𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧┃ Anthony Lockwood┃3┃

Chapter Twenty Seven - Trapped

It was a body.

Don't get her wrong. Nola had seen a lot of bodies of all shapes and sizes, in all conditions. That's part of the job, and though it doesn't thrill her, it doesn't freak her out. And screaming? That's definitely not her thing. But this? It was shocking in part because it was so unexpected, in part because it was so horrible, and in part because it undermined everything she thought she knew.

The corpse was fixed upright on a sort of golden stand inside the cabinet. It was supported along its length by many golden rods and clamps that prevented sections of its black and shrivelled flesh from falling to the floor. Even so, it was in a pretty shoddy condition, starting with the head. Some of this was gone – the left eye, for starters, and most of the cheek, jaw and cranium on that side. Elsewhere, a black and rubbery rind of skin still maintained the vestiges of a face. There were sprouts of long black hair, and a bony neck like that of a plucked turkey. Below that, the torso was in a bad way too, all dried and thin and twisted like one of those horrid roasted vegetable things that Holly preferred to honest crisps. The surface was as hard and black as cooled lava, and a couple of ribs poked through splits in the skin. The arms and legs were little more than bones encased in a loose and papery sheath. In places, screws had been driven through them to keep them in position. The thing was pierced, fixed, hung and clamped. It was a parody of a body. The yellowed teeth grinned at Nola and the eye socket reflected no light.

None of that was what really threw Nola, though.

Here's what did. It was Marissa. It was Marissa Fittes.

Even though half of the head was gone, Nola recognised her at once. The beaky nose; the jaw and forehead; the sweep of hair – it was the face from all the statues, books and stamps. In fact it was roughly what Nola would've have expected to find in the crypt below the mausoleum, if everything had been natural and as it should be; if the dead had stayed in their proper places and the living in theirs.

"Oh." The skull said. The ghost's face was craning upwards from where it lay in the jar beside Nola's feet, trying to get a decent view. Its voice sounded as hesitant as she'd ever heard it. "That's... unexpected."

"Are you surprised?" The woman behind Nola gave a husky little laugh. "Poor little Nola. You had everything so nearly right, as well. Turn around and look at me."

Nola twisted away from the horror in the cabinet, back to the two horrors standing with her in that smart and stylish penthouse room. The spirit, Ezekiel, had drifted closer; it no longer had quite such a golden radiance, but was a darker man-shaped form. Flashes of black laced the rays that rippled out and darted around the woman's body, shadowing the contours of her face. But she was smiling.

"I was very young, Nola," she said, "when I wrote Occult Theories. Very young, like you. From dear Ezekiel's teachings I had learned that the essence of the departed would help to sustain life. I thought that it would rejuvenate my body and keep it fair and youthful – and with this in mind I began travelling to the Other Side. You have seen some of the techniques I use to gather the plasm that I need. I soon discovered that Ezekiel was right – by absorbing the essence I did replenish my own strength. And my spirit grew powerful." Her black eyes searched the girl's. "But there was a catch!"

"Of course there was." Nola said. "The catch being that what you were doing was both wrong and mad. What is this Ezekiel, anyway? What sort of ghost is it? Where did you pick it up?"

The woman raised her arm, tapped the jade bracelet on her wrist. "I found him buried in the earth near an ancient grave. He is old, Nola, and wiser than you'll ever know. He has seen kingdoms rise and fall. He has turned away from death. He rejects it. I reject it too."