Page 16 of Curse in the Quarter (Bourbon Street Shadows #1)

“For her to choose. Between completing Charlotte’s work with full knowledge of the consequences or severing the bloodline connection permanently.

” She pressed the jar into his hands, her fingers warm against his skin.

“But understand, Bastien—if she chooses severance, it’s not just her connection to Charlotte that gets cut.

It’s her connection to you, too. Soul-binding works both ways. ”

The warning coiled tension in his gut. He’d been so focused on protecting Delphine from cosmic forces that he hadn’t considered the personal cost of salvation.

If she chose to sever her bloodline connection to Charlotte’s magic, she would also sever the spiritual bonds that had connected them across lifetimes.

They would become strangers. Truly, completely, finally strangers.

“How long do we have?”

“The network is accelerating beyond what any of us anticipated. It is impossible for me to tell you exactly.” She began walking toward the cemetery entrance, her sneakers silent on the gravel path.

“And there’s something else you need to know.

The entities behind this—they’re not just trying to complete Charlotte’s transformation.

They’re trying to preserve it. If the spiritual networks collapse, they lose everything they’ve invested across multiple lifetimes. ”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning they’ll fight back. Hard. Against anyone who threatens their cosmic experiment.

” She paused at the cemetery gate, her hand resting on wrought iron that had witnessed more desperate farewells than any structure should.

“Be careful, Bastien. The love that’s sustained you across centuries might be the weapon they use to destroy you both. ”

Her warning followed him as he left the cemetery and drove back into the heart of the Quarter.

The graveyard soil jar sat heavy in his pocket, but heavier still was the knowledge that saving Delphine might mean losing her forever.

Choice between transformation and severance—either way, the woman he’d loved across lifetimes would become someone else entirely.

The walk to Ursulines Street took him through a Quarter that felt fundamentally altered.

Street musicians played melodies that sounded wrong, their usual crowds dispersing after only a few notes.

Shop owners stood in their doorways with expressions of vague unease, as if sensing danger they couldn’t identify.

Even the morning light seemed filtered through something that changed its essential nature.

His phone buzzed with a text from Delphine, asking if he’d found additional information about the spreading incidents. Professional courtesy wrapped around genuine concern for victims she’d unknowingly helped create.

Perfect irony. She was researching the phenomenon she was causing .

But she acted with understanding that phenomenon was exactly what they needed now. Despite the risks, despite knowing proximity to her would strengthen the contamination network, he had to warn her. Had to give her the chance to choose with full knowledge of what was at stake.

The decision made, Bastien turned toward the Archive.

The Obscura Archive bustled with morning activity, but the energy felt different now.

Graduate students bent over genealogical charts with unusual intensity.

Local historians pursued family mysteries with the dedication of people seeking answers to questions they couldn’t articulate.

Tourists researched their heritage with the urgency of people running out of time.

The very air hummed with accumulated tension, as if the building itself was straining under forces it wasn’t designed to contain.

Delphine worked at her usual desk, but today she’d spread her materials across two tables, creating a research station that looked more like a command center.

Computer screens displayed family trees that branched across centuries, photocopied documents formed careful stacks arranged by date and region, and handwritten notes covered a whiteboard with connections that seemed to pulse in the morning light.

She looked up as he approached, her smile carrying exhaustion that hadn’t been there days ago.

“Mr. Durand. I was hoping you’d come in today.” She gestured toward the expanded workspace. “I’ve been doing additional research since our last conversation. What I’ve found is . . . disturbing.”

“Disturbing how?”

“I’ve been tracking the family histories of people affected by the supernatural incidents.

Not just here in New Orleans but reports from other cities that match the same patterns.

” She turned one of her computer screens toward him, displaying a map studded with red pins.

“Atlanta, Savannah, Charleston, Mobile. All reporting similar cases within the past week.”

The scope she’d identified matched what Maman had described, but seeing it visualized made the threat feel more immediate. Red pins clustered around major genealogical research centers, following patterns that suggested coordination rather than coincidence.

“And they’re all connected to the same bloodlines?”

“That’s what’s so strange. Every affected individual can trace their ancestry back to families that had contact with the Lacroix line between 1760 and 1900.

Marriage connections, business partnerships, even just living in the same parishes.

” Her voice carried the excitement of a researcher who’d uncovered a significant pattern.

“It’s like someone created a network that’s been dormant for over a century, and now it’s all activating simultaneously. ”

As she spoke, Bastien noticed details that settled low in his ribs with alarm.

Her usual neat handwriting had become more elaborate, incorporating flourishes that matched Charlotte’s distinctive script.

The family trees she’d drawn included symbols in the margins—simple geometric shapes that hurt to look at directly.

Even her posture had changed, becoming more formal, more aristocratic.

She was changing. Not just intellectually, but fundamentally, as exposure to Charlotte’s documented magic influenced her essential nature.

“Delphine,” he said carefully, “have you been experiencing any unusual symptoms? Dreams, physical sensations, changes in your normal routines? ”

“Actually, yes. Strange dreams about places I’ve never been, people I’ve never met.

And I’ve been finding myself using words I don’t remember learning—French phrases that feel familiar but I never studied the language.

” She looked puzzled. “Why? Do you think the research itself is changing me somehow?”

