Bridge of Souls (Cassidy Blake #3)(52)

“Honestly, Cassidy,” she says, wiping at my cheek, “how do you always get so filthy?”

I look down at myself.

“Let’s see,” says Jacob, ticking the reasons off on his fingers. “A failed spell, a run through the Quarter, a ride in a hearse, and a battle on a bridge …”

“What happened to your camera?” asks Dad, horrified.

I wince, afraid to look down. I heard the crack, and the crunch, of course, but I hadn’t wanted to see how bad it was.

Turns out, it’s pretty bad.

The lens is shot through with cracks. The back has broken open, ruining the film. One corner has been badly dented where it struck the Emissary’s mask. The purple strap is fraying, the place where Jacob held on marked by his fingers, the violet faded almost to gray.

“I fell down,” I say, wishing I had a better answer, but the truth probably wouldn’t go over very well.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” asks Dad, clearly more worried about me than my poor camera.

I take a deep breath. “I am now.” I clutch the broken camera. It’s been with me through so much.

“It’s okay, Cass,” says Dad, pulling me close. “Things can be repaired. People are harder to fix.”

“Tell me about it,” says Jacob, sprawling on the floor near the open comic he’s been reading. He tries to turn the pages, but nothing happens. Not so much as a breeze. He groans, and rolls onto his back. Grim pads over and stretches out next to him, purring softly in sympathy.

“Well, filming’s done,” says Mom. “And we still have a full day. What shall we do tomorrow?”

“We could go for a drive,” offers Dad, “across the Causeway br—”

“No!” Jacob and I shout at the same time, but of course, they only hear me.

Dad holds up his hands. “It was just a suggestion. What would you like to do, Cass?”

I think long and hard, and then say, “I vote for beignets.”

“That’s my girl,” says Mom with a grin.

My parents sit down to go through the footage, and I take a very, very long shower, trying to rinse the Veil and the Bridge of Souls from my skin. Afterward, I fall into bed, so tired that when sleep folds over me, I drop straight down, and don’t even dream.





The beignets are just as good the second time.

We sit around the table at Café du Monde, Mom chatting with Jenna and Adan about the footage, Dad deep in conversation with Lucas about the history of the church in the square. Meanwhile, I’m locked in battle with a beignet, determined not to spill sugar on my jeans as I eat, while Jacob sulks because he can’t for the life—or death—of him move the tiny mountain of powdered sugar on top of the fried dough.

“Give me time,” he says, frowning in concentration. “I’ll get it.”

I’m sure he will eventually, but for now, he’s taken a step back on the material front. He’s definitely become more transparent since the bridge.

“Translucent,” he corrects me sulkily. “They’re not the same thing.”

And more sensitive, I add.

The truth is, it’s kind of nice, not having to worry about your best friend becoming a powerful, potentially unstable spirit, at least for today.

We’re on our second order of beignets when Lara shows up, Philippa in tow.

Lucas’s eyes widen. Philippa looks a little surprised, too, but it’s more of a happy surprise, like waking up to pancakes. Or beignets.

“This is my aunt Philly,” says Lara, and I almost laugh.

Lara and Philippa could not possibly be more different. Lara’s prim, straight-backed, and all adult attitude in a kid’s body. Philippa, on the other hand, is like Luna Lovegood in a grown-up’s shell. Cheerful, whimsical, and not entirely there. She’s wearing a tie-dyed blue-and-white dress that looks like a giant version of the evil eye, and a pair of neon-orange sunglasses.

Mom looks between them, a bit skeptical, and I can’t blame her.

They certainly don’t look related. Lara’s glossy black hair and light brown skin versus Philippa’s white-blond wave and skin so pale, she looks more like a ghost than a person.

“Rude,” says Jacob.

“You’re awfully young to be Lara’s aunt,” says Mom.

“I know, right?” says Philippa, as if she’s just as confused.

“We’re really more like cousins twice removed,” explains Lara, shooting the Society psychic a meaningful look.

A look Philippa clearly misses because she says, “We’re not even actually related. I’m just the daughter of someone who married someone …” She waves her hand as if the rest doesn’t matter.

“You two must be close, though,” says Dad. “For Lara to come all this way.”

“We are,” says Lara, but she looks at me when she says it, and I feel this warm energy in my chest, right where the ribbon glows. Because she did come a very long way for a friend.

“Oh, beignets!” says Philippa, and she doesn’t even get the pastry to her mouth before spilling half the sugar down her dress. Not that she seems to care.

Philippa and Lara pull up two more chairs and gather round, and even though it’s a motley group—two paranormal investigators, a two-person camera crew, two members of the Society, two in-betweeners, and a ghost—for a little while, we’re just a group of people, sharing pastry and stories.