Tunnel of Bones

by Victoria Schwab

“Jacob. He’s a ghost.”

  She crinkles her nose. “But I thought you hunted ghosts.”

  Jacob and I exchange a look.

  “I do,” I say. For a terrible second, the nightmare rises up in my mind, and I push it down. “But Jacob’s different.”

  A breeze blows through, sudden and cold, and I’m already tensing, looking for Thomas, but Adele seems to feel it, too. She crosses her arms, scrunching up her shoulders.

  “Have you noticed,” she says, “it’s getting colder?”

  “That can’t be good,” says Jacob, and I don’t know if he means the falling temperature or the fact the cold is now strong enough for someone normal to feel, but either way, I agree.

  I start walking faster. We catch up with my parents and the crew at an intersection, waiting for the crosswalk light to turn green. The chill is still hanging on the air, and I look around, sure that something is about to go wrong. But it doesn’t, and I’m starting to wonder if it’s just weather when the light turns green and I step off the curb into the street.

  I make it one step, two, and then I hear the screech of tires, the wail of a horn.

  I look up too late. See the car too late. Jacob is twisting toward me, but it’s Dad who grabs my shoulder and wrenches me back out of the street. An instant later, the car plows by, blaring its horn, and I’m left gasping and shaking on the curb.

  “Cassidy!” snaps Dad. “What were you thinking?”

  “But the light—” I start, looking up toward the crosswalk light. Sure enough, it’s green. But so is every stoplight. Horns blast and cars screech to a stop, the intersection losing all composure.

  “It must be a glitch,” says Mom, pulling me close.

  “Yeah,” I say, teeth chattering with cold. “Must be.”

  Jacob’s right about one thing.

  Thomas isn’t my problem anymore.

  He’s everyone’s.

  Ten minutes later, we’re climbing one of Notre-Dame’s towers.

  The cathedral has given us a thirty-minute window to film, clearing the tourists ahead and delaying the ones behind, so we’re alone on the tight spiral stairs. Just the crew, Mom and Dad, Pauline, me, and Jacob—and Adele, practically skipping up the steps. I pull my sweater tight. It might just be the drafty stone staircase, but I can’t seem to shake the chill.

  “Thousands flock to Notre-Dame to see its sculpted doorways and stained glass,” Dad narrates to the camera.

  “But this medieval cathedral,” Mom steps in, “is home to as many ghost stories as gargoyles.”

  “But why are there so many stairs?” asks Jacob as we climb.

  Says the one who doesn’t have to take them.

  Jacob looks at me for a second, eyes wide. “Oh yeah,” he says, scratching his head. “I forgot.”

  I roll my eyes, and he salutes.

  “See you corporeal kids at the top,” he says, vanishing upward through the ceiling.

  Adele plucks the white stick from her mouth, the lollipop gone, and pockets the bare stem. She produces two more lollipops from her bag and hands one to me. I take it, even though my stomach is in knots.

  “How do you know,” she asks, “if a place is haunted?”

  “I can feel it,” I say softly. “The world gets … heavier, and when a ghost is nearby, it feels like this.” I reach out and rap my finger on her shoulder. Tap-tap-tap.

  Back home, where things were decidedly less haunted, the tapping would usually come out of nowhere, hitting me like a clap of thunder. But it’s been a steady beat since we started our trip. Sometimes the tapping is faint and sometimes it is strong, but these cities are so haunted, I’m more likely to notice when there isn’t a spectral presence.

  Adele smiles. “Cool.” And then, “Can you teach me how to know?”

  I shake my head. “No, sorry. It’s not something you can really learn.”

  She frowns, confused, and I explain, “It only works if you’ve almost died.”

  Her eyes widen, and I can tell she’s about to ask a million more questions, but we reach the first landing and I cut her off. “We have to be quiet while they’re filming.”

  We step out onto a stone balcony dotted with stone monsters. A metal cage arches over our heads, a barrier between us and the ledge. I hang back, but Adele reaches through the grate to brush her fingers over a gargoyle’s foot.

