Jonathan Stroud

Take it from me, if you had to choose between him and a basketful of supercute puppies to toss out of a sinking hot-air balloon, it would have been the pups sent spiraling down to earth

“We call it…the Creeping Shadow.”

He sat back and surveyed us with triumphant, hard-eyed finality, as if expecting us to utter groans and gasps of terror, throw ourselves off our seats, and roll on the floor in panic with our legs wiggling in the air.

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.

George was, indeed, a thing to behold. Darting out from behind the crates to lob magnesium flares directly at Steve Rotwell

“Ah, two firm friends, reunited at last! There should be sweet violin music playing for us, but I’ll settle for the screams of the dying.

Nearest was Holly. I tapped her on the shoulder, gave her a cheery grin.

“Aaah!”

“Hey, Holly! Holly, don’t shoot me! It’s me! It’s me!”

“Aaah! But you’re dead!”

“No—would a ghost tap you? Would a ghost talk to you…?” I waited. “Would a ghost punch you in the face? You’ll find out if you don’t stop screaming.”

“But you went in the circle…”

“I’m okay. And Lockwood, too—look, he’s over there, with George. Well, don’t start crying now.” I gave her a swift hug. “See? Would a ghost do that? Come on. We’re doing well. George is driving them from the field.”

“‘What? A suicidal mission, you say, Lucy? Certain death, you say? Just what I enjoy. Sign me up!’ Well, all the better if it is Lockwood. You can sacrifice him to rescue me. I call that a very decent swap.”

‘That’s nice to know,’ Lockwood said. ‘George will bear it in mind. Now, how can we help you in our present capacity as professional psychical investigation agents?’

Somewhere in London a chained boy impatiently awaited death. The first stars showed in the sky.

your moral shabbiness fascinates and appals you. You can’t take your eyes off it. Which is why you’re so crashingly dull. Oh, and I know the DEPRAC rules as well as you, and if you pick fights with accredited agents off about their appointed tasks, Barnes will have your tweedy backside hauled over hot cobblestones to Scotland Yard. So why not go off and hassle someone else?’