That’s it. That’s him. I know it, straight down to my bones.

“What did you say his name was?” I ask Dad.

“Thomas,” answers Dad, pronouncing it like Toe-MAS. “Thomas Alain Laurent.”

I turn the name over on my tongue.

“What happened to him?” I ask.

“That I don’t know much about. He disappeared in 1912—snuck down into the tombs with his brother and never came out.” He raises a brow. “Why the sudden curiosity?”

I hesitate. “I don’t know. Ever since we went to the Catacombs, I just can’t stop thinking about the people who weren’t supposed to be buried down there.”

“You sound like your father,” says Mom. “Always searching for answers.”

Dad beams, clearly proud to have raised a researcher. Even if the answers I’m looking for are decidedly paranormal. I’ve got plenty of my mother in me, too.

“Monsieur Blake,” calls the clerk at the front desk. “Your new room is ready.”

We gather our things—one camera, one footage briefcase, a show binder, and a very annoyed cat—and head upstairs. Our room is on the second floor this time, and as Mom unlocks the door, I send Lara an answer to her last text.

Me:

Thomas Alain Laurent.

The phone rings almost instantly.

“Impressive,” says Lara. I can hear her fingers tapping on a keyboard. “That’s definitely a start.”

I hang back in the hall. “A start? I know his name.”

“He’s not Rumpelstiltskin,” says Lara. “A name doesn’t mean much without the memories that go with it.”

I slump back against the wallpaper. “I miss the days when all I had to do was hold up a mirror.”

“Nonsense,” says Lara. “Who doesn’t love a good challenge?”

“Easy for you to say,” I reply. “So far I’ve been pushed off a roof, nearly crushed by a set piece, and narrowly avoided being hit by a giant mirror. Not to mention, he flooded our room at the hotel.”

“You’ve had quite a day.”

“Yeah, I think it’s safe to say we’ve moved past mischief.” I lower my voice. “I’m worried, Lara. About my parents. About myself. Worried he’ll catch me off guard. Worried about what he’ll do before I can face him.”

“Yes, about that,” says Lara, “it sounds as though you could use some protection. Uncle Weathershire says you can use sage and salt to ward off strong spirits.”

“Where am I supposed to get sage and salt?” I ask.

“Lucky for you, you have me.”

“And as grateful as I am,” I say, “you are in another country.”

“Didn’t you get my package?”

“What?” I finally walk into the hotel room, and see a small brown parcel, roughly the size and shape of a book, wrapped with black ribbon. Unfortunately, Mom notices it, too. She picks it up, reads the label, and stares at me.

“Cassidy Blake, did you order something off the internet?”

“It’s from Lara,” I say, swiping the parcel from her hands.

I retreat to the bedroom and examine the box. A folded slip on top reads: For Cassidy Blake, with compliments.

“After we spoke yesterday,” continues Lara, “I made some calls. Uncle has—well, had—a number of contacts throughout the paranormal world, including a couple there in Paris. Lovely people.”

I turn the card over. On the back, it’s signed: La Société du Chat Noir.

I remember the desk clerk calling Grim a chat noir.

“The Society of the Black Cat,” Lara translates for me. “Fascinating group, very eclectic, and, of course, quite secret. They have chapters in most major cities, but you need to know someone who knows someone …”

I study the card. First poltergeists, now secret societies? I’m starting to realize how little I know about the paranormal world beyond my parents’ show and my own experiences in the Veil.

“And you’re a member of this society?” I ask, setting the card aside.

“Not yet,” says Lara, sounding annoyed. “They have a rather stringent age restriction. But I’m petitioning for a special exemption.”

“Of course you are,” mutters Jacob.

I open the box, and he immediately begins to sneeze.

“Oh, yes,” says Lara, “I should have mentioned. Sage and salt works on all ghosts.”

“You totally—achoo—knew—achoo—this would—achoo—happen.”

I slam the box shut.

Jacob glowers, sniffling.

“Thanks, Lara,” I say.

“Yeah,” grumbles Jacob, retreating to the open window. “Thanks.”

That night, I slip pouches of sage and salt into Dad’s jacket and Mom’s purse, hoping those will be enough to keep the poltergeist away.

From my parents, at least.

The sachets also seem to be working on Jacob.

He usually waits to leave until I’m ready for bed, but there’s been no sign of him since dinner. He said he was going to patrol the hotel for Thomas. But I suspect he’s looking for residents to scare. Then again, maybe he just wants to get away from the extra herbs I’ve sprinkled on the windows and outside the door, because the thought of Thomas slipping in at night is more than I can handle.

And even with the sachets, I can’t sleep.

Finally, I throw off the covers and open the window, leaning out on the iron rail. The breeze is cool, the Veil whispering against my skin. I draw the pendant from beneath my collar, let the mirror spin on its chain between my fingers, my reflection there and gone, there and gone.

A mirror shows us what we know.

I think of Jacob, of his face as he stood over the shattered mirror today, the way he pulled free of his reflection.

A poltergeist is what happens when a ghost forgets.

I close my eyes, arms crossed on the rail.

Jacob must have gotten lucky. He must have not really been looking.

He’s not forgetting, I tell myself.

He’s not forgetting.

I can feel my head drooping.

He’s not …

A car alarm goes off a couple of streets away. I jerk upright, my heart slamming in my chest, as another goes off, then another, as if someone is banging on every hood.

“Thomas Alain Laurent.”

I say the name into the dark, as if the words might summon him, but there’s nothing there. I look down at the street below, half expecting to see a little boy looking back. But the street stays empty.

And yet.

Something steals through me like a chill.

And I hear it, soft as whispers on the wind.

“Un … deux … trois …”

I don’t know what makes me reach for my camera—maybe a hunch, or the faint memory of how, once, it let me see through the Veil itself—but as I bring the viewfinder to my eye and adjust the focus, the night beyond, and the street below, begins to shift and blur.

“… quatre … cinq … six …”

And there he is.

Thomas Alain Laurent stands on the street, his head tipped back toward the open window, his edges rippling, his eyes bright and hollow and red, and leveled on me. I snap a photo, no flash. Crank the film. Snap again. As if I’m afraid he’ll disappear again between shots.