  Mom runs her hand along the metal mesh. “These barricades,” she says, “are not for show. Some have fallen. Others have jumped. A few might even have been pushed. Take a young woman, for example, known only as M. J. She wished to climb up here but needed a chaperone, and so she befriended an old woman, and together, the two ascended the tower.” Mom’s expression darkens. “No one knows what happened next. The young woman’s body was found on the stones below. The old lady was never seen again.”

  I shudder a little, feeling that tap-tap-tap. But Adele’s eyes have gone bright with delight at Mom’s words. As if these are all just stories, held back from reality, the way we are held back from the balcony’s edge.

  Jacob’s standing at the corner, peering out at the city, a dark expression on his face. I cross to him and follow his gaze, my breath catching in my chest at the sight of Paris below.

  It’s not just the view.

  It’s the sound of sirens, high as a whistle.

  The red-and-blue lights winking across the skyline.

  The tendril of smoke rising from a building in the distance.

  The chill that’s hanging in the air, as if it’s fall instead of the middle of the summer.

  Thomas Alain Laurent has officially made his way to mayhem.

  Mom and Dad and the crew move along, vanishing into the bell tower at the other end of the balcony. Adele follows them, but I hang back, looking through the protective mesh. We’re a long way up. Which means it’s a long way down.

  An idea forms in the back of my mind.

  A look of horror sweeps across Jacob’s face.

  “Cassidy, wait—”

  But I’m already cutting through the Veil.

  That short, sharp drop, through black water and into gray, and then I’m back on the cathedral balcony, bells tolling, the two towers rising into fog overhead.

  There is really only one difference: Here in the Veil, there’s no protective cage, just the railing, and the open air, and the promise of a very long fall.

  It worked before, I think, forcing myself toward the rail. Fear claws across my skin—fear of heights, fear of falling, fear that this will work, fear that it won’t—but maybe fear is important. Fear goes with danger, with risk, the kind that draws poltergeists like moths to a flame.

  I take a deep breath and get one foot up on the rail before Jacob grabs my arm and hauls me back to the ground, pale with fury. “What are you doing, Cass? Climbing onto a crypt is one thing. This is something else entirely. You’re going to get yourself killed!”

  “I’m not,” I say, twisting free. “I just have to create the potential.”

  “I worked hard to save your life, and I’m not going to let you throw it away.”

  “I’m not throwing anything away, Jacob. I’m paying my debt. Doing my job.”

  “Why is this your job? Because Lara said so? She doesn’t know everything. Even if she acts like she does. And I am not letting you get up on that rail.”

  “Fine,” I snap. “I’ll think of something else.” I start pacing. “I just have to draw him out. There has to be a way to trap him, even just long enough for me to—”

  “Enough!” shouts Jacob, all the humor gone from his voice. “Enough. Just admit why this is really so important to you.”

  I blink, confused. “What?”

  “The second rule of friendship is no lies, Cass. Besides, it’s literally all you’ve been thinking about since we got to Paris. So admit it. It’s not just Thomas Laurent you’re so worried about. It’s me.”

  The words hit me like a punch.

  “What? No, I’m—”

 
But then I hesitate.

  I don’t think I realized it.

  But he’s right.

  It’s not the only reason, but it’s definitely one of them.

  The truth is, I’m scared. Scared of Jacob’s growing power, scared of what it means. Scared Lara was right. Scared of not being able to save my best friend.

  “Scared I’m turning into some kind of monster?” Jacob growls, his eyes getting darker, his skin beginning to gray.

  “Jacob—”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “I do, but—”

  “But you think I’m becoming the kind of ghost you’re supposed to hunt. Well, the kind you have to. I mean, I’m already the kind you’re supposed to, there’s no forgetting that—”

  “Stop!” I plead.

  But Jacob is shaking with anger. “And just so you know,” he says, “I still remember everything—everything—about my life, and the way it ended. I just don’t want to share it with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s none of your business!” he shouts, the hair rising up around his face, as if the air around him is turning to water. “Because I don’t want to think about it!” His clothes begin to darken, as if wet. “And I don’t want you to know because you won’t look at me the same.” His chest heaves, his shirt soaked through. “I won’t be the boy who saved your life, I’ll be the one who died, and—”

  I throw my arms around his shoulders and hug him, as tightly as I can here in this place where I’m less solid and he’s more real. And for a second, Jacob just stands there, and I don’t know if he’s still angry or just surprised. And then the fight goes out of him. His shoulders slump. His head tips forward against my shoulder.

