Bridge of Souls (Cassidy Blake #3)(45)

“Not ominous at all,” says Jacob, aiming for his usual sarcasm and falling short. I can hear the caution in his voice, the current of fear. This is not a place either of us wants to be. Not a bridge we want to cross.

Something moves behind us, with a shudder and a sigh, and I spin. The horseless carriage is there, but it’s empty. And I know Lara is out there somewhere, on the bridge.

And we have to get her back.

Once, I stole from Death.

I’m ready to do it again.

Jacob takes my hand. I squeeze, and he squeezes back, and for once, neither of us has to say a thing. Because we know. We’re not alone.

Together, we step forward.

Together, we cross the line.

Together—but then a vicious gust of wind tears through, so strong I have to squeeze my eyes shut and duck my head against the whipping air. The wind pulls at my clothes and scrapes my skin, knocks the camera against my chest.

And then it’s gone.

And so is Jacob.

My hand is empty, and I’m alone on the bridge. I spin, looking for him, suck in a breath to call his name, but I never get the chance.

The bridge cracks beneath my feet.

And splits.

And suddenly, I fall.





I’m racing against the sun.

The camera is a weight around my neck, swinging on its purple strap. (Not a candy-grape purple, but violet. My favorite color.) I’ve already loaded the film. I just have to get to the spot in time to take the picture.

I pedal faster, my breath coming out in plumes. That’s the thing about being born along the seam between winter and spring. The sun may be warm, but the air is still cold, everything stuck between frost and melt. My tires slide a little on the pavement, but I’m a good rider, and I weave between the slick patches of black ice that linger in the shade.

The bridge comes into sight.

The sun is sliding down the sky. I know if I stop at the center of the bridge, I can catch the sun as it sinks, right there between the hills. A perfect shot. My bike tires hit the bridge, sliding from pavement to steel with a clunk, and a bad feeling hits me like a cold breeze.

But there’s no time to think about it, because a truck whips around the corner and onto the bridge. I swerve out of the way, right up close to the rail, but there’s room, I’m safe, I just have to keep the bike straight and—

The camera strap catches on the rail and I lurch sideways.

Everything happens so fast.

One second I’m going forward, and the next, I’m going over. The grind of metal on metal, bike scraping rail, the lurch of gravity, the tumble, and then the terrifying fall, nothing but empty air as the river rushes toward me.

I throw my arms up, hit the surface with all the grace of a baseball through a windowpane. Shattering.

And I remember.

I remember, I’ve been here before, I’m not—

But then the cold closes over me, and I can’t think, can’t breathe. I’m so freaked out that I actually try, and icy water rushes down my throat, choking cold. It steals up my arms and legs, drags me down.

I know how to swim, I know, but in that moment, I’m sinking. Drowning.

The surface ripples overhead, glinting, and I claw toward it, eyes blurring with icy tears. But I can’t seem to go up. No matter how hard I kick, the surface doesn’t get closer.

I scramble.

I panic.

I reach—

And that’s when I see it.

A red lanyard wrapped around my wrist.

And I remember.

I was on the bridge. Not the one where my bike crashed. The one beyond the Veil. The Bridge of Souls. Which means this isn’t happening. It’s already happened. I crashed my bike on my birthday last year. I almost drowned. But I didn’t. Because Jacob saved my life.

Jacob. We were standing together, on the Bridge of Souls. And then he was gone, and I was falling, and I was—

No, focus. Jacob. Jacob Ellis Hale, best friend and resident ghost, who died trying to rescue his little brother’s favorite toy, who dove into the river and never came out.

This river.

I twist around in the dark water, looking down instead of up, and there he is. Jacob. His cheeks puffed full of air as he dives down, searches the bottom of the river, fingers closing around the figurine.

There he is, my best friend. Before he was mine, before he was—

Oh no.

This river isn’t just where I almost died. It’s where Jacob did.

As if on cue, the current picks up, water pulling at me, churning the silt and pebbles. Jacob tries to push off the bottom of the river, but his shoe is stuck, snagged on something he can’t see.

I call out to him, or I try, but it’s nothing but bubbles, air I can’t afford to lose. My lungs are screaming now as Jacob crouches to free his leg and doesn’t see the driftwood skimming toward his head until it’s too late.

I see the driftwood hit him. I watch him fold, and then I’m swimming down, against the cold, against the current, against the drag of my own limbs.

And it’s so much farther than it should be, and it’s so much harder than it should be, but I reach him. He floats there, like a dreamer, as I grapple with the sticks and stones around his shoe, find the one that snagged his laces, gripped his heel.

I get him free.

By now my vision is blinking out, darkness creeping in around the edges, but all I need to do is look up, swim up, hold on to my best friend as we rise to the surface.