Bridge of Souls (Cassidy Blake #3)(28)

“I’ll be back soon,” I tell Jacob.

Philippa pats a stool by the counter. “Come and sit with me,” she says. “I’ll show you a fun trick.”

Jacob frowns a little, and I realize there’s never been a place I’ve gone that he couldn’t follow. But he turns away, and the last thing I see is his back before the curtain falls shut between us.





The Society room is filled with books.

Shelves run along every wall, interrupted only by sofas and chairs, and a small round table in the center. It feels a little like a library, and a little like an office, and a little like the séance room in Muriel’s, just as cluttered but far less ominous.

It’s so quiet in here, and it takes me a second to realize it’s because of the Veil. Or rather, the absence of it. Ever since I got to New Orleans, the other side has been a crush against my senses. But here, in the back room of the Thread & Bone, the Veil drops away, taking the whispers and the music with it.

“I thought the Society would be …” Lara turns in a circle. “Bigger.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” says Renée with a shrug. “Have a seat.”

I sit cross-legged on an ottoman, while Lara chooses a high-backed chair. Her legs don’t even reach the ground, and yet somehow she still looks dignified. Michael leans against the bookshelves, while Renée stands, arms folded, studying us behind her pink glasses.

“In-betweeners,” she muses. “You’re both so young.”

“Age is a number,” replies Lara briskly, “as I’ve said in my letters.”

“Yes, as you’ve said. And as I’ve said, Miss Chowdhury, the Society’s restrictions on age are in place for a reason.”

“Well, it’s a foolish reason, if you ask me.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, “can we please focus on the thing with the skull-face mask that keeps trying to kill me?”

“It’s not trying to kill you,” says Renée.

“Not in the strictest sense,” adds Michael, pulling a book from the shelf. “It’s trying to undo the fact that you lived.”

Somehow, that isn’t very comforting.

“Okay,” I say, “well, how do I make it stop?”

Michael flips through the book, then shakes his head. “We don’t know much about Emissaries,” he says. “They really only come after Veil-walkers, or in-betweeners, as you say. And we haven’t had one of those since—”

“Since he moved to Portland,” says Lara, “yes, we heard.”

“And he didn’t make any notes,” says Michael, sliding the book back onto the shelf.

“Okay,” I say, resisting the urge to put my head in my hands. “So you have no idea what I’m supposed to do?”

“I didn’t say that,” replies Michael.

“We don’t know enough,” says Renée. “But the other members might.”

I look around the tiny room. “There are more?”

Renée smiles and spreads her hands. “This is the oldest branch of the Society,” she says. “And former members tend to stick around.”

Former members.

Ghosts.

I think of Lara’s uncle, lingering in their living room even though he wasn’t trapped there, even though he could have passed on. Staying behind because he wanted to help.

“There are a few in-betweeners in the bunch,” says Michael. “Maybe one of them will know.”

Lara and I exchange a look. We have to go back into the Veil.

She holds out her hand. But I hesitate.

“What if the Emissary is waiting there?” I say.

“This is the Society, Miss Blake,” says Renée. “It’s warded a dozen different ways. Think of our Veil as a vault. Somewhere very safe.”

Safe.

If I’ve learned anything over the past couple of weeks, it’s that grown-ups throw around that word way too much. But I did see the shop repel Jacob. And I don’t have much choice.

I take Lara’s hand, and together we reach for the Veil, and even though it hasn’t been loud or pushy, it’s right there, waiting beneath my fingers. I pull the curtain aside and hold my breath against the moment of dark, the flush of cold, the feel of falling.

And then we’re back.

Lara looks a little flushed, and I wonder what she feels when she crosses over. But I know it’s not the time to ask.

I look around for Jacob before remembering he isn’t there.

It feels wrong, going through the Veil without him.

Like a piece of me is missing.

As for the Society room, it looks the same. A little faded, perhaps, and even more cluttered. No sign of Renée or Michael, of course, but we’re not alone.

A girl my age, and just as pale, with a crown of dark hair and a yellow sundress, leans against the wall, twisting a Rubik’s Cube.

A middle-aged man in a bow tie is napping on a sofa, while an ancient woman with wild gray curls sits beside him, fingers folded over a cane and staring at the wall as if it were a window.

An older Black man with a mustache looks up from his book.

A young white woman with a pixie cut wanders through the room, gripping a mug of coffee that reads THINK OF A NUMBER.