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Lucy swam up from the depths of unconsciousness slowly, like a heavy weight was trying to drag her back down. Cool fingers brushed hair off her forehead and she opened her eyes, looking blearily up at the shadow crouching over her. Everything was out of focus, but the shock of dark hair and penetrating eyes were comfortingly familiar.
“…’t tickles,” she mumbled, as the fingers caressed her cheek. She had a vague sense that she ought to hurt more than she did, but couldn’t remember why.
“I still think you’d prefer this to a slap.”
The hand withdrew and Lucy frowned. It didn’t sound like Lockwood.
What the hell had happened?
The last thing she remembered was flying across Marissa’s office, the boiling plume of smoke and fire expanding outward to engulf everything, slamming into Lockwood as they hit the far wall, the skull’s ghost-jar still lying on the table…
She blinked as her mind came into focus. She was still in Marissa’s office, the hazy grey of pre-dawn illuminating the ruined space. She looked up at the pale, sharp face floating over her, spiked hair like a crown of thorns bristling in every direction. She nearly cried with relief.
“Skull!”
“Bravo. Your powers of deduction are…”
She didn’t let him get any further. She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him down on top of her.
He squawked in protest as she squeezed him in a fierce hug. He didn’t return the embrace, but neither did he attempt to free himself.
“I thought I’d lost you,” Lucy muttered into his bony chest.
“Again, you mean? I still can’t believe you let me get skull-napped a second time, by the way.”
“We were kind of busy getting trapped on the Other Side as you’ll recall. And it all worked out, in the end.”
He sighed, his chest compressing hers, and Lucy suddenly became aware of all the places their bodies were touching.
She pushed him away and he flopped bonelessly onto the ground beside her.
“How are you…?”
“Here? Solid? Not killing you with my pinky finger?” he asked, waving a lazy hand.
“Yes!”
Skull rolled onto his side so that they were facing one another. His hand came up, almost tentative in the way it glided up Lucy’s arm. His skin was cold and smooth, like polished marble. His eyes caught hers and held them, refusing to look away.
“I thought you’d be colder,” she whispered.
He laughed, a low, mocking sound. His hand ran back down her arm, finding the hollow of her waist. “Well, I thought you’d be softer,” he said.
“Oh, I’m sorry to disappoint—”
He smacked her arse and she jumped. “Hey!”
“You’ve got a lot more muscle on you than I expected,” he said with a grin, the scrawny little bastard.
He was skinnier even than Lockwood, and shorter too. He ought to realise Lucy could throw him around like a ragdoll if she chose. She retaliated by rolling on top of him, pinning him to the floor as she straddled him, her hands flat on his chest.
“You were saying?” she smiled sweetly down at him.
He looked up at her and his eyes seemed to burn from within, like banked coals. A wave of unexpected heat rolled through her and she froze.
“I bet I could find your soft spots if I tried,” he said, voice lower, rougher. He squeezed her thighs, working his way up to her hips, his thumbs pressing into the hollows where bone met sinew.
“Skull,” Lucy whispered. Her mouth was suddenly dry and she licked her lips.
“Lucy?” he asked, a challenge—a question.
“Skull, I—”
Whatever she wanted to say stuck in her throat, a bone she couldn’t swallow, but couldn’t spit out. She wasn’t even sure what it was.
Skull rolled his eyes. “Goddammit, Lucy. You can’t possibly be embarrassed to ask me for what you need, can you?”
A knowing smirk spread across his lips, so much more expressive than they’d ever been on her side of the veil. With sudden clarity, Lucy knew exactly what she wanted.
She braced her hands on the floor, either side of his head, and mashed their lips together. For a moment, his lips felt as firm and unyielding as the rest of him, but then he seemed to sigh, his whole body relaxing just slightly, and they parted, a diamond shell cracking to reveal a soft, vulnerable centre.
Lucy kissed him eagerly, his mouth cool and refreshing against her tongue. She was relieved that he was still here, but she couldn’t help feeling that he might vanish from beneath her at any moment. It was the same way she felt about Lockwood whenever they were close.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” Skull whispered against her lips, then he kissed her fiercely, his tongue and teeth tangling with hers.
His hands explored every inch of her body, her legs, her back, her hips, her breasts, seeming to delight in the contrast of hard and soft, pinching, pulling, caressing. His skin warmed against hers and she began to relax, floating on the feeling of simply not caring anymore about what happened in any moment after this one.
“You’re not as cold as you were,” she murmured, and she felt Skull go very still.
Lucy kissed his lips, then along the pale line of his jaw, trying to find him again, to draw him back from wherever he’d gone. After a long moment, he sighed and his head fell back against the concrete with a dull thud.
“Fuck,” he murmured.
“What?” she asked, pulling back enough that she could look down at him.
“Lucy, you can’t stay here.”
“What do you mean? Do you think there’s another bomb somewhere, or—?”
“No, I mean, you can’t stay here with me. I saved you.”
