Tunnel of Bones (City of Ghosts #2) Page 4

  No, no, no, I think as the Veil parts beneath my fingers, and I fall down and through.

  A short, sharp drop.

  A shock of cold.

  The taste of the river in my throat.

  And then I’m on my hands and knees on the hard stone floor.

  Pain scrapes across my palms, and my camera swings from the strap around my neck.

  The tunnel is dark, and I blink my eyes rapidly, willing them to adjust. The only light I can see is the one coming from my own chest. The blue-white glow shines brightly, but only as far as my shirt. Not exactly a human flashlight. More like a human firefly.

  I get to my feet, pulling the mirror from my back pocket.

  “Jacob?” I whisper, but there’s no answer.

  As my eyes adjust, I realize there’s another light, low and red, coming from around the corner. It reminds me of the light I use in my darkroom back home when I’m developing film.

  I start toward it, and then I hear a small sound, like pebbles moving or feet shuffling over dirt, and the red light shrinks away.

  “Hello?” I call, walking faster. But by the time I round the corner, the crimson light is gone, replaced by an old-fashioned lantern sitting on the ground. It throws off an unsteady yellow glow and casts shadows on the surrounding skulls, so it looks like they’re grinning. Scowling. Shocked.

  I realize then how quiet the tunnel is, how empty.

  I heard the ghosts, didn’t I? So where are they now?

  Something moves behind me in the dark. I can feel it. My hand tightens on the pendant, and I’m working up the nerve to turn around when I hear the voice.

  “Cassidy.”

  Jacob. I sag with relief and I turn, only to find his face sharp, angry.

  “I thought we agreed not to do this,” he says, arms folded tight across his chest.

  “I didn’t want to,” I say. “I swear.”

  “Whatever,” he says, “let’s just go before something—”

  A pebble skitters across the stone floor behind us.

  “Did you hear that?” I ask.

  “Could be the bones settling,” he says, “or the wind.”

  But there’s no wind down here, and we both know it wasn’t the bones, especially when the next sound is the crunch of feet. Someone else is here. I start forward, but Jacob catches my hand.

  “We have no map,” he warns me.

  He’s right. Space is space. A step in the Veil is a step on the other side. If we wander too far away from my parents and the crew, I could end up lost in the real world, too. Trapped in this maze.

  And then a playful young voice, somewhere in the distance, calls out in French.

  “Un … deux … trois …”

  “Nope,” says Jacob. He’s already pulling me backward, already reaching for the curtain.

  “Wait,” I say, trying to twist free as the voice calls again. But Jacob tightens his grip.

  “Look,” he says. “I get it. You can’t help yourself. It’s your nature. Your purpose, whatever. You have to look under the bed. Open the closet. Peek behind the curtain. But have a little common sense, Cass. We are fifty feet underground, surrounded by bones with only a lantern for light, and I’m officially invoking rule twenty-one of friendship, and we are leaving right now, together.”

  He’s right. I sigh, and nod. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Jacob exhales with relief, and grabs the curtain. The Veil ripples and parts, and I follow him through. But at the last second, before the Veil is swept away, I look back, into the tunnel, and I swear I see a shadow moving along the wall, its edges glowing red.

  But then the Veil is gone, and I’m falling, ice water in my lungs before the world shutters back into focus, solid again, the lights bright. I hear the sounds of the camera crew packing up, and Pauline’s high heels clicking on the rock floor, and my parents’ voices moving toward me.

  I’m on my knees on the grimy stones, but I hurriedly bring the camera’s viewfinder to my eye. I snap a photo—an arch of skulls around a gravestone—the second before Mom rounds the corner.

  “Cassidy,” she says, exasperated. “I found her!” she calls back over her shoulder.

  I manage a weak smile. “I was just taking some pictures,” I say, my voice a little shaky, my hands and knees slick with dirt. “For the show.”

