Page 13 of Curse in the Quarter (Bourbon Street Shadows #1)
“This parish record from 1906 mentions a Delia Moreau whose death in the Saenger Theatre fire was . . .” She paused, studying his expression. “Are you feeling all right? You look pale.”
“Fine,” he managed, though sweat was beginning to bead along his hairline from the locket’s heat. “What were you saying about Delia Moreau?”
“Her death was listed as smoke inhalation, but witness statements describe her being found in an area of the building that shouldn’t have been accessible during the fire. Almost as if someone carried her to safety, then . . .” Delphine shrugged. “Well, then she died anyway. Tragic story.”
She reached for another document, and as her hand passed within inches of where the locket rested, the artifact responded with such violent vibration that Bastien gasped.
The sound brought her attention back to his face, concern replacing academic interest. “Mr. Durand, are you certain you’re well? You’re breathing rather heavily.”
“Just warm in here,” he said, stepping away from the table to gain distance from whatever was triggering the locket’s increasingly violent response.
But as he moved, she moved as well, turning to face him directly, and the locket’s vibration became a continuous hum that threatened to burn through his shirt.
Delphine tilted her head, listening. “Do you hear that? Sounds like . . . humming? Almost musical.”
The soul marked talisman was resonating so intensely now that sound was beginning to escape containment. Charlotte’s creation recognizing its target after decades of dormancy, responding to proximity with the reincarnated essence it had been crafted to find.
“I should go,” Bastien said, backing toward the research room door. “Let you return to your work.”
“Wait.” Delphine’s voice carried new intensity, professional curiosity overriding social politeness. “That sound is definitely coming from you. Some kind of device? Medical monitoring equipment?”
She stepped closer, and the locket’s vibration became so violent that he could feel its vibration through his bloodstream. Metal humming with lifeline echo flare that seemed to synchronize with Delphine’s breathing, her heartbeat, the rhythm of her movements.
“I really should?—”
But she was already reaching toward his arm, an instinctive response to obvious distress. Her fingers brushed against his jacket directly over where the locket normally rested around his neck, and the artifact exploded into motion.
The metal disk shot from inside his pocket as if propelled by invisible force, sailing across the research room to land on the table with a sound like struck bronze. There it continued to vibrate so violently that papers scattered and pencils rolled toward the edges.
Delphine stared at the locket in shocked silence, watching silver light pulse from within its engraved surface. “What in God’s name . . .?”
The artifact rolled across the table’s surface, leaving trails of warm light on paper, moving with purpose rather than random momentum. Straight toward the Lacroix genealogical charts, across Marie’s family tree, stopping precisely on top of the entry for Charlotte Lacroix, born 1742, died 1763 .
The moment metal touched paper, both documents and locket flared with brilliance that filled the research room with silver radiance.
Light that revealed things hidden—symbols carved into the Archive’s wooden beams, protective wards worked into the building’s architecture, the faint aura of supernatural energy that surrounded Delphine like invisible fire.
“Static electricity,” she said weakly, blinking against the brightness. “Some kind of . . . electromagnetic phenomenon . . .”
But even as she spoke, her hand moved toward the locket. Fingers reaching for metal that continued to pulse with light and warmth, as if drawn by forces she couldn’t understand or resist.
The moment her skin made contact with Charlotte’s creation, the light intensified beyond endurance.
Bastien threw his arm across his eyes, overwhelmed by energies that spoke directly to the core of his fallen angel nature.
Through the blazing radiance, he felt rather than saw the moment of complete recognition—artifact acknowledging its creator’s reincarnated essence, decades of dormancy ending in explosion of connection that threatened to tear holes in reality itself.
Then the light died, leaving them blinking in sudden darkness broken only by the Archive’s ordinary electrical illumination.
The locket lay silent and still on the genealogical chart, its silver surface warm but no longer blazing. Just an antique piece of jewelry that had somehow traveled across the room through mechanisms that couldn’t be explained by conventional physics.
Delphine stood frozen, one hand extended toward the artifact, her expression cycling through confusion, alarm, and recognition fighting to surface from depths of memory she couldn’t access.
