Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy (25 page)

Another crack of glass; another Visitor unfolding, up by the front of the float. Other ghost-bombs landed in the crowd. Almost at once we heard the screams begin.

Lockwood and I started forward; George, too. Sir Rupert Gale had also reacted. He pulled at his cane, drawing out a silver blade. Above us, Penelope Fittes and Steve Rotwell turned, responding
to the outcry of the crowd. A few startled dignitaries began to rise.

The first ghost moved. Its head rotated impossibly; it flowed backward, through the nearest seat, straight through its occupant, a short, fat tweedy woman. Threads of plasm lingered on her
contours as it pulled around her and away. Her eyes rolled upward, her arms jerked in rhythmic spasms; she slid soundlessly onto the floor.

“Medics needed!” Lockwood roared. A wave of fear had engulfed the company; people were throwing chairs back, milling back and forth, too stupid to wait and listen to their senses.
Old as they were, faint sensations might have alerted them to the ghosts, and so kept them alive.

The Visitor moved with random darts and scurries, hiding its head as if in pain. Two men toppled as it touched them, collapsing against others, redoubling the panic. I was almost on it. I raised
my sword.

A Rotwell operative stepped out in front of me, a magnesium flare in his hand.

“No! Not here!” I shouted. “You’ll—”

Too late. He threw it. The flare shot past the ghost, bounced off the back of the nearest seat, and exploded against the side of the platform. Fragments of wood blasted into space; Greek Fire
rained down upon the crowds. The platform gave way. A whole section crumbled like a sea cliff, propelling three people, including a screaming Miss Wintergarden, out onto the street below. Sir
Rupert Gale, caught by the explosion, was spun to the very edge, left clinging to the broken boards. George escaped unharmed; he reached the ghost and carved the air around it with his rapier,
seeking to prevent it from touching the people on either side.

The Visitor had been peppered with burning iron, and the ghost-lamps hanging above the street weren’t doing it much good, either. Plasm steamed from it. As it cringed back from
George’s blade, it removed its arms from its face. It had no features, no eyes or nose; nothing but a sagging triangular mouth. At the front of the platform neither Penelope Fittes nor Steve
Rotwell had lost their heads. From beneath his coat, Rotwell had drawn a sword—longer, thicker than a normal rapier. Ms. Fittes had taken her hair band off, shaken her dark hair free. The
band was a crescent moon—sharp, made of silver. She held it like a knife.

Rotwell jumped down among the seats, swatting a chair aside. He strode toward the second Visitor—a Phantasm—which several of his agents had pinned back. Holly Munro had been
shepherding people to the far corner of the platform. She reached the fallen woman, and knelt down at her side.

Lockwood clutched my arm. “Forget the ghosts!” he cried. “The bombs! Where’d the bombs come from?”

A squawking lady in furs and silver collided with me; I cursed, shoved her away. I jumped onto a seat, spun around, looking down into the street. There were Visitors here, too, fracturing
swiftly in the glare of the ghost-lamps. Around them the crowd bent and crumpled, then tore itself to tatters as it fled in all directions.

“I can’t see anything,” I said. “It’s carnage.”

Lockwood was beside me. “The bombs weren’t thrown from the crowd. Above us….Check the windows.”

I stared at the buildings all around. Rows of windows, black, blank, identical. I couldn’t make out the details of what was inside. High above us, the Fittes and Rotwell balloons dinked
and swayed.

“Nothing….”

“Take it from me, Luce. Whoever did it is somewhere up—”

There
. Two windows changed shape; two patches of darkness grew and gathered form. Two figures leaped from the first floor windows directly overhead, hurtling down to land upon the
platform. Twin thuds of booted feet.

Only Lockwood and I saw them; everyone else was fixated on the ghosts. For a split second I had a clear view of the man nearest to me. He wore black sneakers, faded jeans, a black zip-up top.
His face was hidden behind a black ski mask, but through the mouth-hole poked an overhang of bright white teeth. In one hand he had a rapier; in the other a snub-nosed gun. Strapped across his
spindly chest—his top was half unzipped—a leather belt held odd devices. They looked like short batons, the kind relay runners use, with clear glass bulbs at one end. Pale light swirled
in them. I knew what they contained.

An instant’s glimpse; then he was away, he and the other man, flitting across the platform. They went toward the front of the float where Penelope Fittes stood in her bright white coat, a
crescent dagger in her hand.

