“C’est la vie,” he says. “Things happen.”

“Unless you’re Cassidy Blake,” says Jacob as the car pulls away. “And then you make them happen.”

It’s dark by the time we pull up in front of the little green shack.

A security officer is waiting as we climb out onto the curb, and I snap a photo of the entrance sign with my phone and send it to Lara.

Me:

Going in. Hope to make things right.

Me:

If I die, don’t reap Jacob.

I switch the phone off, slip it into my pocket, and take a deep breath.

Confession: I’m pretty scared. Scared that my plan will work. Scared that it won’t. Scared of what’s waiting down there in the dark.

I wish the sun were still up.

I know it shouldn’t make a difference—after all, it’s always dark down there, beneath the earth. It shouldn’t make a difference, but it does. As we walk toward the door, I can feel that shift Mom always talks about, in the way the world tastes and feels when the sun goes down.

No warmth in the air to keep the chill at bay.

No light to push the shadows back.

I know the dark is no more haunted than the day.

Or rather, the day is no less haunted than the dark. But it’s still a whole lot scarier.

“Ghost five, for luck,” says Jacob, holding his palm low instead of high. I bring my hand to rest just above it.

For luck, I think, but instead of making the usual sound of skin hitting skin, we both leave the gesture quiet. We let our hands linger, one above the other. The closest we can get to comfort.

My hand drifts up to the camera around my neck. I didn’t actually load a new film cartridge, but it’s still a talisman. A good-luck charm. A little extra bit of magic. And of course, its bright white flash is always good for stopping ghosts.

The security officer slips a heavy key into the lock and slides back the iron gate, just far enough for us to squeeze through. I think of Thomas, so small he could simply slide between the last bar and the wall.

The crew goes through first, then Mom, then Dad. I’m about to follow when I realize Adele isn’t with me. I look back and see her hovering on the threshold, her gold sneakers shifting nervously on the curb. She’s biting her lip, looking past me into the darkened hut.

“Alors,” she says softly. “You know, it’s getting late.” She keeps her chin lifted, her head high. “I should probably go home.”

Up until now, she’s been so bold, so brave, it was easy to forget: She’s still a kid.

“You’re right,” I said. “Your mom is probably getting worried.”

“Yes,” she says. “It’s not that I don’t want to go,” she adds with a proud sniff. “It’s just …”

“It’s okay,” I say, putting my hand on her shoulder. “You’ve been so helpful. I couldn’t have gotten this far without you. But I’ll take it from here.”

Her sharp eyes find mine. “You’re sure you can do it?”

No, I think. I’m a mile from sure. But what I say is, “I hope so.”

Adele swallows and nods. “Okay.”

My hand falls away from her shoulder. She’s starting to walk away when I have an idea.

“Wait,” I call, ducking back inside the green hut. I run up to Dad and tug the salt-and-sage pouch from the inside pocket of his coat. He’ll have to do with one less charm.

“Where did that come from?” he asks, but I’m already heading back toward Adele.

Jacob shuffles away, holding his breath, as I give her the little pouch. “To keep you safe,” I say. Adele looks down at the pouch, and then throws her arms around my waist.

“Bonne chance, Cassidy Blake.”

“Is that French for be careful?”

Adele shakes her head.

“No,” she says with a smile. “It means good luck.”

I smile back. “Merci, Adele Laurent.”

“Bye, pipsqueak,” adds Jacob as the girl heads for the Metro station down the block.

“Cassidy!” calls Mom from inside the hut, and I take a deep breath.

“You ready for this?” asks Jacob.

“Not really.”

He swallows. “But we’re going to do it anyway, aren’t we?”

I square my shoulders toward the door. “Yeah. We are.”

We follow the rest of the group through the turnstile, pausing at the top of the spiral steps that coil tightly down into the dark. Mom and Dad go first, followed by Anton and Annette, their cameras up on their shoulders, the red lights a signal that they’re already rolling. Then me, Jacob, and Pauline.

Six sets of steps echoing on the stairs.

Un, deux, trois, I count as we head down one floor, two, three. Quatre, cinq, I finish as we reach the bottom.

A breeze, stale and cold, wafts toward us, as if the tunnels are breathing.

I pull my jacket close, the old photographs of Thomas and his family rustling faintly beneath it. And then we start the ten-minute walk through the empty tunnels toward the entrance of the Empire of the Dead.

Water drips from the low ceiling. Footsteps echo off damp stone.

“Now?” asks Jacob. He shoves his hands in his pockets, clearly eager to get this over with.

I shake my head. Thomas and Richard wouldn’t have played their games out here, where there are no twists and turns, nothing to hide behind. No, they’d have been farther in, where the halls begin to wind and the walls are full of bones and shadows.

But I can’t blame Jacob for wanting this to be over.

The air is damp and cold, and every step we take is one step away from safety. The Veil begins to get heavier. It leans against me, pushing me forward, trying to drag me across the line, into the dark.

Not yet, I think, pushing back. Not yet.

We reach the end of the galleries.

ARRÉTE! warns the sign over the doorway. STOP!

We’ve come too far to turn back now.

And so, with a deep breath, we step through.

Buried beneath Paris, the Catacombs are home to more than six million bones …”

My parents walk ahead, recounting the history and the lore of this place. They’re telling the same stories as before, but the energy is different this time. They are clearly on edge, ruffled from the whole briefcase incident. It makes them tense and jumpy in a way that’s probably great for a show about paranormal activity. Even Dad’s usual unflappable calm has tightened, making him seem, for once, truly nervous.

Mom’s voice is tense, even as her hand dances through the air over the skulls.

“The tunnels snake beneath the city, so vast that most Parisians are walking on bones …”

“Now?” asks Jacob, and I nod, knowing this is the closest I’ll get to a chance. I back away one step, two, and then turn, about to reach for the Veil when a hand catches my wrist.

Pauline.

“Don’t go wandering,” she warns, careful to keep her voice low, because everything echoes here.

“I’m not,” I whisper, lifting the camera a little. “I was just looking for a good shot.” I point over her shoulder toward my parents, who are still walking away. The glow of the tunnel lights ahead of them creates an eerie halo, turning them to silhouettes.