Page 59 of Curse in the Quarter (Bourbon Street Shadows #1)
T he ritual circle erupted near the riverbank at the stroke of midnight, tearing through the Veil like a blade through silk.
What began as a tourist's fumbling attempt at communion with New Orleans' spiritual legacy turned catastrophic when their improvised chalice shattered against stone, spilling blood onto earth already saturated with centuries of magical residue.
The confluence of amateur desperation and ancient power created exactly the resonance Bastien had been dreading—a massive beacon that fractured reality itself and sent shockwaves rippling through every ward in the Quarter.
His coffee mug hit the floor before he fully registered what was happening, ceramic exploding across the hardwood as his hands went numb with recognition.
This wasn't just another minor breach. This was the crescendo he'd been dreading for months, the moment when the Veil stretched to its absolute thinnest and every soul with unfinished resonance would be pulled toward the epicenter like iron to a lodestone.
The pressure built first in his skull, then spread through his bones—not the familiar tightness behind his sternum, but something deeper and more violent.
The spiritual boundary between worlds was straining past all natural limits, groaning under forces it was never meant to contain.
Then came the sound, inaudible to most but clear as cathedral bells to anyone with Veil-trained perception: a deep, thrumming note that rose from the earth itself, calling to every spirit caught between incarnations, every consciousness carrying memories too powerful to release.
Delphine would already be moving toward the source, her feet carrying her through Quarter streets while her mind struggled to understand why.
Books scattered across his desk as he lunged for the Votum Aeternum, the weapon burning against his palm with urgent recognition.
The blade knew what was happening—could sense the same chaotic energies that were wreaking havoc with every protective sigil he'd carefully placed throughout the Quarter over decades of patient work.
Behind him, his own wards held but strained, their delicate balance disrupted by magical forces too raw and uncontrolled for safe containment.
The streets were a chaos of failing infrastructure as he ran.
Ozone and copper hit him two blocks from the river, underscored by something deeper—the acrid scent of reality itself burning at its edges.
Street lamps stuttered and died as he passed, their electrical systems overwhelmed by feedback from the breach.
Gas lines groaned in their underground housing.
Car alarms shrieked in discordant harmony as their electronic systems registered energy signatures they weren't designed to interpret.
Other practitioners were emerging from buildings along his route, some trying to contain the damage, others simply fleeing.
Maman Brigitte's silhouette moved frantically on her gallery, hands working rapid patterns to reinforce protections around her block.
The air around her property shimmered with defensive energy, but even her considerable power was being tested by the magnitude of the breach.
Further down Royal Street, Marcelline directed two younger vampires toward what looked like damage control, their preternatural speed allowing them to reach affected areas before human authorities could arrive and complicate matters with inconvenient questions.
A city bus careened through the intersection ahead of him, its driver slumped over the wheel as the breach's psychic pressure overwhelmed his unprotected mind.
Bastien threw himself against a lamppost as the vehicle mounted the sidewalk and crashed through the window of a closed boutique, glass exploding outward in a shower of glittering fragments.
The certainty that Delphine was being drawn toward this epicenter of magical chaos made his ribs ache with desperate urgency.
The tether between them was resonating with the breach energy, creating feedback loops that would feel like urgent summons to any soul carrying fragments of past incarnations.
She would follow that call without conscious choice, her sleeping memories responding to the magical pressure with the same inevitability as flowers turning toward sunlight.
The ritual site was nightmare made manifest when he finally reached it.
The amateur who'd triggered the breach lay unconscious near their makeshift altar, blood still seeping from deep cuts on their palms where they'd tried to grip their shattered chalice.
The air above them rippled with cold distortions, and through those temporal fractures Bastien could see glimpses of other times, other places—shadows of the riverbank as it had existed in decades past, complete with figures who'd been dead for generations moving through spaces that no longer existed in present reality.
The breach was pulling energy from across multiple temporal boundaries, using the Mississippi's profound spiritual significance as an anchor point to access memories embedded in the landscape itself.
Every tragedy that had ever played out along these banks, every moment of transformation or loss, was bleeding through the damaged Veil like ink through torn paper.
The effect was hauntingly beautiful, but also lethal for anyone caught in its influence without proper protection.
Windows in nearby buildings had blown out from the pressure waves.
Fragments of glass covered the street like fallen stars, each piece reflecting the ethereal light bleeding through the breach.
The air itself seemed to thicken and thin in irregular patterns, making it difficult to breathe consistently.
Street signs twisted into impossible angles.
Fire hydrants wept streams of water that flowed upward before dissipating into mist.
And at the center of it all, Delphine lay collapsed at the ritual circle's edge.
Her face was peaceful despite the chaos surrounding her, as if she'd simply decided to rest in the middle of a war zone.
But when Bastien knelt beside her and checked her pulse, he could feel the tether rupture wave moving through her system like electricity, causing her muscles to spasm involuntarily and her breathing to come in shallow, irregular gasps.
Her soul was being pulled in too many directions at once, responding to the breach's call while simultaneously trying to maintain connection to her current physical form.
The scent of smoke—not from any fire burning in the present, but from temporal echoes bleeding through the breach—triggered the memory with violent clarity.
1906. The Saenger Theatre.
Smoke thick enough to choke on filled the backstage corridors as Bastien fought his way through collapsing timber and twisted metal.
The ritual had gone catastrophically wrong, and the flames consuming the building weren't natural fire but something far more destructive—spiritual energy that could burn through the connections between souls as easily as it consumed wood and cloth.
“Delia!” Her name tore from his throat as he pushed through debris toward the stage where the ritual's focus burned brightest, silver light pulsing through the smoke like a malevolent heartbeat.
He found her standing center stage, motionless within a circle of that same silver fire.
Her brown dress remained untouched by smoke or flame, but her eyes stared straight ahead with the blank expression of someone caught between waking and dreaming.
The life-thread severance was already beginning—he could feel their magical bonds starting to fray under the pressure of the chaotic working, each severed connection sending sharp pain through his supernatural essence.
“Delia.” He approached the circle carefully, testing its boundaries with outstretched fingers. The silver fire burned cold against his skin but didn't completely repel him. “Delia, can you hear me?”
Her head turned toward his voice, but her eyes remained unfocused. When she looked at him, he saw no spark of recognition—only the growing confusion of someone whose memories were being torn away by forces beyond human comprehension.
“Who . . .” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the roar of collapsing timber and the crackling of magical fire. “I know I should remember, but I can't . . . why can't I remember?”
“It's me,” he said, stepping through the circle despite the agony that lanced through his essence with each movement. “It's Bastien. You know me. You've always known me.”
But she didn't. The ritual had carved away not just their connection, but her memories of him entirely.
Every shared moment, every laugh, every gentle touch, every whispered endearment—all of it was being systematically erased as the arcane working prepared her spirit for binding to another consciousness.
He gathered her in his arms as the circle collapsed around them, silver fire dissipating into ordinary flame that caught at her dress, her hair.
She was dying, and the worst part was that she was dying without knowing who held her, without understanding why this stranger seemed so desperate to save her from forces she couldn't even perceive.
The building groaned around them as support beams gave way to supernatural fire. Chunks of burning masonry crashed down, forcing him to shield her body with his own as they became trapped in a pocket of relative safety that wouldn't last long.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered, her lips barely moving as smoke filled her lungs. “I wish I could remember why you seem so important. There's something . . . something I should know . . .”