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The skull was waiting for me when I got back.
Or rather, its ghost was. He slouched against my windowsill right next to his Source, the blackened skull I’d so carefully extracted from its ruined jar in the rubble of Marissa Fittes’ penthouse. His grayish form was perhaps a bit more translucent than it’d been during the fateful confrontation which had turned said penthouse to said rubble, but otherwise he looked the same: a scrawny youth clad in a plain shirt and too-short trousers, his feet bare and his dark eyes glittering. His spiky hair gleamed with faint green other-light, bristling like the spirit of an angry porcupine had curled up on his head, and his hands were tucked casually in his trouser pockets.
The only thing missing was his signature grin, which curled across his face as soon as I opened the door.
“Admit it,” he said grandly. “You missed me.”
Unfortunately, I had. As much as I’d denied it in the past, the skull was a friend, and the last time I'd seen him he had repeatedly saved my and Lockwood’s lives out of nothing but the goodness of his long-ago-rotted heart. Before I could decide how exactly to put this sentiment into words, the ghost’s eyes slid from my face down to where the sparkling sapphire necklace Lockwood had given me rested snugly in the hollow of my neck.
“Oh, god, what is that thing?” he said, making a cartoonishly disgusted face (though not nearly as creatively disturbing as the ones he used to pull in the silver-glass jar). “From Lockwood, I suppose? Seriously? I go out in a blaze of glory, selflessly sacrificing myself to save both your miserable lives, and you can’t even manage a single week of respectful mourning for your best dead pal before you and Lockwood start shagging? Unbelievable!”
“Shagging?” I echoed incredulously, already blushing bright pink and wishing I could punch a ghost without getting myself thoroughly ghost-touched and, given this particular spirit’s strength, probably dropping dead on the spot. “There’s been nothing of the sort! God, you are so disgusting.”
“Oh, I see, because friends give their friends priceless gaudy statement pieces like that all the time,” the skull said, laying on the sarcasm almost as thick as the butter I slather on my breakfast toast after a particularly grueling work night. “I’m sure Cubbins is staring in the mirror admiring the matching one he got as we speak.”
“Well, no, but… it’s not what you think,” I said weakly, even though it totally was exactly what he thought. The walk I’d just taken with Lockwood, on a meandering path through the empty evening streets of London, lit only by the periodic glare of the ghost-lamps, had confirmed it. We hadn’t quite put a concrete label on it, yet, this thing between us—it was too tentative and new, like a delicate green shoot springing from snowy ground. Neither of us wanted to misstep and crush it underfoot before it had the chance to grow.
It was clear we felt the same way, though. The kiss we’d shared was evidence enough of that. My blush was undoubtedly deepening to a distressing shade of tomato just thinking about that part of the walk.
“Good thing you haven’t any political aspirations, Lucy, because you’re a terrible liar,” the ghost said, chuckling. “Anyway, the least you could have done was delay the consummation of your little relationship a month, or possibly a year, if you actually cared, out of respect for the recently deceased.”
“You've been deceased since I met you,” I pointed out, valiantly ignoring my burning face. I stepped fully into my room and closed the door behind me. No need for any of 35 Portland Row’s other occupants to overhear me yelping anything else humiliating.
The skull’s ghost waved a dismissive gray hand. “It’s the principle of the thing. I’m still waiting on a ‘thank you for saving my life, again, even after we agreed I was done with that particular obligation,’ by the way.”
I’d been meaning to thank him when, if, he came back—really, I had—but it was quite difficult to muster up my gratitude under such a bombardment of mockery. I mean, you would’ve thought that by now I should expect this kind of reception, but somehow I’d got it in my mind that the skull’s “selfless sacrifice” and subsequent near-nonexistence experience in Fittes’ penthouse might have changed him for the better, if only by a smidge.
Obviously, I’d been wrong. But that didn’t change the fact that, as usual, beneath all the scorn, the ghost had a valid point. Lockwood and I owed him, big time.
“Oh, all right,” I said. “Thank you. Really. Lockwood and I would be six feet deep in our graves right now, if it weren’t for you.”
The ghost smiled. Maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed a bit softer and more genuine than his usual garish grins. “Now, that wasn’t so painful, was it?”
“I guess not.”
We stared at each other for a second, girl and ghost, across the narrow expanse of my attic bedroom.
