The Living Ghost

Orpheus and Eurydice

         

I had had enough. I didn't care what weird experiment the Orpheus Society had been attempting – it was George's job to figure that out anyway – these freaks had done something to the skull and I wasn't about to let them have their way any longer. No one messes with my friends.

I stood up, whipped off the sunglasses and thrust them at Lockwood, and stormed down the aisle towards the arena, where the Orpheus Society were too busy arguing and gesticulating towards the pit to even notice me straight away. That was fine by me. By the time they'd realised I was there, I'd already gotten close enough to give Mr Johnson a good, swift kick where it hurts. As he doubled over in pain, I lobbed a magnesium flare right into the centre of their little clubhouse cluster, and they scattered frantically away from the resulting explosion of Greek Fire.

I heard the rest of Lockwood & Co. hurtling down towards us and, trusting them to cover my back, I turned and charged across the iron bridge. I didn't bother with a spirit-cape; whatever the Orpheus Society had done, it seemed to have drained the sources in the pit of their psychic energy. There were no ghosts in sight, just the boy on the podium.

It was the skull, alright – I recognised the spiky hair and thin face – except something was different. He was more solid, more detailed. I could make out freckles beneath the street-dirt on his face. It was almost as if...

I stepped closer, ignoring the explosions of more magnesium flares and the screams of the Orpheus Society behind me. This wasn't right. I felt no cold or malaise, no miasma or creeping fear that usually comes with being in close proximity to the dead. I'd never heard of a ghost passing out either. But this was simply impossible.

I edged even closer and crouched down beside him. And watched in wonder as his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Slowly, carefully, I reached out a finger and prodded his cheek. It was warm. I pulled my finger back quickly and stared at it; there was no ghost touch in sight.

I felt my heart racing in my chest. I reached out and, a little apprehensively, placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Skull?"

The youth stirred and groaned. "Lucy?" he said in an ever so familiar voice without opening his eyes. "Where am I?"

"Royal Albert Hall," I told him, gently.

He opened his dark eyes blearily and stared up at the vast ceiling. "How did I...? Wait. Don't tell me. I got stolen, didn't I?"

"Hey!" I protested, all trace of sensitivity gone as I remembered how much he annoyed me at times. "It wasn't my fault!"

"I leave for one minute and you let me get nicked again."

"You were gone for a week!"

"Yeah, whatever. Some friend you are." He pushed himself up and rubbed his eyes. Then stopped and stared down at his hand. "Um..." His dark eyes travelled to his shoulder where my hand was still resting. "This is... an interesting turn of events."

"Yep. It would appear you're alive," I told him.

"Well, how 'bout that?" He wiggled his fingers in front of his face experimentally. Then, suddenly, he scowled and huffed in annoyance. "Oh, this is just typical! I finally decide to move on, and some bloody Frankenstein wannabe goes and brings me back to life!"

"You were gonna move on?" I said, unable to help the hurt creeping into my voice, despite knowing in my heart he had chosen the right thing.

"Well, Luce, I would've loved to stay and hang out," he said, giving me his old grin, "but I figured you'd join me soon enough anyway, so what's the point?"