Page 28 of Curse in the Quarter
Camille’s breathing shifted from shallow to deep, her fever-flushed features relaxing as whatever force controlled the markings prepared for communication. The glyphs brightened across her torso, silver light visible even through the hospital gown.
Her eyes opened with sudden focus. She looked around the isolation ward with confusion that quickly shifted to recognition when her gaze found Bastien.
“The investigator,” she said, her voice carrying inflections that belonged to another era. “Emmett said you understand what’s happening.”
“Tell me about dancing with Emmett.”
“Normal until the band changed sets. Started playing melodies I’d never heard but somehow knew perfectly.” Her hand traced patterns beneath the hospital gown. “Emmett got this look, like he was seeing someone else where I stood. Then I felt her too—calling my name from very far away, using a voice that had been trying to reach me my entire life.”
“What did she want?”
“For me to complete what she started. Said my spirit carried connections to work that had been interrupted but never abandoned.” Tears started down her face. “Beautiful and terrible and so alone. Like she’d been waiting centuries for someone to help her.”
The same contact with Charlotte’s essence previous victims had described, but deeper. Camille wasn’t just marked—she was merging with the consciousness that had created the soul-binding magic.
“These markings—how do they feel?”
“Like sharing space in my head with someone who remembers gardens and candlelight, conversations in languages I understand without learning.” Her expression grew distant.
Before Bastien could respond, footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Expensive leather on polished floors, moving with predatory grace that suggested centuries of practice in spaces where missteps proved fatal.
“Such fascinating symptoms for what appears to be a natural medical condition.”
The voice belonged to Valentin Rousseau—tall, elegant, wearing clothes that cost more than most people earned in months. His pale blue eyes reflected the isolation ward’s fluorescents with predatory intensity that marked him as vampirenobility.
“Monsieur Rousseau,” Bastien said carefully. “Unexpected to see you here.”
“Is it? When mysterious illnesses affect mortals who frequent establishments under our protection?” Valentin’s gaze flicked meaningfully toward Detective Novak and the attending physician. “Perhaps we could discuss the patient’s condition more privately?”
The suggestion carried weight that brooked no argument. Bastien nodded to Novak. “I’ll be back shortly.”
They walked through sterile corridors until Valentin found an empty conference room, checking to ensure no staff lingered nearby before closing the door. Only then did his carefully neutral expression shift to reveal genuine concern.
“The community grows concerned about potential misunderstandings regarding our involvement,” Valentin said, his voice now carrying the authority of someone accustomed to command. “The vampire courts of New Orleans operate under treaties that have maintained peace for decades. If this spreading contamination is blamed on vampiric aggression, those agreements could collapse into warfare between factions.”
“This isn’t vampiric in origin.”
“No? Then perhaps you’ll share insights about what is causing these manifestations before public perception creates problems for all our communities?” Fangs gleamed as Valentin smiled. “My courts would be most grateful.”
Bastien considered how much to reveal. Vampires were political creatures—information was currency, and knowledge could be weaponized in ways that endangered everyone involved.
“Soul-binding magic,” Bastien said. “Techniquesdesigned to preserve spiritual connections across lifetimes, corrupted into weapons for mass conscription.”
“And this corruption originates where?”
“From experiments Charlotte Lacroix conducted in the 1760s. She developed theories about consciousness surviving death, about love transcending mortal limitations.”
Valentin’s vampiric authority manifested as weight that pressed against the isolation ward’s mundane atmosphere. “Charlotte Lacroix. Yes, I remember her. Brilliant woman, dangerous ideas. She approached our courts seeking assistance with immortality research—claimed she could offer eternal existence without our . . . complications.”
“You knew her?”
“New Orleans was smaller then. Our communities more intimate.” Valentin’s enhanced senses cataloged details invisible to mortal perception. “Her work showed promise until it killed her. Massive mystical backlash nearly tore the Veil apart. Took months to repair territorial boundaries.”
“What caused the backlash?”
“Ritual interruption. Outside interference that corrupted her carefully prepared working.” The vampire’s gaze shifted to Bastien with calculating intensity. “Though I suspect you possess more detailed knowledge than official records contain.”
“There’s more,” Bastien said. “The markings respond to proximity with specific individuals. When certain people approach victims, the glyphs stabilize. Contamination stops spreading, fever breaks, consciousness transfer slows.”
