Page 19 of Curse in the Quarter
The locket began to pulse with silver light that appeared to emerge from within the metal itself. The glyph sketch responded with warmth spreading across the paper like living fire, symbols brightening until they appeared freshly drawn. Not just magical resonance, but recognition between artifacts sharing a common purpose.
Charlotte’s work calling to her soul across centuries.
Bastien picked up the locket, noting how its essence had changed. Not heavier, but somehow more present, as if proximity to the glyph had awakened functions that had slept for decades. The metal vibrated against his palm with steady rhythm—not quite matching his heartbeat, but close enough to suggest synchronization with some deeper biological process.
He understood now why the supernatural community was growing nervous. If objects crafted centuries ago were reactivating, if dormant magical patterns were stirring to life, then whatever Charlotte had set in motion was approaching culmination.
The question was whether that culmination would destroy Delphine or transform her into something beyond human comprehension.
The clock on his desk read six forty-five. Their appointment was in fifteen minutes—the private consultation Delphine had offered after hours, when they’d have the Archive to themselves. The same meeting he’d agreed to,knowing it would put them alone together in a building full of historical documents that might react to her presence. Not to mention being alone with her . . . if she truly was Charlotte, and Delia, returned to him . . .Bastien’s heart raced at the possibility that his love had truly returned to him
Bastien stared at the locket in his palm for long minutes. He could approach their meeting with standard academic detachment, maintain the distance that had protected them both for twenty-five years. Or he could take the test that would prove whether his hopes were delusion or recognition.
The Archive would be nearly empty at this hour. Delphine alone with historical documents, unaware that her presence among Charlotte’s genealogical records might complete circuits that had been incomplete for over two centuries.
He pocketed the locket and left for Ursulines Street.
Evening light slanted through the Archive’s tall windows as Bastien climbed the front steps. The building felt different in near darkness—less scholarly repository, more temple to accumulated memory. Shadows pooled in corners where afternoon sun didn’t reach, and dust motes danced like spirits in shafts of fading light.
The front door was locked, but warm illumination from the second-floor research room confirmed Delphine was waiting for him. He knocked softly, knowing she would catch the sound despite the building’s solid construction.
Footsteps on wooden floors, the click of locks being turned, and then she stood in the doorway. Hair pulled back in a loose bun, sleeves rolled up from hours of document handling, the kind of focused exhaustion that marked serious research.
“Mr. Durand. Right on time.” She stepped aside to let him enter. “I’ve been looking forward to this consultation.”
“I appreciate you staying after hours.” The words came easily enough, though the locket’s heat against his thigh made every syllable feel weighted with deception. “I hope what I have to share will be worth your time.”
“I’m certain it will be. I’ve been working with some fascinating family records since this afternoon—connections between bloodlines that suggest more intermarriage among the old Creole families than standard genealogies indicate.”
She led him upstairs to the research room, where documents covered every available surface. Family trees drawn in careful ink, photocopied parish records, hand-drawn maps showing property ownership patterns across multiple generations. The kind of exhaustive analysis that revealed hidden connections between people separated by decades or centuries.
The locket pulsed against Bastien’s skin the moment they entered the room.
Not the gentle warmth he’d experienced that morning, but active vibration that now seemed to match the rhythm of Delphine’s heartbeat. Metal heating against his leg as if responding to proximity with something it had indeed been designed to find.
“I’ve been digging deeper into those supernatural incidents we discussed,” Delphine said, gesturing toward a particular section of the table covered with new materials. “Cross-referencing police reports, hospital records, even some private correspondence I found in the restricted collections. The pattern is more extensive than I initially thought—and more recent.”
She moved around the table, pointing out specific connections, and the locket’s vibrationincreased with each step that brought her closer to where he stood. By the time she reached for a particular document, the metal was almost too hot to bear.
“This parish record from 1906 mentions a Delia Moreau whose death in the Saenger Theatre fire was . . .” She paused, studying his expression. “Are you feeling all right? You look pale.”
“Fine,” he managed, though sweat was beginning to bead along his hairline from the locket’s heat. “What were you saying about Delia Moreau?”
“Her death was listed as smoke inhalation, but witness statements describe her being found in an area of the building that shouldn’t have been accessible during the fire. Almost as if someone carried her to safety, then . . .” Delphine shrugged. “Well, then she died anyway. Tragic story.”
She reached for another document, and as her hand passed within inches of where the locket rested, the artifact responded with such violent vibration that Bastien gasped.
The sound brought her attention back to his face, concern replacing academic interest. “Mr. Durand, are you certain you’re well? You’re breathing rather heavily.”
“Just warm in here,” he said, stepping away from the table to gain distance from whatever was triggering the locket’s increasingly violent response.
But as he moved, she moved as well, turning to face him directly, and the locket’s vibration became a continuous hum that threatened to burn through his shirt.
Delphine tilted her head, listening. “Do you hear that? Sounds like . . . humming? Almost musical.”
The soul marked talisman was resonating so intensely now that sound was beginning to escape containment. Charlotte’s creation recognizing its target after decades ofdormancy, responding to proximity with the reincarnated essence it had been crafted to find.
“I should go,” Bastien said, backing toward the research room door. “Let you return to your work.”
