Tunnel of Bones (City of Ghosts #2)(13)

Mom flashes a mischievous grin and sits forward. “In the early hours of the morning, the gentleman left, but shortly after, he realized he was missing his cigarette lighter and returned to collect it. But when he arrived, he found the place dark, the doors and windows boarded shut. It was a neighbor who told him that a musician had once lived there, but that he’d died more than twenty years before.”

A little shudder runs through me, but this one is simple, the almost-pleasant chill that comes with a good ghost story. Not like what I felt earlier at the café.

“And yet, to this day,” finishes Mom, “if you linger in the park as the sun goes down, you just might be approached by a man in a black coat, extending the same invitation. The only question is, will you accept?”

“Finally!” says Jacob. “A friendly ghost story.”

As Mom rises from the bench, a cold breeze blows past. This one feels like the cool air I felt at the café. I’m fighting back another shiver when sand crackles under feet on the path behind me. I twist around, catching something—someone—in the corner of my eye.

But when I look at the path head-on, no one’s there.

“Did you—” I start, but Jacob has already moved ahead with the rest of the group. I let out an unsteady breath.

“Cass?” calls Dad. “You coming?”

I frown, then jog to catch up.



“If you keep glancing over your shoulder,” says Jacob, “you’re going to hurt your neck.”

He starts walking backward beside me. “Here, I’ll look for you.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and squints into the distance. “You still think we’re being followed?”

“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “Something just feels … off. It has all day.”

“Maybe Mercury is in retrograde.”

I look at him. “What does that mean?”

“I have no idea,” admits Jacob, turning back around, “but I’ve heard people say it when things go wrong.”

I frown. “I don’t think planets have anything to do with this.”

Jacob shrugs, and we walk in silence toward our final location for the day.

The Eiffel Tower isn’t exactly subtle.

You can see it halfway across Paris, a dark lace spire against the sky. Up close, it’s massive. It looms like a giant steel beast over the city.

The park at the tower’s base is brimming with people, all sprawled in the afternoon sun, and the mood is the opposite of spooky. Yet when my parents start filming, I swear the clouds slide in and a light breeze rustles Mom’s hair and casts a shadow on Dad’s face.

They bring the atmosphere with them.

“The Eiffel Tower,” says Dad as Anton films him. “One of the most famous architectural feats and iconic tourist attractions in the world. A marker of history.”

Mom picks up, her voice smooth. “And story.” She glances over her shoulder at the tower before continuing. “Back at the start of the twentieth century, a young American fell in love with a French girl, and after courting her, he took her up the tower to propose. But when he drew out the ring, she was so surprised that she leaped back, slipped over the edge, and fell …”

I swallow, my skin humming with nervous energy. Maybe it’s just the near miss at the café, but the Eiffel Tower suddenly looks like an accident waiting to happen.

“There are a dozen stories just like that,” says Dad, sounding skeptical. “Perhaps they’re simply urban legends.”

“Or perhaps one of them is true,” counters Mom. “Visitors claim to have seen a young woman, perched on the darkened rail, still grinning like a bride.”

A small movement catches the corner of my eye.

It’s Pauline. As Mom and Dad tell the story, her hand drifts up to her collar again. As I watch, she draws something out from beneath her blouse. It’s a silver necklace, a pendant swinging from the end. My heart lurches, and I think of the mirror in my back pocket, ready to dispel any restless spirits.

But then her pendant catches the light, and I see it’s not a mirror, but an ordinary bit of jewelry, a silver disc worn smooth from use. As I watch, she rubs her thumb over it, her lips moving as she whispers something to herself.

“What is that?” I ask, and she shows me the talisman. Most of the details have been worn away, but I can just make out the lines of an eye.

“It’s an old symbol,” she says, “meant to ward off evil.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in this kind of stuff.”

“I don’t,” she answers quickly, waving her hand. “Just a bit of superstition.” I’m not sure I believe her.

“Well,” says Mom, coming over to us and clapping her hands. “Shall we go up?”

I swallow. “Up?” I echo, studying the tower.

Confession: I don’t love heights. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m afraid of them, but I’ll never be the girl standing on the ledge, arms spread wide, like that moment in Harry Potter when Harry rides a hippogriff for the first time (movie edition, obviously).

But I also can’t bear the thought of missing out.

It takes two elevators and several sets of stairs, but finally we step out onto the highest viewing platform in Paris. There’s a protective grate, but I hang back. Up here, the air is colder, and I wonder if I’d be able to feel a sudden change in temperature—a warning, if that’s what it was—before something goes wrong. The Eiffel Tower looks like it’s held together with a million nuts and bolts. What would happen if one of them broke? Or a sudden gust of wind forced me toward the edge?