Page 74 of Curse in the Quarter
As if summoned by her words, Delphine's phone buzzed with an incoming message. She glanced at the screen and frowned. “That's strange. Text from an unknown number.”
Bastien's blood chilled. “What does it say?”
“'The third circle closes at dawn. Come alone or watch it all burn.'” Delphine looked up, her face pale. “There's an address. Royal Street.”
The location was three blocks from where they sat, deep in the Quarter's maze of ancient buildings and older secrets. Bastien recognized it as one of the sites Charlotte had marked in her original network design, a convergence point that had been dormant for decades.
“You're not going,” he said.
“We're both going,” Delphine corrected. “This is directed at me, which means whoever sent it knows I'm involved. Keeping me in the dark hasn't protected anyone—it's just made me a target without proper defenses.”
She was right, and the acknowledgment felt like another small defeat in a war he'd been fighting for centuries. Every instinct screamed against bringing her deeper into danger, but the alternative was watching her walk into it alone.
“Limited partnership,” he said finally. “You follow my lead when it comes to direct contact with hostile forces. You don't attempt to engage anything that doesn't register as completely human. And if I tell you to run, you run.”
“Agreed. On one condition.”
“Which is?”
“You stop treating me like I'm made of glass.” Delphine's voice softened slightly, losing some of its sharp edge. “I know you think you're protecting me, but protection without trust isn't protection at all. It's just another kind of cage.”
The words hit harder because they echoed truths he'd been avoiding. How many times had he made the same mistake? How many incarnations had he driven away by loving them too carefully, by placing their safety above their agency?
“Agreed,” he said.
Maman had been watching their exchange with the pleased expression of someone whose plans were unfolding exactly as intended. “Good. Now that you've finished negotiating, perhaps we should discuss what you're likely to encounter on Royal Street.”
As she began outlining the magical defenses they'd need and the possible scenarios they might face, Delphine asked questions that cut straight to the heart of complex theoretical frameworks. Her mind adapted to new realities with the same systematic thoroughness she'd brought to genealogical research, filing away information about ward structures and entity classifications with academic precision.
But throughout the conversation, Bastien noticed moments when her attention would drift, her eyes taking on a distant quality that suggested something deeper than conscious processing. When Maman mentioned certain historical periods, Delphine's hand would move unconsciously to her throat. When specific magical practices were described, she'd nod as if recognizing familiar concepts rather than learning new ones.
The awakening was accelerating, triggered by proximityto the truth she'd been denied. Memory fragments were surfacing despite the barriers that had held them in check for twenty-five years. Soon, the careful structures he'd built to keep her safe would crumble entirely, and she'd remember everything—their love, their loss, and the price she'd paid for choosing to love across lifetimes.
“There's something else,” Delphine said as Maman finished her briefing. “I've been having dreams. Fragments of places I've never been, conversations I've never had. They started weeks ago, but they're getting stronger.”
Bastien's chest tightened. “What kind of dreams?”
“Gardens at night. Candlelit rooms. Someone teaching me to trace symbols on stone.” She looked directly at him, and for a moment, he could see Charlotte looking back—the same intelligence, the same fearless curiosity. “A man who promises to find me across lifetimes.”
The room went silent except for the soft hiss of floating candles and the distant sound of wind chimes that moved without breeze. Maman's eyes held warnings about truths revealed too soon, but Delphine's gaze never wavered from his face.
“Stress can manifest in many ways,” Bastien said carefully. “The trauma of recent events, exposure to forces beyond normal experience—it's not uncommon for people to process these through symbolic dreams.”
“Is that what you think they are? Symbols?”
“I think,” he said, each word chosen with surgical precision, “that some experiences transcend easy explanation. That doesn't necessarily make them literal memories.”
Delphine nodded slowly, but her expression suggested she'd heard the careful evasion in his response. “Right. Of course.”
She didn't press further, but Bastien could see the questions forming, the analytical mind that had made her such a formidable researcher now turning inward to examine her own experiences. The dreams would intensify, become more specific, more undeniably real. Soon, she'd begin to remember not just fragments but complete scenes, conversations, emotions that belonged to lifetimes she'd lived before.
And when that happened, he'd have to decide whether to continue protecting her from the truth or trust her with a revelation that could destroy them both.
For now, they had Royal Street to navigate, whatever trap or revelation waited there in the pre-dawn darkness. Whatever was coming next in the escalating conflict that had already claimed too much and demanded more with each passing hour.
But as they prepared to leave the safe house, as Delphine checked her phone for additional messages, and Maman gathered protective talismans that might keep them alive through whatever came next, Bastien felt the weight of centuries pressing down on him. The same pattern, the same impossible choice between love and safety, protection and partnership.
The only difference was that this time, he was running out of lifetimes to get it right.
