Page 23 of Curse in the Quarter
“Others like who?”
“Fae who view mortal existence as raw material for grander designs. Cosmic entities whose job it is to maintain universal balance through any means necessary. Supernatural beings who would use your transformation to advance their own agendas.” He paused at the threshold. “And Collectors who feed on souls that have grown too powerful for their designated place in the cosmic hierarchy.”
The warnings settled around her like invisible weight, adding layers of danger to revelations already too vast for easy comprehension. She remained at the window, silhouetted against street light that revealed none of the expression on her face.
“Good night, Delphine.”
“Good night . . .Bastien.”
The use of his first name carried significance that transcended simple courtesy. Recognition, perhaps, of connection that went deeper than professional consultation. Or merely acknowledgment that pretense of casual acquaintance had become impossible after what they’d shared.
The Archive’s front door closed behind him with finality that suggested transformation rather than simple departure. As Bastien walked down Ursulines Street toward the Quarter’s heart, he could feel the locket’s warmth against his chest—not the violent vibration of recognition, but a steady pulse that matched his heartbeat.
For the first time in decades,Charlotte’s creation was fulfilling its intended function. Not seeking its target but maintaining connection with the reincarnated soul it had been designed to find.
The test was complete. The recognition was real.
And somewhere in the darkness ahead, forces that had been building for over two centuries were preparing to demand answers about what that recognition would cost.
Six
The call came at six in the morning—Henri Novak’s voice carrying the particular strain that marked a detective who’d cataloged too many impossible events.
“We got another one, Mr. Durand. Same markings, same symptoms. But this time it’s someone who had contact with your first victim.”
Bastien reached for his clothes, exhaustion making his movements clumsy. A week since he’d revealed the truth to Delphine at the Archive. Seven days of watching her process revelations about reincarnation and soul-binding magic while he maintained distance that felt like slow starvation.
“Where?”
“Charity Hospital. Marcus Lafitte—bartender at Blue Note Café where your Emmett Carrow has been drinking. Came in around midnight screaming about fire and women made of ash.”
Bastien was already moving before Novak finished speaking. The drive through empty predawnstreets took less than ten minutes but felt like hours as implications crystallized in his mind. Direct transmission between victims meant the contamination was evolving, adapting, growing stronger.
Charity Hospital rose from the medical district like a monument to human suffering, its emergency entrance bathed in fluorescents that leached color from everything they touched. Bastien found the private room by following the scent—jasmine twisted through something metallic and wrong, like perfume poured over heated copper.
But concentrated now. Aggressive.
“Started two hours after his shift,” Detective Novak said, not bothering with his notebook. Some cases resisted documentation. “Witnesses say he was fine, then collapsed in the parking lot like someone had set him on fire from the inside.”
Marcus Lafitte writhed against restraints that kept him from clawing at his own skin. Late twenties, lean from years behind the bar, but the markings across his torso told a different story entirely.
Soul burn glyphs carved themselves into his flesh in real-time, following vascular pathways that illuminated with each heartbeat. Not tattoos or scars—living symbols that pulsed with silver light, etching themselves deeper with every breath.
“Christ,” Bastien whispered, watching new patterns branch across the man’s ribs.
“Gets worse when he’s conscious,” a nurse said from the doorway. “Keeps asking for someone named Charlotte. Says she’s calling him home through fire that doesn’t burn.”
Marcus Lafitte’s eyes snapped open at the sound of voices. Pupils blown wide, he still focused with terrifying intensity on Bastien’s face.
“You know her,” he gasped, fighting the restraints. “The woman in white. She showed me your face in the flames. Said you’d understand what’s happening to me.”
Ice shot through Bastien’s chest. The victims weren’t just being marked—they were making direct contact with Charlotte’s spiritual essence.
“Tell me about the customer who paid with old coins.”
“Felt like winter given form. Spoke in a voice that carried accents from dead languages.” Marcus’s back arched as new sigils burned themselves across his collarbone. “Asked if I knew people who ‘carried old songs in their blood.’ When I said no, he smiled like I’d given the wrong answer.”
“What happened when you touched the coins?”
