Page 54 of Curse in the Quarter
He stepped from the shadows, letting his boots announce his presence on the cracked asphalt. “Your scent was all over that building. The one marked with ash sigils.”
Her fingers paused over a particularly bright vial, its contents swirling like captured starlight. “Was it now? How unfortunate for me.”
“Cut the games, Voss. You’ve been trafficking more than just soul fragments.”
She raised her head, and those unsettling violet eyes fixed on his with predatory amusement. “Have I? What an interesting accusation.” She straightened, and he noticed the new additions to her appearance since their last encounter—silver chains wound around her wrists, each link inscribed with symbols that hurt to look at directly. “Tell me, Detective, what exactly do you think you’ve discovered?”
The alley felt smaller, as if the walls were creeping closer. He could smell ozone and sulfur, the telltale signs of active magical workings. Whatever Voss had been up to, it was bigger than simple black market dealings.
“I know you’ve been selling to someone with deep pockets and deeper knowledge. Someone who understands what these fragments really are.”
A laugh bubbled up from her throat, sharp and crystalline. “Oh, Bastien. Sweet, predictable, Bastien. Always chasing flames, aren’t you? Even when you know they’ll burn you alive.”
The words hit something raw inside his chest, a wound that never quite healed. Images flashed unbidden—Delia’s face twisted with hurt and accusation, her voice breaking as she threw his badge at his feet, the sound of their apartment door slamming with such finality it might as well have been a coffin lid closing.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, but the words felt hollow.
Voss tilted her head, studying him with the intensity ofa scientist examining a particularly fascinating specimen. “Don’t I? You have such a distinctive pattern, Bastien Durand. Such a . . . harvested recurrence of behavior. Some souls are born to repeat their mistakes across lifetimes, you know. We have a name for your particular affliction.”
The air around them grew thick, oppressive. He could feel power building in the space between them, crackling along his skin like static electricity before a storm.
“What name?” he asked, though every instinct screamed at him not to give her the satisfaction.
Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass. “Tether Widow.”
The words landed cold, piercing him. Something cold settled in his chest, a recognition that came from deeper than conscious memory.
“A soul born to love completely and lose catastrophically,” she continued, her voice taking on the cadence of someone reciting sacred text. “Doomed to watch their beloved die again and again, lifetime after lifetime, always because of choices they make in the name of protection. Always because they think their secrets are shields instead of poison.”
The parlor of her boarding house on Royal Street. Delia sat at the piano, her fingers picking out a melody that seemed to capture starlight in musical form. She looked up when he entered, her face brightening with the kind of joy that made him forget he'd ever fallen from grace.
“You've been working late again,” she said, though her tone held affection rather than accusation. “Mrs. Thibodaux mentioned you didn't come calling yesterday evening.”
“I'm sorry, Del. The case?—”
“Bastien.” She rose from the piano bench, moving toward him with concern shadowing her features. “You lookexhausted. And there's . . .” She hesitated, reaching toward his sleeve where silver dust clung to the fabric. “What is this? It shimmers like nothing I've ever seen.”
He caught her hand before she could touch it, perhaps more sharply than he intended. “It's nothing. Just . . . evidence from a crime scene.”
The light in her eyes dimmed slightly. “You never speak of your work anymore. I used to feel as though I knew your thoughts, but lately . . .” She pulled her hand free, wrapping her arms around herself. “Sometimes I wonder if you're the same man I fell in love with, or if he's been replaced by someone who thinks I cannot be trusted with even the smallest confidence.”
The memory crashed over him without warning—Delia’s voice, raw with months of accumulated hurt and suspicion.
“I’m protecting you?—”
“From what? From who I am? From who we are together?”
The flashback dissolved, leaving him standing in the alley with Voss watching his every reaction with predatory interest.
“There it is,” she said softly. “That soul’s shadow I can smell on you. The weight of all your failures, pressing down like a collapsed star. Tell me, Detective—how many times have you stood where I’m standing and realized you’ve lost her all over again?”
Bastien's hands clenched into fists, but he kept his voice level. Professional. “Who's buying the fragments, Voss?”
“Ah, changing the subject? How wonderfully predictable.” She turned back to her vials, selecting one filled with what looked like liquidmidnight. “But I suppose even tether widows deserve to know the name of their tormentor.”
She held the vial up to the weak streetlight, and shadows danced within the dark liquid like living things.
“The Maestro,” she said simply.
