Bridge of Souls (Cassidy Blake #3)(33)

I nod, considering. “Fair point. His name is Jacob, by the way. The one I’m talking to.”

Jacob waves. “Hey. Jacob Ellis Hale,” he says to Lucas, holding out his hand, “best friend, partner in crime, excellent taste in comics.”

Of course, Lucas can’t hear him, but I convey the message.

“I’m surprised you would allow yourself to be haunted,” Lucas says as we turn onto Bourbon Street.

“It’s unconventional,” says Lara, “but he comes in handy now and then.”

Jacob stares at Lara as if she just sprouted a second head. I have to admit, I’m pretty surprised, too. Up until today, the closest Lara’s come to paying Jacob a compliment has been calling him Jacob instead of Ghost. Now, in the space of thirty minutes, she’s been nice to him—twice.

“I clearly don’t approve,” she clarifies. “But I think we have bigger problems right now …” She trails off as we reach the hotel.

“Kardec,” she says, reading the sign. “As in the French founder of Spiritism?”

“Precisely,” says Lucas, sounding impressed.

“Wow,” says Lara, surveying the lobby, “they really went with the theme.”

“Wait till you see our room,” says Jacob.

“Your parents are done filming for the day,” Lucas tells me, “so I’ll see you in the morning. Do stay safe, Cassidy. Lara.”

“No ever says goodbye to me,” mutters Jacob as Lucas turns to go.

“Wait!” I call out. I still have a dozen questions, but I choose to settle for the most important one. “You won’t tell my parents, will you? About …” I gesture at us, at everything.

Lucas raises a brow and gives me a half smile. “Me? I’m just the guide.”

We watch him leave, and I remember my first impression of Lucas Dumont, a skeptical scholar, just like Dad. I guess you never know.

“Do you think your dad is secretly a member of a paranormal society?” asks Jacob, and I snort.

“Doubtful,” I say as we cross the lobby.

Halfway to the stairs, I notice the sign hanging on the door to the séance room.

OUR MASTER OF SPIRITS IS AWAY.

THE SéANCE ROOM WILL BE CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.

I wonder why he left.

“If I had to guess,” says Jacob, “it probably had something to do with your séance.”

Oh. Right. The whole channeling-actual-Emissaries-of-Death-when-you-just-wanted-to-put-on-a-show. I can see how that would be upsetting.

Upstairs, Mom and Dad have changed out of their Inspecters outfits and into loose, summery clothes. Dad’s even wearing shorts.

“Did you girls have fun?” asks Mom.

We make some noncommittal sounds, peppering in the word yes.

“What did you get up to?” asks Dad.

Well, I think, we located a secret society dedicated to studying the paranormal, and we met its living members—your guide is one of them!—and then had a conference with some of its dead ones, and they helped us figure out how to banish the Emissary of Death that’s chasing me and hopefully it works so I won’t die. Again.

“Not much,” I say casually. “We just wandered around the Quarter.”

I toss my camera onto the bed, and Lara leans her backpack down against a chair. Her bag’s not zipped all the way, and Grim wanders over and starts rooting around inside. He’s almost got the pouch of grave dirt open when I realize what’s happening. I rush over and scoop him up.

The last thing we need is the cat treating our spell supplies like a litter box.

Grim sighs in protest, and then goes limp in my arms, like a sack of, well, grave dirt. If grave dirt had lots of fur and a low, grudging purr.

I hoist him up and look into his sleepy green eyes.

“Are you my brave protector?” I ask.

Grim looks at me for a moment, and then opens his mouth wide, and for a second, I think he’s displaying his rows of tiny sharp teeth. But then I realize it’s just a yawn.

Punctuated by a burp.

Dad laughs, and I sigh and set the cat on the chair, where he promptly sinks into a puddle.

“Good thing you have me,” says Jacob. “I’m pretty sure that cat is useless.”

Grim twitches one ear, already asleep.

“Well, I don’t know about you,” says Mom, pulling the pens from her messy bun, “but Cemetery Day has made me famished! Shall we go find dinner?”

*

There’s a kind of restaurant Dad calls a “hole in the wall.” I think it’s supposed to mean a cozy little place, the kind you only know about if someone’s told you, or you’ve been there before. Like the Society, but for food.

Tonight we eat in the Marigny, a neighborhood just north of the Quarter. To get to the restaurant, we don’t have to step through an actual hole in the wall, but it’s pretty close. We go through a gate and down an overgrown courtyard, across a threshold that looks like it was a wall once, before someone knocked the center out.

But the food—the food is amazing.

Bowls of gumbo, and shrimp étouffée, jambalaya, and other dishes with winding, musical names, full of heat and spice.

I forget the one-bite rule and dig in, tasting everything.