Bridge of Souls

by Victoria Schwab

  For a moment, he’s as still as a statue, as still as a corpse, and Jacob slips behind my chair, as if he plans to use me as a shield.

  Nice, I think, right before Mr. Blanc’s mouth hinges opens and a voice spills out. A voice that isn’t really a voice at all, but wind against old windows, a draft beneath a door. A rasping whisper, a rumble in the dark. The same voice I heard at the Place d’Armes.

  And this time, it’s speaking to me.

  We have seen you, little thief.”

  The words slip between Mr. Blanc’s teeth, hissing like steam from a kettle.

  “Light burning in your chest.”

  The words roll over me like a chill, carrying that hollow fear, that strange emptiness. The same cold terror I felt on the platform in Paris.

  “Once you stole from us. And once you fled.”

  The words keep spilling out of Mr. Blanc’s mouth, but they don’t belong to him. There is no projection now, no drama, no flair. If anything, his delivery is eerily flat, his voice empty of emotion.

  “But now you cannot hide.”

  As the Spiritist speaks, something moves inside the black stone centerpiece. I watch as it rises to the surface. At first, it’s nothing but a pale white streak. But soon, I can see its hinged jaw and its empty black eyes, and I know it’s a skull.

  And I can’t look away.

  “We have seen you.”

  I can’t move.

  “And we will find you.”

  I’m back on the train platform as the skeleton in the black suit reaches up to pull away its face.

  In the séance room, Mr. Blanc’s head drifts up, his eyes open and empty. Like something else has climbed inside, like something else is looking out.

  “We are coming for you, little thief.”

  The Spiritist leans forward, unseeing, and my hand goes to the mirror at my throat. An anchor in the storm.

  “We will find you, and balance the scales.”

  Mr. Blanc’s fingers dig into the silk tablecloth as the voice that is not a voice gets stronger in his throat.

  “We will find you and return you to the dark.”

  I drag in a shuddering breath. The skull in the black stone and the Spiritist at the table both swivel suddenly toward me, those empty eyes narrowing, and for a moment I’m certain that the thing inside Mr. Blanc can see me, and I jerk backward as—

  CLANG!

  Jacob shoves both hands into the bell at Mr. Blanc’s side.

  It tips and falls, ringing through the narrow room and tearing the Spiritist from his trance. He sits, bolt upright, looking as shocked as I feel. He blinks rapidly, and clears his throat. The fog has faded. The draft is back. The black stone is empty. The presence is gone. And for a long moment, no one speaks.

  And then Jenna claps her hands. “That was awesome!” she squeals.

  But I can’t breathe.

  The fear that was pinning me down is gone, the weight lifted, and I violently shove myself up to my feet, knocking my chair against the wall.

  “Cassidy?” asks Mom, but I’m already rushing toward the velvet curtain.

  I can’t get out of there fast enough.

  I push aside the velvet curtain—or I try, but I pick the wrong one, and find only a wall beyond.

  Panic works its way through me, and I can hear Jacob telling me to calm down, can hear Dad asking if I’m all right. But my heart is a wall of noise in my ears, and I just have to get out.

  I finally find the right curtain and shove it aside, stumbling back down the hall and into the lobby.

  We have seen you.

  I pull the necklace from beneath my collar, gripping the mirror tight.

  And we will find you.

  I run across the lobby, past Adan, who’s lounging with his legs up on the equipment, and out through the doors into the night.

  The air is warm, and the street is full. Not just with a crush of tourists, but with a river of strangers in brightly colored masks, a parade of people playing music and painted up like a sea of skeletons.

  They’re everywhere. I can’t get away. So I race back into the hotel. My shoes squeak on the lobby’s marble floor as Mom and Dad appear, Jacob and the film crew just behind.

  “Bit over the top,” Dad’s saying.

  But Mom pulls me into a hug. I try to laugh it off, apologize for getting overwhelmed, as if it was just a scary séance. As if I’m just a girl afraid of ghosts.

  We will find you and return you to the dark.

