Mortal Ghost | Page 7

Jesse shrugged. ‘You look like you’ve slept under a bridge.’
He gave her a mocking half-smile and pointed toward s the Old Bridge.
She was shocked but tried to conceal it. Studying h er surreptitiously, he wondered
exactly how old she was. With such an expressive fa ce it was hard to tell. She wouldn’t
make a good liar: that smile would give her away, t hose eyes. There was something
about her . . .
Just before they passed under the bridge, Sarah sto pped and gazed up at the stone
parapets. ‘Not a good place to sleep,’ she said.
‘There’s worse,’ Jesse said.
‘I don’t like it.’
‘Why? It’s a handsome structure. Look at the curved coping stones above the span-
drels and wing walls. And the projecting courses at road level. All good solid features
typical of the period.’ Sarah was astonished. ‘You know a lot about it.’
‘Not really. Just from my reading.’
She indicated the stone dogs guarding both ends of the parapets with bared teeth.
‘They scare me.’ ‘They’re only statues.’
‘Maybe . . .’ She shook her head. ‘There are too ma ny legends about this bridge. It’s
supposed to be unlucky. That’s why a lot of people won’t use it. You wouldn’t get me to
spend a night here, alone, for anything.’ Jesse teased her. ‘How do you know I was alone?’
She blushed easily. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean . . . I m ean, I didn’t mean to . . .’ A futile
attempt to hold back a peal of amusement. ‘I’m gett ing myself all twisted up over noth-
ing, aren’t I?’ He liked her willingness to laugh at herself. ‘I wa s alone.’
‘All the more reason to find someplace else to slee p.’
‘I can look after myself.’
Her eyes took him in from head to foot, not missing much. ‘Listen, it’s really not a
good place to hang out—not alone, and especially no t at night. There’ve been several
murders underneath the bridge. Just last year someo ne found the body of a man who’d
been beaten to death and left on the bank.’
‘All old buildings—or bridges—have their history.’
‘Not like this one,’ she persisted. ‘My mother says some places are imbued with
spiritual energy.’ ‘Ghosts?’ he scoffed.
‘No . . . no, nothing like that. More like a fingerprint, a kin d of emotional charge be-
cause a person—or maybe an animal—burnt so strongly that everything, even stone,
remembers.’

Mortal Ghost
7
Her clear gaze unsettled him, as if she understood a secret about him. Her scent
sprang out at him, clawing at the base of his throa t. His grandmother had hung large
bunches of lavender in the kitchen to dry, but he’d never met a girl who liked it, a girl
like this, and that unsettled him even more. Go, he told himself. Just turn around and
leave. There are worse things than hunger. His stom ach growled in disagreement, loud
enough for her to hear. He hitched his rucksack hig her on his shoulder and rubbed his
midriff; caught her grin. He could never resist the absurdity of a situation, even his
own. His lips twitched, then turned up at the corne rs.
On the other side of the bridge the dog plunged int o the river, paddled in exuberant
circles for a few minutes, then