Page 47 of Curse in the Quarter
“The entities won’t allow interference?—”
“Let us worry about the entities,” Marcelline said, vampiric authority making her words carry weight of absolute commitment. “Multiple communities have stake in preserving your freedom to choose. We’ll ensure you have access to complete information before dawn deadline.”
Through the phone, they could hear sounds of movement—papers rustling, furniture scraping against floors, voices that spoke in harmonics making walls vibrate with otherworldly resonance.
“They’re getting impatient,” Delphine said. “Whatever we’re going to do, it needs to happen quickly.”
“Hold them off,” Bastien said, already moving toward the cemetery exit.
“Bastien?”
“Yes?”
“Whatever Charlotte embedded in those defenses, whatever choice she really wanted me to make—I trust your judgment about what serves love rather than just survival. I’ll find a way to meet you at Café Dumond.”
The line died, leaving him standing among marble tombs while dawn approached with deadly certainty. Around him, beings from multiple communities preparedfor coordinated action that would either preserve Delphine’s freedom to choose or trigger systematic harvesting that could eliminate every marked soul in New Orleans.
Somewhere in the darkness ahead, Delphine was learning to access power she didn't understand, channeling forces through corrupted infrastructure that would either save or doom everyone connected to Charlotte's bloodline network.
And this time, love would either prove strong enough to transcend the limitations these entities claimed were absolute, or it would fail in the attempt to preserve individual choice against forces viewing souls as resources to be managed.
“Some burdens are easier when shared.”
Perhaps some knowledge transcended individual incarnations. Perhaps love preserved across lifetimes carried within it not just personal recognition, but understanding of larger purposes that connected individual souls to species responsibility.
The locket pulsed against his chest—not warning, but recognition. After two and a half centuries of faithful service, Charlotte’s most sophisticated creation was finally guiding him toward whatever destiny she’d prepared with infinite patience and careful planning.
Whether that destiny included room for conscious choice, whether it preserved the love that had motivated its creation, whether it would prove stronger than entities seeking to harvest human consciousness—all of that would be decided before the sun rose over New Orleans.
The war was beginning in earnest.
Time was running out.
But for the first time sincethe contamination began, they had allies, they had purpose, and they had hope that Charlotte’s genius had found a way to transcend the false choice between evolution and protection. Her most sophisticated creation was finally guiding them toward whatever destiny she'd prepared with infinite patience and careful planning.
Thirteen
Bastien’s knuckles were raw from where he’d gripped the keepsake locket too tightly. Seventeen glyphs had appeared overnight across the Quarter. Each one burned silver against brick and glass, visible even to mundane eyes.
His phone buzzed. Detective Novak, already three cups into what would be a very long day.
“Hello, Detective Novak. What can I do for you?”
“Times-Picayuneis asking questions. Can’t blame weather patterns for symbols that glow in broad daylight. I need someone who understands this, or I need someone to arrest,” he said with a long and heavy sigh.
“The markings follow a pattern. Geographic coordinates pointing toward specific bloodlines.” Bastien released the locket, flexing fingers that had gone numb from pressure. “I’ll bring my consultant.”
“The archivist? Fine. But if she can’t explain why downtown looks like a ritual site, I’m calling the feds.”
The line went dead. Bastien studied his reflection in the office window, noting the shadowsunder his eyes and the tension that had settled permanently in his shoulders. One hundred and nineteen years of waiting, and now everything was accelerating beyond his control.
He walked the Quarter’s streets, documenting each new manifestation. The symbols weren’t random graffiti; they were clearly the network activation. Someone was using the city itself as a massive ritual diagram, with each glyph serving as a node in a larger working that spanned blocks.
Café du Monde bore markings that spiraled up its brick facade in patterns that made tourists step back with inexplicable unease. Royal Street showcased symbols etched into storefront windows, the glass somehow accepting ash and copper ink that should have been impossible to adhere. Even St. Louis Cathedral’s ancient stone bore fresh markings that pulsed with silver light, creating a spectacle that had already drawn news crews and city officials.
The glyph sprawl was unlike anything in his documented experience. Previous incidents had been isolated, affecting individual victims through personal contact with contaminated objects. This was public, aggressive, spreading faster than any containment effort could manage.
Tourists gathered around the more spectacular displays, taking photos that would never quite capture what they were seeing. Their phones struggled with the silver light, producing images that seemed to shift and blur whenever viewed through digital media.
