“I’m not an in-betweener,” says Lucas, shaking his head as we cross a busy street. “But I’ve read enough to know it’s called the Bridge of Souls. It sits at the far edge of the Veil. The good news is, it isn’t a curtain, or a door. It’s a place that must be crossed. Sometimes it’s a road, sometimes it’s a tower filled with stairs, sometimes—”

“Could it be a real bridge?” asks Jacob.

“What?” I turn, and realize that Jacob has stopped walking. He’s standing in front of a tourist shop, staring at a large map of the city in the window. And he’s pointing at something. I double back and stand beside him, surveying the map. There’s the French Quarter and the Garden District, the cemeteries scattered like graves across the city.

I follow Jacob’s hand up, to the top left edge of the frame, where the crescent of the city gives way to the coast of a massive lake.

And there, jutting out across it, is a bridge.

A bridge so long it vanishes off the side of the map.

“The Causeway,” says Lucas, stepping up beside me.

And just like that, the pieces slot together in my head.

Dad’s voice, when we first got here.

It’s home to the longest bridge in the US. The Lake Pontchartrain Causeway—you can’t see one side from the other.

The weird push-pull Jacob and I both felt in Metairie Cemetery, coming from the direction of the lake. But what if it wasn’t the lake?

What if it was the bridge?

“Are you sure?” asks Jacob.

And the truth is, I’m not. And I know that if I’m wrong, I could be too late; I could lose Lara.

But if Lara were here, she would tell me that I’m an in-betweener, and I have to learn to trust my gut. And if I close my eyes, and manage to quiet the sounds of the Quarter, the chaotic rhythm of the Veil, I can feel something. The opposite of the force that draws me toward Lara. That push instead of a pull, like magnets facing the wrong way.

I point in the direction of the feeling and open my eyes.

“Is the bridge that way?” I ask.

And Lucas nods.

“Spirit compass,” says Jacob. “It’s like a brand-new superpower.”

Which is great, but we’re in the middle of the French Quarter, and judging by the map, the bridge is miles away.

“How do we get there?” I ask, but Lucas already has his phone out.

“I know someone who can help,” he says, making a call.

I can hear a bubbly voice answer on the other end. “Hello, hello!”

“Hi, Philippa,” he says. “We’ve got an emergency. Code Seven. Can you bring the car? Yes, to Thread and Bone.”