  “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he says. “I don’t know what it means. It scares me, too. But I don’t want to go. I don’t want to lose you. Or myself.”

  I tighten my grip. “You’re not going to,” I say. “You have something the poltergeist doesn’t.”

  “What’s that?”

  I pull back so he can see my face. “You have me.”

  He smiles, a thin imitation of his usual humor. But it’s something.

  I pull away, wiping my eyes quickly.

  “Viens,” whispers a voice, and we both turn to see the ghost of a little old lady, hobbling toward us in a faded dress and coat, her skin worn deep with wrinkles. Her eyes are too bright, her smile wide and full of wooden teeth.

  Jacob shakes his head, a nervous laugh escaping like steam as our world returns to normal.

  How weird, that this is normal.

  “Viens avec moi,” the old lady coos, one gnarled hand reaching forward.

  Mom’s story comes back to me. The young woman’s body was found on the stones below. The old lady was never seen again.

  “Viens,” the ghost urges, shuffling closer, and I’m very aware of the lack of railing behind me, the long fall.

  “I’ve got your back,” says Jacob, putting himself between me and the edge.

  I draw out the pendant from my pocket, lifting the mirror to the old lady’s eyes.

  Her fingers close around my wrist.

  “Viens avec …” she begins, trailing off as she catches her reflection.

  This time, I remember the words right away.

  “Watch and listen,” I say.

  Her eyes go flat and empty.

  “See and know.”

  Her edges ripple.

  “This is what you are.”

  The old woman’s hand slips from my wrist. Her whole body goes thin, and I reach into the hollow of her chest and draw out the thread of her life, brittle and gray and lightless. It dissolves in my hand, blows away, and so does the old woman.

  The bells are still ringing, but they sound far away, and the Veil begins to thin, losing its sharpness, its shape, without the ghost to hold it up.

  Jacob rests a hand on my shoulder, and I turn back to him.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I say, taking his hand.

  The Veil parts, and we step through. I inhale deeply, trying to shake off the weirdness that always follows me back from the other side, and Jacob’s hand goes thin in mine, dissolving back from flesh to something ever so slightly thicker than air.

  There’s a small squeak of surprise, and I realize Adele is staring at me, the place where I’m standing, the place where I obviously wasn’t standing a second ago, her eyes wide and her mouth open in surprise.

  There you are,” says Pauline, rounding the corner. “Let’s go.”

  For once, Adele has nothing to say. All the way down the tower steps and out into the late-afternoon light, she simply stares at me, speechless.

  By the time we reach the Rue de Rivoli, the stoplights are all flashing a warning yellow, and traffic has come to a standstill, horns blaring.

  This is bad.

  Very, very bad.

  Beneath the awning of the Hotel Valeur, Anton hands the footage case to Dad so he and Mom can review the last pieces of film. Annette kisses Mom once on each cheek, and Pauline wishes us a pleasant night and starts to walk away, then stops herself, remembering.

  “Cassidy, your film,” she says. “Do you still want me to get it developed for you?”

  I’d forgotten. I look down at my camera; there’s only one photo left on the reel. I usher the whole TV crew—Mom and Dad, Pauline, Anton and Annette—together in the frame, Paris rising at their backs, and take the final shot. Then I crank the used film into its canister and thumb the latch on the back of the camera. It springs open, and I tip the small cylinder into my hand. I give it to Pauline, even as I wonder what will—and won’t—show up on the film.

  Pauline slips the cylinder into her pocket and promises to see us again before we leave tomorrow.

  Tomorrow—it’s hard to imagine, in part because Thomas is still rampaging across the city.

  Tomorrow—which means I have less than a day to send him on.

  I’m running out of time.

