Bridge of Souls (Cassidy Blake #3)(18)

“Somebody really dropped the ball on naming,” mutters Jacob.

“Lafayette, and Metairie—” continues Dad.

“And St. Roch!” adds Mom, sounding giddy.

“What’s so special about St. Roch?” I ask, but she only squeezes my arm and says, “Oh, you’ll see.”

Jacob and I exchange a look. Mom’s excitement is always a sign of trouble. And truth be told, I’m not in the mood for any surprises.

But Lara warned us to stay together, and cemeteries are usually pretty safe, as far as spirits go.

It can’t be worse than the séance.





We meet up with Lucas and the film crew in Jackson Square. The air is sticky again today, but the sun has been blotted out by clouds, the low, dark kind that warn of storms.

“Is it always this hot?” I ask Jenna and Adan while Mom and Dad chat with Lucas about the day’s schedule.

“Only in June,” says Jenna. “And July. And August.”

“And May,” says Adan.

Jenna nods. “And September,” she adds. “And sometimes April and October. But March is pretty nice!”

I try to laugh, but I feel like I’m melting.

I look around. The square is beginning to feel almost familiar, with its clashing music, its buskers and tourists. Despite the brewing weather, people linger all around, selling jewelry—pendants and charms designed to ward off evil or bring good luck.

“Hey, you.”

The voice comes from a young white woman in a lawn chair, perched beneath a blue-and-pink umbrella. At first I assume she’s talking to someone else, but she looks right at me, and hooks her finger.

“Come here,” she says.

I’ve heard my fair share of fairy tales; I know you’re not supposed to go with strangers—especially when you’re being hunted by a supernatural force. But she’s just sitting there, in the open. And as far as I can tell, she’s perfectly human.

I glance over at my parents, deep in conversation with the crew, and then I drift toward her, Jacob on my heels.

The woman’s hair is cut in a violet bob and she has freckled skin. There’s a fold-up table at her knees, with a large deck of cards facedown on top.

“Name’s Sandra,” she says. “Want to have your fortune told?”

I consider the question, and the person asking it.

Sandra doesn’t look like a fortune-teller.

In my mind, fortune-tellers are old, draped in velvet and lace, their skin weathered and their eyes deep. They don’t have purple hair and chipped nail polish. They don’t sit in lawn chairs under blue-and-pink umbrellas. They don’t wear flip-flops. But if I’ve learned anything this summer, it’s that things aren’t always as they seem.

“The first one’s free,” she says, fanning out a deck of cards. They’re beautiful, the backs decorated with swirling lines, suns and stars and moons. They were silver once—I can tell by the shine—but they’ve been worn away to gray.

Sandra turns the cards over, and I realize there are no hearts, no spades, no diamonds or clubs. Instead there are swords and cups, wands and rings. And scattered in among those, strange paintings of towers, and jesters, and queens.

They’re tarot cards.

I see a heart driven through with knives. Three wands crossed like a star. A single glowing ring. I shiver at the sight of a skeleton astride a white horse.

Sandra doesn’t put on an act. She doesn’t change her voice, lace it with mystery or theater. She just turns the deck facedown again, fans the cards between her fingers, and says, “Choose.”

I look down at the deck and ask, “How?”

The backs of the cards are all the same. Nothing but suns and stars and moons. No way to tell what I’m picking.

“The cards will tell you,” she says, and I don’t really understand, until I do. My hand drifts over the deck, the paper edges worn soft, like silk, under my fingers. And then my hand stops. There’s a pull, right under my palm, a steady draw, like the Veil rising to meet my fingers.

I draw the card from the deck, holding my breath.

When I see the picture, I exhale. There’s no grim reaper, no hangman’s noose, nothing particularly ominous. The card is upside down, but when I turn it around, I see a girl, blindfolded, holding a pair of swords, their blades crossed in front of her.

She looks strong, I think, but when I glance up, the fortune-teller is frowning.

“The Two of Swords,” she murmurs.

“What does it mean?” I ask.

Sandra tucks a strand of purple hair behind one ear and assembles her face into a mask of calm, but not before I catch the worry darting across her features. She takes the card, pursing her lips as she studies the image.

“Tarot can be read two ways,” she says, “upright and reversed. The meaning changes depending on which way the card is drawn. But the Two of Swords is a difficult one, no matter how you draw it.”

She runs her chipped pink fingernail along one sword, stopping where it hits the other.

“Upright, this card signifies a crossroads. You will have to choose one road, but when you do, the other will be lost. There is no victory without defeat, so you do not want to choose at all, but you must. And no matter what you choose, you will lose something. Or someone.”