Page 25 of Curse in the Quarter (Bourbon Street Shadows #1)
“What kind of connections?” Celeste asked, maternal instincts recognizing threat assessment in his tone.
“Descendants of families involved in eighteenth-century occult research. Specifically, the Lacroix lineage and related Creole bloodlines that maintained contact across generations.” He studied Gabriel Jr.’s markings, noting how they pulsed in rhythm matching the locket’s current vibration.
“There’s someone in New Orleans whose presence either stabilizes these manifestations or makes them significantly worse. ”
“Bring them here,” Roxy said immediately, pack loyalty overriding caution. “If proximity helps, we need that person close enough to ease Gabriel’s suffering.”
“It’s not that simple. The same proximity that might provide relief could also complete whatever working is building around these incidents.
” Bastien’s phone buzzed against his jacket pocket, but he ignored it while explaining implications pack mentality might not immediately grasp.
“We’re dealing with forces that view individual consciousness as raw material for larger designs.
Bringing the anchor point here could trigger network completion that affects every marked soul simultaneously. ”
Movement outside caught his attention—figures approaching through swamp darkness with predatory grace that suggested either fae magic or vampiric authority. They moved without disturbing water or vegetation, gliding rather than walking in ways that defied normal physics.
“Expecting company?” Bastien asked, noting how pack members automatically shifted positions to protect Gabriel Jr. from potential threats.
Tib’s expression darkened as his wolf senses identified the approaching visitors. “Not from us. But word travels fast when pack territory is compromised by forces beyond our understanding.”
Two figures emerged from cypress shadows with the kind of elegant that belonged in opera houses rather than swampland.
They wore expensive clothing—silk and leather that remained pristine despite humid conditions—maintaining appearances through willpower that refused to acknowledge environmental inconvenience.
Marcelline Renault led the group, her midnight blue dress absorbing the moonlight around them. Behind her walked Valentin Rousseau and a younger vampire Bastien didn't recognize—court politics playing out in careful formations that preserved hierarchy while projecting strength.
“Trespassers,” growled one of the younger pack members, hand moving toward the silver knife at his belt.
The lead vampire was stunning in the way expensive art was stunning—perfectly composed, flawlessly presented, and somehow wrong in ways that made mortal minds recoil without understanding why.
Her dark hair was styled in victory rolls that belonged to the 1940s, and her midnight blue dress seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
Behind her walked Valentin Rousseau, pale eyes reflecting the safe house’s silver glow with predatory intensity that marked him as court nobility accustomed to command.
“Marcelline Renault,” Tib said, his voice carrying careful courtesy of someone who understood vampiric politics demanded respect but could never be trusted completely.
“My people want answers,” he continued, his tone carrying warning that patience was wearing thin.
“They want to know who's responsible, and they want to know how to stop it.”
“As do mine,” Marcelline replied coolly.
“But finger-pointing serves no purpose when we're all facing the same threat. Our concerns about contamination affect multiple species simultaneously,” the vampire court’s leader said, her voice carrying accents that shifted like smoke between French aristocracy and something much older.
“When problems begin crossing territorial boundaries, they become community issues requiring community solutions.”
She entered the safe house without invitation, moving with fluid grace toward Gabriel Jr.’s bedside. Pack members tensed but didn’t interfere—vampiric authority operated under different rules than werewolf hierarchy, and direct confrontation would serve no one’s interests.
The young werewolf’s fever spiked as Marcelline approached, glyphs flaring brighter in response to her presence. Whatever force controlled the markings recognized her nature and reacted with increased activity.
“Fascinating,” she observed, studying the patterns with clinical interest that spoke of extensive experience with otherworldly phenomena.
“Soul-binding configurations designed to exploit heritage regardless of species origin. Quite sophisticated work, considering the complexity of adapting magical theory to different physiological systems.”
“You’ve encountered similar manifestations?” Bastien asked, though her tone suggested familiarity with the contamination’s methodology.