“So,” I said, shoving through the silence that had fallen between us like a heavy curtain. “You’ll be heading off, then? Since sticking around here with us would be ‘plain odd.’”
The ghost’s thin face took on a strangely contemplative expression. “Oh, I don’t know. I had a bit of time to think while I was recovering from my ordeal. Hellishly boring, by the way, being trapped on the Other Side with all those silent drifters. Absolutely no appreciation for comedy in that place. The dead fruit flies in your kitchen cupboards are better company. It’s lucky my Source was still mostly in that jar when that awful woman’s flare went off, or it’d have burnt to a crisp and I’d be stuck with those useless muppets for the rest of eternity. Or just wiped from existence entirely.” He gave the skull beside him a few affectionate pats, the tips of his insubstantial fingers dipping right through the blackened bone.
“When you didn’t come back right away, I thought you might’ve chosen to pass on. I guess you decided against that, then?”
The ghost rolled his eyes theatrically. “Brilliant deduction. Did the fact that I’m standing here clue you in?”
“No need to get snappy,” I said calmly. “You were going to tell me what decision you have made, yeah?”
“Well,” the skull said with a wistful sigh, “I suppose Carlyle and Skull is out of the question, now that you and Lockwood are official. Hey, don’t give me that look—it’s not as if I’m on board with your abysmal taste in men! But this window has a great view of the street, and thanks to that blinding ghost-lamp on the corner, I could hardly miss you two lovebirds strolling down the pavement, limbs all tangled together like a couple of handsy octopuses.”
“We were hardly tangled,” I protested loudly. Yes, we’d been holding hands, but I refused to let the skull suck the joy out of such a sweet gesture.
The ghost’s eyebrows swooped upward skeptically. “I know what I saw. Well, anyway, after my profound period of soul-searching, what I’ve decided is that I’ve changed my mind. I think I’ll hang around here for a while.” He smirked serenely at me. “Clearly, you need my help. The whole company, really, but especially you and your dashing new boyfriend. Think about it: in less than fifteen minutes, the two of you were nearly flattened by furniture, smashed to smithereens against the walls by a spirit-wind, and exploded by a flare bomb. It’s only thanks to my expert skill you and your precious Lockwood are still here to whisper vomit-inducing sweet nothings into each other’s ears. At least, I can only imagine that’s what was going on earlier. Your heads were awful close together, down there on the street.”
My blush had returned with a vengeance, and I resisted the strong temptation to throw something at him—ideally my rapier, but any old silver net or hunk of iron would also do. Somewhat reluctantly I reminded myself that, typical self-aggrandizement aside, the skull spoke the truth. Regardless of his voyeuristic tendencies and the utter torrent of obnoxiousness that poured from his mouth at all times, in what could well have been his final moments of existence, this ghost had chosen to save both me and the boy he pretended to despise. He cared. His actions spoke…well, not exactly louder than his words, but loud enough.
“Good,” I said, masterfully managing a level voice. “I’m glad to hear that. And, for the record, I did miss you. Mostly. Considerably more earlier this evening, before you spied on me and ridiculed my relationship with Lockwood.”
The ghost grinned and pressed an only slightly sardonic hand to his nonexistent heart. “Lucy! I’m touched. That must be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“What? I’m nice to you all the time!” I cried, crossing my arms. Well, maybe not all the time, but surely a lot more than he deserved.
The skull’s spirit cackled uproariously. “Hilarious! Your complete lack of self-awareness is rivaled only by your total inability to keep your room clean. You, Lucy, are the rudest girl I’ve ever met. I mean that as a compliment, obviously.”
“I am not rude,” I snapped, unfolding my arms to stab a finger in the ghost’s direction.
“Of course you are!” he said cheerfully. “Why do you think we get on so well?”
“You are—” I glared daggers at him and struggled for words to properly convey my aggravation. “Impossible to talk to, you know that?”
“Clearly not, since you’re doing it right now,” the ghost said, stupid grin still plastered on his face.
“You know what I mean!”
“Isn’t this nice? I’ve missed our little chats.” Here, he batted his eyelashes at me like a smitten schoolgirl. Given his corpse-gray pallor and general personality, the effect was more repulsive than attractive. “Anyway, if you can manage to tone down that completely unseemly petulance for a moment, I’ve something else to tell you.”
