The Bridge Read Online Free Page B

olive-skinned man in business casual walked into the dining room and shook his head. “You didn’t have to.”
    “You’re our guest,” Everett’s grandfather said.
    The man skimmed his hand over his slicked-back hair and looked at Everett as if noticing him for the first time. He had the professional and knowledgeable presence of a professor or a successful business owner. “Everett Hallman?”
    “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Everett rubbed the gravy bowl’s warmth onto his pants and shook the man’s hand.
    “Has your grandfather informed you of why I’m here?”
    “Not really.” Everett looked at his grandfather. “But I’m beginning to think it’s a big deal.”
    “It is.” The man took a seat at the table. Everett brought the salad bowl to the table, and his grandfather brought the dressing. “Your grandfather told me you’re an avid reader of witchtales.”
    His grandfather watched them as if he was wary of what would transpire.
    “I was as a child. I don’t remember all of them, but I reread one volume today.”
    After everyone filled their bowls with salad, the man asked, “Did it include the tale of the Bridge Master?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Have you read any tales about a witch associated with the art of bridging?” The man spoke quietly, as though speaking of a secret.
    Everett forked through the lettuce in his bowl, letting the dressing seep through. “As a main plot point or a small mentioning?”
    “Anything.”
    “There were a few tales that mentioned bridging.”
    “I assume you know what bridging is.”
    “It’s the creation of bridges between the material and spirit world.”
    The man put a whole pepper in his mouth and bit it clean at the stem. Everett could feel the spicy juices burn down his own throat.
    “Bridge Masters or Bridge Guardians—whatever you prefer to call them—are special witches. They are rare and have abilities other witches don’t. An example would be an abnormally large energy force—” The man ate another full pepper. “—or sensitivity to the weakest of paranormal spirits.”
    Everett chewed the man’s words in his mind while he chewed a mouthful of lettuce. He didn’t want to speak. He wanted to shovel food in his mouth so he could keep his thoughts to himself. The man watched him, something like impatience tugging at his thick eyebrows.
    “Bridge Masters,” his grandfather finally said, “have increased power. They can create more, but they can also destroy more—this includes themselves.”
    Everett swallowed his lettuce half-chewed. “You think I’m a Bridge Master, so you had Mr….”
    “Pendley,” the man said.
    “Mr. Pendley come over to explain it to me.”
    His grandfather replaced the salad bowl with the pasta bowl. “That’s right.”
    “But my energy pool is small. I have terrible endurance.”
    “You can fix that with practice, and not all Bridge Masters have the same abilities,” his grandfather said.
    “How do you know I’m a Bridge Master?” Everett said.
    “Your aura,” Mr. Pendley said.
    “As a Bridge Master, do I have any… obligations?”
    “You must register with the Order and train with an approved mentor. Your major obligation is to protect the bridge between the living and dead. I understand you occasionally send lost spirits to the afterlife, correct?”
    Everett nodded.
    “Bridge Masters have the ability to cross the bridge. That is the sole ability that separates a Bridge Master from an ordinary witch. Who better to protect the bridge than someone who can cross it?”
    “I can cross the bridge?” Everett had never heard of such a thing. He had read of witches who communicated with and raised the dead, but never of a witch who traveled to the other side. He hadn’t ever heard of anything like a Bridge Master. “Wouldn’t that go against the moral code?”
    “It does, but in special cases, with the Order’s permission, you can break the code,” Mr. Pendley said.
    “Tell me if