In the land of the living, it was gray, concrete, mundane. But here, it’s something else. Bigger, stranger, a stretch of polished black stone that reaches as far as I can see, the end disappearing into fog. There’s no water, no railing, just a long drop into shadow.

“Not ominous at all,” says Jacob, aiming for his usual sarcasm and falling short. I can hear the caution in his voice, the current of fear. This is not a place either of us wants to be. Not a bridge we want to cross.

Something moves behind us, with a shudder and a sigh, and I spin. The horseless carriage is there, but it’s empty. And I know Lara is out there somewhere, on the bridge.

And we have to get her back.

Once, I stole from Death.

I’m ready to do it again.

Jacob takes my hand. I squeeze, and he squeezes back, and for once, neither of us has to say a thing. Because we know. We’re not alone.

Together, we step forward.

Together, we cross the line.

Together—but then a vicious gust of wind tears through, so strong I have to squeeze my eyes shut and duck my head against the whipping air. The wind pulls at my clothes and scrapes my skin, knocks the camera against my chest.

And then it’s gone.

And so is Jacob.

My hand is empty, and I’m alone on the bridge. I spin, looking for him, suck in a breath to call his name, but I never get the chance.

The bridge cracks beneath my feet.

And splits.

And suddenly, I fall.

Part Five: The Bridge of Souls

Chapter Twenty-Two

I’m racing against the sun.

The camera is a weight around my neck, swinging on its purple strap. (Not a candy-grape purple, but violet. My favorite color.) I’ve already loaded the film. I just have to get to the spot in time to take the picture.

I pedal faster, my breath coming out in plumes. That’s the thing about being born along the seam between winter and spring. The sun may be warm, but the air is still cold, everything stuck between frost and melt. My tires slide a little on the pavement, but I’m a good rider, and I weave between the slick patches of black ice that linger in the shade.

The bridge comes into sight.

The sun is sliding down the sky. I know if I stop at the center of the bridge, I can catch the sun as it sinks, right there between the hills. A perfect shot. My bike tires hit the bridge, sliding from pavement to steel with a clunk, and a bad feeling hits me like a cold breeze.