve got to make sure word gets out. Me, I’m going to have a look in that central building. Shut up, George—don’t argue. If they catch me, I’ll provide enough of a distraction to ensure you get away. That’s all. Get going now.”

It would have been a significant test of his leadership, that moment, with Holly, George, and me all opening our mouths to challenge his decision. But as we did so, we heard a distant clang , and a burst of psychic energy wafted down the passage at our backs, strong enough to make the hairs rise on my arms. And with it came voices, footsteps hurrying toward us.

There’s nothing like imminent disaster for putting an end to bickering. We scattered. Lockwood ran low, rolled across an aisle, came to a halt in a crouch at the far end of a table. Kipps and Holly vanished; George skidded past me in the opposite direction. I threw myself under the nearest table, wriggled between boxes, and kept on crawling as two sets of boots entered the room and went by. I looked back. Between the metal table legs I saw a man and a woman, both middle-aged, both with thick spectacles pushed up on their heads. They wore white lab coats, emblazoned with the rearing lion.

“How long now?” the woman said as they walked up the aisle.

“Ten minutes at the most. He’s been away twenty. It’s never more than half an hour.”

“Better do this quick and get back, then.”

Their footsteps continued to the partition door; they went through into the lab.

Something made me turn. There was Lockwood at the end of the table. He was crouching opposite me. His hair was tousled, his face smudged with makeup, but his eyes and smile were very bright. He met my gaze, waved a swift good-bye.

Then he was away, keeping low, ducking through the arch and up the passage.

I looked back into the room and caught sight of Holly, squeezed flat under the farthest table. Kipps was nearby, sandwiched between two racks of salt-spray guns. And, in the far corner, it was either the world’s biggest salt-bomb or George’s bottom poking out from behind a crate of magnesium flares. As I watched, his spectacled face rose up into view and blinked across at me.

They’d be all right.

You know what I’m about to say. It was another of those occasions. Those big/not thought-through/spur-of-the-moment/more-intuition-than-rational-analysis occasions.

The occasions that make us who we are.

I too got up and ran out of the room and into the passage.

The wind had picked up outside; the canvas walls were cracking and fluttering against the metal ribs of the tube. Weak bulbs hung from the roof. The passage was one long curve, smelling of salt and iron. It led me swiftly to the center of the site.

At its end was a swinging door, made of solid iron. A psychic barrier, like the one to Jessica’s room at Portland Row. Lockwood was crouching there, rapier gleaming at his belt, clearly about to peep through. I fell into place beside him.