Bridge of Souls

by Victoria Schwab

  Lara shoots me a look. “What she means is, we talked about meeting up, and she told me where you all were.”

  Mom blinks. “Yes, but what on earth are you doing here?”

  Lara’s smile widens. “Would you believe, I was in the area? My aunt lives in the Quarter.”

  “Mrs. Weathershire?” asks Mom, remembering our host in Scotland.

  “Oh, no, um, different aunt,” Lara fumbles, and now it’s my turn to give her a look. “She’s been inviting me for months to come and visit, and when Cassidy told me you were here, too, it was just too perfect.”

  “Yes,” says Mom slowly, “what are the odds?”

  “She’ll never believe that,” says Jacob, but Lara Chowdhury has a power over grown-ups. I don’t know if it’s her English accent or her perfect posture, the fact that her black hair is always perfectly braided, her clothes clean and pressed, while I always look like I was just caught in a storm—but everyone treats her like an adult.

  “Anyway,” says Lara, “I know you’re busy filming, but could Cassidy and I hang out for a bit?”

  Mom blinks. “Well, yes, of course, but—” She looks up and down the street. “Is your aunt here with you?”

  “Oh, she’s at work right now, but we’ll be careful.”

  Mom hesitates, clearly torn between the fact that I’m always getting into trouble, and the knowledge that I’ve made a friend.

  Jacob clears his throat.

  A living friend, I amend.

  Mom looks back at St. Roch. “Well, we are almost done for the day …”

  “Great,” I say as Lara tugs me down the curb. “We’ll meet you back at the hotel!”

  “All … all right,” says Mom, sounding a bit nervous. “But I want you back before it gets dark.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Blake,” says Lara with a perfect smile, pulling me around the corner.

  As soon as we’re out of sight, Lara takes out her phone. A map of New Orleans fills the screen. “The trick with grown-ups,” she says, setting off down the block, “is not to give them time to think.”

  She’s always been a fast walker, and I have to jog to keep up.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” she says. “We’re going to find the Society.”

  Lara moves like a girl on a mission.

  I mean, we are on a mission, but she always walks this way. Like she knows where she’s going. Even when it turns out she doesn’t.

  “I thought you didn’t know where the Society was,” I call out, struggling to keep up.

  “I don’t,” she says, readjusting her red backpack. “But it’s a secret society dedicated to the paranormal, so there must be some kind of sign.”

  I look around at the placards in store windows advertising palm readings and tarot, voodoo and vampire tours. This city has plenty of signs, but as far as I can tell, none of them are for the Society.

  Lara finally slows, and stops. “If I were running a paranormal society—and someday I will—I would put that sign somewhere other paranormal people would see it.” She turns back toward me with a meaningful look.

  “Like the Veil,” I say, catching on.

  “Precisely.”

  Lara turns on her heel, reaching for the curtain.

  Jacob and I follow.

  The air splits open, and I feel the now-familiar rush of cold, the momentary sense of falling, before the world comes back, grayer and stranger than it was before.

  So does that weird double vision, the sense that I’m standing in multiple places at once—or multiple versions of the same place. One second smoke fills my vision, carrying the searing scent of fire. The next, I see people walk arm in arm on a sunny day. Jazz pours through the streets, along with laughter, and shouting, and a far-off siren’s wail.

  “Well, that’s disconcerting,” says Lara, closing one eye and then the other as she tries to focus. She cups her palm against one eye like a patch and sets off walking. We pass long cars, and carriage horses, and a group of men in oversized suits. Fire engulfs one balcony, and on the next, a couple dances.

  I press my hand to my chest, trying to stifle the blue-white light. “I thought you said to stay out of the Veil.”

  “I did,” says Lara, turning her backpack around so it’s on her front, dousing her own reddish light. “But things have gotten decidedly more dire. So we’ll just have to be quick. In and out. Which would be easier if we knew where to start,” she goes on, talking half to herself. “Let’s see, the Society’s been around for ages, so chances are it’ll be in the oldest part of the Quarter.”

