Page 17 of Curse in the Quarter
“The original sigils were designed to preserve spiritual connections across physical death. Very advanced theoretical work, though most practitioners considered it toodangerous to attempt.” She opened a reference book, flipping to a page containing Charlotte’s family sigils. “But these modifications seem designed to force connections onto unwilling subjects. To conscript souls into spiritual networks whether they consent or not.”
As she spoke, her hand moved to her throat, fingers touching something beneath her blouse. A pendant—the same unconscious gesture Emmett had described.
“May I ask about your necklace?”
She looked puzzled, then self-conscious. “It’s . . . I don’t remember buying it. Found it in my jewelry box last week, but it feels familiar somehow. Like something I’ve always owned.” She pulled the chain free, revealing a small silver locket that made Bastien’s heart stop.
Identical to the keepsake he carried—same size, same engravings, even the same tarnish patterns that spoke of age and careful handling. But where his locket contained Delia’s pressed violet, this one was empty, waiting for something to fill the void at its center.
Charlotte had made two lockets. One for him to carry, one that would find its way to her reincarnated soul when the time was right.
“Interesting craftsmanship,” he managed, though his voice sounded strained.
“Isn’t it? I keep meaning to research the maker’s marks, but I haven’t found time.” She tucked the locket back beneath her blouse, but not before he noticed how it caught the light—not reflecting illumination but generating its own subtle glow. “Anyway, about these symbols. If someone is using modified soul-binding magic to mark unwilling subjects, we’re dealing with seriously dangerous territory.”
She leaned closer to examine the sketches. The proximity made both lockets pulse with synchronized rhythm,their harmonics creating a standing wave of mystical energy that thickened the air.
The papers began to smoke.
Not burning but releasing thin wisps of vapor that carried the scent of burned roses and copper—the same mystical signature that had marked Emmett’s house and the Preservation Hall incident. As Delphine’s breath touched the ink, the symbols began to glow with faint silver light, pulsing in rhythm with the dual lockets.
“What . . .” she began, then stopped as the phenomenon intensified.
The sketches grew hot beneath her fingers, their lines brightening until the sigils seemed to lift from the paper entirely. For a moment, they hung in the air between them—living symbols of mystical force that recognized her presence and responded to proximity with her inherited essence.
Delphine jerked her hands back, but the damage was done. The spirit imprint embedded in Charlotte’s corrupted sigils had made contact with its intended target. The resonant inheritance flowing through her bloodline had awakened forces dormant for decades, waiting for the moment when the right soul would touch the right combination of symbols and complete circuits that spanned centuries.
“I think,” she said slowly, staring at her fingertips where traces of silver light still flickered, “we should probably discuss what kind of forces we’re dealing with here.”
The locket against Bastien’s chest burned like a coal, its metal growing so hot he could feel it through his shirt. But he couldn’t tell her. Not yet. Not until he understood what Maestro’s revelations meant for her safety and choices.
Instead, he gathered the sketches, noting how they’d been changed by contact with her essence. The lines weredarker now, more defined, as if her touch had strengthened whatever power they contained.
“Perhaps we should schedule a more private consultation,” he said. “What I’m investigating may be more complex than standard historical research can address.”
“I was afraid you might say that.” But her tone suggested curiosity rather than concern. “My schedule is clear this evening. Would seven o’clock work? I could stay after hours, and we’d have the Archive to ourselves.”
The offer sent alarm through his chest. Alone with her in a building full of historical documents that might react to her presence the way the sketches had? With both lockets pulsing in harmony and mystical forces building toward whatever cosmic conclusion Maestro had described?
But Emmett’s hollow-eyed desperation reminded him that delay wasn’t an option. Every day they waited, more people would be marked by corrupted soul-binding magic.
“Seven o’clock,” he agreed. “Thank you.”
“Of course. Though I have to ask . . .” She studied his face with the intensity of someone who made her living reading between historical lines. “This isn’t just academic research, is it? There’s something personal in how you’re approaching these symbols.”
The observation was too perceptive for comfort, but he’d learned decades ago that the best lies contained fragments of truth.
“I’ve encountered similar markings before,” he said. “In other cases, other cities. There are patterns that repeat across time and geography and understanding them can prevent unfortunate repetitions.”
“I see.” But her expression suggested she’d filed away his evasion for later consideration. “Well, I’ll pull everything we have on 18th-century soul-binding practices. Ifsomeone is using modified versions of historical techniques, we’ll need to understand the original methods before we can predict what the modifications might accomplish.”
The afternoon sun was harsh after the Archive’s dim interior, but it couldn’t burn away the image of silver light flickering around Delphine’s fingertips or the memory of her unconscious reach for the locket Charlotte had crafted for this moment.
As he walked toward his office, Bastien found himself remembering another afternoon when sunshine had felt like judgment and magical forces had gathered around a woman who didn’t understand what she represented.
The Lacroix estate's hidden library in 1762, where Charlotte spread forbidden texts across mahogany tables by candlelight. Books that had been smuggled from Prague, manuscripts copied in secret by scholars who understood that some knowledge was too dangerous for public consumption. She wore midnight blue silk that made her appear carved from shadow and starlight.
“Look at this,” she whispered, pointing to diagrams that seemed to move in the flickering light. “Consciousness preservation across physical death. Not resurrection—something far more sophisticated.”
