Bridge of Souls (City of Ghosts #3)

by Victoria Schwab

  “And so I was saying—oh, Cassidy! You’re back. How was—” Mom stops talking because I’ve flung myself into her arms, tears pricking my eyes.

  “Cass,” says Dad, joining the hug. “What’s wrong?”

  I almost died today, I think. I almost lost my best friends in the world beyond the Veil. It was terrifying, and awful, and I survived. And I can’t tell them any of that, so I just shake my head against them both.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Nothing at all. I just missed you.”

  Mom hugs me tight. “Are you hungry?”

  “No,” I say. “Just tired.”

  She pulls back to study my face, and shakes her head.

  “Honestly, Cassidy,” she says, wiping at my cheek, “how do you always get so filthy?”

  I look down at myself.

  “Let’s see,” says Jacob, ticking the reasons off on his fingers. “A failed spell, a run through the Quarter, a ride in a hearse, and a battle on a bridge …”

  “What happened to your camera?” asks Dad, horrified.

  I wince, afraid to look down. I heard the crack, and the crunch, of course, but I hadn’t wanted to see how bad it was.

  Turns out, it’s pretty bad.

  The lens is shot through with cracks. The back has broken open, ruining the film. One corner has been badly dented where it struck the Emissary’s mask. The purple strap is fraying, the place where Jacob held on marked by his fingers, the violet faded almost to gray.

  “I fell down,” I say, wishing I had a better answer, but the truth probably wouldn’t go over very well.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” asks Dad, clearly more worried about me than my poor camera.

  I take a deep breath. “I am now.” I clutch the broken camera. It’s been with me through so much.

  “It’s okay, Cass,” says Dad, pulling me close. “Things can be repaired. People are harder to fix.”

  “Tell me about it,” says Jacob, sprawling on the floor near the open comic he’s been reading. He tries to turn the pages, but nothing happens. Not so much as a breeze. He groans, and rolls onto his back. Grim pads over and stretches out next to him, purring softly in sympathy.

  “Well, filming’s done,” says Mom. “And we still have a full day. What shall we do tomorrow?”

  “We could go for a drive,” offers Dad, “across the Causeway br—”

  “No!” Jacob and I shout at the same time, but of course, they only hear me.

  Dad holds up his hands. “It was just a suggestion. What would you like to do, Cass?”

  I think long and hard, and then say, “I vote for beignets.”

  “That’s my girl,” says Mom with a grin.

  My parents sit down to go through the footage, and I take a very, very long shower, trying to rinse the Veil and the Bridge of Souls from my skin. Afterward, I fall into bed, so tired that when sleep folds over me, I drop straight down, and don’t even dream.

  The beignets are just as good the second time.

  We sit around the table at Café du Monde, Mom chatting with Jenna and Adan about the footage, Dad deep in conversation with Lucas about the history of the church in the square. Meanwhile, I’m locked in battle with a beignet, determined not to spill sugar on my jeans as I eat, while Jacob sulks because he can’t for the life—or death—of him move the tiny mountain of powdered sugar on top of the fried dough.

  “Give me time,” he says, frowning in concentration. “I’ll get it.”

  I’m sure he will eventually, but for now, he’s taken a step back on the material front. He’s definitely become more transparent since the bridge.

  “Translucent,” he corrects me sulkily. “They’re not the same thing.”

  And more sensitive, I add.

  The truth is, it’s kind of nice, not having to worry about your best friend becoming a powerful, potentially unstable spirit, at least for today.

  We’re on our second order of beignets when Lara shows up, Philippa in tow.

  Lucas’s eyes widen. Philippa looks a little surprised, too, but it’s more of a happy surprise, like waking up to pancakes. Or beignets.

  “This is my aunt Philly,” says Lara, and I almost laugh.

  Lara and Philippa could not possibly be more different. Lara’s prim, straight-backed, and all adult attitude in a kid’s body. Philippa, on the other hand, is like Luna Lovegood in a grown-up’s shell. Cheerful, whimsical, and not entirely there. She’s wearing a tie-dyed blue-and-white dress that looks like a giant version of the evil eye, and a pair of neon-orange sunglasses.

