Page 33 of Curse in the Quarter
“I don’t know.”
“Then maybe it’s time to find out. Some secrets eat the keeper alive, leaving nothing but regret and missed opportunities. Others preserve what needs preserving until the right moment for revelation arrives.” Her voice carried absolute certainty. “But reading her own words, hearing her voice through different lips, watching her unconsciously repeat gestures that connected you across lifetimes—that’s the universe telling you the moment has come.”
“What if the truth destroys everything?”
“What if hiding it destroys the everything you already have?”
The line went dead, Maman never stating why she’d called in the first place, leaving him on Ursulines Street with choices that would determine whether love could survive revelation or whether protection would prove to be just another form of separation.
Inside the Archive, Delphine was probably still studying Delia’s letter, trying to understand historical spiritual practices that represented her own soul’s deepest intuitions. She deserved to know that the woman who’d written those words was herself, that the guardian angel she’d addressed was him, that the connection she’d sensed was real and had survived more than a century of separation.
Bastien straightened his shoulders and turned back toward the Archive entrance. Whatever the risk, whatever the consequences, Delphine would make her choices with full knowledge of what they meant.
He’d failed to trust Delia with revelations that could have validated her deepest intuitions. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
The Archive door opened to the scent of old paper and accumulated wisdom, to Delphine’s voice asking if he felt better, to the weight of secrets that had been kept too long.
“There’s something else you need to know about that letter,” he said, settling back into his chair with resolve that felt like armor against cosmic forces. “About who wrote it, and who it was meant for.”
Her gaze—Delia’s gaze, Charlotte’s gaze, the same soul looking at him across lifetimes—met his with curiosity that would soon become recognition.
“Tell me,” she said, and her voice carried the same determined courage that had once intuited divine protection without understanding its source.
Outside, afternoon light slanted through Spanish moss in patterns that reminded him of fog on a rooftop where truths had been spoken that still echoed across more than a century of loss and hope.
This time, perhaps, intuition would be validated rather than dismissed.
Nine
The scent trail led Bastien through the Quarter’s back streets like a thread of malice woven through humid night air. Burned copper and jasmine—the signature left by whoever was crafting the corrupted glyphs spreading through the city. Each breath carried traces of ancient magic twisted beyond recognition.
It had been hardly a day since he’d left Camille Landry convulsing in her hospital bed. Barely any time at all following residue that clung to surfaces and lingered in shadows, growing stronger as darkness deepened around him.
The signature ended at a narrow alley between Dauphine and Bourbon, where wrought iron balconies created shadows overhead. No street signs marked the passage. But Bastien’s senses detected commerce conducted outside legal boundaries.
A black market operated behind glamour that made mortal eyes slide past without recognition. The kind of place where practitioners acquired materials too dangerous for legitimate channels.
The glamour parted like smoke as he approached, revealing a courtyard existing in dimensions larger than the alley should have contained. Stalls arranged in rough circles offered goods ranging from illegal to cosmically forbidden. Dried herbs that could poison souls. Crystals holding fragments of broken curses. Books bound in materials that had never belonged to animals.
At the market’s heart, where traffic converged around an obsidian fountain, Eulalie Voss maintained her permanent stall.
She was younger than expected—perhaps forty, with sharp features suggesting intelligence paired with moral flexibility. Her booth displayed antique occult materials with casual confidence. Manuscripts predating the printing press. Ritual implements crafted by smiths whose names appeared in demonology texts.
Professional knowledge made her dangerous. True expertise made her invaluable.
“The fallen angel seeks answers,” she said without looking up from a grimoire she was cataloging. “Word travels fast when someone investigates patterns certain parties worked hard to establish.”
Her voice carried old New Orleans aristocracy—Creole families that maintained influence through adaptation rather than resistance. Background that provided access to materials others couldn’t acquire.
“You know why I’m here.”
“Soul-binding manifestations throughout the Quarter. Spectacular work, really. Whoever’s orchestrating the expansion shows remarkable understanding of network propagation.” She closed the grimoire, turning to face him directly. Dark eyes held sharpness that could cut. “ThoughI suspect you’re more interested in the source materials than the finished product.”
“Tell me about the replication kits.”
Voss smiled, revealing teeth too white to be natural. “Historical magical reproductions. Techniques documented in manuscripts, recreated through research and considerable expense.” She gestured toward glass cases protecting her most valuable items. “Lacroix family specialties, if you’re interested in eighteenth-century consciousness preservation.”
The display made Bastien’s nature recoil. Ritual daggers whose blades held traces of sacrificial blood. Chalices carved from light-absorbing materials. But his attention fixed on ritual fragments wrapped in black silk—small objects bearing symbols that hurt to observe directly.
