Page 77 of Curse in the Quarter
That woman has been touched by forces that predate the Church. Watch her carefully.
Bastien deleted all three messages without responding. They were seeing what he had tried to deny for weeks—Delphine was remembering. Not consciously, not completely, but enough to access knowledge that belonged to previous lifetimes. Her strategic insights came from Charlotte's experience with supernatural warfare. Her intuitive understanding of binding magic reflected skills developed across centuries.
The awakening was accelerating, triggered by proximity to the very conflicts that had defined her past lives. Tomorrow's battle would push her even further toward full awareness, possibly beyond the point where he could protect her from the consequences of remembering everything she had lost.
He gathered the tactical materials, noting how Delphine's handwriting had grown progressively more confident throughout the meeting. Her notes were precise, organized, written in a style that reminded him of Charlotte's academic documentation. Even her penmanshipwas changing, subtle shifts that spoke to personality traits reasserting themselves after decades of dormancy.
Outside the windows, afternoon light painted the French Quarter in shades of gold and amber. Somewhere in those narrow streets, vampires and fae were beginning their preparations for dawn. Weapons blessed and sharpened, spells prepared and tested, alliances confirmed through bonds that went deeper than mere convenience.
And in the center of it all, Delphine was discovering abilities that should have been impossible while walking steadily toward revelations that might destroy the careful balance he had spent twenty years maintaining.
Bastien locked the conference room and made his way upstairs, where the normal sounds of tourist activity created a comforting illusion of mundane reality. But he could feel the supernatural tension building like pressure before a storm. Tomorrow would bring confrontation, violence, and revelations that would change everything.
The only question was whether Delphine would survive the awakening that seemed increasingly inevitable.
His phone buzzed one more time. A text from an unknown number.
She remembers more than she admits. Even to herself. Be ready.
The message deleted itself before he could respond, leaving no trace except the cold certainty that tomorrow would force choices he had been avoiding for too long.
Dawn was twelve hours away. Twelve hours to prepare for a battle that would determine not just the Maestro's fate, but Delphine's future as well.
Bastien stepped into the afternoon crowd and began making his own preparations for tomorrow's storm.
Twenty-Three
Dawn bled crimson across the Garden District as Bastien's alliance closed on Maestro's stronghold. The converted opera house squatted between antebellum mansions like a tumor, its Victorian facade warped by decades of fae glamour. Iron shutters that had once protected against hurricanes now pulsed with protective wards.
“Positions,” Bastien whispered into his radio. Roxy’s wolf pack emerged from the morning mist, thirty shapes moving with predatory grace through the mansion's gardens. Vincent's vampire coven materialized on rooftops, their pale forms stark against terra cotta tiles. Maman Brigitte's practitioners held the perimeter, salt circles and protective arrays glowing faintly in the pre-dawn light.
The plan was surgical. Compartmentalized. Each group knew their role.
Bastien checked his watch. Six-fifteen. In exactly three minutes, they would discover if three centuries of supernatural politics could unite against a common threat.
“Vincent,” he murmured. “Status?”
“East and west approaches secured. Eight blood-drinkers on overwatch, four ready for breach entry.” Vincent's voice carried through the comm with aristocratic precision. “Maestro's inner circle is still sleeping. Fae don't expect pre-dawn assault.”
“Roxy?”
“Twenty-six wolves positioned. Two patrolling the garden maze, six in reserve.” Her voice held the controlled tension of a hunt leader. “No movement from the main house, but something feels wrong. The air tastes of ozone.”
Bastien trusted Roxy’s instincts. Pack alphas and their betas survived by reading atmospheric pressure, by sensing disturbance before it manifested.
“Maman?”
“Wards are holding, but barely.” Her voice carried strain. “Whatever that fae has been brewing inside, it's pressing against reality like a tumor. Much more, and the Veil breach surge won't be our doing—it'll be his.”
Bastien absorbed the reports while studying the opera house through binoculars. Three stories of corrupted architecture, windows that reflected dawn light in patterns assaulting to the senses. Maestro had chosen his stronghold well—isolated enough for privacy, grand enough for his ego, old enough to anchor deep enchantments.
“Thirty seconds,” Bastien announced. “Remember—we're not here to kill Maestro. We're here to stop whatever ritual he's planning for tether acceleration. Incapacitate, contain, extract intelligence.”
He drew the Votum Aeternum blade from its sheath. The ceremonial weapon hummed with recognition, its edge designed to cut through magical barriers rather than flesh. Around him, the alliance made final preparations—vampires checking their speedenhancements, wolves shifting to hybrid forms, practitioners lighting blessed candles that would provide guidance through fae illusions.
“Mark.”
Vincent's coven moved first, flowing across rooftops like living shadow. Glass shattered as they descended through skylights, their speed turning entry into controlled chaos. The opera house's protective wards flared silver-white, then shattered under coordinated assault.
