Bridge of Souls (Cassidy Blake #3)(32)

And a box of long wooden matches, to strike the flame.

Elements of creation, and destruction. Of life, and death. Give and take, as Lucas said as we were gathering up the items from around the store.

“I’m not sure how I feel about this,” says Renée, watching us.

But we’ve explained the spell—is it a spell? I don’t know what else to call it, and I’m kind of excited I get to do one, even if the only reason we get to do one is because I’m being chased by Death.

“It sounds like more of a ritual,” says Jacob. “A summoning? No, what’s the opposite of a summoning? A banishing?”

As far as I can tell, it is a kind of banishing spell. A way to sever the connection between the Emissary and me. The problem is, in order for it to work, we have to be in the same place. Which means we either have to go looking for Death, or wait for it to come to us.

“Oh, what are these?” Jacob points to a row of brightly colored pouches. “Do we need one?”

I pick up a pretty red pouch. It’s a small, solid weight in my palm, and when I lift it to my nose, it smells … earthy. Damp. Like the woods after a storm.

“That,” says Philippa, “is a gris-gris bag.”

I look up. “What does it do?”

“All kinds of things. They’re talismans. Some for protection, and others for luck, prosperity. That one, I believe, is for balance.”

Balance. I think of the tarot card, the Two of Swords, the need to balance the scales.

“What’s in it?” asks Jacob.

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” says Philippa. “Let’s see, that one has a crystal, and some herbs, nail clippings, hair, a bit of grave dirt.”

I yelp and drop the bag, but Philippa catches it before it falls.

“Careful,” she says, petting the bag. “You’ve got to treat them nice. Feed and water them …”

“What does it eat?” whispers Jacob as Philippa sets the pouch back on the shelf.

“Speaking of grave dirt,” says Michael, producing a black pouch the size of a softball. “This should be enough.”

I don’t want to reach for the bundle, but I do, expecting to feel some terrible omen pass over me when it hits my hands. But it just feels like a bag of dirt.

I realize I can’t pay for any of it—not unless they’re willing to take a handful of international coins—but Renée waves me away. “The Society looks after its own.”

We load the supplies into Lara’s red backpack as Lucas polishes his glasses and says we really should be going. I wish I could stay here, in the safety of the shop, but he’s right. It’s getting late, and my parents will be waiting back at the hotel.

Jacob turns toward Philippa, who seems to be having a one-sided conversation with Amethyst the cat.

“Sorry,” he says, “about the case.”

She blinks, and looks up. “Things break,” she says with a shrug, as if she’s lost more than one display case to a moody spirit.

“Wait,” says Michael, “that reminds me.”

He takes two charms from a cabinet behind the counter. Smooth glass circles threaded onto cords. He hands one to Lara, presses the other into my palm. When I look down at the charm, I see a series of blue and white rings around a black dot.

It almost looks like an eye.

“An evil eye,” confirms Michael. “It won’t do much to stop an Emissary, but it might buy you some time. The charm’s designed to break when someone wishes you ill. It should break when danger’s near.”

“Thank you,” I say to Michael, pocketing the evil eye. And then I look at Renée, and Philippa. “Thank you for everything.”

“Good luck,” says Michael.

“Be careful,” says Renée.

“Come back anytime,” says Philippa brightly as Lucas leads us out.





The walk back to the hotel is weird.

Not the being-hunted-by-an-Emissary kind of weird. More the I-have-so-many-questions-I-don’t-know-where-to-start kind of weird.

Jacob circles Lara, demanding to know every detail of the room beyond the shop curtain, while Lucas and I walk side by side, and I wait for him to say something, and he doesn’t.

“So, are we going to talk about this?” I finally ask.

Lucas eyes me over his wire-framed glasses. “About what?”

“You’re a member of the Society of the Black Cat!”

“I’m a historian.”

“You’re their historian. But you said you don’t even believe in ghosts!”

Lucas slides his glasses from his face and begins to polish them again. “I believe what I said was that I prefer to focus on the history.”

“Does he have any supernatural powers?” Jacob calls out. I ask the question, and Lucas scrunches his nose.

“Beyond an extreme dedication to research? No. I’m not a psychic, or a medium, or an in-betweener, as you say.”

“Did you know that I was?”

He considers that a moment. “No. But when you spend as much time as I do around the … paranormally inclined, you do notice certain signs.”

I look down at myself. “Like what?”

“The way you walk, for one, like you’re always listening to something others don’t hear. You’re clearly sensitive to haunted spaces, you spend a fair amount of time talking to someone only you can see, and you have a way of disappearing rather suddenly.”