Page 5 of Curse in the Quarter
Bastien plotted the locations on his wall map, connecting pins with red thread until a pattern emerged. The incidents formed a rough circle centered on the rebuilt Saenger Theatre, each point equidistant from where the original building had burned in 1906.
His coffee grew cold as he stared at the map. Coincidence was possible, but in his experience, supernatural events rarely arranged themselves in perfect geometric patterns without cause.
Rain began to fall as he stepped onto Dauphine Street—not the gentle shower that might cool the perpetual humidity but driving precipitation that sent humans scurrying for cover and left the supernatural community free to conduct business in relative privacy. Perfect weather for a walking patrol of the Quarter’s mystical boundaries.
The territorial markers that kept the otherworldly factions of New Orleans from tearing each other apart showed signs of strain. Vampire hunting grounds bled into werewolf territory. Fae courts’ glamours sparked and stuttered. Witches’ shops pulsed with uncontrolled energy that made his teeth ache.
Outside Muriel’s Restaurant, where a century-old treaty between vampire courts and local covens had been negotiated over wine and rare steaks, the building’s concealment glamour flickered. Through the gaps, he glimpsed what lay beneath: walls covered in symbols that hurt to look at directly, furniture casting shadows in impossible directions.
The Veil was thinning. The barrier between human and supernatural worlds was developing cracks that would soon become tears.
A couple blocks north, the situation worsened. Café Dumond’s outdoor seating hosted the usual mix of tourists and locals, but Bastien’s enhanced senses picked up dangerous details others missed. The vampire at table three had allowed his supernatural aura to bleed through his human facade. The fae woman reading tarot cards displayed her true features—pointed ears, eyes that reflected light in inhuman ways. A werewolf in human form sat near the counter, amber eyes glowing in the morning light.
None seemed aware of their exposure. The problem wasn’t intentional revelation but involuntary failure of concealment magics that kept the supernatural world hidden.
“Coffee, honey?” The waitress asked as she stood next to the table he occupied. She was young, pretty, and entirely human. But as she leaned over to fill his cup, she began to hum.
Bastien’s grip tightened on the white, porcelain mug. The melody was simple, barely more than a handful of notes, but it wrapped around his chest with familiar pressure. So close to Delia’s unconscious song that his breath caught.
He forced himself to listen more carefully, to parse the subtle differences that separated this tune from the one that had haunted him across decades. The rhythm was similar, but the intervals were wrong. The emotional weight was missing. Another echo, another false hope in a city full of them.
“Thank you,” he managed, leaving money on the table withouttouching the coffee.
The walk to Rampart Street took him through Jackson Square, where artists and fortune tellers plied their trades beneath St. Louis Cathedral’s shadow. More glamour failures. More supernatural beings struggling to maintain human facades. A problem this widespread suggested something fundamental was wrong with the city’s mystical infrastructure.
But it was the cathedral itself that stopped him cold.
The building’s blessed architecture should have repelled supernatural intrusion, should have blazed with protective light visible only to otherworldly senses. Instead, it appeared muted, its spiritual defenses operating at perhaps half their normal strength. Whatever was affecting the Quarter’s magical systems had power enough to dim even consecrated ground.
Bastien quickened his pace toward Maman Brigitte’s shop.
The Creole cottage that housed her practice was older than the Louisiana Purchase and had witnessed more supernatural drama than most battlefields. Wind chimes made from bones and bottle glass announced his arrival as he pushed through the door, breathing familiar scents of sage, graveyard dirt, and accumulated wisdom.
“You look worse than usual,” Maman observed without glancing up from the tarot spread on her reading table. “Death walked over your grave again?”
“The glamours are failing citywide,” he said, settling into the chair across from her. “Whatever’s causing it affects multiple species simultaneously.”
“I know.” She turned over three cards with practiced efficiency: The Tower, Death, The Lovers. “Old sickness stirring. Pattern locked in place for over a century starting to move again.”
The Tower showed a building struck by lightning, figures falling from its heights. Death rode his pale horse across a battlefield where nothing would grow again. The Lovers stood beneath an angel’s blessing, their hands almost touching but never quite meeting.
“Arcane recursion,” Maman continued, her voice carrying the weight of knowledge gained through decades of watching the supernatural politics of New Orleans. “When the past refuses to stay buried. When magical patterns laid down generations ago start repeating themselves.”
Bastien studied the cards, noting troubling details. The Tower’s lightning bolt was silver, not gold. Death’s horse had eyes of burning coals. The angel above The Lovers wore an expression of profound sorrow rather than blessing.
“How long has this been building?”
“Started a couple days ago, subtle-like. Gained strength yesterday. Today . . .” She gestured toward the window, where rain continued to fall in patterns unlike any natural weather. “Today it’s announcing itself.”
“Connected to 1906?”
Maman’s dark eyes met his, and he saw centuries of accumulated knowledge there. She had been young then, barely more than apprentice to the woman who had held her title before. But she remembered the fires, the chaos, the way the Veil had torn and nearly shattered completely.
“Some wounds don’t heal,” she said carefully. “They scab over and wait for the right conditions to start bleeding again.”
She reached beneath her reading table and withdrew a leather journal bound with silver wire. The cover was scarred and water-stained, but protective symbols carved into the leather still held traces of power.
“Found this in my predecessor’s papers last night. Beenlooking for it since the recursion started.” She opened the journal to a page marked with black ribbon. “Notes about the 1906 incident. Mentions ‘soul-tethering magic gone wrong’ and ‘connections severed that should have held across lifetimes.’”
