“I did,” says Lara, turning her backpack around so it’s on her front, dousing her own reddish light. “But things have gotten decidedly more dire. So we’ll just have to be quick. In and out. Which would be easier if we knew where to start,” she goes on, talking half to herself. “Let’s see, the Society’s been around for ages, so chances are it’ll be in the oldest part of the Quarter.”

We head to Jackson Square, which seems like a good place to start.

Gone are the performers, the men and women selling trinkets on pop-up tables. But the square is crowded with people, some of them ghosts and others just part of the background, like set dressing in someone else’s play.

It’s easy to tell the difference.

The ghosts look solid. Human. Real. The others look and move like phantoms. It’s like the difference between rocks and tissue paper.

I jump back as a few spectral firemen rush by, carrying buckets of water. One second they’re there, the next, gone, replaced by a pair playing saxophones in the shade.

A ghost leans against a post nearby, his head bowed and his boot thumping in time with the music, but that’s not what catches my eye.

No, what I see is the hatchet resting on his shoulder.

Jacob sees it, too.

The Axeman of New Orleans.

“Nope,” he says, steering me away.

Voices go up from the center of the square, and my stomach drops when I see an execution block. I’m grateful when Lara grumbles, “No, it’s not here,” and sets off down a side street.

Jacob and I follow, but ahead of us, Lara starts to look unsteady on her feet. She braces herself against a doorway, as if dizzy.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine,” she says, sounding like she’s about to faint.

“How long can you hold your breath?”

She frowns. “What?”

“I mean, here in the Veil, when I stay too long, it feels like I’m running out of air.”

“Oh, yes, that. To be honest, I never stay that long.”

Of course. Lara Chowdhury doesn’t wander. She doesn’t go for long dips in the Veil. Doesn’t make a splash.

“We need to go,” I tell her.

“Not until we find it.” She rubs her eyes. “It has to be here somewhere.”

I look around, hoping to find a sign. But then I remember, I already found one. I pull out my phone.

“Cassidy,” says Lara. “I’m quite sure there’s no cell service here.”

But I’m not trying to make a call. I pull up the photo I took of the black cat. It was standing in front of a shop called Thread & Bone. A number 13 was mounted in iron over the door. I look around to get my bearings, and set off.

Lara stumbles after me. “Where are you going?”