  Mom looks between them, a bit skeptical, and I can’t blame her.

  They certainly don’t look related. Lara’s glossy black hair and light brown skin versus Philippa’s white-blond wave and skin so pale, she looks more like a ghost than a person.

  “Rude,” says Jacob.

  “You’re awfully young to be Lara’s aunt,” says Mom.

  “I know, right?” says Philippa, as if she’s just as confused.

  “We’re really more like cousins twice removed,” explains Lara, shooting the Society psychic a meaningful look.

  A look Philippa clearly misses because she says, “We’re not even actually related. I’m just the daughter of someone who married someone …” She waves her hand as if the rest doesn’t matter.

  “You two must be close, though,” says Dad. “For Lara to come all this way.”

  “We are,” says Lara, but she looks at me when she says it, and I feel this warm energy in my chest, right where the ribbon glows. Because she did come a very long way for a friend.

  “Oh, beignets!” says Philippa, and she doesn’t even get the pastry to her mouth before spilling half the sugar down her dress. Not that she seems to care.

  Philippa and Lara pull up two more chairs and gather round, and even though it’s a motley group—two paranormal investigators, a two-person camera crew, two members of the Society, two in-betweeners, and a ghost—for a little while, we’re just a group of people, sharing pastry and stories.

  At some point, Lara and I exchange a look. The grown-ups are going over show notes and postproduction, and I grab her hand and get up.

  “We’re going to take a walk,” I say, pulling her into the sun, Jacob on our heels.

  “Don’t go far,” warns Mom.

  “We’ll stay in the square,” I say.

  The sun is scorching and bright as we make our way, hopping between puddles of shade.

  “I wish I didn’t have to go back,” Lara says softly. “One upside: Philippa took me by the Society this morning, and they finally agreed to make me a member.”

  “That’s amazing!” I say.

  “Well, honorary member, until I turn sixteen. But I’ll work on that. As I explained to Renée, death doesn’t discriminate between young and old, so why should they? So what if I’m twelve?”

  “You’re not exactly a normal twelve-year-old,” says Jacob, and I’m not sure if he meant it as a compliment, but Lara smiles.

  “Why, thank you.” Her smile flickers and fades. “There’s a lot they don’t know, a lot I plan to help them learn, about us, and about that … place yesterday.” She shivers a little. “I felt so helpless.”

  “But you weren’t,” I say. “You fought with us, on the bridge. You distracted the Emissary.”

  “After you saved me,” she says. “If you hadn’t been there, in the hospital, I’m not sure I would have …”

  I squeeze her hand. “But you did.”

  Lara sighs heavily. “Being an in-betweener used to be so straightforward. And don’t get me wrong, I do love a challenge, but sometimes I miss the simple satisfaction of hunting ghosts. No offense, Jacob,” she adds.

  “None taken,” he says, scuffing his shoe.

  The Veil ripples around us, carrying a wave of smoke and jazz, and I know the perfect parting gift for Lara Chowdhury.

  “Hey,” I say. “Do you want to catch a serial killer?”

  Lara’s dark eyebrows rise. And th
en she smiles. “Why not?”

  * * *

  “Well, that’s better,” says Jacob when we step through the Veil.

  He looks down at himself, clearly relieved that he’s a bit more solid on this side of the curtain.

  Around us, Jackson Square is a tangle of fire and sunshine, shouting and song. And the more time I spend in New Orleans, the more I realize it fits, this strange, chaotic melody.

  Speaking of melodies, I listen, picking up the strain of music. I follow it around carriages and through crowds to the jazz band playing in the corner of the square.

  And there he is, leaning up against that same post, hat tipped down and an axe on his shoulder. The nice thing about ghosts in the Veil is that they tend to be pretty consistent, acting out the same loop over and over.

  “The Axeman of New Orleans,” says Lara brightly. “What a treat. You know he was never caught? Though I suppose here in the Veil, the axe kind of gives him away.”

