Page 5 of Curse in the Quarter (Bourbon Street Shadows #1)

T he Obscura Archive occupied a converted Creole townhouse on Ursulines Street, its narrow facade squeezed between a palm reader’s shop and a store that sold nothing but vintage postcards.

Bastien had walked past the building thousands of times over the past twenty-five years, always on the opposite side of the street, always with his eyes averted from the second-floor windows where he knew she worked.

Today, for the first time since Delphine Leclair had grown old enough to hold a job, he was going inside.

The keepsake locket burned against his ribs as he climbed the front steps. Hours had passed since he’d felt it pulse to life in his office, and the metal hadn’t cooled. Each step toward the Archive’s entrance made it hotter, as if responding to proximity with something it recognized.

A brass plaque beside the door read “Obscura Archive: Historical Research and Document Preservation.” Beneath it, smaller text promised “Specializing in Louisiana Genealogy, Colonial Records, and Unusual Historical Phenomena. ”

Bastien paused with his hand on the door handle.

He had avoided this encounter for exactly this reason—because he knew that seeing her as an adult, hearing her voice, watching her move through the world with no memory of what they had once meant to each other, would break something in him that had taken decades to repair.

But the locket’s warmth reminded him why he was here. The arcane recursion was building toward something, and every instinct screamed that Delphine would be at its center.

The Archive’s interior was everything he’d expected—mahogany shelves lined with leatherbound volumes, research tables scattered with papers and magnifying glasses, the musty smell of old documents and accumulated knowledge. Dust motes danced in shafts of light from tall windows.

She was at a corner desk, bent over what appeared to be a colonial-era land grant, her auburn hair falling in waves around her face as she transcribed faded text onto a legal pad.

The sight of her stopped his heart.

Not just recognition, but the accumulated weight of twenty-five years of careful distance collapsed into nothing. The slope of her shoulders as she worked. The way she tucked errant strands of hair behind her ear when she concentrated. The graceful line of her neck.

But there was steel in her now that hadn’t existed in Delia’s time—professional competence born of education and independence that no woman of 1906 could have achieved. She wore simple jeans and a white blouse, her only jewelry a silver chain that disappeared beneath her collar.

Modern .

Self-possessed.

Utterly unaware that the man watching her from the Archive entrance had loved her across lifetimes.

“Can I help you find something?”

Her voice was warm, clear, with the faint trace of accent that marked her as New Orleans born and raised. But when she looked up from her work, there was no flash of recognition, no stirring of soul-deep memory. Just polite professional interest.

“I’m researching recent disturbances in the Quarter’s . . .” He cleared his throat, forcing his voice back to its normal register. “Historical patterns of supernatural incidents. Looking for precedents.”

“Supernatural incidents.” She set down her pen and gave him a look that was half amusement, half warning. “Are you a journalist? Because I should mention that we don’t provide information for tabloid articles or ghost tour operators.”

“Private investigator.” He reached for his license, grateful for the excuse to break eye contact. “Bastien Durand. I specialize in cases that require historical context.”

She studied his credentials with the thoroughness of someone who’d learned to spot frauds and time-wasters.

As she read, he found himself cataloging the tiny details that marked her as both familiar and strange—the way she chewed her lower lip when thinking, a habit Delia had shared, but also the confident posture and direct gaze that spoke of a woman who’d never needed anyone’s protection.

“Durand,” she repeated, handing back his license. “French Creole family? I think I’ve seen that name in some of our older records.”

Ice shot through his veins. His family name was scattered throughout Louisiana’s historical documents, but the dates would make no sense if anyone bothered to investigate.

Bastien Durand had appeared in New Orleans parish records in 1847, with no prior history.

The name had surfaced again in 1923, looking the same age. And again in 1978.

“Probably a coincidence,” he said quickly. “Common name.”

“Maybe.” But her tone suggested she’d filed the detail away. “I’m Delphine Leclair, senior archivist. What specific time period are you interested in?”

“1906. The Saenger Theatre fire and surrounding incidents.”

Something flickered across her expression—not recognition, but the look of someone who’d heard this request before and found it problematic.