The jar of graveyard soil in his pocket felt warm against his leg, but he knew interference would only buy them time. The real choice—transformation or severance—was approaching faster than either of them was prepared to handle.

The Saenger Theatre's empty stage at midnight in 1906, where Delia danced alone to music only she could hear. Bastien watched from the wings as she moved through choreography that belonged to no earthly performance—steps that spoke of celebration, of joy too large for ordinary expression.

She spun in wide circles, arms extended toward the fly gallery, white dress flowing like liquid moonlight. Her laughter echoed through the empty theater, pure and bright as cathedral bells.

“Dance with me,” she called, sensing his presence without looking. “The stage is ours until dawn.”

“Someone might see ? —”

“Let them see. Let the whole world witness that some happiness is too perfect to hide.” She reached for his hands, pulling him into the light. “Besides, who's going to believe that the mysterious Mr. Durand was caught dancing with a theater girl?”

Her joy infectious, her confidence that their love could survive any scrutiny—moments when the future felt bright enough to illuminate whatever darkness might come.

“Mr. Durand?” Delphine’s voice pulled him back to the present. “You look pallid. ”

Around them, other researchers had begun gravitating toward her expanded workspace, drawn by forces they couldn’t identify.

Papers rustled without breeze. Documents glowed with faint luminescence where she’d touched them.

The whiteboard’s family connections seemed to writhe when viewed peripherally.

Her presence was activating dormant patterns throughout the building, and the activation was accelerating.

Bastien glanced around at the other researchers, noting how they’d begun unconsciously gravitating toward Delphine’s workspace.

“There’s something urgent we need to discuss.

About your research and the role you’re playing in these incidents.

” He lowered his voice. “Is there somewhere more private we could talk?”

She followed his gaze, seeming to notice for the first time how many people had drifted closer to her area. “The back conference room should be empty. We can speak freely there.”

They gathered her most important materials and moved to a small room lined with filing cabinets and dominated by a scarred wooden table. Delphine closed the door behind them, the click of the latch somehow final.

She spread her research across the table’s surface, then looked up at him expectantly. “You said this was urgent. What did you need to discuss?”

“You’ve been documenting connections between affected families and historical bloodlines. But the act of documentation itself is part of the phenomenon. Every family tree you trace, every connection you establish, strengthens the network that’s spreading the contamination.”

Her expression shifted from professional interest to personal alarm. “You’re saying my research is making it worse?”

“I’m saying your research is the focal point around which everything else is organizing. The bloodline connection you carry, combined with your documentation of family patterns, has created a resonance effect that’s spreading across multiple cities.”

She stood abruptly, moving to the window overlooking Ursulines Street. Below, ordinary life continued, but even the mundane activity looked strained, as if everyone was unconsciously bracing for impact.

“Everyone who uses the genealogical databases I’ve been updating is at risk.”

“More than that. Everyone who accesses information you’ve touched becomes a potential transmission vector. The contamination isn’t just spreading through physical contact anymore—it’s propagating through shared data.”

“How many people?”

“Thousands. Maybe tens of thousands.” He rose, moving to stand beside her.

“The soul-binding magic Charlotte documented has found a way to travel through electronic networks. Every genealogical search that touches Lacroix connections, every family tree that includes her bloodline, creates new pathways for expansion.”

The weight of impossible responsibility settled around her like chains. “I’m supposed to stop all of this? A person with no magical training, no understanding of forces beyond normal human experience?”

“You’re supposed to choose what you want to become.

Whether to complete the transformation that’s already begun or sever the connections that makes it possible.

” He withdrew the jar of graveyard soil.

“This will create interference in the spiritual networks, buy us time to understand the full scope of what we’re facing. ”

She accepted the jar with hands that had begun to tremble. “And if I choose wrong?”

“Then either you become something that transcends human limitations but might not remember human love, or you become someone who can never again access the connections that have defined your existence across multiple lifetimes.”

Outside, shadows stretched longer than morning sun should have allowed. The Quarter seemed to hold its breath, waiting for decisions that would reshape not just individual lives but the fundamental nature of reality itself.

“How long do I have?”

“Tonight, maybe tomorrow morning at the latest. The contamination is spreading faster than we can track it.” He met her eyes directly. “And there are entities involved who will fight to preserve what they’ve invested across centuries. They won’t let you choose freely if they can prevent it.”

“Then we’d better understand exactly what Charlotte was trying to accomplish, and what completing her work would require.

” She moved back to her research station, but her movements carried new authority, new purpose.

“Because if I’m going to make a choice that affects thousands of people, I want to make it with full knowledge of the consequences. ”

The morning light streaming through the Archive windows seemed to pulse with rhythm that matched heartbeats, matched the locket against his chest, matched something deeper that connected all the choices they’d made across lifetimes to this single moment of decision.

Whatever came next, they would face it with the truth between them. No more protective deceptions, no more careful distances, no more pretending that love alone could shield them from cosmic forces that viewed their connection as raw material for grander designs.

The pattern that had begun with Charlotte’s experiments and continued through Delia’s death was approaching its final iteration. This time, perhaps, knowledge and choice would prove stronger than accident and tragedy.

But first, they would have to survive long enough to discover what their love might become when freed from the limitations—and protections—that had defined it across centuries of separation and loss.