  “Your excitement is a little creepy,” says Jacob, but Lara’s already starting forward, her mirror pendant ready in her hand.

  Jacob and I run after her.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she says, stopping just out of swinging range.

  The Axeman’s gaze flicks from the band toward Lara, clearly annoyed at the interruption.

  “Can’t you see I’m listening?” he mutters.

  “Oh, I can see that,” she says. “But can’t you see I have a job to do?”

  She lifts the mirror.

  “Look and listen,” she starts, but the Axeman must not have been looking straight at her, because he catches the first glint of light and smells trouble. He swings a hand up to shield his eyes, already turning away.

  But that’s where I am, Mom’s compact mirror in my palm.

  “See and know,” I say, and he shudders to a stop, face contorted.

  “This is what you are,” we say at the same time, and something in the Axeman switches off like a light. All the color leaches from him, and his edges ripple and thin, and all I have to do is reach in and take the thread.

  But this one’s for Lara, so I nod at her and say, “Go ahead.”

  “You can do it,” she says, and I shrug and step forward, reaching toward the ghost’s chest when Jacob says, “Wait!”

  We both turn toward him, and he bounces on his toes, looking both eager and nervous. “Can I do it?”

  Lara and I exchange a look. Understandably, Jacob has never been very supportive of the ghost-hunting part of my life.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  Jacob’s head bobs. “I mean, if you insist on hunting down ghosts and sending them on, it feels like I should get to do something, and since I don’t have a mirror, the pulling-out-the-string bit is really the only one I can do.”

  “Sure,” says Lara.

  “Go on,” I add.

  Jacob approaches the Axeman. He cracks his knuckles and stretches. Lara rolls her eyes, and I smile. And then Jacob takes a deep breath and plunges his hand into the Axeman’s chest. He makes a face, as if the ghost were a bowl of peeled grapes on Halloween, a mound of cold spaghetti. Jacob roots around inside the Axeman’s chest before he catches hold of the thread, and pulls it out.

  It comes free, gray and crumbling, and Jacob promptly drops it on the ground, where it collapses into ash.

  “Eww,” Jacob says, shaking out his fingers. “So gross.”

  Lara and I only laugh as the Axeman fades and disappears. It feels good, getting back to normal. Or at least, our version of it.

  We cross back through the Veil, a brief moment of cold, quickly replaced by summer sun.

  Jacob looks down at himself and sighs, clearly disappointed by his transparency.

  “Translucency,” he mutters as we make our way back across the square.

  But when Café du Monde comes into sight, I slow down.

  “Lara,” I say, afraid to ask, “we killed the Emissary, right?”

  I mean, it went over the side of the bridge. We saw it fall. There was no place below, nothing but mist. And yet, I’m not surprised when Lara shakes his head.

  “I don’t think you can kill something like that,” she says. “I don’t think they can die.”

  I bite my lip. “But it’s gone, right? I mean, it’s not still coming after us.”

  “Yes,” she says, “according to Renée, that one should be gone.”

  “That one,” I echo.

  She sighs, turning toward me. “I don’t think it’s a one-time thing, Cassidy. Eventually, another Emissary will notice you. Or me. Eventually, it will come back and try again. That’s what Death does.” I sag a little at the thought, feeling hopeless. But Lara doesn’t seem discouraged, only determined. “That’s what it means to be alive. Every day, whether you’re a regular person or an in-betweener. You run as long as you can, but Death always catches up.”

  Jacob shivers. “Great pep talk.”

  But Lara shakes her head. “I’ve never met anyone who outran Death forever. And I’ve never met anyone who truly wanted to.” She takes me by the shoulders. “So yes, Death will come for us again, one way or another. We can’t live in fear of it. That’s no way to live at all.”

  When we get back to the café, the plates have been cleared, the bill paid. Everyone is packing up, as if ready to go. Jenna and Adan are the first to leave. Adan ruffles my hair and offers a rare smile. Jenna unhooks one of the many chains around her neck and offers it to me. The charm on the end is a tiny silver skull.

