Bridge of Souls
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Map
Part One: Sugar and Skulls
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Part Two: The Voice in the Dark
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Part Three: The Society of the Black Cat
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Part Four: The Emissary of Death
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Part Five: The Bridge of Souls
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sneak peek at City of Ghosts
About the Author
Also by Victoria Schwab
Copyright
I can think of so many nice ways to wake up.
There’s the smell of pancakes in summer, or the first cool breeze of fall. The lazy comfort of a snow day, the world buried beneath blankets. When waking feels easy and peaceful, a slow transition from dreaming to daylight.
And then there’s this:
The jolt of curtains thrown open onto glaring sun, and the sudden weight of a very large cat landing on my chest.
I groan and drag my eyes open, and see Grim staring down at me, one black paw hovering over my face.
“Off,” I mutter, rolling until the cat flops sideways onto the sheets. He shoots me a sour look, lets out a soft cat sigh, and sinks deeper into the bed.
“Rise and shine!” says Mom in a voice that’s way too chipper, considering we just got in last night and my body has no idea what time it is. There’s a dull thud in my head, and I don’t know if it’s jet lag or ghosts.
I pull the sheets back up, shivering at the false cold of the hotel’s air-conditioning, which has been humming all night. Mom opens the window, but instead of a breeze, a wall of warmth pushes in.
The air is sticky with summer heat.
Down on the street, someone is singing off-key, and the low sound of a trombone wanders up to meet it. A voice howls with laughter. Someone drops something and it rings like an empty pot.
Even at ten a.m., New Orleans is full of noise.
I sit up, my hair a nest of tangled curls, and look around, groggy with sleep. Huh.
When we got in last night, I didn’t do much more than wash my face and fall into bed. But now that I’m awake, I realize our hotel room isn’t exactly normal. Not that anywhere we’ve stayed on our travels has been “normal,” but the Hotel Kardec is particularly odd.
My bed is nestled in one corner, raised on a little platform. There’s a sitting area between my perch and the massive four-poster bed my parents have claimed on the other side of the room. That’s not the strange part. No, the strange part is that the whole room is decorated in rich purples and dark blues with gold accents, and silk and velvet are draped over everything, like the inside of a fortune-teller’s tent. The drawer handles and wall hooks are shaped like hands: fingers clasped or palms up, reaching.