Page 62 of Curse in the Quarter
And now Bastien was part of it too, another player in Maestro’s grand design. A devoted guardian, a Watcher, the righteous protector, the man who loved her enough to fight for her soul—exactly what thefinal awakening required.
The worst part was that it didn’t feel like manipulation. His feelings for Delphine were real, had grown from genuine affection and admiration into something deeper than he’d ever experienced, even with Charlotte. Over lifetimes his longing had become so deep it was almost unbearable. But knowing that those emotions served Maestro’s purpose, that they’d been cultivated as carefully as any crop . . .
How could he trust anything he felt when he knew it was exactly what the fae needed him to feel?
The question followed him through the empty streets like a shadow, unanswered and perhaps unanswerable. In the distance, thunder rumbled despite the clear sky, and Bastien wondered if it was weather or something more ominous approaching.
The final awakening was coming, whether he was ready for it or not.
Eighteen
The invitation arrived without ceremony—elegant script on parchment that smelled of old roses and darker things.Marcelline requests your presence at tonight’s gathering.No location, no time, yet Bastien knew exactly where to find her. The Renault mansion on Rue de Rivoli had hosted such salons for two centuries.
He adjusted his cufflinks at the cuff of his dove gray dress shirt as he approached the heavy oak doors. The doorman stepped aside without words—his kind were always recognized here. Even if he were the only fallen, his ethereal presence was unmistakable.
Inside, burgundy fabric draped the walls in careful folds. But these weren’t mere decorations. Sigils worked into the threads made his senses prickle. Charlotte’s descendants had learned her techniques, though they’d never known their true purpose.
“Bastien Durand.” Marcelline Renault appeared between heartbeats, her voice carrying old French nobility. Beautiful when turned in 1789, deathhad only refined that beauty into something dangerous. “How delightful you’ve finally accepted.”
“Marcelline.” He inclined his head with proper respect. “Your salon grows more . . . elaborate.”
Her laugh rang like silver bells. “Surely you appreciate artistry. These are Charlotte Lacroix’s lineage work—though her descendants never knew what purposes we’d find for their grandmother’s embroidery.”
Charlotte’s name made every nerve sing with attention, but he kept his expression neutral. “Charlotte?”
“Your beloved’soriginalincarnation, naturally. Such a talented seamstress. Had quite the gift for embedding things in fabric.” Her smile revealed the barest fang hint. “Come, meet the others. Tonight’s gathering is select.”
She led him deeper past clusters of vampires in quiet conversation. Ancient bloodlines that moved through Parisian society like elegant predators. Younger ones carrying themselves with immortality’s particular arrogance.
The main salon opened like a jewel box lined in midnight blue fabric. Here, the sigils were elaborate, worked in threads that caught and held light impossibly. As Bastien moved through the room, certain panels pulsed with faint luminescence whenever he passed.
“Fascinating work, isn’t it?” Valentin Rousseau materialized at his elbow, wine glass in hand. The scholar vampire had documented occult practices longer than most countries existed. “I’ve studied these pieces all evening. The glyphs behave like bloodline resonance mapping—they respond to genetic markers in ways that shouldn’t be possible.”
Bastien paused, his attention sharpening. “Genetic markers?”
“Precisely. Watch.” Valentin gestured toward an ornate panel near the fireplace. As they approached, embroidered sigils began glowing with soft amber light, pulsing in rhythm with something that felt like a heartbeat. “They respond to you, not me. Suggests attunement to specific bloodlines.”
“The Lacroix line,” Bastien murmured, realization dawning.
“Among others, I suspect. I’ve seen similar responses from three vampires tonight—all with documented connections to Charlotte’s descendants.” Valentin’s eyes glinted with scholarly excitement. “Someone has been tracking family trees across centuries.”
Bastien moved closer and the glow intensified. The sigils seemed to writhe within the fabric, forming patterns that blurred his vision if stared at directly. But beneath the resonance, he caught something else—a familiar scent, faint but unmistakable.
Delphine.
Not her physical presence, but her essence woven into the threads. Impossible. Delphine Leclair had never set foot here, probably never heard of Marcelline Renault. Yet her signature lingered like an echo of something not yet happened.
“You sense it too,” Valentin observed quietly. “The modern connection. These pieces were created generations ago, yet they respond to contemporary bloodlines as if designed with specific individuals in mind.”
A chill crept down Bastien’s spine. Charlotte’s preparations had been more extensive than imagined—reaching through time and reality itself.
The evening wore on with usual salon entertainments. Poetry readings by vampires who’d known Byron personally.Musical performances on instruments not played by living hands in decades. But Bastien found himself drawn repeatedly to the walls, studying patterns that shifted when he wasn’t looking directly.
Near midnight, he discovered the ribbon.
He’d wandered into a smaller chamber to examine medieval manuscripts but actually seeking space to think. The room was quieter, lit only by candles throwing dancing shadows across more fabric drapery. These were older, burgundy faded to deep wine red.
The ribbon was woven into a tapestry depicting a moonlit garden—so subtly integrated it appeared part of the original design. When Bastien’s fingers brushed it, the silk hummed with power. He looked closer, his enhanced sight picking out details invisible to mortal eyes.