Well, wasn’t that intriguing… Was he gearing up to reveal some terrible new secret about the Other Side? The nature of those eerie black holes that hung in the air, which called to the dead and held a different shape for each person who saw them? Perhaps he’d had the chance to peer through one, during the week he’d been gone. Or maybe he had some sage advice on how best to go about dismantling the awful silver fences Marissa Fittes had built around the black gateways. Those fences, her cruel mechanism of ectoplasm collection, could be scattered all across the country for all we knew, and removing them without stirring up the resident spirits or dying by their freezing touch was sure to be a delicate process. If the skull had finally decided to share something useful, with no verbal gymnastics and no threatening, cajoling, or haggling required, I was willing to shelve my irritation for the time being.
I let my arms drop to my sides and rearranged my expression to project polite interest instead of rage. “Yes? What is it?”
“Well,” the ghost began, dragging the word out for several syllables, “since you finally freed me from my horrible jar and everything…”
“Yes?” I prompted.
“Even though you didn’t have to.”
“Yes…”
“I thought I could tell you…”
“Yes?”
The skull cursed roundly. “What are you, a broken record?” he snapped. Then he took a strangely anticipatory, wholly unnecessary breath. “I’m going to tell you my name. It’s Zachariah.”
“Oh,” I said lamely. So much for the secrets of the Other Side. “Um. Neat.”
The ghost—Zachariah, I guess—glowered at me. “That’s all you have to say? After all the times you asked—begged, even—for me to tell you?”
“For the love of—at Fittes House, literally last week, you lied to my face and told me you’d forgotten it!”
“Well you’d just stuffed me in the kitchen cupboards like a box of half-eaten granola and let me get snatched up by that gang of dirty criminals, who deposited me directly in the heart of the enemy’s evil fortress,” the skull—Zachariah—said sullenly. I was having trouble reconciling such a normal and oddly formal name with the cheeky, unsavory spirit I knew so well. “Excuse me if I wasn’t in a sharing mood.”
I almost laughed at the childish scowl on his face, but I really didn’t want to prove his point about being rude, because I totally wasn’t. I could be polite. So polite! Thanks to my heaps of experience interacting civilly with Holly for months upon months, by now I was practically an honorary finishing school graduate.
“I’m sorry,” I told Zachariah (yep, still weird). “What I meant to say was: that’s a very lovely name. I like it. It suits you.” Sadly, being polite generally requires a copious amount of lying through your teeth.
“Don’t even bother,” he said crossly. “It’s way too late for that. You’ve completely ruined the moment. I already wish I hadn’t told you. I should ghost-touch you right now before you go spreading it around.” He made no move towards me and had in fact shoved his hands back into his spectral pockets, so the threat felt rather hollow.
I almost felt bad—almost. He had just spent the past few minutes tongue-lashing the life out of me, as per usual, so it was difficult. But telling me his name, something he’d directly equated to trust during our last conversation on the Other Side… This was as vulnerable as I’d ever seen him—perhaps as vulnerable as a prickly, disreputable dead boy from a hundred years ago could possibly be.
“You’re right,” I said apologetically. “I’m being rude. So, Zachariah…” I trailed off. “God, that is such a mouthful. Can I call you Zack?”
One eyebrow rose, but it was more pensive than mocking. “If you like,” he said. His voice was studiously bland.
“Zack, then,” I continued. “Thanks for telling me. I won’t spread it around if you don’t want me to.”
“Ooh, our little secret, is it?” Zack said, a hint of his usual grin playing across his gray lips. “How juicy. But probably for the best. If Lockwood knew you’d been sneaking around nicknaming other boys, he’d throw a fit.”
I scoffed. “Lockwood’s not like that and you know it.”
Zack shrugged languidly and leaned back against the windowsill. “If you say so.”
Silence descended between us again, but this time it felt comfortable. Like we were two old friends, instead of a girl and the ghost only she could hear, who she’d kept in a jar and lugged back and forth across London (and the rest of the country, too) for years.
“Well,” Zack said after a bit, “this has been grand and all, but I’m off. Time to stretch the old plasm, maybe strangle the life out of one of your more obnoxious neighbors. Which is worse, do you think: the ones next door who blast morning telly through the walls or those idiots across the way with the yippy little rat they’re always parading up and down the street? No, you’re right,” he added, before I had the chance to voice my strong disagreement with either option. “Why limit myself? Heaps of time till dawn.”
