Bridge of Souls (Cassidy Blake #3)(35)

But Mom loved it. Believed it was all part of the adventure.

She said the best way to find yourself was to let yourself get lost.

It’s hard to get lost in the grid of streets, but it’s easy to get turned around.

I catch Lara’s hand in mine, and Jacob catches hers, and Dad is on our heels, and together, we follow the drum, and the trumpet that joins in, the brash shout of a horn, and the metallic ring of whistles.

The volume rises like a tide.

A chaotic melody, vibrant and alive.

The music swells as we round a corner, and suddenly, we’re face-to-face with a parade.

Not a jazz funeral like earlier—there are no white suits, no somberness to the affair, no casket that I can see—just shining brass instruments, and brilliant costumes, and skeletons. I tense, instantly on guard. But the skeletons only billow like kites on bright red strings, dancing in the air, jaws open as if laughing. Lara’s hand tightens around mine, but despite everything, I’m not afraid.

There is no menace in the air, no danger. No bone-deep chill or hollowing fear.

Just the overwhelming thrum of energy and life.

We stand there a moment, two parents, two girls, and a ghost, watching the parade. With every forward step, it seems to gain size. People join, cheering and dancing, the procession swelling into a street party.

“What are they celebrating?” I call over the roar of the crowd.

“Life!” says Mom. “Death!” she adds. “And everything in between.”

“Can we join?” I ask, and Mom beams, as if she thought I’d never ask.

We step into the fray. The parade swirls around us, carries us along, and we let it. I want to close my eyes, disappear into the sound, but I don’t want to get trampled.

“Life is a party, dear daughter,” says Mom, draping a chain of gold beads around my neck. “Celebrate it every day.”

Dad snags a feathered crown and sets it on Lara’s head, and for an instant, she looks so surprised, so out of place, that Jacob cackles, and I expect her to take it off, to smooth her hair. But she doesn’t. She smiles. And sure, she straightens the crown a little when it slips to one side, and holds it there, but only because she doesn’t want to lose it while she’s dancing.

And there, in the midst of the parade, she is not Lara Chowdhury, a lonely girl trying to grow up too fast. She’s just Lara, smart and clever and selfless.

And Jacob Ellis Hale is not the ghost of a boy who drowned three years ago in a river, trying to rescue his little brother’s toy. He’s just my best friend, bouncing out of time with the beat.

And I’m not being hunted by an agent of Death.

I’m just a girl dancing with my friends and family in the street.





We tumble back into our hotel room, giddy and tired.

My shoe knocks against something small and hard, and it goes skittering across the floor. A stone. I look down and see another, then the open box of matches, spilling thin wood sticks across the floor.

The room wasn’t exactly tidy to start with, but now it’s a mess.

“Oh dear,” says Mom.

And for a second, I wonder if we somehow caught the attention of a poltergeist here. And then I realize, this wasn’t a spirit at work.

It was a cat.

Grim has not only gotten into Lara’s backpack, he’s pulled out everything he could reach. The cat was a small black tornado of destruction, scattering all our supplies around the room.

The bottle of oil is nowhere to be seen. The ball of white string has been unraveled, and tangled through the legs of the table and around the chair. Only the pouch of grave dirt has been left mercifully closed, though the culprit sits squarely on top of it, his black tail flicking nervously from side to side.

When I try to nudge Grim off, his ears go back, and his nails dig into the pouch, as if to say mine. Or maybe bad.

I reach for the pouch again, and he bats my hand away in warning. Perhaps he’s trying to protect me after all, telling me to stay away from this symbol of death.

Or maybe he’s just an ornery cat.

Dad hoists Grim up and plants him on the sofa, and Lara offers up her feathered crown to the cat as a distraction while I kneel on the floor, carefully scooping up the thin gray dust that spilled through the tiny holes where Grim’s claws punctured the cloth.

It takes ten minutes to find all the stones and pick up the loose matches.

“What is all this?” asks Mom, fetching the bottle of oil from where it rolled under the bed.

“Oh,” says Lara quickly. “Just some gifts I bought for my parents.”

“Speaking of which,” says Dad, making a tidy pile of the small black stones, “your aunt must be wondering where you are.”

Lara and I exchange a look.

“Actually,” she says, putting on her best grown-up voice, “Cass invited me to spend the night and my aunt agreed. If that’s all right with you.”

I exhale a little, trying to hide my relief. “That’s really nice of your aunt,” I say.

“I know.” Lara smiles. “She’s very thoughtful.”

Mom wavers. “It’s fine with us,” she says, “but I really would feel better if we called her to check.”

I hold my breath, waiting for Lara’s lie to fall apart, but she just nods and says, “Of course,” before pulling out her phone. It rings and rings, and I wonder if she’s called a real number at all when a voice answers.