Bridge of Souls (Cassidy Blake #3)(55)

“And this,” says Lucas, holding out a tiny box, “is from me.”

I open the box. Inside is a sturdy leather cord with a brand-new mirror pendant hanging on the end, its surface polished to a shine.

“It’s perfect,” I say, looping the cord around my neck and tucking the mirror under my shirt. The moment it settles there, I feel better. Like I’ve been balancing on one foot, and now both are safely on the ground. “Thank you, Lucas.”

My parents come back to the table.

“And you, Professor Dumont?” asks Mom. “Must we say goodbye to you?”

Lucas smiles and rises to his feet, not a speck of sugar on him. “I’m afraid so.”

He shakes Mom’s hand, and Dad’s, and then mine, and strolls away in the direction of Thread & Bone.

Mom, Dad, Jacob, and I set off across Jackson Square, passing musicians with open cases, and people selling charms, a woman in white, standing still as a statue, and—

“Care to have your fortune told?”

I turn and see a man with a folding table, a stack of tarot cards facedown on top.

“The first one’s free,” he adds.

And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little curious, if my fingers didn’t twitch toward the cards the way they do toward the Veil, half scared and half excited to see what’s on the other side.

But there’s no way to know what the future holds, and even if there were, I wouldn’t want to know.

“No thanks,” I say, shaking my head.

Mom and Dad glance back, wondering where I’ve gone, but I catch up, and we set off, two parents, a girl, and a ghost.

Dad holds my hand, and Mom swings her arm around my shoulders, and Jacob runs up ahead, dodging between tourists.

The French Quarter is messy and bright around us, a tangle of music and laughter, the here and the Veil, the living and the dead. And I know the future is uncertain, and that Death comes for everyone. But as I walk between summer sun and brief bits of shade, I feel lighter than I have in ages. Who knows what waits beyond the Veil.

Right now, I’m just glad to be alive.





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People think that ghosts only come out at night, or on Halloween, when the world is dark and the walls are thin. But the truth is, ghosts are everywhere. In the bread aisle at your grocery store, in the middle of your grandmother’s garden, in the front seat on your bus.

Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

I’m sitting in History class when I feel the tap-tap-tap on my shoulder, like drops of rain. Some people call it intuition, others second sight. That tickle at the edge of your senses, telling you there’s something more.

This isn’t the first time I’ve felt it—not by a long shot. Not even the first time I’ve felt it here at my school. I’ve tried to ignore it—I always do—but it’s no use. It wears away at my focus, and I know the only way to make it stop is to give in. Go and see for myself.

From across the room, Jacob catches my eye and shakes his head. He can’t feel that tap-tap-tap, but he knows me well enough to know when I do.

I shift in my seat, forcing myself to focus on the front of the classroom. Mr. Meyer is valiantly trying to teach, despite the fact it’s the last week of school before summer vacation.

“… Toward the end of the Vietnam War in 1975, US troops …” my teacher drones on. Nobody can sit still, let alone pay attention. Derek and Will are sleeping with their eyes open, Matt is working on his latest paper football. Alice and Melanie are making a list.

Alice and Melanie are popular kids.

You can tell because they look like copies—same shiny hair, same perfect teeth, same painted nails—where I’m all elbows and knees, round cheeks, and curly brown hair. I don’t even own nail polish.

I know you’re supposed to want to be one of the popular kids, but the truth is, I never have. It just seems like it would be exhausting, trying to keep up with all the rules. Smile, but not too wide. Laugh, but not too loud. Wear the right clothes, play the right sports, care about things, but never care too much.

(Jacob and I have rules, too, but those are different.)

As if on cue, Jacob stands up and makes his way toward Melanie’s desk. He could be a popular kid, I think, with his floppy blond hair, bright blue eyes, and good humor.

He shoots me a devilish look before perching on the edge of her desk.

He could be, but there’s just one problem.

Jacob’s dead.

“‘Things we need for movie night … ’” he reads aloud from Melanie’s paper. But I’m the only one who can hear him. Melanie folds another sheet, an invitation—I can tell by the capital letters, the pink pen—and reaches forward to pass it to Jenna, who sits in front of her. As Melanie does this, her hand goes straight through Jacob’s chest.

He looks down, as if offended, then hops off the desk.

Tap-tap-tap goes the feeling in my head, like a whisper I can’t quite hear. Impatient, I check the clock on the wall, waiting for the lunch bell.

Jacob meanders over to Alice’s desk next, examining the many multicolored pens she keeps lined up across the top. He leans in close and gingerly brings one of his fingers to the pens, all his focus narrowed on the nearest one as he pokes it.