Page 17 of Curse in the Quarter (Bourbon Street Shadows #1)
B astien bolted upright in his office chair, pen scattering across case files as raw spiritual energy crackled through the Quarter’s ley lines. Not the gentle pulse of everyday magic—this was violent, chaotic, a scream of power being torn from someone who hadn’t consented to give it.
Two blocks south. Maybe three.
The Blue Note Café’s windows blazed with silver light that wasn’t coming from any type of electricity.
Inside, chaos. Overturned tables, scattered drinks, patrons pressed against walls with expressions of primal terror. And at the center of it all, a young woman convulsing on the hardwood floor while soul burn glyphs carved themselves across her exposed skin in real-time .
A young woman in business attire, probably midtwenties, no visible signs of occult involvement. Normal life until moments ago when something ancient and hungry had marked her soul for harvesting.
The glyphs pulsed with each heartbeat, creating geometric patterns more complex than anything he’d documented in previous cases.
Not random supernatural manifestations—organized networks, circuits preparing her consciousness for specific functions within whatever cosmic working was building around Delphine’s existence.
By the time paramedics arrived, the worst had passed. The woman lay unconscious, fever spiking, while residue clung to everything she’d touched—jasmine twisted through hot metal, like expensive perfume poured over heated iron.
Concentrated now.
Aggressive.
Detective Novak arrived as they loaded her into the ambulance, looking like a man who’d cataloged too many impossible cases in too short a time.
“Camille Landry,” he said, consulting his notebook.
“Marketing coordinator for a tech startup downtown. No history of drug use, psychiatric episodes, or connection to anything unusual until tonight.” He watched the ambulance pull away toward Charity Hospital.
“Third victim in five days. Same markings, same symptoms, but progressed further than what we saw with Carrow or Lafitte. Whatever’s causing this is getting stronger with each transmission. ”
They followed the ambulance through Quarter streets that felt charged with residual energy.
Novak drove while Bastien processed what he’d witnessed—the systematic arrangement of the glyphs, the way they’d carved themselves in real-time, the violent spiritual disturbance that had announced another soul being marked for cosmic harvest.
“Any connection to the other victims?” Bastien asked.
“She danced with Emmett Carrow three nights ago at this same café. Normal social interaction according to witnesses, nothing that would suggest contamination.” Novak’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.
“But the progression is accelerating. Carrow took days to develop full markings. Landry went from normal to completely marked in under an hour.”
“The network is learning. Adapting its transmission methods.”
“That’s what I was afraid you’d say.” The detective pulled into Charity Hospital’s emergency entrance. “Medical staff is baffled. They’re treating her like a fever case, but the markings don’t respond to any conventional therapy.”
They found Camille in the isolation ward, strapped to a bed, her condition having deteriorated beyond what emergency medicine could address through conventional means.
The patterns spreading across her torso pulsed with each heartbeat, illuminating symbols that shifted position when observed directly.
Not random manifestations—organized networks, circuits preparing her consciousness for specific functions within whatever cosmic working was building around Delphine’s existence.
But these markings showed systematic arrangement the previous victims had lacked. Complete geometries suggesting her soul was being prepared for leadership roles in the expanding network.
“Has she been conscious?” Bastien asked.
“Brief periods. Keeps asking for drinks to serve someone who ‘felt like winter starlight.’ Apologizes for not recognizing them sooner.” The attending physician joined them at her bedside. “She also hums melodies in a voice that isn’t hers.”
Bastien studied the markings more closely while they waited.
The soul burn glyphs had evolved beyond anything he’d documented—not just individual symbols but interconnected networks that pulsed in synchronized patterns.
Like a nervous system made of light, preparing her consciousness for integration into something vast and alien.
Detective Novak paced the corridor outside, fielding calls from other precincts about copycat incidents. Through the doorway, Bastien caught fragments of conversation that made his breath falter—more victims, faster progression, medical staff requesting federal assistance.
The attending physician checked monitors that registered vital signs while completely missing the spiritual catastrophe unfolding before their eyes.
