Bridge of Souls (Cassidy Blake #3)(25)

“Like the Veil,” I say, catching on.

“Precisely.”

Lara turns on her heel, reaching for the curtain.

Jacob and I follow.

The air splits open, and I feel the now-familiar rush of cold, the momentary sense of falling, before the world comes back, grayer and stranger than it was before.

So does that weird double vision, the sense that I’m standing in multiple places at once—or multiple versions of the same place. One second smoke fills my vision, carrying the searing scent of fire. The next, I see people walk arm in arm on a sunny day. Jazz pours through the streets, along with laughter, and shouting, and a far-off siren’s wail.

“Well, that’s disconcerting,” says Lara, closing one eye and then the other as she tries to focus. She cups her palm against one eye like a patch and sets off walking. We pass long cars, and carriage horses, and a group of men in oversized suits. Fire engulfs one balcony, and on the next, a couple dances.

I press my hand to my chest, trying to stifle the blue-white light. “I thought you said to stay out of the Veil.”

“I did,” says Lara, turning her backpack around so it’s on her front, dousing her own reddish light. “But things have gotten decidedly more dire. So we’ll just have to be quick. In and out. Which would be easier if we knew where to start,” she goes on, talking half to herself. “Let’s see, the Society’s been around for ages, so chances are it’ll be in the oldest part of the Quarter.”

We head to Jackson Square, which seems like a good place to start.

Gone are the performers, the men and women selling trinkets on pop-up tables. But the square is crowded with people, some of them ghosts and others just part of the background, like set dressing in someone else’s play.

It’s easy to tell the difference.

The ghosts look solid. Human. Real. The others look and move like phantoms. It’s like the difference between rocks and tissue paper.

I jump back as a few spectral firemen rush by, carrying buckets of water. One second they’re there, the next, gone, replaced by a pair playing saxophones in the shade.

A ghost leans against a post nearby, his head bowed and his boot thumping in time with the music, but that’s not what catches my eye.

No, what I see is the hatchet resting on his shoulder.

Jacob sees it, too.

The Axeman of New Orleans.

“Nope,” he says, steering me away.

Voices go up from the center of the square, and my stomach drops when I see an execution block. I’m grateful when Lara grumbles, “No, it’s not here,” and sets off down a side street.

Jacob and I follow, but ahead of us, Lara starts to look unsteady on her feet. She braces herself against a doorway, as if dizzy.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine,” she says, sounding like she’s about to faint.

“How long can you hold your breath?”

She frowns. “What?”

“I mean, here in the Veil, when I stay too long, it feels like I’m running out of air.”

“Oh, yes, that. To be honest, I never stay that long.”

Of course. Lara Chowdhury doesn’t wander. She doesn’t go for long dips in the Veil. Doesn’t make a splash.

“We need to go,” I tell her.

“Not until we find it.” She rubs her eyes. “It has to be here somewhere.”

I look around, hoping to find a sign. But then I remember, I already found one. I pull out my phone.

“Cassidy,” says Lara. “I’m quite sure there’s no cell service here.”

But I’m not trying to make a call. I pull up the photo I took of the black cat. It was standing in front of a shop called Thread & Bone. A number 13 was mounted in iron over the door. I look around to get my bearings, and set off.

Lara stumbles after me. “Where are you going?”

“Following a clue.” I turn the corner, and nearly collide with a pair of women in giant, old-fashioned dresses.

“Goodness,” says one.

“How rude,” scorns the other.

I offer a quick sorry, and keep going. The store was around here somewhere. I remember it. Every road in the Quarter kind of looks the same, and just a little different. I thought the store was on Bourbon—or was it Royal?

Lara catches up and looks at the photo on my screen.

“A cat?” she says incredulously. “This is New Orleans. Do you have any idea how many black cats there are in this city?”

I know. But I also know that it’s our only lead, and maybe, just maybe … I turn onto a street called Dauphine. And there it is.

Thread & Bone.

Or at least, a version of it.

The shop I saw yesterday had a beaded curtain instead of a door, and the sign was newer. The one here in the Veil is an older version.

Unfortunately, it also appears to be a normal one.

Normal for the Veil anyway, which means it’s just as faded and gray as the other storefronts. There’s no shining beacon, no tracery of light, nothing to say: Here you are! or Congratulations! You found the Society of the Black Cat.

Lara and Jacob catch up, and they stand beside me, staring at the shop.

“Well, that was a waste,” says Lara, winded.

My heart sinks, and I wish for once things could just be simple. I rock back on my heels as Jacob marches past us and up to the shop.