  Lucas polishes his glasses and says, “I think that’s enough for tonight.”

  He doesn’t look at me when he says it, but the words still feel like they’re directed at me. I want to say no, say I’m fine, but my head’s too full of fear and questions. I’m relieved when Mom yawns and Dad agrees, saying tomorrow is a fresh start.

  We say good night and go upstairs.

  The hall to our room suddenly feels menacing, the light unsteady. The bronze hands reaching out from the walls all seem to be reaching for me.

  Back in our room, Mom and Dad make small talk about the day, and I retreat to my bed and busy my hands with my camera. Jacob sits down beside me.

  “Was that … ” he asks, trailing off.

  I let out a small, unsteady breath, and nod. I think so.

  “What is that thing, Cass?”

  “I don’t know!” I hiss. I shake my head, and think it again, softer. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t—

  “Okay,” Jacob says. “But we both know someone who will.”

  I reach for my cell, before remembering the time. It’s the middle of the night in Scotland. Lara’s asleep.

  “I’m pretty sure this is one of those ‘in case of emergency, break glass’ situations,” says Jacob. “Call her. Wake her up.”

  I shake my head and send her a text instead. I don’t write, I think there’s some kind of grim reaper stalking me. I don’t write, Apparently I stole something and it’s coming to take it. I don’t say, I’m scared. Though all of those things are true. But they don’t feel like the kind of thing you send over text, so instead, I just write:

  Me:

  SOS

  I toss the phone aside and get off the bed, and I’m halfway to the bathroom when the cell rings with an incoming video call. I scoop it up, relief flooding me at the sight of Lara’s name on the screen.

  I hit answer, and Lara Chowdhury appears, her black hair braided into a crown around her head.

  “Did you know,” she says in that prim, proper way, “that some people think SOS stands for Save Our Ship, or Save Our Souls, but really it’s something called a bacronym. The abbreviation came first, and the phrase came next. Anyway, what’s wrong?”

  But I’m still distracted by the fact she’s up. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

  “It’s only nine forty-five.”

  I look at the clock on the bedside table. “But it’s nine forty-five here, too.”

  “Yes,” she says dryly, “that is how time zones work.”

  “Is that Lara?” calls Mom, brushing her teeth. “Hi, Lara!”

  “Lara says hi,” I call back, before carrying the phone out into the hall, careful to shut the door behind me—the last thing I need is Grim getting loose.

  “Where are you?” I ask softly, peering at the screen.

  “I’m in Chicago,” answers Lara, gesturing to the pale marble steps behind her, as if that’s an indicator. “I did tell you I was getting on a plane. Mum and Dad gave a lecture tonight at a museum, and they invited me to come.” She lets out a soft, almost-inaudible sigh. Lara’s parents are archaeologists, but I’ve never seen them. It sounds like Lara doesn’t see much of them, either. “We were supposed to stay on for a few more days, see the sights together, but I guess they got an opportunity they couldn’t pass up. One that doesn’t involve their daughter. They’re leaving first thing tomorrow for Peru. And I guess I’ll be going back to Scotland.”

  “By yourself?”

  Lara bristles. “I’
m more than capable of navigating an airplane, Cassidy.”

  She swallows, looks away for a second. Lara’s the kind of girl who holds all her feelings right against her chest, like a book she doesn’t want to share. But I can hear the sadness in her voice.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and I’m afraid it’s the wrong thing, because I hear a hitch in her breath.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She clears her throat. “A stamp in the passport, right?” she adds, sounding like she’s trying to convince herself more than me. “Now. How’s New Orleans? Have you found any clues about the Society?”

  I’m about to tell her about the black cat I saw when Jacob cuts in. “Something is hunting Cassidy.”

  I shoot him a look. I was about to tell her.

  Lara blinks. “You mean a ghost? Like the Raven in Red?” she asks, referring to the hungry spirit that tried to steal my life in Scotland.

  I shake my head. “Not … exactly.”

  She gives me a look that says explain and so I do, the best I can.

