Bridge of Souls (Cassidy Blake #3)(14)

But when Mr. Blanc speaks again, his voice is higher, stranger, a little muffled, as if there’s something in his mouth, which I know there is.

“My name is Marietta,” he says. “Marietta Greene.”

It’s like watching a ventriloquist, except Mr. Blanc is both the master and the doll. His lips are always moving.

“I don’t know where I am,” he continues in that strange, squeaky voice. “It is so dark, I think they must have boarded the windows and locked the doors …”

It sounds like a speech; the words trip out too easily.

I feel the cold draft, and slight tremor of the table, all the things I know are tricks, part of the performance. But I don’t feel anything ghostly.

And then I do.

The air in the room changes. The draft drops away, and the mist holds still, and the bell at Mr. Blanc’s elbow begins to ring, even though he never touched it.

Mr. Blanc stares down at the bell, and for a second, he looks totally surprised.

But then his head lolls forward, like a puppet without any strings. His hands drop from Jenna’s and Mom’s, landing on the table with the dull smack of dead weight.

For a moment, he’s as still as a statue, as still as a corpse, and Jacob slips behind my chair, as if he plans to use me as a shield.

Nice, I think, right before Mr. Blanc’s mouth hinges opens and a voice spills out. A voice that isn’t really a voice at all, but wind against old windows, a draft beneath a door. A rasping whisper, a rumble in the dark. The same voice I heard at the Place d’Armes.

And this time, it’s speaking to me.





We have seen you, little thief.”

The words slip between Mr. Blanc’s teeth, hissing like steam from a kettle.

“Light burning in your chest.”

The words roll over me like a chill, carrying that hollow fear, that strange emptiness. The same cold terror I felt on the platform in Paris.

“Once you stole from us. And once you fled.”

The words keep spilling out of Mr. Blanc’s mouth, but they don’t belong to him. There is no projection now, no drama, no flair. If anything, his delivery is eerily flat, his voice empty of emotion.

“But now you cannot hide.”

As the Spiritist speaks, something moves inside the black stone centerpiece. I watch as it rises to the surface. At first, it’s nothing but a pale white streak. But soon, I can see its hinged jaw and its empty black eyes, and I know it’s a skull.

And I can’t look away.

“We have seen you.”

I can’t move.

“And we will find you.”

I’m back on the train platform as the skeleton in the black suit reaches up to pull away its face.

In the séance room, Mr. Blanc’s head drifts up, his eyes open and empty. Like something else has climbed inside, like something else is looking out.

“We are coming for you, little thief.”

The Spiritist leans forward, unseeing, and my hand goes to the mirror at my throat. An anchor in the storm.

“We will find you, and balance the scales.”

Mr. Blanc’s fingers dig into the silk tablecloth as the voice that is not a voice gets stronger in his throat.

“We will find you and return you to the dark.”

I drag in a shuddering breath. The skull in the black stone and the Spiritist at the table both swivel suddenly toward me, those empty eyes narrowing, and for a moment I’m certain that the thing inside Mr. Blanc can see me, and I jerk backward as—

CLANG!

Jacob shoves both hands into the bell at Mr. Blanc’s side.

It tips and falls, ringing through the narrow room and tearing the Spiritist from his trance. He sits, bolt upright, looking as shocked as I feel. He blinks rapidly, and clears his throat. The fog has faded. The draft is back. The black stone is empty. The presence is gone. And for a long moment, no one speaks.

And then Jenna claps her hands. “That was awesome!” she squeals.

But I can’t breathe.

The fear that was pinning me down is gone, the weight lifted, and I violently shove myself up to my feet, knocking my chair against the wall.

“Cassidy?” asks Mom, but I’m already rushing toward the velvet curtain.

I can’t get out of there fast enough.

I push aside the velvet curtain—or I try, but I pick the wrong one, and find only a wall beyond.

Panic works its way through me, and I can hear Jacob telling me to calm down, can hear Dad asking if I’m all right. But my heart is a wall of noise in my ears, and I just have to get out.

I finally find the right curtain and shove it aside, stumbling back down the hall and into the lobby.

We have seen you.

I pull the necklace from beneath my collar, gripping the mirror tight.

And we will find you.

I run across the lobby, past Adan, who’s lounging with his legs up on the equipment, and out through the doors into the night.

The air is warm, and the street is full. Not just with a crush of tourists, but with a river of strangers in brightly colored masks, a parade of people playing music and painted up like a sea of skeletons.

They’re everywhere. I can’t get away. So I race back into the hotel. My shoes squeak on the lobby’s marble floor as Mom and Dad appear, Jacob and the film crew just behind.