Bridge of Souls (Cassidy Blake #3)(24)

We sag back against the car, waiting for the procession to pass.

“Lara,” I say. “How did you get here?”

“I took a plane,” she says, as if that’s the part that needed explaining. “I was at the airport, and my parents’ flight had already taken off. As you know, I was meant to go home, but I got to thinking, you are rather out of your element, and I have always wanted to see New Orleans—the Society of the Black Cat and all—so I changed the ticket.”

“You just … changed the ticket?”

“Booked a layover, actually. It’s not that hard. Did it all on my phone. I know my parents’ credit card details. And it’s a short flight from Chicago to New Orleans.”

Even Jacob looks impressed.

“It will be a while before my parents check in with me,” she says, “and I couldn’t expect you to handle an Emissary on your own, so—”

I pull her into a hug.

Lara stiffens a little, clearly unused to the affection. But she doesn’t pull away.

“Thank you,” I say, squeezing her tight.

She pats my arm and looks over her shoulder. “We should go.”

She’s right. The music is fading, the funeral moving on and taking our cover with it.

“How did you even find me?” I ask as we get to our feet.

“In-betweeners stick together,” Lara says, poking me in the chest. And I get what she’s saying. There’s a thread—not a physical one, but just as real—that runs between us. Like a compass pointing north. Which reminds me, for a second, of the weird feeling I had in Metairie Cemetery, that push-pull I felt, and I’m about to ask Lara if she knows what it is when a voice cuts across the road.

“Cassidy Blake!” snaps Mom.

The funeral procession is gone. The street is empty again, and my mother storms across it.

“How many times have we talked about wandering off during a— Oh my, Lara? Is that you?”

“Hello, Mrs. Blake.”

“Sorry!” I say. “I wanted to see the parade. Or funeral, or whatever that was. And I ran into Lara!”

Lara shoots me a look. “What she means is, we talked about meeting up, and she told me where you all were.”

Mom blinks. “Yes, but what on earth are you doing here?”

Lara’s smile widens. “Would you believe, I was in the area? My aunt lives in the Quarter.”

“Mrs. Weathershire?” asks Mom, remembering our host in Scotland.

“Oh, no, um, different aunt,” Lara fumbles, and now it’s my turn to give her a look. “She’s been inviting me for months to come and visit, and when Cassidy told me you were here, too, it was just too perfect.”

“Yes,” says Mom slowly, “what are the odds?”

“She’ll never believe that,” says Jacob, but Lara Chowdhury has a power over grown-ups. I don’t know if it’s her English accent or her perfect posture, the fact that her black hair is always perfectly braided, her clothes clean and pressed, while I always look like I was just caught in a storm—but everyone treats her like an adult.

“Anyway,” says Lara, “I know you’re busy filming, but could Cassidy and I hang out for a bit?”

Mom blinks. “Well, yes, of course, but—” She looks up and down the street. “Is your aunt here with you?”

“Oh, she’s at work right now, but we’ll be careful.”

Mom hesitates, clearly torn between the fact that I’m always getting into trouble, and the knowledge that I’ve made a friend.

Jacob clears his throat.

A living friend, I amend.

Mom looks back at St. Roch. “Well, we are almost done for the day …”

“Great,” I say as Lara tugs me down the curb. “We’ll meet you back at the hotel!”

“All … all right,” says Mom, sounding a bit nervous. “But I want you back before it gets dark.”

“Of course, Mrs. Blake,” says Lara with a perfect smile, pulling me around the corner.

As soon as we’re out of sight, Lara takes out her phone. A map of New Orleans fills the screen. “The trick with grown-ups,” she says, setting off down the block, “is not to give them time to think.”

She’s always been a fast walker, and I have to jog to keep up.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Isn’t it obvious?” she says. “We’re going to find the Society.”





Lara moves like a girl on a mission.

I mean, we are on a mission, but she always walks this way. Like she knows where she’s going. Even when it turns out she doesn’t.

“I thought you didn’t know where the Society was,” I call out, struggling to keep up.

“I don’t,” she says, readjusting her red backpack. “But it’s a secret society dedicated to the paranormal, so there must be some kind of sign.”

I look around at the placards in store windows advertising palm readings and tarot, voodoo and vampire tours. This city has plenty of signs, but as far as I can tell, none of them are for the Society.

Lara finally slows, and stops. “If I were running a paranormal society—and someday I will—I would put that sign somewhere other paranormal people would see it.” She turns back toward me with a meaningful look.