“That’s an interesting area of research,” she said. “Most of the official records from that incident were lost over the years, and what survived is incomplete and often contradictory.”

“I’m looking for patterns that might be repeating themselves. Supernatural manifestations, unexplained phenomena, anything that might connect historical events to current incidents.”

She was quiet for a long moment, studying his face with an intensity that made the locket pulse against his ribs. Finally, she nodded toward the research tables.

“I can show you what we have, but you should know that most serious researchers find the 1906 materials . . .frustrating. Too many gaps, too many witness accounts that don’t align with physical evidence.”

As they walked toward the Archive’s main collection, she began to hum—softly, unconsciously, the kind of melody that accompanies routine tasks.

Bastien’s steps faltered.

The tune was identical to the one Delia had hummed outside her boarding house on the last night of her life. Every note, every gentle rise and fall, the same melody that had haunted him for 119 years flowing from Delphine’s lips as naturally as breathing.

His vision blurred. The Archive floor seemed to tilt beneath his feet.

The boarding house parlor in late 1905, where Delia sat at the upright piano picking out melodies by ear.

Afternoon light streamed through lace curtains, catching dust motes that danced like spirits around her dark hair.

She wore simple blue cotton, sleeves rolled up for comfort, completely absorbed in finding the right combination of notes.

“That's beautiful,” Bastien said from the doorway, though he'd been listening for several minutes without announcing himself.

She looked over her shoulder with a smile that could have powered the Quarter's gas lamps.

“It's not a real song. Just something that comes to me when I'm thinking.” Her fingers returned to the keys, picking out the same haunting melody she hummed while working.

“Strange, isn't it? How music can feel familiar even when you've never heard it before?”

“Perhaps some songs exist before we discover them.”

“Like they're waiting for the right person to find them?” She patted the bench beside her. “Sit with me. This song is too beautiful to play alone.”

The warmth of her shoulder against his, the unconscious melody rising from her throat between phrases, creating a soundtrack for perfect contentment—moments when the future felt infinite and love felt stronger than death itself.

“Sorry,” Delphine said, catching herself mid-phrase. “Bad habit. I tend to hum when I’m thinking.”

“That melody,” he managed, his voice rougher than intended. “Where did you learn it?”

She looked puzzled. “I don’t know. I’ve always known it, I suppose. My grandmother used to say I hummed it even as a baby.” Her expression grew thoughtful. “It’s strange, actually. I can’t remember anyone teaching it to me, but it feels . . . familiar. Like something I’ve always carried.”

The soul remnant. The piece of Charlotte’s and then Delia’s essence that had survived death and reincarnation, carrying fragments of memory across lifetimes. She didn’t consciously remember their connection, but some part of her recognized the melody that had bound them together.

“Here we are,” Delphine said, stopping beside a section marked “Early 20th Century; Local Incidents.” She pulled several boxes from the shelves with practiced efficiency. “Everything we have on the 1906 fire and related events. Fair warning—it gets strange quickly.”

They settled at adjacent chairs around a mahogany research table. As she opened the first box, revealing manila folders stuffed with photocopied documents, the locket’s warmth spread from his chest down his left arm.

“Official cause of the fire was faulty gas lighting,” Delphine explained, pulling out a police report. “But witness statements describe flames that burned blue-white, explosions that preceded any apparent ignition source, and patterns of destruction that don’t match normal fire behavior.”

She spread photographs across the table—grainy black-and-white images of the destroyed theater district. Bastien recognized the locations despite the devastation. The corner where he’d bought flowers for Delia’s birthday. The cobblestone street where they’d walked on their last evening together.

“Multiple witnesses reported seeing people in the flames who couldn’t be accounted for in casualty lists,” Delphine continued. “Some described figures that appeared to be dancing or conducting some kind of ceremony even as the buildings burned around them.”

“Ritual magic,” Bastien said quietly.

“That’s one theory. Though officially, such explanations aren’t considered credible.” She gave him a sharp look. “I assume, given your profession, you’re more open-minded about alternative possibilities?”

“I’ve learned that ‘impossible’ is often just another word for ‘poorly understood.’”