Page 61 of Curse in the Quarter
The fae staggered back, more from surprise than pain, his form flickering like a candle in wind. Blood—if it could be called that—shimmered silver where it touched his lips,and for a moment the glamour around them wavered, revealing glimpses of the building’s true decay.
“Careful, angel,” Maestro warned, but his voice carried approval rather than anger. He touched his lip with one finger, examining the silver blood with detached interest. “Violence is just another note in the symphony. Another thread in the weaving. Even this—your righteous fury, your sense of betrayal—it all serves the greater composition.”
“I’m done being your puppet.” Bastien raised the iron blade he kept hidden, its metal singing with cold fire in the magical atmosphere.
“Are you?” Maestro began to fade, his form becoming translucent silk and smoke. “Because from where I stand, you’re performing your role perfectly. The devoted protector, the righteous guardian, the man who loves her enough to fight gods and monsters for her sake—exactly what Delphine needs to complete her transformation.”
The opera house began to blur around the edges, reality reasserting itself as Maestro’s presence diminished. The phantom audience was applauding now, a thunderous ovation that seemed to come from all directions at once.
“She’ll need you more than ever in the days to come, Bastien,” the fae’s voice came from everywhere and nowhere, fading like the last notes of a lullaby. “The final awakening is always the most dangerous. The vessel must be strong enough to contain what it’s about to become, and love—true love, the kind that would sacrifice everything—is the only foundation strong enough to build upon.”
“She doesn't even remember me,” Bastien said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“But you remember her. And that's enough. The bond exists in you, stronger than ever because it's been tested by separation. That pain you carry—it's made the connectionnearly indestructible.” Maestro's smile was genuinely appreciative. “I couldn't have designed it better myself.”
“I won't let you use her.”
“You think you have a choice?” Maestro laughed, and the sound echoed through the opera house like thunder. “My dear boy, the ritual is already beginning. Every time she hums that melody, every time she reaches for a pendant she doesn't remember buying, every time she looks at you with recognition she can't explain—the bond grows stronger. Soon it will be visible even to mortals, a thread of light connecting your souls across space and time.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Simple. When the time comes, don't fight the harvesting. Let the bond flow into the ritual matrix willingly. The process will be . . . gentler that way. Less chance of damaging the delicate resonance patterns.” Maestro's tone was almost clinical now, as if discussing the weather. “In return, I'll ensure Delphine's memories of you are pleasant ones. She'll live out her life believing she once knew a kind man who helped her research old books. Nothing more.”
“And the rest of the world?”
“Will be reshaped according to my vision. No more war, no more hatred, no more meaningless suffering. Isn't that worth the sacrifice of one bond, no matter how precious?”
“Wait!” But Bastien was shouting at empty air. The fae had vanished, leaving only the scent of jasmine and the fading echo of harpsichord music. The opera house began to dissolve around Bastien, reality reasserting itself with jarring suddenness. He found himself standing in an abandoned mansion, surrounded by rotting furniture and broken windows. The glamour had lifted, leaving only themundane decay of a building that had been empty for decades.
Rats scurried in the walls, and somewhere water dripped with monotonous persistence. But the taste of copper and honey lingered on his tongue, and his knuckles ached where they’d connected with Maestro’s jaw—proof that what had happened here was more than just illusion.
He pulled out his phone with shaking fingers, speed-dialing Maman’s number. She answered on the first ring, as if she’d been waiting by the phone.
“Bastien? What?—”
“He’s not playing us,” Bastien said, his voice hoarse with fury and realization. “He’s curating us. Delphine, me, probably you too—we’re all specimens in his experiment. And it’s been running for over a century.”
The silence on the other end stretched long enough that Bastien wondered if the call had dropped. When Maman finally spoke, her voice held the weight of old knowledge, secrets kept and burdens borne.
“I was wondering when you’d figure that out.”
“You knew?” The betrayal cut deeper than he’d expected. “You actually knew?”
“What did he offer you?”
“Her life in exchange for cooperation.” Bastien's voice was hollow. “He says he needs our connection to anchor some kind of cosmic ritual. That without it, reality itself will collapse.”
Maman was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. “He's not lying about the stakes. But he's not telling you the whole truth either.”
“I suspected,” she answered his earlier question quietly. “But suspecting and knowing are differentthings entirely. Suspicion is doubt given form. Knowledge is certainty that sits in your bones like winter cold.” A pause, filled with the weight of years. “Come home, mon fils. We have much to discuss, and very little time to do it.” A pause. “I think it's time you learned what Charlotte really planned.”
Bastien pocketed the phone and headed for the exit, his mind reeling with implications that seemed to multiply with every step. Outside, the Garden District looked exactly as it always had—grand mansions sleeping behind wrought iron gates, ancient oaks standing sentinel in the humid night, streetlights casting pools of yellow warmth on empty sidewalks.
But he would never see it the same way again. Every shadow might hide a fae observer. Every coincidence might be orchestrated design. Every emotion he felt for Delphine might be just another note in Maestro’s carefully composed symphony, another ingredient in a recipe that had been cooking for over a century.
As he walked back toward his car, Bastien couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere in the distance, phantom applause was following him home. The sound of an audience appreciating a performance well-executed, a drama that was approaching its climactic final act.
He thought of Delphine, probably asleep in her apartment, unaware that her dreams might be the most honest thing about her existence. Everything else—her personality, her choices, her very life—had been shaped by forces beyond her understanding, guided by a hand so subtle she’d never noticed the manipulation.