  “Here’s a crazy thought,” says Jacob. “What if we just leave?”

  I frown pointedly in his direction. What?

  “Think about it,” he presses. “Thomas might have been drawn to you in the beginning, but he’s definitely moved on to bigger targets. Between that and your vile salt-and-sage pouches, I bet we could get out of Paris unscathed.”

  “And what would happen to Paris?” I mutter.

  Anton and Annette wave goodbye, too. With the whole crew gone, we all turn to look at Adele, who shows absolutely no signs of leaving. She simply stares, as if we’re the TV show and she wants to see what we’ll do next.

  “Should you be heading home?” asks Dad.

  Adele rocks back and forth in her gold sneakers. “Do I have to?”

  “Well, won’t your mother be worried?”

  Adele glances over her shoulder; the sun is just starting to sink, turning the edges of the sky orange. She shrugs. “Not yet.”

  “I have an idea!” says Mom, sliding her arm through Dad’s. “Cass, your father and I are going to the salon for a drink. Why don’t you two go up to the room and hang out. Introduce Adele to Grim.” She hands me the show binder. “You can tell her all about The Inspecters.”

  Dad passes me the footage case and asks me to take it upstairs, and my parents stroll off across the lobby.

  Back in the hotel suite, I set the footage case aside, and Adele lets out a delighted squeak and scoops up a very stunned Grim, speaking softly to him in French. Meanwhile, I take out the photographs she brought me and spread them on the floor, hoping they will help me think.

  Soon my cell rings. A video call.

  It’s Lara. She’s doesn’t bother with small talk. “Have you seen the news?”

  “Hold on.” I find the remote and click the TV on. A news anchor talks briskly, a video playing above her shoulder. On that smaller screen, emergency lights flare atop a car.

  It’s all in French, of course, but the message is painfully clear. />
  “Oh.”

  On the TV, the news anchor cuts away to a woman sitting on the sidewalk while a medic presses a cloth to the side of her head. In the background, a multi-car collision clogs an intersection. I change the channel and see a map of the Metro covered in red outage markers.

  I mute the TV, and Lara sits forward in her chair. “I warned you this would happen. Poltergeists are—” She stops abruptly, frowns. “Cassidy,” she says tightly, “who is that?”

  I glance over my shoulder and see Adele perched on the arm of the sofa, Grim a mound of fur on her lap. “Oh yeah. That’s Adele.”

  Adele tugs the lollipop out of her mouth and waves cheerfully. “Hello!”

  Lara does not wave back.

  “Are you a ghost hunter, too?” asks Adele.

  At that, Lara goes very still, her dark eyes furious. “Cassidy Blake,” she hisses through clenched teeth. “What have you told her?”

  “Not much,” I answer, at the same time Adele says, “Everything!”

  Lara’s expression shifts from anger to horror. “Why would you do that?”

  “I have to say,” muses Jacob, “it’s so nice to see that anger directed at someone else.”

  “Be quiet, ghost,” she growls. “Cassidy, explain.”

  “It just kind of came up,” I say.

  “Oh yes, because spectral abilities are such a natural topic of conversation.”

  “Look,” I explain. “I went to see Richard Laurent’s granddaughter, Sylvaine, but she wouldn’t talk to me. Adele’s her daughter. She tracked me down and brought me photographs—”

  “Wait,” cuts in Lara. “What photographs?”

  I turn the phone so she can see the pictures spread on the floor.

  “Closer,” says Lara, and I crouch, panning the phone over them. Adele drops down cross-legged beside them. She reaches for a picture with only Thomas, looking back over his shoulder and flashing a wide smile.

  “And you’re still no closer?” asks Lara. “To finding out what—”

  “Such a sad story,” murmurs Adele, “what happened to Thomas.”

  The room goes quiet. Jacob and I both stare. Even Lara’s mouth is hanging open on the screen.

  “You know?” we all say at once.

  Adele shifts a little. “Oui,” she says. “Maman told me. She doesn’t like to talk about the past, not with strangers, but she said it is important to know one’s history. She said it is private. But if it will help you help Thomas,” she adds, “I will tell you the story.”