“Do not ghost-touch the neighbors,” I said sternly, finally able to get a word in edgewise. “Zack, I’m serious.”
“Be seeing you, then,” he said with a malevolent grin I recognized well from the face in the jar, and floated backwards, right through the glass of my attic window and out into the night.
I legged it to the windowsill and shoved both hands in my pockets, rummaging urgently through gum wrappers, loose change, and various other bits of rubbish. Surely it was in here somewhere… There! I fished out the small silver chain-net and brandished its delicate metal links threateningly at the window.
“I have a silver net right here!” I called, in case the brandishing wasn’t obvious enough.
Zack, now reclined casually in the open air just beyond the glass, as if lounging in a hammock, raised his eyebrows innocently and cupped a hand round his ear. This, coming from the ghost who’d had a full conversation with me from inside a jar, within a storeroom, across an Underground station crawling with noisy relic-men. I hissed a choice phrase I’d learned from him and launched into a series of exaggerated charades (mainly pointing at the net and then his Source, and glaring meaningfully).
“I swear I’ll cover it!” I snapped, mostly for my own benefit, as the ghost was still pretending not to hear me with increasingly extravagant gestures. “Don’t think I won’t just because you saved my life!”
Zack gave up on the gestures. “You could,” he said, his voice clear in my mind despite the window, as I’d expected. “That’s up to you.”
And with that utterly unfair echo of my own words to him in the midst of the Fittes penthouse battle, Zack winked, long and slow, and then vanished.
I stared out the attic window into the empty night sky for several seconds in utter disbelief before dropping the net on the windowsill next to the charcoaled skull and scrubbing my face with both hands.
It would be fine. He wasn’t going to actually strangle the neighbors. Probably. He was reformed! Mostly. For the sake of my rapidly rising blood pressure, I decided to apply the tried and tested philosophy of not worrying about it unless I heard screaming.
A rapid pounding on my bedroom door startled me from my stress-management techniques.
“Lucy?” It was Lockwood’s voice, brimming with polite concern. “Everything all right in there? I thought I heard shouting just now.”
I crossed the room and swung open the door to reveal him in his shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up to his elbows, with one hand still raised in another aborted knock. He dropped the arm, took in my unharmed (if slightly harried) appearance, and gave me a puzzled look.
“Skull’s back,” I announced, with about as much enthusiasm as I might have reported the news that Holly was industriously assembling a massive kale salad for our dinner.
“Ah,” Lockwood said understandingly. “That explains the shouting, then.”
“I really wasn’t—” I started, but stopped at the sight of Lockwood’s arched eyebrows. “Oh, all right, maybe I was a little. You know, I’m glad he’s back and everything, but he can be so infuriating. Lippy little bastard.”
Lockwood cracked a grin, pearly white as always, and I glared at him. “It’s not funny. You don’t have to hear what he’s saying.”
“Well, based on that enlightening conversation we shared with him on the Other Side, I think I can imagine the gist of it.”
“You really can’t. Also, on a completely unrelated note, how invested are we in the well-being of our neighbors?” I smiled charmingly, in hopes that my “feminine wiles,” as Zack had once put it, would distract from the implications of the question.
Lockwood’s eyebrows now drew together in mild consternation. A complete failure in the wiles department. “Dare I even ask?”
I gave him another (much weaker) smile. “Honestly, I’d rather you didn’t. I’ll let you know if it becomes a problem, I promise.” So far, no screaming.
“Well, I trust your judgment,” Lockwood said. “And I’m here if you need me. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I agreed, feeling my cheeks begin to heat again despite myself. At least this time it was a blush because of the boy I liked, not the boy who was dead, tethered to a burnt skull on my windowsill, and possibly in the middle of murdering half of Portland Row. Or possibly not. Despite his best efforts, I still trusted Zack. Sort of.
“I know we already said our goodnights, and everything, but how do you feel about a cup of tea?” Lockwood asked. There was a gentleness to his charm tonight, a soothing balm against the scratches of the barbs I’d been trading with Zack.
“Please,” I said with a rush of gratitude.
He slipped his hand wordlessly in mine as I crossed the threshold of my attic, and together we descended the stairs.