  We head to Jackson Square, which seems like a good place to start.

  Gone are the performers, the men and women selling trinkets on pop-up tables. But the square is crowded with people, some of them ghosts and others just part of the background, like set dressing in someone else’s play.

  It’s easy to tell the difference.

  The ghosts look solid. Human. Real. The others look and move like phantoms. It’s like the difference between rocks and tissue paper.

  I jump back as a few spectral firemen rush by, carrying buckets of water. One second they’re there, the next, gone, replaced by a pair playing saxophones in the shade.

  A ghost leans against a post nearby, his head bowed and his boot thumping in time with the music, but that’s not what catches my eye.

  No, what I see is the hatchet resting on his shoulder.

  Jacob sees it, too.

  The Axeman of New Orleans.

  “Nope,” he says, steering me away.

  Voices go up from the center of the square, and my stomach drops when I see an execution block. I’m grateful when Lara grumbles, “No, it’s not here,” and sets off down a side street.

  Jacob and I follow, but ahead of us, Lara starts to look unsteady on her feet. She braces herself against a doorway, as if dizzy.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I’m fine,” she says, sounding like she’s about to faint.

  “How long can you hold your breath?”

  She frowns. “What?”

  “I mean, here in the Veil, when I stay too long, it feels like I’m running out of air.”

  “Oh, yes, that. To be honest, I never stay that long.”

  Of course. Lara Chowdhury doesn’t wander. She doesn’t go for long dips in the Veil. Doesn’t make a splash.

  “We need to go,” I tell her.

  “Not until we find it.” She rubs her eyes. “It has to be here somewhere.”

  I look around, hoping to find a sign. But then I remember, I already found one. I pull out my phone.

  “Cassidy,” says Lara. “I’m quite sure there’s no cell service here.”

  But I’m not trying to make a call. I pull up the photo I took of the black cat. It was standing in front of a shop called Thread & Bone. A number 13 was mounted in iron over the door. I look around to get my bearings, and set off.

  Lara stumbles after me. “Where are you going?”

  “Following a clue.” I turn the corner, and nearly collide with a pair of women in giant, old-fashioned dresses.

  “Goodness,” says one.

  “How rude,” scorns the other.

  I offer a quick sorry, and keep going. The store was around here somewhere. I remember it. Every road in the Quarter kind of looks the same, and just a little different. I thought the store was on Bourbon—or was it Royal?

  Lara catches up and looks at the photo on my screen.

  “A cat?” she says incredulously. “This is New Orleans. Do you have any idea how many black cats there are in this city?”

  I know. But I also know that it’s our only lead, and maybe, just maybe … I turn onto a street called Dauphine. And there it is.

  Thread & Bone.

  Or at least, a version of it.

  The shop I saw yesterday had a beaded curtain instead of a door, and the sign was newer. The one here in the Veil is an older version.

  Unfortunate
ly, it also appears to be a normal one.

  Normal for the Veil anyway, which means it’s just as faded and gray as the other storefronts. There’s no shining beacon, no tracery of light, nothing to say: Here you are! or Congratulations! You found the Society of the Black Cat.

  Lara and Jacob catch up, and they stand beside me, staring at the shop.

  “Well, that was a waste,” says Lara, winded.

  My heart sinks, and I wish for once things could just be simple. I rock back on my heels as Jacob marches past us and up to the shop.

  “What are you do—” I start, but then he reaches for the doorknob, and there’s a giant crack, and for an instant the world goes white.

  A giant, staticky buzz fills the air, and Jacob shoots backward several feet, landing in the middle of the street. A ghostly carriage veers, the horse rearing, as Jacob groans out an “Ow.”

  “Jacob!” I shout, rushing toward him.

  “I’m fine,” he mutters, smoke wafting off his clothes as he gets to his feet.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “That,” says Lara, hands on her hips, “is promising.”

  She approaches the door.

  “Be careful,” I hiss as her hand hovers over the metal knob. She swipes a fingertip across the handle, and pulls back as if singed.