  “Too close, Cass,” says Jacob. He leans moodily back against the wall—or at least he starts to. At the first brush of bone, he jumps away, shuddering in disgust.

  Mom studies me for a moment, then nods. “I admire your dedication, dear daughter,” she says, patting my hair, “but next time, stay where we can see you?”

  “I’ll try,” I say as she kisses my head and pulls me to my feet.

  As I follow her down the tunnel, I can’t help but look back into the darkness, half expecting to see the red light dancing along the wall. But all I see is darkness, shadows falling over bones.

  Do you ever feel like you’re being followed?

  That prickle on the back of your neck that tells you someone is watching?

  I can’t shake that feeling as we reach the top of the stairs, trading the tunnels for the Paris streets. As we walk, I keep glancing back over my shoulder, sure that I’ll see something, someone, and every time I look, I feel like I’ve just missed them. My eyes start playing tricks on me, until every shadow looks like it’s moving. Every streak of sunlight has a shape.

  I try to tell myself it’s nothing. Just the residual creeps, clinging like cobwebs.

  It’s lunchtime, and we snag a table at a sidewalk café. All of us, I think, are grateful for the fresh air. Mom and Dad discuss the next filming location—the Jardin du Luxembourg—and I order something called a croque monsieur, which turns out to be like a fancy grilled cheese with ham. As I eat, the warm sandwich helps dispel the last of the Catacombs’ chill. But my attention keeps drifting down to the sidewalk, remembering the city of the dead under my feet. I wonder how many people cross these streets and never realize they’re walking over bones.

  “Morbid much?” calls Jacob over his shoulder.

  He’s standing in the sun, the light shining through him as he studies a rock on the curb, readying to kick it.

  And then, out of nowhere, I shiver.

  It’s like someone put a cold hand on the back of my neck. It’s all I can do not to yelp in surprise. A sharp breath hisses through my teeth.

  Mom glances toward me, but before she can ask what’s wrong, there’s a ripping sound overhead. The edge of the café’s awning tears free.

  “Cassidy, look out!” shouts Jacob.

  One of the metal hooks in the corner of the awning sweeps down toward our table, shattering the pitcher of water right in front of my seat.

  I jump back just in time, avoiding all of the glass and most of the water.

  Mom and Dad gasp, and Pauline’s on her feet, one hand clutching the front of her blouse in surprise. Anton and Annette shake their heads and examine the broken awning, exchanging a flurry of French.

  A waiter rushes out, full of apologies as he sweeps up the damage. He moves us to another table, and everyone tries to shake off the strangeness of the incident.

  Mom keeps fussing over me, checking me for cuts. I assure her I’m okay, even though I’m feeling a little dizzy. I look back at our old table. It could have been nothing. A faulty screw in the awning. An old piece of cloth. Bad luck. But what about the rush of cold I felt, right before the awning broke? What was that? A warning?

  “Do you think you’re becoming psychic now?” asks Jacob.

  Even though I’m 90 percent sure that’s not in the in-betweener job description, I text Lara under the table.

  Me:

  Hey

  Me:

  Do people like us have any other powers?

  A few moments later, Lara texts back.

  Lara:

  Some are intuitive. The more time they spend in the in-between, the stronger their spectral senses get.

  La
ra:

  Why do you ask?

  I hesitate before writing back.

  Me:

  Just curious.

  Lara:

  Jacob looks over my shoulder. “Ha!” he says. “It looks just like her.”

  I have to hand it to the French: They really love dessert.

  As we walk to the next location, we pass: shops devoted to chocolate; four window displays of small cakes as intricate and detailed as sculptures; countless ice cream carts; and counter after counter filled with tiny, brightly colored cookie sandwiches called macarons, in flavors like rose, caramel, blackberry, and lavender.

  Mom buys a box of macarons and offers me one the buttery color of sunshine. I try to focus on the cookie instead of the shaky feeling in my stomach, the stutter step of my pulse, the nagging sense that something is wrong.

