Page 20 of Curse in the Quarter (Bourbon Street Shadows #1)

T he scent trail led Bastien through the Quarter’s back streets like a thread of malice woven through humid night air.

Burned copper and jasmine—the signature left by whoever was crafting the corrupted glyphs spreading through the city.

Each breath carried traces of ancient magic twisted beyond recognition.

It had been hardly a day since he’d left Camille Landry convulsing in her hospital bed. Barely any time at all following residue that clung to surfaces and lingered in shadows, growing stronger as darkness deepened around him.

The signature ended at a narrow alley between Dauphine and Bourbon, where wrought iron balconies created shadows overhead. No street signs marked the passage. But Bastien’s senses detected commerce conducted outside legal boundaries.

A black market operated behind glamour that made mortal eyes slide past without recognition. The kind of place where practitioners acquired materials too dangerous for legitimate channels .

The glamour parted like smoke as he approached, revealing a courtyard existing in dimensions larger than the alley should have contained.

Stalls arranged in rough circles offered goods ranging from illegal to cosmically forbidden.

Dried herbs that could poison souls. Crystals holding fragments of broken curses.

Books bound in materials that had never belonged to animals.

At the market’s heart, where traffic converged around an obsidian fountain, Eulalie Voss maintained her permanent stall.

She was younger than expected—perhaps forty, with sharp features suggesting intelligence paired with moral flexibility.

Her booth displayed antique occult materials with casual confidence.

Manuscripts predating the printing press.

Ritual implements crafted by smiths whose names appeared in demonology texts.

Professional knowledge made her dangerous. True expertise made her invaluable.

“The fallen angel seeks answers,” she said without looking up from a grimoire she was cataloging. “Word travels fast when someone investigates patterns certain parties worked hard to establish.”

Her voice carried old New Orleans aristocracy—Creole families that maintained influence through adaptation rather than resistance. Background that provided access to materials others couldn’t acquire.

“You know why I’m here.”

“Soul-binding manifestations throughout the Quarter. Spectacular work, really. Whoever’s orchestrating the expansion shows remarkable understanding of network propagation.

” She closed the grimoire, turning to face him directly.

Dark eyes held sharpness that could cut.

“Though I suspect you’re more interested in the source materials than the finished product. ”

“Tell me about the replication kits.”

Voss smiled, revealing teeth too white to be natural.

“Historical magical reproductions. Techniques documented in manuscripts, recreated through research and considerable expense.” She gestured toward glass cases protecting her most valuable items. “Lacroix family specialties, if you’re interested in eighteenth-century consciousness preservation. ”

The display made Bastien’s nature recoil. Ritual daggers whose blades held traces of sacrificial blood. Chalices carved from light-absorbing materials. But his attention fixed on ritual fragments wrapped in black silk—small objects bearing symbols that hurt to observe directly.

“Who’s buying them?”

“Discriminating Collectors. Individuals with appreciation for historical significance and practical applications.” Her smile widened. “Though the real question is why someone with your background cares about commerce in antique techniques.”

“Because those techniques are marking innocent people for spiritual harvesting.”

“Harvesting sounds dramatic. I prefer consciousness redistribution according to cosmic design.” The casual admission snagged his breath. “Would you like to examine a fragment? For educational purposes, of course.”

From one case, she withdrew an object wrapped in midnight silk. Her movements held reverence as she revealed parchment covered in symbols that moved when viewed peripherally. Not reproductions—genuine artifacts from Charlotte’s research .

“Original sigils from Charlotte Lacroix’s binding experiments. Quite potent, considering its age.” She named a price that could purchase houses. “Though I might offer professional courtesy. Fellow practitioners should support each other.”

Bastien counted bills, noting how the parchment pulsed with faint light as money changed hands. The keepsake locket against his chest grew warm—Charlotte’s creation recognizing Charlotte’s work across centuries.

The moment his fingers touched the fragment, heat flared through the locket’s metal.

Not gentle recognition but burning intensity suggesting dangerous resonance between artifacts created for different purposes. The parchment began smoking.