  Then she spins on her heel and smiles. “It’s warded!” she says.

  Jacob folds his arms. “Like the herbs and stuff designed to repel ghosts?”

  “Yes and no,” she says. “This ward is much stronger. If I had to guess, it’s designed to repel anyone without an invitation.” She turns to me. “Which means you were right.”

  And before I can savor those words, Lara’s already reaching for the curtain. She vanishes through the Veil, and I take Jacob’s hand and follow, past the rush of cold and into a cloud of heat as my feet settle back on the ground, the real world rushing to catch up.

  We’re standing in front of the Thread & Bone. Only now, the door is gone, replaced by a red beaded curtain, and the sign has been touched up, and there, on the sidewalk, is a black cat.

  Not just any black cat, but the one I saw yesterday, with the amethyst eyes. The cat looks up at us. If it’s surprised to see two girls and a ghost step out of the Veil and into the land of the living, it doesn’t show it.

  It just yawns and stretches, tail twitching side to side.

  I shoot Lara a look that says, See?

  She rolls her eyes and says, “Yes, all right,” as the black cat turns and slips through the beaded curtain into the shop. It stops on the other side, looking back as if to say, Follow me.

  And we do.

  The Thread & Bone is a voodoo shop.

  Or at least, it’s made to look like one. Every inch of space is covered in candles and crystals and charms. Silk scarves, and jars of oil. It looks like something out of Diagon Alley, and I have to remind myself that Harry Potter is fantasy, and this is real. Jacob follows me, holding his breath, but when he finally inhales, a small, questing sniff, he sighs with relief.

  No spirit repellents inside.

  Just a shelf of candles, tied with different colored ribbons. Dolls made of sticks and blank cloth. Bundles of unlit incense. A bowl of blue-and-white beads.

  I slow down to look at a painting of a thin man standing at a crossroads. It reminds me of the Two of Swords, and I’m just about to step closer when I hear Lara say, “That’s it!”

  We find her near the back of the shop, standing in front of a black-curtained doorway. There’s a symbol stitched into the dark cloth, an ornate S, set over a starburst.

  Lara pulls a business card from her pocket and holds it up. The same symbol is pressed into the front. I recognize it, too, from the card that came with my sachets of sage and salt back in Paris.

  The Society of the Black Cat.

  My pulse picks up, and Lara looks almost giddy, but she takes a moment to smooth her shirt and run a hand over her braid. And then she reaches for the black curtain, ready to pull it aside, as if it were the Veil.

  “You can’t go in there.”

  We all jump, turning toward the voice.

  There’s a young woman sitting behind the shop counter.

  I swear she wasn’t there before. Or maybe she was just sitting so still, we didn’t notice her. But it seems hard not to notice her. She’s maybe twenty, white, with hair so blond it’s practically silver. It’s shaved on one side, and tumbles like a wave down the other.

  “Can I help you find something?” she asks.

  Lara steps up, taking control.

  “We’re here to see the Society.”

  “Society?” the girl says, arching a brow. Jacob and I exchange a look, wondering if we’re in the right place. But Lara doesn’t flinch.

  “Of the Black Cat,” Lara says.

  The girl stares at us blankly. The cat from outside jumps up onto the glass counter and purrs, its purple eyes locked on us. “This black cat?” asks the girl, running her hand over its fur.

  Lara huffs. “No. Look—”

  “Where are your parents?”

  That tips Lara over the edge. “My parents are on their way to South America, and Cassidy’s are currently in one of your city’s forty-two graveyards filming a show on the paranormal—”

  “Well, that sounds like fun!”

  “And we’re here, because we need the Society’s help, and don’t tell me it’s not here because it was warded in the Veil, and Cassidy followed the cat, and I saw the symbol on the curtain, and it’s the same as the one on my card.”

  Lara’s breathless by the time she slaps the business card down on the counter.

  The girl lifts it gingerly, but the airy confusion is gone, replaced by a mischievous grin. “How did you get this?”

  “My great-uncle was a member.”

