Page 10 of Curse in the Quarter
The confession slipped out before he could stop it, and her expression shifted—not recognition, but something deeper. A moment of connection that transcended their professional interaction.
“That’s . . . thank you. That’s kind of you to say.”
They worked in comfortable, almost companionable, silence for the next hour, Delphine providing historical context while Bastien took notes and tried to ignore the growing heat of the locket. The pattern was becoming clear—the arcane recursion was targeting specific bloodlines, building toward a convergence when all the affected families reached maximum supernatural sensitivity simultaneously.
“There’s one more thing,” Delphine said as they neared the bottom of the archival materials. “Something I probablyshouldn’t show you, since it’s not officially part of our collection.”
She reached into her desk drawer and withdrew a slim leather journal, its cover worn smooth by age. “This belonged to my great-great-grandmother. Family legend says she was present during the 1906 fire, that she witnessed things the official reports don’t mention.”
The moment his fingers touched the leather cover, the locket nearly burned through his shirt. Whatever was written in these pages was directly connected to the soul-tethering magic that bound him to Charlotte’s bloodline.
He opened to the first page and found spidery handwriting in faded brown ink:
“The flames were not natural flames. They burned with purpose, with intention, following patterns that spoke of ritual work gone terribly wrong. I saw figures dancing in the fire, saw them reach for connections that should have been forged in love but were severed by chaos instead.”
“She mentions seeing a man in the flames,” Delphine said, leaning closer to read over his shoulder. “Someone who appeared to be searching for something—or someone—he’d lost.”
Bastien found the passage she meant:
“He moved through the burning district as if the flames could not touch him, calling a name I could not quite hear. There was such anguish in his voice, such desperate love, that even strangers wept to hear it. When the fire finally died, I saw him cradling something in his arms, and I knew that whatever he had sought, he had found it too late.”
The words hit him like physical blows. This woman—Delphine’s ancestor—had witnessed his final moments with Delia. Had seen him carry her lifeless body fromthe ruins. Had recorded his grief for posterity without ever knowing who he was or what he had lost.
His hands held the slightest tremor as he held the journal.
“Are you all right?” Delphine asked. “You look pale.”
“Fine,” he lied. “Just intense material.”
“It is that. Grandmother always said her great-grandmother never got over what she saw that night. She would wake up sometimes, even decades later, talking about the man in the flames and how his sorrow had changed the very air around him.”
Bastien closed the journal and handed it back to her with hands that weren’t quite steady. “Thank you for sharing this. It provides context that the official records lack.”
“I hope it helps with your investigation.” She filed the journal away, then began gathering the archival materials they’d been studying. “Though I have to ask—what exactly are you investigating? You mentioned current incidents that might connect to historical patterns, but you’ve been rather vague about specifics.”
The question was reasonable, professional. But something in her tone suggested deeper curiosity—not just about his case, but about him personally.
“Unexplained phenomena in the Quarter,” he said. “Events that don’t fit normal parameters but seem to follow historical patterns. My clients prefer discretion.”
“I see.” She finished stacking the files, but her gaze remained fixed on his face. “And does your investigation involve any personal interest in these particular historical events?”
The question was perceptive enough to send alarmthrough his chest. She was intelligent, observant, and she’d had an hour to study his reactions to the archival materials.
“Professional interest only,” he said, standing to indicate the meeting was over.
“Of course.” But her smile suggested she didn’t entirely believe him. “Well, if you need any additional research assistance, please don’t hesitate to call. The Obscura Archive specializes in these kinds of unusual historical inquiries.”
She handed him a business card—simple white cardstock with her name and the Archive’s contact information. As their fingers brushed during the exchange, the locket pulsed so violently he nearly dropped the card.
If Delphine noticed his reaction, she gave no sign. But as he turned to leave, she spoke again.
“Mr. Durand? That melody I was humming—if you ever remember where you’ve heard it before, I’d be curious to know. It’s been bothering me for years, feeling like I should remember something about it but never quite managing to place what.”
He paused at the Archive door, his hand on the handle. The honest thing would be to tell her she’d hummed that melody in 1906, that it had been the soundtrack to the happiest moments of his existence and the most devastating night of his life. That he’d carried it with him for 119 years like a wound that never healed.
Instead, he said, “If I remember, I’ll let you know.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
