So, however weak and hollow she might look, however much sympathy her appearance might elicit, that woman was still Ruth Mayhew. And because I had no intention of angering her, I stayed put, alone outside with my own dark thoughts.

Anyway, I told myself, tonight’s going to be hard enough without adding her to the mix.

As if responding to my mood, the gas lamps above me sputtered violently, sending an army of shadows dancing across the street. The movement startled me, and I pulled my legs more tightly to my chest. Call me crazy, but aging enemies, flickering shadows, and midnight rituals in cemeteries all made me jumpier than usual.

The image of another, more familiar graveyard in rural Oklahoma popped into my head, and I couldn’t seem to get rid of it. As the evening dragged on, I mulled over the shape of the lettering on my own headstone, the way its concrete looked at sunset, the curve of the ground over my grave....

Finally, after nearly a full hour of this torture, I groaned loudly. I ran my hands through my hair, covered my face with them for a moment, and then leaned my head against the brick wall behind me. I had to think about something else while I waited for Joshua to sneak out for the night. Otherwise, I really would go crazy.

So instead, I pictured the prairie I’d dreamed about during the car ride to New Orleans. I envisioned the lush grass and the endless blue sky. Then I imagined my mother and father, sitting with me on a blanket spread over the carpet of wildflowers. I pretended that I could taste the food from our picnic, smell the flowers as the breeze hit them, feel the sun on my skin.

And since I was fulfilling all my wishes in this little fantasy, I added Joshua to the scene. In my imagination, he was sitting next to my father, laughing with him about something my mother had just said. The dream-Joshua, still talking to my dad, absentmindedly reached across the blanket and took my hand—a real touch, without sparks or electricity, but somehow better. So much better.

I sighed happily and reached my hands out in a big, satisfied stretch. But the second my fingers touched something icy and wet, I jerked them back, fast. I opened my eyes, and then let out a small, choked sound.

It wasn’t possible. What I had just touched shouldn’t be there. Yet here it was, as real as the gas lamps that had suddenly disappeared. A garishly colored metal girder, with my fingerprints still visible on its shimmering, frosty coating. The kind of girder you’d find on a bridge.

The kind I’d seen before.

I took an automatic step backward, away from the icy girders. Then I looked wildly around me. Instead of old buildings and narrow streets, I was now surrounded by twisted metal bars, all colored in bizarre, wounded shades of black and red and purple. Like some insane, life-size version of a birdcage.

This was definitely not the French Quarter; this was a bruised and ugly place, encrusted in ice and plunged into darkness. I hated it, almost as quickly as I recognized it.

High Bridge.

The words whispered in my mind, like a curse. This place looked exactly like the netherworld version of High Bridge.

But a second look told me I wasn’t on High Bridge—just a different structure that closely resembled it.

I had to be in the netherworld. But where in it, I couldn’t say.

As far as I could tell, I was standing in some sort of metal pavilion. Its girders extended up, over my head, to support a steeply pitched roof. In the back, behind me, the pavilion opened onto what looked like a metal boardwalk. Beyond that I couldn’t see very much since this part of the netherworld was as shadowy as the part I knew. In the front, where I’d just been, a few rows of twisted girders were the only things between me and a sudden plunge.

Whatever that plunge led to, it did not look welcoming. Even in the impenetrable darkness I could tell I wouldn’t want to lean over the edge of the pavilion. And yet I felt an irresistible tug toward it—an urge to creep just a bit closer and find out what waited below. The longer I resisted it, the stronger the impulse became, until I could hardly keep still. It gnawed at me, making me squirm and wriggle in an effort to stay in place.

Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I took one lurching step toward the edge.

But before I could take another, a faraway shrieking sound made me freeze. When I looked up, in the direction of the noise, my mouth dropped open.

Above me, the ceiling of the pavilion seemed to have disappeared, replaced by a sky of purples and grays that teemed and seethed around each other like storm clouds. Their movements were too rapid, though. Too unpredictable and chaotic to be part of any earthly storm.

And there in the cloud forms, so high I nearly missed them, were swooping black shapes. Hundreds of them.

If I squinted, they looked like enormous, high-flying crows or ravens. But I knew those shapes weren’t birds.

They were demons. Real ones. And suddenly, they were moving in a flock formation to take a downward dive.

Toward me.

Chapter

SEVENTEEN

A scream began to build in my throat. I tried to choke it back. Tried to keep silent. Despite that feeble effort, it ripped its way out when someone gave my shoulder a rough shake.

Then, all at once, a fiery glow burst across my skin.

I hadn’t seen the fire, hadn’t been able to re-create it since that night on High Bridge. Now, without any warning or effort on my part, I burned like a torch—hot, vivid reds and oranges, shining against the darkness.

Immediately, I felt stronger. Bolder. Finally armed with my glow again, I spun around to face my attacker.

For a split second the reflection of the fiery glow glinted back at me from his eyes. But as soon as I realized who he was, the glow vanished. Extinguished by some invisible force.

“How did you get here?” I whispered, snatching Joshua’s hand from the air and using it to pull him against me. I wanted him closer to my flame, in case the glow reappeared. Maybe it could protect us both from the things that were about to swoop down upon us.

Judging by his expression, Joshua was also afraid. But he wasn’t looking up at the sky, where an army of demons prepared to descend. He was looking at me.

“Amelia?” he said tentatively. His eyes were wide with alarm, and he’d actually pulled a few inches away from me. “What’s going on?”

“Joshua, you’ve got to get out of here,” I warned, frantic. “We’re about to be—”

Yet something made me stop short. Maybe it was Joshua’s pained expression, or maybe it was the fact that the scenery had finally registered in my peripheral vision.

Still holding Joshua’s hand, I slowly turned my head to take in my surroundings: centuries-old buildings, cramped together; long, iron-railed balconies; sputtering gas lamps.

Somehow, between the moment I saw the demons and the moment I looked into Joshua’s eyes, the netherworld pavilion had disappeared. And now I stood shivering in the French Quarter, clinging for dear life to a very confused boy.

Finger by finger, I unclenched my hand from his. I forced myself to stop shivering, but I couldn’t get my lips to relax out of their terrified grimace.

There were two explanations for what had just happened to me, neither of them good.

“Joshua,” I whispered, “if I asked you to be really honest with me, would you?”

His mouth lifted into a faint, worried smile. “Come on, Amelia. You know you don’t have to ask me that.”

“I know,” I said, nodding stiffly. I took a deep breath and then released it, along with the most essential question of the evening.