“Temperature’s holding steady at 102. EEG shows unusual brain activity—patterns we’ve never seen before.
It’s like multiple consciousness sources are trying to occupy the same neural pathways. ”
More accurate than she knew.
Camille’s breathing shifted from shallow to deep, her fever-flushed features relaxing as whatever force controlled the markings prepared for communication. The glyphs brightened across her torso, silver light visible even through the hospital gown.
Her eyes opened with sudden focus. She looked around the isolation ward with confusion that quickly shifted to recognition when her gaze found Bastien.
“The investigator,” she said, her voice carrying inflections that belonged to another era. “Emmett said you understand what’s happening.”
“Tell me about dancing with Emmett. ”
“Normal until the band changed sets. Started playing melodies I’d never heard but somehow knew perfectly.
” Her hand traced patterns beneath the hospital gown.
“Emmett got this look, like he was seeing someone else where I stood. Then I felt her too—calling my name from very far away, using a voice that had been trying to reach me my entire life.”
“What did she want?”
“For me to complete what she started. Said my spirit carried connections to work that had been interrupted but never abandoned.” Tears started down her face. “Beautiful and terrible and so alone. Like she’d been waiting centuries for someone to help her.”
The same contact with Charlotte’s essence previous victims had described, but deeper. Camille wasn’t just marked—she was merging with the consciousness that had created the soul-binding magic.
“These markings—how do they feel?”
“Like sharing space in my head with someone who remembers gardens and candlelight, conversations in languages I understand without learning.” Her expression grew distant.
Before Bastien could respond, footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Expensive leather on polished floors, moving with predatory grace that suggested centuries of practice in spaces where missteps proved fatal.
“Such fascinating symptoms for what appears to be a natural medical condition.”
The voice belonged to Valentin Rousseau—tall, elegant, wearing clothes that cost more than most people earned in months. His pale blue eyes reflected the isolation ward’s fluorescents with predatory intensity that marked him as vampire nobility.
“Monsieur Rousseau,” Bastien said carefully. “Unexpected to see you here.”
“Is it? When mysterious illnesses affect mortals who frequent establishments under our protection?” Valentin’s gaze flicked meaningfully toward Detective Novak and the attending physician. “Perhaps we could discuss the patient’s condition more privately?”
The suggestion carried weight that brooked no argument. Bastien nodded to Novak. “I’ll be back shortly.”
They walked through sterile corridors until Valentin found an empty conference room, checking to ensure no staff lingered nearby before closing the door. Only then did his carefully neutral expression shift to reveal genuine concern.
“The community grows concerned about potential misunderstandings regarding our involvement,” Valentin said, his voice now carrying the authority of someone accustomed to command.
“The vampire courts of New Orleans operate under treaties that have maintained peace for decades. If this spreading contamination is blamed on vampiric aggression, those agreements could collapse into warfare between factions.”
“This isn’t vampiric in origin.”
“No? Then perhaps you’ll share insights about what is causing these manifestations before public perception creates problems for all our communities?” Fangs gleamed as Valentin smiled. “My courts would be most grateful.”
Bastien considered how much to reveal. Vampires were political creatures—information was currency, and knowledge could be weaponized in ways that endangered everyone involved.
“Soul-binding magic,” Bastien said. “Techniques designed to preserve spiritual connections across lifetimes, corrupted into weapons for mass conscription.”
“And this corruption originates where?”
“From experiments Charlotte Lacroix conducted in the 1760s. She developed theories about consciousness surviving death, about love transcending mortal limitations.”
Valentin’s vampiric authority manifested as weight that pressed against the isolation ward’s mundane atmosphere.
“Charlotte Lacroix. Yes, I remember her. Brilliant woman, dangerous ideas. She approached our courts seeking assistance with immortality research—claimed she could offer eternal existence without our . . . complications.”
“You knew her?”
“New Orleans was smaller then. Our communities more intimate.” Valentin’s enhanced senses cataloged details invisible to mortal perception. “Her work showed promise until it killed her. Massive mystical backlash nearly tore the Veil apart. Took months to repair territorial boundaries.”
“What caused the backlash?”