Page 75 of Curse in the Quarter
Dawn was still hours away, but already the Quarter stirred with tensions that had nothing to do with ordinary human concerns. In the distance, church bells chimed the hour with tones that seemed to echo from multiple realities at once.
Time, as always, was running short. And the choices made in the next few hours would determine whether lovecould finally triumph over the forces that sought to tear it apart, or whether this would be the lifetime where even the strongest connections finally broke under pressure they were never meant to bear.
Twenty-Two
The conference room in the catacombs below Le Petit Théâtre du Vieux Carré in Jackson Square carried the scent of chicory coffee and tension thick enough to cut. Bastien watched from the doorway as representatives from every major faction in New Orleans took their positions around the circular table he had commissioned specifically for meetings like this. No head seat, no hierarchy—just equals preparing for war.
Maman Brigitte sat with her back to the open door in a trancelike state. The overhead light catching the silver threads in her dark hair. To her left, Marcus Thibodaux represented the vampire court, his pale hands folded over a leather portfolio thick with intelligence reports. The fae contingent had sent Evangeline Dubois, whose glamour flickered between her human appearance and something with too many angles and teeth. Father Miguel occupied the chair nearest the door, his blessed silver cross catching light each time he shifted.
And beside him, looking both out of place and perfectly natural, sat Delphine.
She had insisted on attending after her breakthrough with the binding ledger fragments. Her laptop was open, surrounded by printouts and photographs of glyphs that would have driven most humans to madness just from looking at them. She wore a simple black sweater and jeans, but something about her posture suggested confidence that had been growing stronger each day.
“The Maestro's compound follows classical fortification principles,” she was saying, tracing patterns on an aerial photograph with her finger. “But these shadow configurations overlay the architecture in ways that create supernatural weak points. See how the buildings form a pentagram when viewed from above? That's not accidental.”
Marcus leaned forward, his predatory interest focused entirely on her analysis. “You can read the defensive arrays from satellite imagery?”
“The symbols repeat across multiple historical sites I've researched. Same binding principles, same vulnerabilities.” Delphine pulled up a comparison chart on her laptop screen. “The Maestro is using modified versions of protection spells that were old when New Orleans was founded. But age makes them predictable.”
Evangeline's laugh carried crystalline notes that made the coffee cups ring. “The mortal sees what we cannot. How deliciously ironic.”
“I'm not mortal in the way you mean,” Delphine said quietly, and Bastien's chest tightened at the certainty in her voice. She was remembering more than she admitted, even to herself.
Maman Brigitte's knowing gaze flicked to Bastien before returning to Delphine. “Show us these weak points, child. Where do we strike?”
Delphine's fingers moved across thephotograph with surgical precision, marking locations where shadow and stone intersected in ways that created magical vulnerabilities. Her analysis was flawless—better than flawless. It was intuitive in ways that spoke to knowledge deeper than academic research.
“Here, here, and here,” she said, marking three points that formed a triangle around the compound's center. “Hit these simultaneously and the protective matrix collapses like a house of cards.”
Father Miguel studied the marked locations through wire-rimmed glasses. “These positions require different types of assault. Holy fire here, direct physical force there, and this one . . .” He paused, consulting notes written in Latin. “This requires someone who can work with shadow magic.”
“That would be me,” Marcus said, though his tone suggested the task was beneath his dignity. “Vampire abilities include shadow manipulation when properly applied.”
“The fae courts can provide distraction and misdirection,” Evangeline added. “We excel at making enemies see what is not there while hiding what is.”
Bastien watched the tactical discussion unfold with growing unease. Each faction brought unique abilities to the alliance, creating a combined force capable of overwhelming almost any stronghold run by someone who collected souls. The planning was professional, methodical, and completely dependent on intelligence that Delphine had provided with unnatural accuracy.
She was proving herself invaluable to beings who had existed for centuries before she was born. They treated her as an equal, consulting her expertise without condescension or doubt. It should have filled him with pride.Instead, it terrified him.
“We move at dawn,” Maman Brigitte declared, her voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. “First light gives us maximum advantage while the Maestro's nocturnal servants are weakest.”
“Agreed,” Marcus said. “My people will be positioned here by moonset.” He marked locations on a detailed street map. “Shadow approaches, no detection until we strike.”
Father Miguel nodded slowly. “The Church's resources will be in place. Blessed weapons, consecrated barriers, everything needed to contain supernatural entities.”
“And the fae?” Bastien asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
Evangeline's smile was sharp as broken glass. “We will be everywhere and nowhere, as always. The Maestro will find his reality . . . flexible when the time comes.”
The alliance was forming with military precision, each faction understanding their role in the coordinated assault. Delphine continued to provide strategic insights that improved their chances of success exponentially. But watching her work with such natural authority over supernatural warfare made Bastien's stomach clench with familiar dread.
August 1762
The same kind of alliance had gathered in Charlotte's drawing room, though the faces around the table had been different. Representatives of the old families, practitioners whose bloodlines stretched back to the settlement's founding, united against a threat that required combined action.
Charlotte stood at the head of the mahogany table, her green silk gown rustling as she gestured toward a map of the city. Red marks indicated locations where reality had grown thin, where something hungry was trying to break through from spaces between worlds.
“The incursion points follow ley line intersections,” she explained, her voice carrying the same intuitive certainty that Bastien now heard in Delphine. “We disrupt the pattern here, here, and here, and the entire manifestation collapses.”
