Tunnel of Bones (City of Ghosts #2)(43)

We reach the end of the galleries.

ARRéTE! warns the sign over the doorway. STOP!

We’ve come too far to turn back now.

And so, with a deep breath, we step through.





Buried beneath Paris, the Catacombs are home to more than six million bones …”

My parents walk ahead, recounting the history and the lore of this place. They’re telling the same stories as before, but the energy is different this time. They are clearly on edge, ruffled from the whole briefcase incident. It makes them tense and jumpy in a way that’s probably great for a show about paranormal activity. Even Dad’s usual unflappable calm has tightened, making him seem, for once, truly nervous.

Mom’s voice is tense, even as her hand dances through the air over the skulls.

“The tunnels snake beneath the city, so vast that most Parisians are walking on bones …”

“Now?” asks Jacob, and I nod, knowing this is the closest I’ll get to a chance. I back away one step, two, and then turn, about to reach for the Veil when a hand catches my wrist.

Pauline.

“Don’t go wandering,” she warns, careful to keep her voice low, because everything echoes here.

“I’m not,” I whisper, lifting the camera a little. “I was just looking for a good shot.” I point over her shoulder toward my parents, who are still walking away. The glow of the tunnel lights ahead of them creates an eerie halo, turning them to silhouettes.

Pauline’s grip loosens, and I see my chance.

By the time her hand falls away, I’m already reaching for the Veil. It parts around me, and the last thing I see is Pauline turning back, her eyes widening in surprise as I vanish through the invisible curtain.



My heart lurches with panic as I’m plunged back into the dark.

The air is heavy and stale. All I can think is that I’m five stories underground and last time there was a lantern on the ground, but now there’s not, and I can’t breathe. Panic fills the place where air should be, and it takes all my strength not to reach for the Veil and cross back into the safety of the light.

“Jacob,” I whisper, half-afraid that no one will answer. Half-afraid that someone else will. But then I feel him, a shift in the air beside me.

“Cass,” he whispers back, and I realize that I can almost, almost see the outline of his face. I blink, desperate for my eyes to adjust, and when they do, I realize that the darkness isn’t absolute.

There must be a light somewhere, around the corner, the thinnest glow spilling through the tunnels. I make my way forward, keeping one hand against the wall for balance. The wall that isn’t a wall of course, but a stack of bones. My fingers skip over the hollows of a skull, the dips and grooves where bones lock together like puzzle pieces.

We round the corner, and I find the oil lamp on the ground. I crouch and turn the knob up, and the tunnel brightens a little, but not nearly as much as I’d like. I look around, but there’s no sign of Thomas. No sign of anyone, for that matter. The tunnels are empty.

“Thomas?” I call. But all I hear is my own voice echoing back. And there’s no sign of him, or the red light that seems to trail him through the Veil.

But he has to be here. He has to.

And if he’s not?

I look down at the lantern on the dirt floor, then straighten. I have an idea.

“Hey, Jacob,” I say. “Want to play a game of hide-and-seek?”

He looks at me for a long moment, then swallows and holds out his hands. One fist rests in the other open palm: the universal gesture for rock-paper-scissors.

“Winner hides,” he says. “Loser seeks.”

“No way,” I say. Rock-paper-scissors isn’t a fair game when one of us is psychic. I pull a coin from my back pocket and flip it.

“Tails,” calls Jacob as the coin glints in the dark.

I catch the coin, slap it against the back of my hand.

Heads.

I’m relieved. The only thing creepier than being down here in the dark would be closing my eyes. Jacob groans and turns to face the nearest column of bones, putting his hands over his eyes.

“One, two, three …” he begins.

And instead of running to hide, I slip into a shadowed gap nearby, and wait. Wait for movement. Wait for the sight of red eyes in a small round face. I chew my lip.

Jacob gets to ten, and there’s still no sign of Thomas.

Fifteen.

Twenty.

And then, just as Jacob is saying “Twenty-one,” I hear the shuffle of feet. I look up and see Thomas. The little boy peers around the corner, red eyes wide with curiosity. He doesn’t see me. But he sees Jacob. He watches Jacob for a long moment, then turns and slips away into the dark.

I follow, careful to keep just enough distance that he doesn’t know I’m there, but not so much that I lose him. It helps that his whole body is tinged with red. His edges glow, the air around him curling with wisps of colored smoke. I slip along in his wake, and soon he stops and crouches. He folds himself into a low arch, the bones beneath long crumbled.

Just like the nook in Adele’s story.

I squat in front of Thomas’s hiding place.

“Caught you,” I whisper. But for a moment, all I see is darkness, shadow, and I think he somehow got away. And then I realize he’s there. His head was down, bowed against his folded arms. Now he looks up, red eyes glowing in the dark.