  When I bite into the macaron, the outside crackles before giving way to soft cream and a bright burst of citrus.

  “Like a natural,” says Pauline. “Next you must try escargot.”

  Mom and Dad both laugh, which makes me nervous. When I start to ask, Mom pats my shoulder and says, “You don’t want to know.”

  Dad leans in and whispers in my ear, “Snails.”

  I really hope he’s joking.

  “Here we are,” says Mom. “The Luxembourg Gardens.”

  “You keep using that word,” says Jacob. “I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

  He’s got a point. These gardens look like they were designed using complicated math.

  Massive trees, their tops cut into parallel lines, lead like giant green walls to another huge palace. The packed-sand paths carve the lawns into geometric shapes, their edges trimmed with roses and dotted by statues. The grass is so short and so smooth, I can imagine someone down on their hands and knees, trimming it blade by blade with a tiny pair of scissors.

  Mom veers left, ducking onto a wooded path, and we follow. The sand crackles beneath our shoes as we walk, and then Mom stops and lowers herself onto a bench.

  “Do you want to hear a story?” she says, her voice soft and sweet and creepy.

  And just like that, we all shuffle closer. Mom has always had that power over people, always been the kind of storyteller who makes her listeners lean in.

  Even Pauline can’t really hide her interest. Her hand drifts to her collar as she listens, the way it has a few times today. A nervous tic, I think. Though it’s strange. After all, she said she’s a skeptic—what does she have to be nervous about?

  Anton has started filming, and when Mom speaks again, she’s not just talking to us but to an invisible audience.

  “One lovely evening in 1925, a gentleman sat on a bench here in the Jardin du Luxembourg”—she pauses to pat the seat beside her—“enjoying a book in the fine weather, when a man in a black coat came up and invited him to his home for a concert. The gentleman accepted, and followed the man in black back to his apartment, where he found a party in full swing, and passed the night with music and wine and excellent company.”

  Mom flashes a mischievous grin and sits forward. “In the early hours of the morning, the gentleman left, but shortly after, he realized he was missing his cigarette lighter and returned to collect it. But when he arrived, he found the place dark, the doors and windows boarded shut. It was a neighbor who told him that a musician had once lived there, but that he’d died more than twenty years before.”

  A little shudder runs through me, but this one is simple, the almost-pleasant chill that comes with a good ghost story. Not like what I felt earlier at the café.

  “And yet, to this day,” finishes Mom, “if you linger in the park as the sun goes down, you just might be approached by a man in a black coat, extending the same invitation. The only question is, will you accept?”

  “Finally!” says Jacob. “A friendly ghost story.”

  As Mom rises from the bench, a cold breeze blows past. This one feels like the cool air I felt at the café. I’m fighting back another shiver when sand crackles under feet on the path behind me. I twist around, catching something—someone—in the corner of my eye.

  But when I look at the path head-on, no one’s there.

  “Did you—” I start, but Jacob has already moved ahead with the rest of the group. I let out an unsteady breath.

  “Cass?” calls Dad. “You coming?”

  I frown, then jog to catch up.

  “If you keep glancing over your shoulder,” says Jacob, “you’re going to hurt your neck.”

  He starts walking backward beside me. “Here, I’ll look for you.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and squints into the distance. “You still think we’re being followed?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “Something just feels … off. It has all day.”

  “Maybe Mercury is in retrograde.”

  I look at him. “What does that mean?”

  “I have no idea,” admits Jacob, turning back around, “but I’ve heard people say it when things go wrong.”

  I frown. “I don’t think planets have anything to do with this.”

  Jacob shrugs, and we walk in silence toward our final location for the day.

  The Eiffel Tower isn’t exactly subtle.

  You can see it halfway across Paris, a dark lace spire against the sky. Up close, it’s massive. It looms like a giant steel beast over the city.