Not burning—releasing vapor carrying jasmine and heated copper, the signature that had led him here. As fire consumed the fragment, air around them vibrated with power dormant for decades.

Pattern bleed. The working embedded in Charlotte’s research was spreading through destruction, seeking connection with related artifacts and bloodlines. Every wisp carried microscopic traces of soul-binding energy, dispersing where it would cling and propagate.

“Impressive,” Voss said, backing away as residual energy made her protective wards crackle. “Though cleanup costs for contamination require specialized removal.”

The burning fragment revealed complexity beyond individual spells—interconnected networks linking multiple sites across the city. Charlotte’s work had been far more sophisticated than records indicated.

Smoke patterns spelled words in ancient languages. Ritual instructions. Coordinates for additional fragments. Names of bloodlines marked for inclusion in cosmic working.

At the center, one name repeated in burning gold: Delphine.

“The magical residue responds to her essence even at distance,” Bastien said, watching smoke dissipate.

“Whose essence?” Voss asked, though her tone suggested she knew.

“Charlotte’s modern incarnation. The anchor point organizing these patterns.”

“Ah. Yes, rumors about her awakening reach even our circles. Remarkable, considering consciousness preservation complexity across lifetimes. Charlotte’s theories seemed impossible until recently.”

“What changed?”

“Cosmic attention. Entities with authority to manipulate fundamental laws, providing resources beyond mortal comprehension.” She rewrapped remaining fragments as if business had concluded. “The Collectors take particular interest in souls developing beyond designated positions.”

Shadows began gathering at the courtyard’s edges with unnatural density. Not absence of light but presence absorbing illumination while remaining visible. Movement suggesting intelligence, purpose, attention focused on their conversation.

Temperature dropped twenty degrees.

“Such fascinating discussion,” a voice whispered from everywhere and nowhere. Words carried weight making stone creak and metal sing. “Educational, though ultimately irrelevant to predetermined outcomes.”

The shadows coalesced into something vaguely humanoid, though features remained impossible to focus on directly. Ancient presence, patient as stone, as if it had watched Charlotte’s work develop across centuries.

“Collector,” Bastien said.

“Among other designations. We prefer to think of ourselves as cosmic maintenance, ensuring universal stability through consciousness management.” The entity’s attention felt like ice against his senses.

“Your participation in Charlotte’s experiments created obligations transcending individual lifetimes. ”

Understanding tightened like a vice around his lungs. His presence during Charlotte’s original ritual hadn’t been observational—it had been participatory. His fallen nature had provided power making her consciousness preservation possible.

“The modern incarnation carries accumulated debts,” the Collector continued, voice now inside his skull. “When she awakens fully, payment will be extracted from all connected consciousness. You cannot protect what was designated for harvest.”

“Watch me.”

“Resistance provides entertainment value. Continue struggling against inevitability—it enhances eventual collection satisfaction.”

Voss had retreated to her stall’s far edge, clutching amulets glowing with insufficient power. Other merchants closed booths with haste suggesting experience with entities whose presence endangered everyone nearby.

But the Collector was already dispersing, form dissolving like smoke. “She requires assistance with certain research tonight. We suggest prompt response to her communications.”

The shadows vanished, leaving ozone scent and burned starlight. Behind him, Voss muttered about contamination while counting currency with trembling fingers.

Bastien’s phone buzzed. Three missed calls from Delphine in the past hour. The most recent message was simple.

Delphine:

Something’s wrong. Please come.

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding against the sharp edge of the silence that followed.

The same plea Charlotte never had chance to make, the same desperation he’d failed to answer in time. His mind spiraled back across centuries, dragged by guilt and the terrible weight of promises broken.

The aftermath of Charlotte's failed ritual in 1763, where Bastien knelt in the ruined chapel holding what remained of the woman who had dared to challenge cosmic law; the same cosmic law that brought them together physically.

Stained glass lay shattered around them, and the scent of burned roses filled air thick with mystical residue.

Charlotte's eyes opened one final time, though he could see her consciousness already fragmenting across dimensions the interrupted working had torn open.