Lockwood and I ran, too; but we were too far away to intercept them.

As they drew close, the nearest raised his gun.

Lockwood threw his rapier, hard and horizontal, like a javelin; it nicked the assailant’s arm, knocking the gun away.

Then I was on him, striking left and right. He parried my blows with quick defensive moves. It told me he was agent-trained.

The other man ignored us. He walked quickly toward Penelope Fittes, reaching in the pocket of his jacket. Now his hand too held something small, snub-nosed, and black.

Ms. Fittes saw it. Her eyes widened. She fell back against the rails.

The edges of the float were decorated with plastic lions and unicorns. Lockwood grasped a unicorn by its horn and snapped it off its pole.

The assailant aimed his gun—

Lockwood dived forward, swinging the unicorn in front of him.

Two blasts; two thuds, so close in time they became one thing, a start-stop noise. The unicorn spun out of Lockwood’s grasp, a pair of neat round holes halfway up its neck.

Now the man I was fighting brought his greater strength to bear; his swordplay became faster. His blows jarred my rapier in my hand.

All at once he stopped, looked down in some surprise. I was surprised too. He had a sword point poking through his chest.

The man swayed, then toppled sideways. Behind him Mr. Rotwell pulled his blade clear.

The remaining assailant had turned toward Lockwood. But now from the other side Sir Rupert Gale strode forward, rapier raised and moving fast. The man paused, fired at Sir Rupert, and missed.
With a spring, he bounded away along the platform.

Lockwood was scooping up his rapier. “We can catch him yet, Luce,” he cried. “Come on!”

We ran along the platform, almost empty now. Past George, busily subduing the Visitor with salt and iron; past Holly, tending to the fallen. The second ghost had vanished, destroyed by
Rotwell’s agents. Mr. Rotwell and Ms. Fittes themselves were left behind.

The man in black reached the end of the truck, gave a mighty spring, and landed on the cab of the following vehicle. Lockwood leaped after him, coattails flapping; a moment later I did the
same.

Over the cab roof, boots clattering. Onto the show float, racing under gothic arches, cutting through a confusion of screaming performers. The assailant swung his sword, fired his gun in the
air. Men in ghost-sheets and women in long bloody dresses took running jumps over the edge in clouds of talc, landing in the crowds like phantoms from on high. Tidal waves of terrified yells rolled
out around us. The man in black turned, aimed the gun at us; it didn’t fire. He tossed it away, kicked at a foam arch, sent it tumbling down. Lockwood dived one way, I the other. It crashed
between us, squashing a small actor.

Running jumps to the next float, decorated with the mustard hues of Dullop and Tweed. Above us loomed their papier-mÂché symbol, a giant all-seeing owl. The assailant threw a flare;
it burst against the owl, tearing a hole and sending a rain of burning matter onto our heads.

Lockwood and I didn’t break our stride. We ducked, brushed hot embers from our hair, ran on.

It was the official Rotwell float, the next one, and again it was close enough for the fugitive to leap to. Here were scattered piles of plush lions, Rotwell soft drinks, and other gifts to be
given to the crowds. The agents who’d been in charge of them were gone. The man in black slipped and skidded on the toys and bottles; with a curse he turned, hurled down a ghost-bomb. A
willowy figure rose up—and was instantly sliced to ribbons by simultaneous slashes of our swords.

We were almost upon him, so close I could hear his ragged breath. He reached the back of the float. Beyond was a gap, impossible to jump: the next float was many yards away.

“Got him,” Lockwood said.

But there, at the end of the truck: the Rotwell lion, a giant helium balloon straining at the end of a tethering cable. The man in black slashed the rope free, caught it as it whipped away. He
was carried up and out over the Strand. He tossed his sword clear; now he dangled from two hands.

Lockwood and I slammed into the side of the truck. Lockwood exhaled. “Drat. Not sure I can quite match that.”

“It’s blowing him toward the river.”

“You’re right, it is. Come on.”

Down onto the street, amid the deserted stalls and sideshows. A moment before, a mass of people had stood here. Now it was a field of hats and lavender, of scattered charms and abandoned shoes.
The Poltergeist rides had stopped mid-session; trapped customers called to us from atop the extended arms. Down the road, off the Strand, and up the gentle rise to Waterloo Bridge, Lockwood and I
kept running, side by side.

