A blackbird in the tree behind us let out a sudden full-throated song, loud and sad and beautiful. It fell silent. Lockwood and I stood transfixed at the top of the bank.
Then I realized he was still holding my hand.
He realized it at the same instant. Our fingers kind of fell away, swinging back into vigilant positions at our work belts, ready to seize a salt-bomb or rapier at a moment’s notice. Lockwood cleared his throat; I pushed my hair out of my eyes. Our boots did small, intricate shuffles on the frosty ground.
“What the heck was that?” I said.
“The Shadow?” Lockwood glanced at me from under his bangs. “Of course the Shadow…” He shook his head. “I have no idea. That was definitely the thing that Danny Skinner said would come. It had the size and shape, and it was burning—or seemed to be. But—but did you see behind it? The ghosts—?”
“Yeah, and Lockwood, it’s just like he said. It’s the thing from the carving on the cross—the Gatherer of Souls. It was gathering them up from their graves!”
“I don’t believe that.”
“What was it, then? You saw them rise up!”
He didn’t answer me.
“You saw them, Lockwood.”
“We need to get back to the others. This isn’t the place to discuss it.”
Over in the woods, a storm of birds rose shrieking into the night. They wheeled once and with a crack of wings flew off over the brow of Gunner’s Top. We stumbled down the embankment and in silence hurried back to the inn.
In the depths of the night the others returned, having had great success with the eyeless ghost and several other Visitors around the village. Their raised voices preceded them, echoing outside the taproom door; then they bustled in, George and Kipps bickering contentedly about some minor detail on the map, Holly Munro in the middle of wiping her sword clean with a pretty blade cloth. They found Lockwood and me sitting in near darkness, lit a dull, dark, glowing red by the dying embers of the fire.
“There’s no doubt about it,” Lockwood said, once we’d told them. “We saw the infamous Creeping Shadow. That’s about the only thing we can tell you for certain.”
“Other than it definitely stirs up the other ghosts,” I said. “Don’t forget that. Its cloak of mist was like a ladle stirring soup; they just came floating to the top as it passed by. Spirits came bursting out of the ground, before following it into the woods!”
“I wish I’d seen that,” George said. “That’s unique! That’s fascinating!” His spectacles shone; he sat on a table, swinging his legs under him.
“All the bodies in the churchyard rose up?” Kipps asked. “A spirit for every grave? Or just some?”
“Lots,” I said, “but not all. Maybe that’s how it works, when souls are gathered….Lockwood won’t like me saying that,” I added. We hadn’t just been sitting by the dying fire. We’d been arguing.
“Because it’s not gathering souls,” Lockwood said irritably. “I don’t know what the Shadow is, but it’s not some demon or angel visiting on the Day of Judgment. It comes back every night of the week, for heaven’s sake! I wish you’d get that stupid cross thing out of your mind.”
“It draws the dead out of their graves, Lockwood!”
“Oh, give it a rest.”
“Hot chocolate, anyone?” Holly said brightly. “Nice and soothing? Mr. Skinner’s got a stash of packets behind the bar. Tell you what, I’ll just go and put the kettle on.”
“Must have been something seriously weird about it,” Kipps said. He’d taken off his goggles and now tossed them stylishly across the room to hang from a coat peg. His swashbuckling finesse was only slightly undermined by the red rings they’d left around his eyes. “Must have been weird to have freaked you out, Lockwood. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“I’m not freaked out!” Lockwood crossed his arms. “Do I look freaked out to you, George?”
“A triple helping of yes. I’m with Kipps on this one.” George blinked and shook his head in unfeigned wonder. “This is a night of firsts.”
“Well, maybe Lucy and I are right to be a little unsettled,” Lockwood said after a grouchy pause. “Because its raising of the dead is only one of several strange things about this ghost. The kid was correct in everything he said. The Shadow does trail some kind of smoke, and there do seem to be weird flames licking around its form. It moves oddly, too.” He sighed. “You ever read about anything like this, Kipps?”
“Never. It’s not in any of the histories. Could be something about it in the Black Library at Fittes House. There’s all sorts of stuff there….” Kipps stretched back in his chair. “I must say I’m surprised that the Rotwell Institute hasn’t caught on to this Shadow. They’re missing a trick here.”
Lockwood nodded. There was a grim light in his eyes. “They certainly are.”
The kettle boiled. Holly made the hot chocolate. Kipps went to help her. George raided the cupboards behind the bar, locating potato chips and chocolate. A midnight snack was soon in progress at our operations desk in the corner of the room.
The distraction helped lift Lockwood’s spirits; not just lift them, but switch them around entirely. He had the ability to flip moods like no one else; from being shocked and listless, he was suddenly galvanized, crackling with energy. Me? I ate and drank and felt a little better. I wasn’t entirely calm, though. Nor, after my experience in the churchyard, was the Creeping Shadow the only thing on my mind.
Lockwood waited till all were seated, huddled around our mugs, and then sat forward in his chair. “Okay,” he said, “I’ve got a proposal for you. It may sound crazy, but hear me out. Seeing that Shadow has changed things for me. It was so odd. It was so different. It’s definitely a kind of ghost we’ve never seen before. And I think we need to respond by upping our game.”
“How?” Kipps asked. “By laying a trap for it? By shepherding it into a ghost-pen? I’ve seen that done: you lay out a pen with iron chains, then drive it in with flares.”
“Not quite.” Lockwood glanced at his watch. “Actually, we’re going to raid the Rotwell Institute in, let’s say, an hour’s time.”
“What?” Kipps was less used to Lockwood than the rest of us were. We just sipped our hot chocolate in knowing silence. “What? Run that past me again.”
“I’ve been planning to do it ever since we arrived,” Lockwood said, “and that little visit by Steve Rotwell himself only reinforced my intention. But I was going to do it after we’d dealt with everything here at Aldbury Castle. But since seeing that Shadow? No. For a start, there’s too much to deal with here. By the time we finish all the hauntings on our map, it’ll be the middle of next week, and whatever’s going on at the institute will long be over. Consider: Rotwell himself is part of it. He’s not going to shack up in those sheds for long.”
Kipps had taken a shrimp cocktail chip and was staring at it like it held the mysteries of time and space. “So what is going on in there?” he said. “At the institute?”
“That’s what we have to find out. I’ve told you briefly, Quill, about Lucy’s problems, and the theft of her rare and valuable haunted skull. I told you about this Mr. Johnson, and the Rotwell connection to the black market trade in artifacts. We know that all the stolen Sources will be at one of the institute centers—but the question was always which one. When young Skinner told us about Aldbury Castle’s epidemic, that rang a bell with me. A sudden cluster in an obscure village in the middle of nowhere? With the institute operating nearby? Harold Mailer told Lucy that he’d been supplying Sources to the black marketeers for about three months. That’s roughly how long Aldbury Castle’s been suffering, too. Oh, and then there was this reference to the ‘place of blood,’ and the Rotwell facility set slap-bang in the middle of a battlefield. It’s all too much of a coincidence for me.”