  Jacob leans against the wall as I pace, and I tell Lara about what I saw back in Paris: the man who wasn’t a man, the skull mask that wasn’t a face, and the eyeless dark beyond. I tell her how I fainted, how it felt like I was being emptied out. I tell her about the voice I heard in the archway, and then the one that interrupted the séance: what it said to me, about stealing, and fleeing, and being found, and returned to the dark. I tell her everything, and Lara listens, her face going first slack, and then tight, but she doesn’t say anything. Her expression isn’t chiding or stern. If anything, Lara Chowdhury looks scared. I’ve never seen her scared before.

  “When did it happen, in Paris?” she asks softly. “When did you see it for the first time?”

  Jet lag makes everything stretch, so it takes me a second to do the math.

  “Two days ago.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she snaps.

  Jacob shoots me an I told you so look, and I can’t believe that he and Lara finally agree on something.

  “I didn’t think it was a big deal,” I say, which isn’t entirely true, but isn’t exactly a lie. “I didn’t want it to be a big deal. I wanted it to be a bad dream. The kind of thing you shake off and leave behind. And, if it was something, I thought I could handle it myself.”

  Lara studies me, her anger glaring through the screen.

  “Cassidy Blake,” she says slowly, “that is the stupidest thing I have ever heard. Being an in-betweener does not mean you have to face things on your own. It means you have to ask the right people for help. People like me.”

  I swallow hard, and nod. I’m afraid to ask, but I have to know.

  “Lara,” I say. “What is it? The creature in the black suit?”

  She sucks in a breath, and holds it. When she finally exhales, the air sounds shaky in her throat.

  “That creature,” she says, “is an Emissary. A messenger.”

  “A messenger of what?” I ask.

  “Death.”

  The word hangs there, taking up all the space.

  “Wait,” says Jacob, pushing off the wall, “like, lowercase death, or uppercase Death?”

  “Does it matter?” I hiss.

  “Both,” says Lara. “Emissaries come from the place beyond the Veil. They’re sent out into the world to hunt for people who’ve crossed the line, and come back.”

  “People like us,” I say.

  People who’ve almost died.

  For me, it was the river. I don’t know what happened to Lara, but I know it must have been bad, must have been close, one-foot-in-the-grave kind of close. That’s how you become an in-betweener.

  She nods. “My uncle told me about them once. He said they’re like fishermen, casting out their lines. Watching for movement in the water. Waiting for something to snag on a hook.”

  “Have you ever been hunted by an Emissary?” I ask, sinking onto one of the benches lining the hallway.

  Lara purses her lips and shakes her head. “No. I’ve always been very careful. I go into the Veil, I send a spirit on, I get out. I don’t go for a swim, so to speak. I don’t make a splash.”

  Lara doesn’t need to say that I do just that. I’ve always let my curiosity get the best of me; I can’t help exploring. It’s what attracted the Raven in Red to me in Scotland. It’s how the poltergeist found me in Paris. And now …

  “Some people just make waves,” Lara goes on. “It doesn’t matter why, or how. What matters is, you snagged the line. But it hasn’t reeled you in just yet.”

  “Is this the part where you tell us not to worry?” asks Jacob.

  Lara shakes her head. “No, this is the part where I tell you to hide.”

  I shudder as the Emissary’s words come back to me.

  You cannot hide.

  “How am I supposed to do that?” I ask.

  “You need to stay with your parents, and the film crew. Don’t wander off. And if you can help it, don’t cross the Veil.”

  I think of how I felt in Muriel’s. Of how hard it is to resist the pull of the other side.

  “Because it’ll be able find me there?”

  “It can find you anywhere. It can clearly move through the world of the living and the land of the dead. But you’ll stand out more beyond the Veil.”

  “And if it catches me …”

  But I already know.

  It will take me back into the dark.

  “No matter what happens,” Lara says, “just stick together.” Her eyes narrow on Jacob. “I mean it, ghost. Don’t let it find her alone.”

  Lara’s attention shifts back to me. “Cassidy,” she says, and I’ve never heard her say my name like that, full of warning, and friendship, and fear.