  “But you’re not.”

  “A technicality,” says Lara through gritted teeth. “Some ageist wording in the bylaws, but I’m working on it. You see, Cassidy and I, we’re in-betweeners.”

  “Veil-walkers! Fascinating,” the girl says, leaning forward on her elbows. “We don’t have any of those right now. We used to have one, but he …” She trails off.

  “Died?” I ask nervously.

  “Goodness, no,” she says brightly. “He moved to Portland. There are no ghosts in Portland. Odd quirk in the landscape or somethi—”

  “So this is the Society?” interrupts Lara.

  “Oh yeah,” says the girl, waving her hand. “But you know, we have to be careful. Can’t go around telling everyone who wanders in.”

  Jacob has drifted toward the counter, and the cat.

  “This is Amethyst, by the way,” the girl says. “Mascot and protector.”

  “Protector of what?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “People. Cats are drawn to the supernatural. They’re often seen as omens, portents of danger, but they’re also amulets against it. Cats make excellent protectors. They’re very brave,” she adds, scratching Amethyst behind the ears.

  I picture Grim, sitting like a bread loaf in a pool of sun. Once, a bug landed near him, and instead of pouncing on it, he got up and walked away.

  “And sensitive,” she says, scratching between the cat’s ears. “They can sense trouble.”

  Jacob wiggles his fingers in front of the cat’s face.

  The girl behind the counter shoots him a look. “Please don’t antagonize my cat.”

  Her attention flicks back to us, but Jacob stares at her, his eyes wide as marbles.

  “Cassidy,” he hisses under his breath, “I think she can …”

  “See you,” finishes the girl. “Yes. I wouldn’t be much of a medium if I couldn’t see ghosts.”

  Jacob sucks in a breath. His eyes narrow to slits. “How many fingers am I holding up?” he asks.

  “Two.”

  He gasps. “No one has ever been able to see me.”

  “I’ve always been able to see you,” I say, hurt.

  “So have I,
” adds Lara, sounding more annoyed than wounded.

  “I meant normal people,” he shoots back.

  “Oh, no normal people here,” says the girl with a laugh. “In-betweeners,” she muses, looking at me and Lara. “And you’re friends with this ghost? I didn’t think in-betweeners were fond of spirits.”

  “We’re not,” says Lara.

  “He’s different,” I explain.

  Jacob puffs up his chest a little.

  The medium studies him. “Yes,” she says. “I think he is.” She addresses Jacob directly. “You look a little … corporeal for a ghost.”

  “Why, thank you,” says Jacob.

  “It’s not a compliment,” she says, attention flicking back to me and Lara. “I’m Philippa, by the way. Now, why do you want to see the Society?”

  Lara looks at me. I clear my throat.

  “I’m being chased by a missionary of Death.”

  “Emissary,” corrects Lara.

  “Oh my,” says Philippa. “That sounds serious. Hold on.”

  She rings a bell, and a few moments later, two people pass through the curtain at the back of the shop. A middle-aged Black woman wearing pink glasses, and a younger white man with a shock of black hair. His widow’s peak makes him look like he belongs in a vampire story.

  “We have guests,” Philippa tells them brightly. “Veil-walkers! Or, what did you call it, in-betweeners? Anyway, this is Cassidy and Lara.”

  Lara and I exchange a look.

  We never said our names.

  Jacob clears his throat, and Philippa adds, “Oh yes, sorry, and Jacob, their incorporeal friend. This,” she says, nodding at the woman, “is the current president of the Society, Renée. And this is Michael, our specialist in wards and charms. I’m afraid our historian is out.”

  “Lara Chowdhury,” says Renée, looking her up and down. “I’ve received your letters.”

  “And yet you still haven’t granted me membership—”

  “Not why we’re here,” I say impatiently.

  Renée turns her attention to me. “Yes, what brings you to the Society?”

  “We need help,” I say. “I’m being hunted by an Emissary.”

  Renée frowns. “Indeed,” she says soberly. “Well then, come on back.”