Tunnel of Bones (City of Ghosts） - Victoria Schwab Page 0,3

label printed on its front reads: THE INSPECTERS.

The Inspecters was the title of my parents’ book, when it was just ink and paper, and not a TV show. The irony is that back when they decided to write about all things paranormal, I didn’t have any firsthand experience yet. I hadn’t crashed my bike over a bridge, hadn’t fallen into an icy river, hadn’t (almost) drowned, hadn’t met Jacob, hadn’t gained the ability to cross the Veil, and hadn’t learned that I was a ghost hunter.

Jacob clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the term.

I shoot him a look. Ghost … saver?

He arches a brow. “Awfully high and mighty.”

Salvager?

He frowns. “I’m not scrap parts.”

Specialist?

He considers. “Hmm, better. But it lacks a certain style.”

Anyway, I think pointedly, my parents had no clue. They still don’t, but now their show means that I get to see new places and meet new people—both the living and the dead.

Mom opens the binder, flipping to the second tab, which reads:

THE INSPECTERS

EPISODE TWO

LOCATION: Paris, France

And there, below, the title of the episode:

“TUNNEL OF BONES”

“Well,” says Jacob pointedly, “that sounds promising.”

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” says Mom, turning to a map of the city. There are numbers spiraling out from the center of the map, counting up from first to twentieth.

“What are those for?” I ask.

“Arrondissements,” says Dad. He explains that arrondissement is a fancy French word for neighborhood.

I sit on the sofa beside Mom as she turns to the filming schedule.

THE CATACOMBS

THE JARDIN DU LUXEMBOURG

THE EIFFEL TOWER

THE PONT MARIE BRIDGE

THE CATHEDRAL OF NOTRE-DAME

The list goes on. I resist the urge to reach for the folder and study each and every location the way my parents clearly have. Instead, I want to hear them tell the stories, want to stand in the places and learn the tales the way the viewers of the show will.

“Oh, yeah,” says Jacob sarcastically, “who wants to be prepared when you can just fling yourself into the unknown?”

Let me guess, I think, you were the kind of kid who flipped to the back of the book and read the ending first.

“No,” mutters Jacob, and then, “I mean, only if it was scary … or sad … or I was worried about the— Look, it doesn’t matter.”

I suppress a smile.

“Cassidy,” says Mom, “your father and I have been talking …”

Oh no. The last time Mom put on her “family meeting” voice, I found out my summer plans were being replaced by a TV show.

“We want you to be more involved,” says Dad.

“Involved?” I ask. “How?” We already had a long talk, before the traveling started, about how I’m good with not being on camera. I’ve always been more comfortable behind it, taking—

“Photos,” says Mom. “For the show.”

“Think of it as a look behind the scenes,” says Dad. “Bonus content. The network would love some added material and we thought it might be nice for you to help in a more hands-on way.”

“And keep you out of trouble,” adds Jacob, who’s now perched on the back of the sofa.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe this is just a ploy to keep me from wandering off and getting my life thread stolen by powerful ghosts, and avoid being charged with misdemeanors for defiling graveyards.

But I’m still flattered.

“I’d love to,” I say, hugging my camera to my chest.

“Great,” says Dad, rising to stretch. “We don’t start filming until tomorrow. How about we go out for some fresh air? Perhaps a walk through the Tuileries?”

“Perfect,” says Mom cheerfully. “Maybe we’ll get a glimpse of good old Jean.”

Calling the Tuileries a garden is like calling Hogwarts a school.

It’s technically correct, but the word really doesn’t do either one justice.

Twilight is quickly giving way to night as we enter the park. The sandy path is as wide as a road, flanked by rows of trees that arch overhead, blotting out what’s left of the sunset. More paths branch off, framing wide green lawns, trimmed here and there with roses.

I feel like I’ve stepped into Alice in Wonderland.

I always thought that book was a little scary, and so is the garden. Maybe it’s because everything is spookier at night. It’s why people are afraid of the dark. What you can’t see is always scarier than what you can. Your eyes play tricks on you, filling in the shadows, making shapes. But night isn’t the only thing that makes the garden creepy.

With every step, the Veil gets a little heavier, the murmur of ghosts a little louder.

Maybe Paris is more haunted than I thought.

Mom