  “Something to remember New Orleans by,” she says, as if I could possibly forget.

  They wave, and wish us luck, and then the pair drift away across the square.

  Philippa looks around cheerfully.

  “Any plans for the day?” she asks. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

  Lara clears her throat. “Aunt Philly,” she says. “I have a flight to catch, remember?”

  “Oh yes, that …” Philippa looks at her wrist, even though she’s not wearing a watch. “Your parents, the plane, of course. We should be going?” The sentence ticks up at the end, into a question.

  Lara sighs. “Yes, I think we have to.”

  “Well then,” she says. “I’ll get the hearse.”

  Mom and Dad straighten a little. Each clearly has their own questions about that statement, and each decides not to ask.

  “I’m sorry we took so much of your niece’s time,” says Mom.

  Philippa looks surprised. “Niece?”

  Lara squeezes Philippa’s hand very tightly. “Oh, yes, well, I got to see plenty of her. And I’m sure she’ll come back, now that she’s a memb—”

  Lara coughs. Lucas glares at Philippa, who realizes, a little late, that she’s about to reveal their secret society to a pair of paranormal investigators.

  She changes course. “Now that she knows she’s always welcome here.”

  Lucas sighs audibly.

  Lara turns to me. “Well, Cassidy,” she starts, and I swear, her eyes are a little glossy. “I suppose, for now at least, this is—”

  I throw my arms around her.

  Lara stumbles a little, under the sudden force of the hug.

  Jacob joins in, and she groans and mutters, “Shove off, Ghost,” too soft for anyone else to hear.

  “Be safe,” I say.

  “Be smart,” she answers.

  She shoots Jacob a look. “And try to stay out of trouble.”

  And then, too soon, she’s walking away. A perfect black braid and a bright red backpack vanishing into the crowd.

  I watch her go, wondering when we’ll cross paths again, how long it will be before—

  My cell phone dings, and I tap it to find a text.

  Lara:

  Rule number fifty-four of friendship: stay in touch.

  I smile and write back.

  Me:

  I’ll miss you, too.

  Mom and Dad head into the café to use the restrooms, and Lucas and I sit in silence, while Jacob tries and
fails to move the sugar on the table.

  And then the Society’s historian sits forward.

  “I almost forgot,” he says, reaching into his pocket. “Renée wanted you to have this.” He holds out a business card, black on black, so that I can only see the symbol of the Society when it catches the light. “In case of trouble.”

  He reaches into his other pocket. “And Michael sent along this,” he says, handing me a white velvet pouch. Tiny beads rattle inside.

  “In case of trouble,” he says again, and I tip the beads into my palm, and see that each and every one is marked by the black and blue and white circles of the evil eye.

  “And this,” says Lucas, holding out a tiny box, “is from me.”

  I open the box. Inside is a sturdy leather cord with a brand-new mirror pendant hanging on the end, its surface polished to a shine.

  “It’s perfect,” I say, looping the cord around my neck and tucking the mirror under my shirt. The moment it settles there, I feel better. Like I’ve been balancing on one foot, and now both are safely on the ground. “Thank you, Lucas.”

  My parents come back to the table.

  “And you, Professor Dumont?” asks Mom. “Must we say goodbye to you?”

  Lucas smiles and rises to his feet, not a speck of sugar on him. “I’m afraid so.”

  He shakes Mom’s hand, and Dad’s, and then mine, and strolls away in the direction of Thread & Bone.

  Mom, Dad, Jacob, and I set off across Jackson Square, passing musicians with open cases, and people selling charms, a woman in white, standing still as a statue, and—

  “Care to have your fortune told?”

  I turn and see a man with a folding table, a stack of tarot cards facedown on top.

  “The first one’s free,” he adds.

  And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little curious, if my fingers didn’t twitch toward the cards the way they do toward the Veil, half scared and half excited to see what’s on the other side.

  But there’s no way to know what the future holds, and even if there were, I wouldn’t want to know.