She looked around, at the dark, empty shell of the office. She remembered dimly that Lockwood should be here, too. What if he was hurt? What if he was looking for her? After all that had happened, he would never voluntarily leave her here by herself. There wasn’t even any furniture, the walls decorated only with icicles.
“No,” she said, shaking her head, as though trying to dislodge the knowledge creeping in with the encroaching cold. “No, it’s not… Skull?” she turned back to him, hoping, pleading. It felt like there ought to be tears pricking her eyes, but they remained dry, of course—there was no water in this place.
He pushed himself up to sitting, their bodies entwined, and he kissed her again, this one slow and lingering, his hand tangling in her hair.
“I saved you,” he said, pulling back to gaze at her one final time, as though trying to memorise her face. “And I saved him for you, too. A last favour, from me to you.” He smiled, but his eyes were full of longing, of regret.
No, this couldn’t be right. Lockwood was safe, she’d felt him moving before she passed out. But Skull had survived, too, he must have! He was right here!
She grabbed hold of him, squeezing hard. She wanted to live, of course she did, but she also wasn’t willing to let go. Her guts felt like twisted steel as her body grew colder, moment by moment.
“I can’t lose you, not again,” she said fiercely. “I won’t!”
Skull just chuckled. “You think you can hold back Death itself? I met someone else like that once.”
“Shut up,” she tried to shout, but his words had punctured her righteous fury, deflating it. “It’s not fair,” she whispered into his chest.
“No, it isn’t.” He shrugged. “It seems that life’s a game we’re meant to lose. I’ve tried to cheat, and believe me, it doesn’t work.”
A sob clawed its way up her throat. She thought about Lockwood waiting for her, in the burned out shell of Marissa’s office, pleading with her to wake up. Whatever she chose, she was going to lose someone. Lockwood held the key to her soul, but Skull was its twin. Whichever she chose, she would lose a piece of herself.
“It’ll be alright, Lucy Carlyle,” Skull said softly into her hair. “It’s time for you to go home.”
“There must be a way,” she said, pulling back to look at the boy with the sardonic glint in his eyes.
“There isn’t. You of all people know that there isn’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“‘S alright,” he said with a half shrug. “It was worth it, in the end. You were worth it.” His grin this time was genuine, a fragile, glowing thing in such a cold, cruel place.
She kissed him one last time, as hard as she could, like she was trying to stamp an imprint of her soul on his. His lips were warm against hers, a feeling she would remember forever.
Then everything went dark.
“Lucy! Lucy!”
Lucy felt warm fingers brushing hair and ash from her face. She opened her eyes and looked blearily up at the shadow crouching over her, an ache deep in her chest.
“Lockwood,” she coughed, her lungs full of cinders and unshed tears.
“Luce, thank God.”
He pulled her up, one arm wrapped tightly around her, smoke billowing over their heads.
“Come on,” he said, covering his face with what was left of his shirt. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
“Wait!” Lucy stumbled away from the safety of his embrace, hardly seeing where she was going. Her eyes felt like they were on fire, the world a blurry, roiling mess.
Somehow, she found her way to the wreckage of the table. The skull sat on a pile of charred splinters, cracked and blackened. She didn’t allow herself to think about what that meant, scooping it up with one arm, then following the sound of Lockwood’s worried calls back to him.
They descended the stairs, arms wrapped tightly around one another. She could feel his heart beating against his ribs, in time with her own—the last gift Skull had given her. As they emerged from the wreckage of the building into the steely light of dawn, Lucy felt the tears begin to fall.
A week later, Portland Row was finally beginning to feel like home again. The paint was still drying, the kitchen floor still bare plywood, but there was a sense of healing and new beginnings—of hope.
Lucy and Lockwood returned from their evening walk and he stopped her on the stairs, pulling her in for one more kiss. She could feel the sapphire necklace that had once belonged to Celia Lockwood—and which now belonged to her—pressed between them.
She’d lost track of how many times they’d stopped on their walk, one of them pulling the other close, saying to each other with their lips what they’d never managed to say with words. It was finally starting to sink in that they had survived. They had a chance to keep going, to rebuild their home and their lives. She was more grateful than she could ever say.
Lockwood finally released her, a helpless grin spilling across his flushed face, and Lucy could feel her smile bloom in response. She squeezed his hand, then continued up the stairs to the attic to change clothes.
The moment she emerged into the attic, her eyes landed on the skull, sitting dull and lifeless on the windowsill. She crossed to it and picked it up, brushing her fingers across the cheekbones, the jaw. She couldn’t help the hope that sprang up in her every evening as the sun went down, that he might find his way back, that a glimmer of green light might bloom in those dark, cracked sockets.
Nothing came.
She pressed her forehead to his, feeling the curve of bone against her skin, warmer than marble, smoother than wood, a ruined home that could never be rebuilt. She wanted him to come back—she had so much more she wanted to say. But deep down, she knew that was a selfish desire. He’d given her so much already—a greater sense of self-worth, the ability to know when she needed help, and even to ask for it on occasion. He deserved a chance to move on, too.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
She sighed and placed the skull back on the windowsill. Then she changed into pyjamas, and went downstairs in search of supper.