Page 15 of Curse in the Quarter
But the countdown had begun, measured in Delphine’sheartbeat and his own growing certainty that the woman he’d loved across lifetimes was about to face a choice that would determine not just her fate, but the fate of cosmic order itself.
Whatever she decided, whatever she chose to become, he would stand beside her.
Even if it meant challenging heaven itself.
Even if it meant redefining what love meant when directed toward something that transcended every boundary he’d thought permanent.
The locket pulsed once more against his chest, then settled into steady rhythm that matched his footsteps on ancient cobblestones.
Whatever game Maestro had set in motion, whatever cosmic forces were converging on Delphine's existence, one truth remained constant across centuries and transformations.
He would not lose her again.
Four
The call came at four in the morning, pulling Bastien from restless sleep filled with fragments of Maestro’s revelations and the memory of Delphine’s humming. Detective Henri Novak’s voice cut through static with grim efficiency—one of the few NOPD officers who understood that certain cases required consultation with specialists who didn’t appear on any official roster.
“We got a situation at Preservation Hall. Witnesses claiming they saw someone change into something else during last night’s performance. Physical evidence suggests they might not be hallucinating.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“The kind that makes grown men cross themselves and ask for transfers to traffic duty. How soon can you get here?”
Bastien was already reaching for his clothes. “Twenty minutes.”
The keepsake locket pulsed once against his nightstand as he dressed, responding to whatever mystical disturbance had drawn official attention. Another pieceof the puzzle clicking into place, another sign that the arcane recursion building around Delphine’s existence was spreading beyond their ability to contain it quietly.
Preservation Hall stood silent in the pre-dawn darkness, its weathered brick facade revealing nothing of the chaos that had erupted within its walls hours before. Police barriers kept curious locals at bay, though at this hour the French Quarter held only die-hard tourists and those who preferred darkness for their business.
The interior reeked of burned copper and roses.
Bastien’s senses recoiled as he crossed the threshold. The wooden floors, worn smooth by decades of dancing feet, vibrated with residual energy that made his teeth ache. The air pressed against his skin like fever.
Detective Novak waited near the small stage where jazz legends had performed for generations. A heavyset man in his fifties with the kind of face that had cataloged too much human darkness, he’d learned to spot unnatural incidents through twenty years of impossible cases.
“Started around eleven-thirty,” Novak said, consulting his notebook. “Tourist crowd, mostly. Local trio playing traditional jazz. About halfway through their second set, people started screaming that one of the audience members was changing.”
Bastien moved to where the incident had occurred. Scorch marks on the hardwood formed a rough circle eight feet across. The pattern wasn’t random—lines of burned wood created geometric shapes that hurt to look at directly, symbols that spoke of forces older than human civilization.
Soul-binding magic. The same mystical resonance stirring since the arcane recursion began three days ago.
“I need the victim’s information,” Bastien said.
“Emmett Carrow, age thirty-four. Address in theMarigny, works as a bartender at three different clubs.” Novak handed him a photocopy. “Thing is, Mr. Durand, this isn’t the firststrangeevent we’ve had this week. Seven other reports of people acting erratic, claiming to see things that weren’t there, describing dreams that sound more like memories of events they never experienced.”
“All in the same area?”
“Within a twelve-block radius of here. Like something’s spreading from a central point.”
Bastien studied the scorch marks. They pulsed with residual energy, symbols matching fragments from Charlotte’s genealogical records—Lacroix family sigils used for soul-tethering experiments in the 1760s. But these markings were fresh, active, drawing power from sources that should have been dormant for centuries.
“I’ll need to interview Carrow directly,” he said.
“Good luck with that. Man’s terrified, barely coherent. Keeps talking about a woman made of fire calling his name through smoke.” Novak’s expression grew troubled. “Whatever happened to him, it’s left marks that run deeper than skin.”
The addressin the Marigny led to a narrow shotgun house painted in fading pastels, its front porch sagging under architectural neglect. Jasmine and morning glory vines climbed toward windows protected by iron security bars.
Emmett Carrow answered the door like a man expecting executioners. Midthirties with the lean build of someone who spent nights on his feet, he’d been attractiveonce. Now he looked hollow-eyed and gaunt, as if some essential part had been carved away.
