Page 48 of Curse in the Quarter
Twenty minutes later, Delphine arrived wearing jeans and light sweater, carrying a hefty tote, presumably filled with research materials. She’d braided her hair back in a practical style that kept it clear of her face while working. When she smiled and asked what they were dealing with,Bastien’s chest cramped with the memory of Charlotte laughing in candlelight centuries ago.
The Lacroix estate, 1762. Charlotte dipped their fingers in red wine, tracing symbols across parchment while rain drummed against library windows.
“These aren’t just marks,” she whispered, her hand guiding his through geometric patterns that seemed to pulse with their own rhythm. “They’re declarations. Statements that some connections transcend death itself.”
“And if the authorities discover us?” he mused.
“Then we burn for love.” She kissed wine from his knuckles, leaving traces of red on his skin. “Some things are worth the risk.”
The patterns they drew that night had faded by dawn, but their meaning remained burned into his memory. Love as rebellion. Connection as defiance against forces that would separate souls across time and space.
“Show me these symbols,” Delphine said, adjusting the strap of her research satchel.
“Historical symbols appearing in public spaces,” he said, leading her toward the first site. “The police need translation help for what appears to be complex layered magical notation.”
Bastien pointed to the wall where ash and copper ink formed patterns that hurt to examine directly, creating optical illusions that made his eyes want to slide away from direct observation. “There. Do you recognize the construction?”
She approached the markings with academic focus but instant her shadow fell across the glyph, it went dark.
Proximity sigil disruption. Complete energy failure in her presence.
“Remarkable construction,” she murmured, studyingthe now-dormant symbols with professional fascination. “Eighteenth-century base patterns updated with modern techniques. Someone took historical formulas and enhanced them with contemporary understanding of material science and energy manipulation.”
“What do they say?”
“Geographic coordinates, primarily. But also recruitment notices calling for specific bloodline characteristics.” She traced shapes inches from the surface, careful not to damage what she perceived as historical artifacts. “References to consciousness expansion, spiritual networking, essence redistribution. This isn’t amateur work. Someone with advanced knowledge of both historical practices and modern applications created these.”
The glyph remained completely inert under her examination. Bastien documented the deactivation with his phone while she continued her own analysis, completely unaware her presence had nullified the very energy she was studying. To her eyes, she was examining elaborate but harmless graffiti. To his enhanced senses, she was a walking dead zone for magical energy.
They moved through the Quarter methodically, following reports that had been flooding police dispatch since sunrise. Each site revealed the same pattern: complex magical networks that died the moment Delphine approached. Symbols calling for bloodlines to gather at midnight coordinates. Messages written in materials that violated basic physics.
At a Royal Street antique shop, symbols covered the entire storefront in spiraling patterns that created a dizzying visual effect. Tourists gathered to photograph the display, their phones struggling to capture images that seemed to shift and blur whenever viewed through digital media.
“These are significantly more complex,” Delphine observed, studying the arrangements through her magnifying glass. “Multiple layers of meaning encoded into overlapping symbol systems. It’s like reading several different languages simultaneously, each one providing context for the others.”
The stabilization effect was becoming impossible to ignore. Everywhere Delphine went, chaotic energy settled into manageable patterns. Her very existence acted as a regulatory mechanism, bringing order to forces that had been building toward dangerous instability.
“The recruitment messages are quite specific,” she said, photographing symbols before they could fade further. “They’re targeting families with documented colonial-era connections to New Orleans. Not just any historical ties, but bloodlines specifically linked to practitioners who experimented with consciousness preservation techniques.”
“Consciousness preservation?”
“Methods for maintaining individual awareness across physical death. Soul-binding rituals, essence transfer procedures, techniques for anchoring spiritual energy to physical anchors.” She moved to another section of the storefront. “Highly advanced theoretical work that would require generations of accumulated knowledge to perfect. You know, reincarnation?”
“We should examine the cathedral markings,” he said, needing to confirm the scope of what they were dealing with and change the subject.
By the time they reached Jackson Square, Bastien understood what he was witnessing. Delphine wasn’t triggering the glyphs. She was killing them. Her presence acted like a circuit breaker, shutting down magical energy the moment she came within range.
The cathedral fence was covered in ash and copper patterns so intricate they formed a single massive diagram. Everything pointed toward St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, creating arrows of intention that were visible even from a distance.
“I know these arrangements,” Delphine said, voice tight with confusion that bordered on recognition. “The mathematical relationships between symbols, the geometric progression of the overall design. I’ve dreamed them since childhood.”
“Dreams of what?”
“Geometric patterns that felt important but never made sense when I woke up. Designs that seemed to carry emotional weight, as if they were connected to something I’d lost but couldn’t remember.” She moved closer to the fence, studying details that resonated with knowledge she couldn’t consciously access. “It’s like seeing my own artwork that I don’t remember creating.”
Every symbol went dark as she approached, the entire fence system shutting down in a cascade failure that left only ash stains and metal residue behind. But she was too focused on pattern analysis to notice the dramatic change her proximity had caused.
“The complexity suggests this isn’t just one person’s work,” she said, photographing the dormant markings. “This requires the kind of coordinated effort that spans generations. Multiple practitioners working toward a common goal, building on each other’s research across decades or centuries.”
