Bridge of Souls (Cassidy Blake #3)(9)

My hand drifts up to the mirror around my neck.

Ever since my accident I’ve been able to see and hear the other side. Sometimes, I can feel it, too. But in Muriel’s, I can taste it.

And it tastes like smoke. Not stale smoke, the kind long soaked into curtains, but fresh, and hot. It burns my eyes and scratches at my throat.

Was there a fire here, too? I wonder. I don’t realize I’ve asked the question out loud until Lucas answers.

“In 1788,” he says. “The Good Friday Fire tore through the French Quarter, destroying most of the houses.”

“Out of eleven hundred buildings,” adds Dad, “eight hundred and fifty-six were burned.”

Jacob whistles softly as Lucas nods.

“This house, like most of the ones in the Quarter, was rebuilt.”

“This city is a phoenix,” says Mom. “Always rising from the ashes.”

Fire and ash.

No wonder I can taste smoke.

A hostess from the restaurant appears to greet us. She seems breathless, and has that I’m on my way can’t stay and chat energy. “You must be the Investigators,” she says, scanning our motley group.

“Inspecters,” corrects Mom.

“I was told you have what you need, yes, I see you do, very well, we’re short on staff today, so I’m afraid I can’t spare a guide—”

“No worries,” says Dad, gesturing at Lucas. “We brought our own.”

“Great,” she says, “all right, welcome to Muriel’s …” And with that, she’s already gone.

“Well,” says Jenna, her camera on her shoulder. “Which way to the ghosts?”

Jacob and I look at each other. Mom and Dad scan the restaurant. Adan shifts his weight from foot to foot.

But Lucas nods at the dark wooden stairs. “Up.”

*

As we climb the stairs, the noise from the restaurant fades.

Mom pulls out her EMF meter—a device used to measure spectral energy—and switches it on. The box hums with a low static.

When we reach the space at the top of the stairs, the EMF meter begins to whine. Other people would take it as a warning, but to Mom it’s just an invitation. It gets louder as she walks, but I’m pretty sure it’s because Jacob is trailing behind her.

The room upstairs is a kind of lounge: deep plush sofas and chairs piled with cushions. It is mercifully dark and cool. Mom heads for a pair of not-quite-open doors, red light spilling through the gap. She stops, the EMF meter rising into high static.

“What have we here?” she asks in a singsong voice.

“Ah,” says Lucas. “That would be the séance room.”

Mom lets out a delighted mmmm. She nudges the doors open, looks back at us with a face full of mischief, and slips inside.

Dad chuckles and follows, Lucas on his heels.

Jenna plunges in next as if it’s a pool.

Adan hangs back a moment, lets out a low breath, as if psyching himself up, then goes in.

Jacob and I are still standing in the lounge area.

“That,” he says, pointing, “looks like a very comfy couch.”

I roll my eyes. We’re not here to nap.

“But we could be,” he complains as I head for the doors. I don’t have to look back to know he’s there, though, following me through.

The séance room is bathed in red. It’s like walking into a darkroom, that deep crimson light, just bright enough to see by. I expected a table and chairs, like the painting on our hotel ceiling, but this room is as cluttered as an antique store. Pillows are piled on old sofas and ornate chairs. An Egyptian sarcophagus leans against one wall. There’s a sculpture of a woman dancing, a floor lamp casting her shadow against a patterned wall. There are faces everywhere: A trio of Venetian masks smile and grimace. An old man stares out from a dusty portrait. Two old-fashioned women in elegant dresses glance up from a painting in an ornate frame. Tinny music whispers through a speaker somewhere out of sight, an eerie, old-sounding song.

A giant mirror sits on the floor, so old it’s gone silver. Jacob catches sight of it and jerks his gaze away, but I stop to stare at myself, my curls gone wild with humidity, the camera hanging around my neck. The weathered surface makes me look like an old-fashioned photo. I step closer, turning the pendant on my necklace out, so the mirrors catch each other, reflecting again and again as far as I can see. An infinite tunnel of Cassidys.

As I stare into the endless reflection, the ordinary world goes quiet in my ears. The sound of my parents talking to the camera, the tinny music, and the far-off noises of the restaurant all seem to fade as the Veil leans into me.

It’s like when you know someone’s watching you. When you can feel the weight of their gaze. And I know if I ignore it for too long, the nudge will become a hand gripping my wrist, and it will drag me through, into the world of ghosts.

But I can’t go through, not yet.

I turn, putting my back to the mirror, and tuck the pendant under my collar.

Mom and Dad are sitting on the other side of the room, on a fancy sofa. Lucas catches my eye and holds one finger to his lips. The red light on Jenna’s camera tells me they’re rolling.

Dad runs his hand down the arm of the sofa. “Welcome to the séance room of Muriel’s.”

“Now this,” adds Mom, “is a place that’s home to more than history.”