“I need to leave,” Bastien said, moving toward the locket. “This was a mistake.”
“Don’t.” Her voice was sharp, commanding. “Don’t you dare leave before explaining what just happened.”
She was still touching the locket, her fingertips resting on metal that had been crafted to recognize her essence across lifetimes. And in her eyes, for just a moment, he saw awareness that reality contained layers she hadn’t previously acknowledged.
“Some objects hold energy from their creation,” he said. “Antiques can carry emotional imprints, respond to environmental factors . . .”
“That wasn’t environmental factors.” She lifted the locket, studying its engraved surface in the overhead light. “This responded to me specifically. It moved toward Charlotte Lacroix’s name on the genealogy chart.” Her gaze found his face. “And you knew it would.”
The accusation hung between them like smoke from a snuffed candle. She was too intelligent, too observant, too trained in research methodology to accept simple explanations for impossible phenomena.
“Delphine . . .”
“What is this thing?” She turned the locket over in her palm, examining engravings that seemed to shift in the electric light. “And why did it react to me like that? Some kind of electromagnetic sensitivity to certain bloodlines?”
“It’s complicated.” Her perception beyond normal human understanding impressed him, and her persistence was another indication of who she was, who she had always been.
“Then uncomplicate it.” Her tone brooked no evasion. “ Because that thing responded to my touch like it was programmed to find me. And you weren’t surprised. Which means you expected this to happen.”
Bastien could feel impossible choices pressing down on him. Tell her the truth, and risk shattering a mind unprepared for revelations about reincarnation, soul-bonds, and love that transcended death. Maintain deception and watch her stumble blindly into dangers that required knowledge to survive.
Charlotte's private workshop in the estate's east wing, 1762, where she crafted artifacts by moonlight.
Silver wire, precious stones, and tools whose purposes belonged to arts most practitioners feared to attempt.
Her hands moved with surgeon's precision as she engraved symbols into metal that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat.
“This must be perfect,” she murmured, not looking up as Bastien entered. “One flaw in the resonance pattern and it becomes merely decorative jewelry instead of . . .” She paused, testing the locket's weight. “Instead of hope made manifest.”
“What exactly are you creating?”
“Insurance. Against separation, against forgetting, against forces that would keep souls apart because their connection threatens established order.” She held up the finished locket, its surface gleaming with more than reflected candlelight.
“If I forget, this won't. If I lose myself in death and rebirth, this will find me again.”
The promise in her voice, the fearless love that would craft weapons against cosmic law itself—moments when hope felt stronger than any authority that would separate them.
“The locket was made by Charlotte Lacroix,” he said finally. “Crafted to respond to her bloodline descendants. You’re related to her through your mother’s side—Moreau family connections that trace back to Marie Lacroix.”
“And you know this how?”
“Historical research. The same genealogical work you’ve been doing, just from a different angle.” The half-truth tasted like ash, but it was better than revelation that would destroy whatever trust existed between them.
Delphine continued to study the locket, her expression thoughtful. “The engravings are unusual. Not standard decorative patterns.” She traced symbols with one fingertip. “These look almost like . . .”
“Like the glyphs you’ve been researching. Yes.”
“Soul-binding symbols. Spiritual connection markings.” Her voice grew quieter as implications settled in her mind. “Charlotte Lacroix was experimenting with the same magical patterns that are appearing throughout the Quarter now.”
“Among other things.”
She stared at the locket in her palm, and when she looked up, her face had gone pale. “This belonged to her, didn’t it? To Charlotte Lacroix. My . . .” She swallowed hard. “My ancestor.”
“Yes.”
“And you just happened to have a family heirloom that I’ve never seen before? That my family somehow lost?” Her voice cracked slightly. “How is that possible?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Complicated?” She stared at him with growing alarm. “You’re carrying around jewelry that belonged to my ancestor—jewelry that just performed some kind of supernatural light show when I touched it—and you think ‘complicated’ is an adequate explanation?”
The moment had arrived—the choice between protective deception and dangerous truth. Bastien looked at her face in the Archive’s quiet light, noting the intelligence in her dark eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw that suggested she wouldn’t be satisfied with evasion.