Page 40 of Curse in the Quarter
Crescent Moon territory stretched through bayou country twenty miles southeast of the Quarter, where ancient cypress groves provided cover for beings who needed space to run without observation. The pack had maintained those boundaries for over a century, their territorial markers serving as buffersbetween human settlements and creatures whose nature demanded freedom most mortals couldn’t understand.
If the contamination had jumped species barriers, if it was marking werewolves now, then every assumption about the soul-binding magic’s limitations needed revision. The territorial boundaries of Crescent Moon pack had never once failed in over a century.
The keepsake locket burned against Bastien’s chest as he descended to street level, metal heating like it was being forged in active flame. Each step toward his car intensified the sensation until he had to grip the steering wheel with both hands to keep from tearing the artifact from around his neck.
The drive took him through parishes where civilization gave way to wild spaces that remembered Louisiana before European settlement. Spanish moss hung from live oaks like tattered shrouds, and the very air grew thick with humidity that carried scents of growing things and decay in equal measure. Here, where modern development hadn’t yet conquered ancient rhythms, the boundary between mundane and otherworldly wore thin enough that even ordinary humans sometimes glimpsed truths their minds weren’t equipped to process.
But tonight felt different. The moonlight reflected against the water in patterns that created a cognitive overload. Road signs that seemed to shift position when viewed peripherally. Even the radio gave only static, as if something was interfering with electromagnetic transmission across the entire region.
Territory markers began appearing along the highway—massive live oaks whose trunks bore symbols carved by werewolf claws, warnings that told intruders they were entering lands where pack law superseded human authority.The carvings should have hummed with protective power, ancient wards maintaining boundaries that had kept peace between species for generations.
Tonight they flickered like dying candles.
Tib Thibodeaux waited beside the largest boundary stone, his usual confidence cracked like poorly set concrete. Midforties with the build of someone who’d spent decades working with his hands, he carried authority that came from leading creatures whose nature demanded respect rather than requesting it. But tonight he looked like a man watching his world collapse in ways he couldn’t prevent or understand.
“Started three hours ago,” Tib said without preamble, leading Bastien along paths worn by generations of pack members. “Young Gabriel—Marie’s nephew—collapsed during evening patrol. Same fever we’ve been hearing about from Quarter victims, but worse. Much worse.”
They walked deeper into territory where cypress shadows concealed more than darkness. The familiar scents of wild growth and pack musk were overwhelmed by something that made Bastien’s fallen nature recoil—jasmine twisted through burned copper, like expensive perfume poured over heated iron. But concentrated now, aggressive in ways that suggested whatever force was spreading the contamination had found new methods of transmission.
“Where is he now?”
“Safe house near the deep water. Roxy’s with him, along with Marie and two of our strongest females. But the pack’s splitting apart over what’s causing this.” Tib’s voice carried strain of someone trying to hold together a community under assault by forces they couldn’t identify or fight. “Half claim this is Marcelline's court testing our defenses before making moves on territory. The other half points tofae involvement—say the glyphs match patterns from Summer Court workings.”
“What do you think?”
“I think we’re dealing with something older than political squabbles. Something that views our territorial boundaries as inconveniences rather than law.” He paused beside a clearing where the ground bore scorch marks in patterns that seemed to writhe when observed directly. “Gabriel found these symbols carved into cypress bark. Said they felt familiar, like half-remembered dreams from childhood. The moment he touched the trees the marking began.” Tib stopped walking and met Bastien's eyes directly. “These markings aren't random. They're targeting specific bloodlines, specific families. Three wolves affected so far, all from lineages that helped establish pack boundaries in the 1800s.”
The safe house emerged from swamp mist like something from another century—raised on cypress stilts above water that reflected stars in impossible configurations, built from lumber that had absorbed decades of protective workings. Light blazed from tall windows, but not electric illumination. This was the cold silver glow that marked fever burning through consciousness too human to process what was being forced upon it.
Inside, the structure buzzed with pack energy focused on protection and healing. Werewolves in human form clustered around a bed where a young man convulsed against leather restraints, his exposed torso mapped with glyphs that pulsed in rhythm with his racing heartbeat. The markings covered him from collarbone to navel, creating networks that seemed to reach beyond individual flesh toward something vast and hungry.
But these patterns were different fromwhat Bastien had documented in Quarter victims. More complex, more aggressive, as if the soul-binding magic had adapted to enhanced physiology and found ways to exploit the additional power flowing through werewolf bloodlines.
“Gabriel Crowley, Jr.,” Roxy said without looking up from her position beside the bed. Tall and lean with the practical competence that marked her as Tib’s natural second-in-command, she monitored vital signs while pack instincts tracked contamination spreading through their territory. “Twenty-three years old, third generation born on pack lands. Strong territorial connection, stronger than most of the younger wolves.”
“When did the symptoms begin?”
“Hour after sunset. He was checking southern boundaries when he caught scent of something that didn’t belong—old power that tasted like graveyards and roses, like something beautiful that had been buried too long.” She gestured toward glyphs spreading across the young werewolf’s chest. “Followed the trail to that clearing Tib showed you. The carved symbols were still smoking when he found them.”
Celeste Boudreaux emerged from the back room of the safe house, her arms full of herbs that wouldn’t address otherworldly contamination but might ease physical symptoms. Gabriel’s aunt carried pack authority in her bearing despite technically ranking below Tib in the territorial hierarchy. Her dark eyes held worry mixed with determination—the look of someone who’d watched family suffer and was prepared to do anything necessary to stop it.
“Two others have been affected,” she said, setting down bundles of sage and sweetgrass. “Both young males from families with the strongest connections to original territorial settlements. Whatever’s marking our people, it’s targeting bloodlines with the deepest ties to this land.”
“Targeting how?” Bastien asked, studying Gabriel Jr.’s markings with growing alarm.
“The affected wolves all trace ancestry back to the 1800s, when the first packs established boundaries in this region. Families that helped negotiate treaties with vampire courts and fae settlements, bloodlines that have been intermarrying for generations to strengthen territorial bonds.” Her voice carried weight of knowledge passed down through pack memory. “Someone’s using our genealogical connections against us.”
He studied the glyphs covering the young werewolf, noting how they formed patterns that seemed designed for connection rather than containment. If the soul-binding magic was exploiting bloodline glyph resonance through different species, then every established pack, coven, and court in the region faced potential contamination. The network wasn’t spreading randomly—it was following ancestral pull through inheritance patterns that connected beings across generations of careful breeding designed to preserve power.
“Any direct connection to Quarter incidents?”
“Not physical contact,” Tib said, his investigation having covered every angle pack resources could examine. “But two of our people work in the city—delivery drivers, construction crews. They could have encountered contaminated sites without realizing what they were touching.”
Gabriel Jr.’s back arched as new symbols burned themselves across his ribs. The scent of jasmine and heated copper intensified until breathing required conscious effort. But beneath the contamination, Bastien detected something else—jasmine perfume that made the locket pulse against his chest with violent recognition.
Delphine. Not physically present, but her essence waswoven through the patterns marking the young werewolf. Whatever she’d been researching at the Archive was creating sympathetic resonance across miles of swampland, her proximity to Charlotte’s documented work affecting souls she’d never met.
“The markings respond to proximity with specific individuals,” Bastien said carefully, unwilling to reveal too much about Delphine’s role without understanding how pack politics might affect her safety. “People carrying certain genealogical connections can either accelerate contamination or provide relief.”