I glanced across at him—his eyes were bright, his face set, his long legs swinging beside mine. We were in step together, perfectly in sync. And in that moment the world around us dimmed
and blurred. Tensions and disagreements fell away. Everything was simple. It was just us, together, chasing a giant helium lion down a central London street. Everything was as it should
be—back in its proper place.

Perhaps Lockwood had had similar thoughts. He grinned at me; I grinned at him. A swell of joy rose in me, displacing the ache of my muscles, my burning lungs. It was like the last few weeks just
hadn’t happened. I wanted it to last and last—

“Hope I’m not disturbing anything.”

Drawing abreast of us, sword-stick moving easily: Sir Rupert Gale, punctiliously polite as ever. If he’d had a hat, I bet he would have raised it as he ran.

“Hello.” I didn’t strictly
want
to answer, but his courtesy was catching. “This fellow’s a trier, isn’t he?” Sir Rupert nodded at the
precariously dangling form ahead of us; the river’s breeze had caught the lion, which was now being buffeted dangerously. The man was being dragged, bumping against a wall. “I swear I
almost want him to get away.”

“Getting away from you is a tough art,” Lockwood said. “I bet only the very best can do it.”

“Ha, ha! Yes!” Sir Rupert Gale smiled as he ran. “He’s going to go out above the river. If I had my Purdey twelve-gauge shotgun with me, I’d take a potshot now and
chance it. He’s not so high the fall would kill him.”

He had no gun, and we could not run fast enough. Even if we had, the balloon was still too high to catch. It floated out above the bridge. For a moment the Rotwell lion was beautifully
illuminated by the lanterns on the parapet, sparkling like a Christmas bauble on a child’s tree. We saw the man clinging desperately below it, still masked, his jacket and shirt pulled up so
that his pale back and stomach were exposed. Strong winds took him; the lion was whirled around. I thought it might be looping back toward us. Then it was pulled out to the center of the river, and
that was when the figure lost his grip and fell, thirty, forty feet, into the black Thames. He hit it hard. The waters closed over him. We ran to the balustrade, the three of us, and craned our
necks, but saw nothing.

Minutes passed. The lion balloon was already almost lost to sight, a glittering point of red carried by river winds east toward Blackfriars Bridge, the Tower, and, ultimately, the sea.

“Dead and drowned, I suppose,” Lockwood said.

Sir Rupert nodded. “You’d think. Then again, we all know better than that.” He tapped gloved fingers on the balustrade.

I stepped away. “Who were they?” I said.

“Enemies of Fittes and Rotwell, presumably,” Lockwood said. “Anyway, he’s gone.”

“Yes.” Once again Sir Rupert Gale tapped his fingers on the stone. He turned away from the edge and, in the same deftly casual movement, his rapier flicked up and jabbed straight out
at Lockwood’s side. The action was so quick I didn’t fully comprehend it; nor the way Lockwood’s arm shot down to block the sword tip with his rapier guard. For a second, the
blade was caught in it, trapped in the twisted fronds of metal; I could sense Sir Rupert’s exertion, Lockwood’s, too. It gave me a chance to see how close the sword had been to slicing
cleanly beneath the ribs. It would have traveled into his lungs and pierced his heart. Then the young man sprang back, wresting the tip free. His eyes were bright, he balanced lightly on the tips
of his toes.

“Fast,” he said. “Well done.”

“You, too.” Lockwood turned to face him, bending his wrist as if it pained him. “Of course,
I
never attack from behind.”

“Oh, hardly behind, Mr. Lockwood. You had a fair chance, as you’ve just proved most admirably.” Sir Rupert ran a hand through his hair. “Well, our mutual enemies have
gone, as you say, but here we are—you and I alone together. Isn’t this a wonderful opportunity to settle our dispute?”

“Hey,” I said. “In just what sense is he alone? I’m here too.”

“Don’t worry, Luce,” Lockwood said. He flicked back the edge of his coat and lifted his rapier. “Well then, Sir Rupert? Come on.”

“You can’t do this!” I cried. “There’ll be witnesses! The others will be here in five minutes—”

“Miss Carlyle,” Sir Rupert Gale said, “a few seconds is all I need.”

Lockwood’s grin was flinty. “That was what
I
was going to say.”

Shouts and beams of swirling flashlight. Up along the crest of the bridge came George, followed by a host of Fittes and Rotwell agents. Lockwood and Sir Rupert Gale stood looking at them. Then
Sir Rupert laughed and returned his rapier cleanly to his belt.