Tunnel of Bones (City of Ghosts #2)(44)

And scowls.

I jerk backward, shocked by the anger in that small face. The venom in his look as he crawls out from his hiding place, red eyes so bright they seem to burn the air in front of him.

“Thomas …” I start, drawing the photos from my jacket as he gets to his feet.

His expression flashes with the kind of temper that only a kid his age can muster. Indignation. Betrayal.

He mutters something in French, and even though I don’t understand the words, the sentiment is clear. I cheated. I didn’t play fair.

“Thomas,” I say again, trying to keep my voice steady. I hold out one of the photos of him and his brother, but he doesn’t even look. His eyes slide past the images, like oil on water, and land on me.

And then his hand shoots out with lightning speed.

I jump back, assuming he’s aiming for me. But instead, he slams his hand against the nearest wall of bones like a child knocking over blocks.

Only these blocks don’t fall.

They tremble and shake, glowing red with the force of his power.

Outside the Veil, Thomas was strong.

Here, inside it, fueled by all that mischief and menace and mayhem, he’s something else entirely. As if he can pull on the energy of the space itself, on the restless dead, on the centuries of loss and fear and sadness. The Catacombs bend around him, to him. This isn’t just a tomb for him.

It’s a playground.

And as the walls shake, something begins to seep through them, leaking between the bones like smoke. And then it takes form. A young couple with backpacks. A teenage girl with lank black hair. A middle-aged man with a disheveled beard. They come one, two, five, ten, and as the spirits pour out of the bone-strewn walls, shuffling, grimacing, angry, I retreat, realizing with horror that the Catacombs have never been that empty.

They were just asleep.

My camera flies up, my index finger already hitting the flash. The bright glare buys me a second.

And in that second, I turn and run.





My shoes slip on the damp stone.

I hit the end of the tunnel before a ragged old man rises up through the floor, blocking my way. I skid backward on my heels and tear down another, darker path, dragging the necklace over my head right before I collide with another body. I’m already bringing the mirror up when a familiar hand catches my wrist.

“Jacob,” I gasp, turning the mirror away from him.

He looks over my shoulder, his eyes widening at the tide of spirits, the rumbling bones.

“What did you do?” he demands.

“I found Thomas,” I say, pulling Jacob after me. A gate hangs open up ahead, and we stumble through. I turn and slam the iron bars shut behind us.

“Upside,” I say, breathless, “Thomas is definitely here now. Downside,” I add, sinking back against the bars, “he’s stronger than I expected.”

I close my eyes as a wave of dizziness washes over me, the Veil beginning to steal my strength, my focus.

“So what’s the plan?” asks Jacob, and I’m about to reply when he pulls me away from the gate, seconds before a hand shoots through.

A woman stands beyond the bars, reaching for me, whispering a stream of desperate French. I hold the mirror out, trapping her attention.

“Watch and listen. See and know. This is what you are.”

Her eyes widen a fraction, and I thrust my hand into her chest, pulling out her thread. She crumbles, but before she’s even gone, the walls are shaking, rousing more spirits, and I know the only way to stop them all is to stop the one who woke them up.

Thomas.

I back away from the bars.

“Come on,” I say, grabbing Jacob’s hand. We can’t stay here.

“We can’t just keep running, either,” says Jacob.

“I know,” I say. “I’m just buying time to—”

We round another corner, and a spirit—a middle-aged man in old-fashioned clothes—slides forward out of the dark.

“Chérie, chérie,” he sings, and I don’t know who Chérie is, but something about the ghost catches my eye. Not the concerning lack of teeth in his grin.

It’s his hat.

A newsboy cap, the kind with a stiff front brim.

I’ve seen one just like it, in the old photos I have in my pocket. And suddenly, I have an idea.

Jacob is already backing away from the specter, but I rush forward.

“Excuse me,” I say, “could I borrow your—”

The man snarls and grabs me, shoving me against a wall of bones that rattle as they dig into my back. I gasp, but I manage to swipe the cap from his head before Jacob lunges at the spirit from behind, hauling him backward.

Freed, I slump against the bones, and Jacob slams the other ghost into a pillar of skulls. The bones topple with a crash, and the man drops, dazed, to his hands and knees.

“Come on!” says Jacob, but my gaze flicks from Jacob’s shirt, with its large comic book emblem, to the man’s jacket, weathered and old. I press the stolen cap into Jacob’s hands and reach for the fallen ghost, plucking at one of his gray cuffs.

“A little help?” I snap at Jacob when he just stands there, looking from the cap in his hands to me.

“Help you do what?” he demands.

“Get—this—coat—” I say, tugging at the ghost’s sleeve. The spirit is beginning to fight back, but with Jacob’s help, I manage to wrestle the jacket off the dim-witted spirit, a task just as difficult and awkward as it sounds.