  The park at the tower’s base is brimming with people, all sprawled in the afternoon sun, and the mood is the opposite of spooky. Yet when my parents start filming, I swear the clouds slide in and a light breeze rustles Mom’s hair and casts a shadow on Dad’s face.

  They bring the atmosphere with them.

  “The Eiffel Tower,” says Dad as Anton films him. “One of the most famous architectural feats and iconic tourist attractions in the world. A marker of history.”

  Mom picks up, her voice smooth. “And story.” She glances over her shoulder at the tower before continuing. “Back at the start of the twentieth century, a young American fell in love with a French girl, and after courting her, he took her up the tower to propose. But when he drew out the ring, she was so surprised that she leaped back, slipped over the edge, and fell …”

  I swallow, my skin humming with nervous energy. Maybe it’s just the near miss at the café, but the Eiffel Tower suddenly looks like an accident waiting to happen.

  “There are a dozen stories just like that,” says Dad, sounding skeptical. “Perhaps they’re simply urban legends.”

  “Or perhaps one of them is true,” counters Mom. “Visitors claim to have seen a young woman, perched on the darkened rail, still grinning like a bride.”

  A small movement catches the corner of my eye.

  It’s Pauline. As Mom and Dad tell the story, her hand drifts up to her collar again. As I watch, she draws something out from beneath her blouse. It’s a silver necklace, a pendant swinging from the end. My heart lurches, and I think of the mirror in my back pocket, ready to dispel any restless spirits.

  But then her pendant catches the light, and I see it’s not a mirror, but an ordinary bit of jewelry, a silver disc worn smooth from use. As I watch, she rubs her thumb over it, her lips moving as she whispers something to herself.

  “What is that?” I ask, and she shows me the talisman. Most of the details have been worn away, but I can just make out the lines of an eye.

  “It’s an old symbol,” she says, “meant to ward off evil.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in this kind of stuff.”

  “I don’t,” she answers quickly, waving her hand. “Just a bit of superstition.” I’m not sure I believe her.

  “Well,” says Mom, coming over to us and clapping her hands. “Shall we go up?”

  I swallow. “Up?” I echo, studying the tower.

  Confession: I don’t love heights. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m afraid of them, but I’ll never be the girl standing on the ledge, arms spread wide, like that moment in Harry Potter w
hen Harry rides a hippogriff for the first time (movie edition, obviously).

  But I also can’t bear the thought of missing out.

  It takes two elevators and several sets of stairs, but finally we step out onto the highest viewing platform in Paris. There’s a protective grate, but I hang back. Up here, the air is colder, and I wonder if I’d be able to feel a sudden change in temperature—a warning, if that’s what it was—before something goes wrong. The Eiffel Tower looks like it’s held together with a million nuts and bolts. What would happen if one of them broke? Or a sudden gust of wind forced me toward the edge?

  I shake my head to clear it. I’m starting to sound as paranoid as Jacob.

  “You say paranoid, I say practical,” counters Jacob.

  And then, before I can protest, Mom links her arm through mine and draws me closer to the edge. As Dad rests his hand on my shoulder, I forget to be afraid. The entire city sprawls beneath me, as far as I can see, white, and gold, and green, and I know there is no photo in this world that can capture this view.

  And for a moment, I forget about the ghosts that supposedly haunt this tower. For a moment, I almost forget the eerie, off-kilter feeling of being followed.

  For a moment, Paris is simply magical.

  “Just wait,” says Jacob cheerfully. “I’m sure something will go wrong.”

  The crew hands Mom and Dad the day’s footage so they can review it, and Pauline kisses each of us twice, once on each cheek, and slips away into the late-afternoon light. Mom and Dad decide we should have a picnic in the hotel room. We stop by a street market and buy bread, cheese, sausages, and fruit. Mom hums, shopping bags swinging from her fingers. Dad has a baguette under his arm, and I snap a photo of them, smiling to myself.

  By the time we get back to the hotel, it feels like we’ve walked across the whole city. We climb to the room on aching legs, and I’m the last one through.