“Two of our younger court members have developed comparable symptoms within the past seventy-two hours. Both from bloodlines established during colonial periods, both tracing ancestry to families with documented connections to Lacroix research.” Her gaze shifted to meet his directly, ancient intelligence evaluating his knowledge of the situation.
“We’ve been monitoring developments, hoping for natural resolution that would avoid .
. . complications . . . in community relations. ”
“And now?”
“Now we believe direct intervention is required before this contamination destabilizes every otherworldly community in Louisiana.” Valentin stepped forward, his authority making the safe house’s wooden walls creak under pressure that physical force had no part in.
“The markings are responding to genealogical patterns spanning multiple species. Whatever entity is orchestrating this expansion understands bloodline politics better than most of us do.”
Gabriel Jr. convulsed as their conversation continued, enhanced metabolism struggling to process contamination designed for human physiology but adapted for beings whose nature operated according to different rules.
The glyphs spreading across his torso pulsed with increasing violence, creating networks that seemed to reach beyond individual consciousness toward something vast and alien.
“They’re not just marking individuals,” Celeste said, pack instincts recognizing patterns invisible to others. “They’re connecting marked souls into larger structures. Like nervous systems made of stolen consciousness, all feeding information back to some central authority. ”
“For what purpose?” Tib demanded, alpha instincts requiring answers that would help him protect his people.
Before anyone could speculate, Bastien’s phone buzzed again with insistence that suggested urgency. This time he checked the message:
The journal calls to those who remember its creation. When midnight comes, the cypress remembers what was buried beneath its roots. The anchor awakens to complete what love began. - C
Ice shot through his veins as he read text written in formal language Charlotte had favored during correspondence with other practitioners.
But the message came from Delphine’s phone number—either she was accessing more of Charlotte’s memories than anyone had anticipated, or something else entirely was using her as a conduit for communication across centuries.
“I have to go,” Bastien said, pocketing the phone despite curious stares from the assembled werewolves and vampires.
“Go where?” Marcelline asked, her senses detecting urgency in his emotional signature that
“To prevent a situation that makes tonight's faction tensions look manageable.” He moved toward the door, but Tib's voice stopped him.
“What about Gabriel? What about the others who are suffering?”
Bastien looked back at the young werewolf convulsing against leather restraints, at Roxy, Celeste, and other pack members clustered around his bedside with expressions of helpless concern.
Gabriel Jr.’s fever was spiking beyond what werewolf constitution could endure, the glyphs spreading faster as whatever controlling force sensed proximity to understanding.
Before he could answer, the young man’s scream pierced the safe house atmosphere with sound that belonged to no human throat. His fever had reached critical levels where enhanced physiology began breaking down under pressure it wasn’t designed to withstand.
And from his lips came words spoken in Charlotte’s voice: “The hidden knowledge calls to its inheritor. When she finds what was buried beneath cypress roots, the network completes itself through bloodline resonance spanning centuries of careful preparation.”
Every being in the room went motionless.
Vampires, werewolves, even Bastien’s fallen nature—all recognizing violation of fundamental order that threatened reality itself.
Ancient consciousness shouldn’t be able to inhabit living bodies, shouldn’t be able to speak through stolen voices about plans that extended across lifetimes.
“That’s not the boy talking,” Marcelline said quietly, her centuries of existence providing context for impossible phenomena.
“No,” Bastien replied, feeling the locket burn like a brand against his chest. “That’s Charlotte Lacroix. And she’s telling us that Delphine is about to find the journal she buried over two centuries ago.”
Outside the safe house, changes began manifesting that had nothing to do with natural weather patterns.
Cypress trees swayed without wind, their Spanish moss moving in directions that didn’t make any sense nor have anything to do with weather.
Even the swamp water reflected moonlight differently, as if reality itself was shifting to accommodate forces that had been dormant since before the American Revolution .