Bridge of Souls (Cassidy Blake #3)(53)

At some point, Lara and I exchange a look. The grown-ups are going over show notes and postproduction, and I grab her hand and get up.

“We’re going to take a walk,” I say, pulling her into the sun, Jacob on our heels.

“Don’t go far,” warns Mom.

“We’ll stay in the square,” I say.

The sun is scorching and bright as we make our way, hopping between puddles of shade.

“I wish I didn’t have to go back,” Lara says softly. “One upside: Philippa took me by the Society this morning, and they finally agreed to make me a member.”

“That’s amazing!” I say.

“Well, honorary member, until I turn sixteen. But I’ll work on that. As I explained to Renée, death doesn’t discriminate between young and old, so why should they? So what if I’m twelve?”

“You’re not exactly a normal twelve-year-old,” says Jacob, and I’m not sure if he meant it as a compliment, but Lara smiles.

“Why, thank you.” Her smile flickers and fades. “There’s a lot they don’t know, a lot I plan to help them learn, about us, and about that … place yesterday.” She shivers a little. “I felt so helpless.”

“But you weren’t,” I say. “You fought with us, on the bridge. You distracted the Emissary.”

“After you saved me,” she says. “If you hadn’t been there, in the hospital, I’m not sure I would have …”

I squeeze her hand. “But you did.”

Lara sighs heavily. “Being an in-betweener used to be so straightforward. And don’t get me wrong, I do love a challenge, but sometimes I miss the simple satisfaction of hunting ghosts. No offense, Jacob,” she adds.

“None taken,” he says, scuffing his shoe.

The Veil ripples around us, carrying a wave of smoke and jazz, and I know the perfect parting gift for Lara Chowdhury.

“Hey,” I say. “Do you want to catch a serial killer?”

Lara’s dark eyebrows rise. And then she smiles. “Why not?”

*

“Well, that’s better,” says Jacob when we step through the Veil.

He looks down at himself, clearly relieved that he’s a bit more solid on this side of the curtain.

Around us, Jackson Square is a tangle of fire and sunshine, shouting and song. And the more time I spend in New Orleans, the more I realize it fits, this strange, chaotic melody.

Speaking of melodies, I listen, picking up the strain of music. I follow it around carriages and through crowds to the jazz band playing in the corner of the square.

And there he is, leaning up against that same post, hat tipped down and an axe on his shoulder. The nice thing about ghosts in the Veil is that they tend to be pretty consistent, acting out the same loop over and over.

“The Axeman of New Orleans,” says Lara brightly. “What a treat. You know he was never caught? Though I suppose here in the Veil, the axe kind of gives him away.”

“Your excitement is a little creepy,” says Jacob, but Lara’s already starting forward, her mirror pendant ready in her hand.

Jacob and I run after her.

“Excuse me, sir,” she says, stopping just out of swinging range.

The Axeman’s gaze flicks from the band toward Lara, clearly annoyed at the interruption.

“Can’t you see I’m listening?” he mutters.

“Oh, I can see that,” she says. “But can’t you see I have a job to do?”

She lifts the mirror.

“Look and listen,” she starts, but the Axeman must not have been looking straight at her, because he catches the first glint of light and smells trouble. He swings a hand up to shield his eyes, already turning away.

But that’s where I am, Mom’s compact mirror in my palm.

“See and know,” I say, and he shudders to a stop, face contorted.

“This is what you are,” we say at the same time, and something in the Axeman switches off like a light. All the color leaches from him, and his edges ripple and thin, and all I have to do is reach in and take the thread.

But this one’s for Lara, so I nod at her and say, “Go ahead.”

“You can do it,” she says, and I shrug and step forward, reaching toward the ghost’s chest when Jacob says, “Wait!”

We both turn toward him, and he bounces on his toes, looking both eager and nervous. “Can I do it?”

Lara and I exchange a look. Understandably, Jacob has never been very supportive of the ghost-hunting part of my life.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

Jacob’s head bobs. “I mean, if you insist on hunting down ghosts and sending them on, it feels like I should get to do something, and since I don’t have a mirror, the pulling-out-the-string bit is really the only one I can do.”

“Sure,” says Lara.

“Go on,” I add.

Jacob approaches the Axeman. He cracks his knuckles and stretches. Lara rolls her eyes, and I smile. And then Jacob takes a deep breath and plunges his hand into the Axeman’s chest. He makes a face, as if the ghost were a bowl of peeled grapes on Halloween, a mound of cold spaghetti. Jacob roots around inside the Axeman’s chest before he catches hold of the thread, and pulls it out.

It comes free, gray and crumbling, and Jacob promptly drops it on the ground, where it collapses into ash.