  I swallow hard. “How do I beat it?”

  Lara is quiet for a long moment. And then she says, “I don’t know.”

  Her voice is small, and I realize she’s just as scared as I am. Then she shakes her head, clears her throat, and says, “But I’ll find out.”

  And just like that, the Lara I know is back. And I’m grateful to have her.

  “Be careful,” she says, and ends the call.

  I look down at the darkened screen for a moment, then slump back, letting my head thunk against the wall. I look up and see a bronze hand hovering over me. I fold forward, my head in my hands as Jacob sits down next to me.

  “You know,” he says slowly. “When the Raven in Red stole your life and trapped you in the Veil, I was scared. I know you couldn’t tell, because I’m so good at acting brave—”

  I snort.

  “But I was terrified. I didn’t know how we were going to get out of it. But we did. You did.”

  I press my palms into my eyes.

  “And then when that creepy poltergeist kid starting causing all that trouble in Paris, and we had to go down there in the Catacombs, I was so scared. Not that you could tell.”

  “What’s your point?” I ask softly.

  “It’s okay if you’re scared this time, Cass. Because I’m not. I’m not scared because I know we’re going to get through this.”

  I lean my shoulder against his, and for the first time, I’m grateful he’s more than a ghost, grateful for the slight pressure of his arm against mine.

  “Thanks, Jacob.”

  The door to our room swings open, and Dad pops his head out into the hall. “There you are.” Grim pokes his head out, too, gets one paw over the threshold before Dad ducks to catch him. “No you don’t,” he says, scooping the cat under his arm. “Bedtime, Cass.”

  I get up, and follow. I climb into bed, one hand tight around my mirror charm, while Jacob sits on the floor next to Grim.

  Jacob usually wanders off at night—I’ve never known where, but ghosts don’t exactly need sleep—but tonight, he stays close. A ghostly sentinel. Having him there makes me feel safe.

  Or at least, safer.

  “Rule number ninety-six,” he says. “Friends don’t let friends get snatched away by creepy
skeletons.”

  I groan, and pull the blankets up over my head.

  Outside, people are still laughing and singing in the streets. New Orleans is one of those places that never sleep.

  And apparently, neither will I.

  * * *

  At some point I finally drift off, and when I do, I dream.

  I dream of the séance room in the Hotel Kardec. I’m sitting in one of the chairs, and there’s no one else there, and I can’t turn around, but I can feel the curtain move behind me, can feel something reaching for me.

  “We will find you,” it whispers, bone fingers curling around the chair.

  I shoot to my feet, and suddenly I’m on the Metro platform in Paris.

  The train pulls away, and I see the stranger in the dark suit, tipping its hat. The skull mask beneath that seems to grimace and smile and grimace again, and then it lifts a gloved hand to the mask and pulls it away, and there’s nothing underneath, nothing but darkness and gravity.

  I fall forward again, out of Paris.

  I twist in time to see the bridge, my bike wrapped around the rail, before I hit the water’s surface and crash down into the river.

  An icy shock, and then I’m under. I’m sinking. Drowning.

  It is so cold and dark beneath the water.

  A world of black—and blue.

  A blue too bright to be natural light.

  I look down, and see the ribbon glowing in my chest, the blue-white thread of my life, only visible in the Veil. It shines, bright as a beacon in the dark, but there’s nothing else to see. I’m all alone in the river.

  Or so I think.

  A hand grabs my wrist, and I gasp, twisting around.

  But it’s just Jacob, his blond hair floating around his face.

  “It’s okay,” he says, and his voice is crystal clear, even though we’re underwater. “It’s okay,” he says again, wrapping his arms around me. “I’m here.”

  But instead of pulling me up toward the surface, he pulls me down, down, away from the light, and the air, and the world overhead.

  I try to say his name, say wait, but all that comes out are bubbles. There is no air. I can’t breathe. I try to tear free, but his grip is iron, is stone, and when I twist enough to see his face, there is no face at all. Just a skull mask, the eyes empty and black. A skeletal smile, set in bone.