Tunnel of Bones (City of Ghosts #2)(37)

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.