Bridge of Souls (Cassidy Blake #3)(43)

“Could it be a real bridge?” asks Jacob.

“What?” I turn, and realize that Jacob has stopped walking. He’s standing in front of a tourist shop, staring at a large map of the city in the window. And he’s pointing at something. I double back and stand beside him, surveying the map. There’s the French Quarter and the Garden District, the cemeteries scattered like graves across the city.

I follow Jacob’s hand up, to the top left edge of the frame, where the crescent of the city gives way to the coast of a massive lake.

And there, jutting out across it, is a bridge.

A bridge so long it vanishes off the side of the map.

“The Causeway,” says Lucas, stepping up beside me.

And just like that, the pieces slot together in my head.

Dad’s voice, when we first got here.

It’s home to the longest bridge in the US. The Lake Pontchartrain Causeway—you can’t see one side from the other.

The weird push-pull Jacob and I both felt in Metairie Cemetery, coming from the direction of the lake. But what if it wasn’t the lake?

What if it was the bridge?

“Are you sure?” asks Jacob.

And the truth is, I’m not. And I know that if I’m wrong, I could be too late; I could lose Lara.

But if Lara were here, she would tell me that I’m an in-betweener, and I have to learn to trust my gut. And if I close my eyes, and manage to quiet the sounds of the Quarter, the chaotic rhythm of the Veil, I can feel something. The opposite of the force that draws me toward Lara. That push instead of a pull, like magnets facing the wrong way.

I point in the direction of the feeling and open my eyes.

“Is the bridge that way?” I ask.

And Lucas nods.

“Spirit compass,” says Jacob. “It’s like a brand-new superpower.”

Which is great, but we’re in the middle of the French Quarter, and judging by the map, the bridge is miles away.

“How do we get there?” I ask, but Lucas already has his phone out.

“I know someone who can help,” he says, making a call.

I can hear a bubbly voice answer on the other end. “Hello, hello!”

“Hi, Philippa,” he says. “We’ve got an emergency. Code Seven. Can you bring the car? Yes, to Thread and Bone.”

“Code Seven?” I ask when he hangs up. “What does that stand for?”

“Don’t ask questions,” says Lucas.

I flinch. “Sorry, I was just wondering—”

“No,” says Lucas, “Code Seven means don’t ask questions. We had to add it, because Philippa’s rather chatty, and sometimes, time is of the essence.”

We stand on the curb and wait, my chest tightening with every passing moment as I shift Lara’s red backpack on my shoulder and clutch the broken evil eye in my pocket as if it will buy me time.

Hang on, Lara, I think. Hang on.

“She’s really smart,” says Jacob. I look up at him. I’m pretty sure, when it comes to Lara, it’s the first nice thing he’s ever said. “She’s really smart,” he says again, “and stubborn, and she knows lots of tricks, so I’m sure she’ll be okay until we get there.”

I bite my lip and nod, hoping he’s right.

“You should know,” says Lucas, “Philippa’s car is a bit unconventional.”

I half expect to see her pull up in a horse-drawn carriage.

Instead, she arrives in something so much worse.

“Oh no,” says Jacob as the car drives up onto the curb, looking like a stretched-out station wagon.

It’s not a station wagon, of course.

It’s a hearse.

Philippa leans out the driver’s side window, her white-blond hair rising like a plume over her head, a funeral lily tucked behind one ear.

“Hello again,” she says. “Someone need a ride?”





Philippa may be driving a hearse, but she treats it like a race car, running all the yellow lights and half the red ones.

“Better than an ambulance,” she says brightly. “People always get out of the way.”

“Careful,” says Lucas as she swerves between cars, accelerates fast enough that the coffin in the back jostles and slides.

“The living are so squeamish when it comes to the dead,” Philippa says.

“Sometimes the dead are squeamish, too,” says Jacob, who’s sitting beside me in the back. “I, for one, am not thrilled that there is a body in this car.”

Well, there is a coffin behind us, covered in flowers. Neither of us have actually looked inside the coffin to find out if—

“Oh, that’s Fred,” says Philippa, waving her hand.

A shiver runs down my spine, and Jacob and I both lean forward to get farther away from the polished wood.

“So,” I say, trying not to think about Fred. “You drive a hearse?”

“Not usually. I mean, it’s my boyfriend’s car, but he lets me borrow it when it’s free.”

I look over my shoulder, wondering at her definition of free. “Is there always a coffin in the back?”

“I told you,” she says, waving her hand again. “That’s just Fred.”

“She’s talking about the coffin,” explains Lucas.