Page 6 of Curse in the Quarter (Bourbon Street Shadows #1)

“Good answer.” She smiled—the first genuine warmth he’d seen from her—and the expression transformed her face completely. For just a moment, she looked like Delia laughing at one of his dry observations, and the resemblance was so perfect it stole his breath.

She opened another folder, revealing genealogical charts. “Now, here’s where things get really interesting. The Lacroix family.”

The name seemed to burn itself into his vision. Charlotte Lacroix, born 1742, died 1763. Below her name, a family tree traced her bloodline forward through the centuries, showing marriages, births, and deaths in neat lines of black ink.

“The Lacroix family were prominent in colonial New Orleans,” Delphine explained, her finger tracing the genealogical connections. “They owned property throughout the Quarter, were patrons of the arts, heavily involved in local politics. But they also had a reputation for unusual interests.”

“Unusual how?”

“Occult studies. Mystical practices. They maintained one of the largest private libraries of esoteric texts in North America.” She turned the page, revealing more detailed records.

“Charlotte Lacroix, in particular, seems to have been deeply involved in what contemporary sources describe as ‘experimental natural philosophy.’”

Her finger lingered on Charlotte’s name, and the locket flared so hot against Bastien’s chest that sweat broke out along his hairline.

She couldn’t know what she was touching—the incarnate echo of the woman who had loved him, who had bound her soul to his across lifetimes, who had died trying to preserve their connection through death itself.

“The family line continues through Charlotte’s younger sister, Marie,” Delphine continued, oblivious to his reaction. “Intermarriage with other prominent Creole families—the Moreaus, the Thibodauxs, the Boudreauxs. Standard genealogy for old New Orleans bloodlines.”

She traced the family tree forward through the centuries, her finger following the branching lines that led to present-day families still living in the Quarter, still carrying fragments of Charlotte’s bloodline.

“What’s particularly interesting,” Delphine said, opening another folder, “is that unexplained incidents seem to cluster around members of these family lines. House fires that burn in impossible patterns. Objects that move without explanation. People who report dreams of individuals they’ve never met. ”

“You’re suggesting hereditary supernatural sensitivity.”

“I’m suggesting that certain bloodlines maintain connections to unconventional energy patterns. Whether that’s genetic, environmental, or something else entirely, I couldn’t say.” She pulled out a modern police report. “But the correlations are statistically significant.”

The report was dated three days ago—when the arcane recursion had begun. A woman named Magge Thibault had called police about her grandmother’s rocking chair moving by itself.

“How many similar incidents have been reported recently?” he asked.

“Seventeen in the past week. All involving families with documented connections to colonial-era Creole bloodlines.” Her voice carried the excitement of a researcher who’d uncovered an unexpected pattern.

“It’s like something is awakening dormant connections across multiple family lines simultaneously. ”

She had no idea how close to the truth she was. The arcane recursion wasn’t just affecting random supernatural events—it was targeting descendants of the families who had been connected to Charlotte’s original soul-tethering experiments.

“I’d like to see the complete list,” Bastien said.

“Of course.” She rose from her chair with fluid grace, and he caught a hint of jasmine and magnolia from her hair as she moved past him. The same perfume Delia had worn.

While she retrieved additional files, Bastien studied her more intently.

The easy competence with which she navigated complex historical records.

The sharp intelligence in her dark eyes when she discussed patterns and connections.

The way she moved through the space with obvious familiarity and pride.

She was magnificent. Not despite being different from Delia, but because of it. This life had given her opportunities for education and independence that 1906 couldn’t have provided.

And her eyes held not the faintest flicker of remembrance.

“Here we go,” she said, returning with an armload of folders. “Cross-referenced by family name, geographical location, and type of incident. I started compiling this after the third report came in—seemed like too much coincidence to ignore.”

As she spread the materials across the table, she began humming again—that same achingly familiar melody.

“Don’t apologize,” Bastien said when she caught herself. “It’s pleasant.”

She gave him a curious look, as if hearing something in his tone that didn’t match his casual words. “Most people find it annoying. Repetitive.”

“I find it comforting.”

The confession slipped out before he could stop it, and her expression shifted—not recognition, but something deeper. A moment of connection that transcended their professional interaction.

“That’s . . . thank you. That’s kind of you to say.”

They worked in comfortable, almost companionable, silence for the next hour, Delphine providing historical context while Bastien took notes and tried to ignore the growing heat of the locket.

The pattern was becoming clear—the arcane recursion was targeting specific bloodlines, building toward a convergence when all the affected families reached maximum supernatural sensitivity simultaneously.

“There’s one more thing,” Delphine said as they neared the bottom of the archival materials. “Something I probably shouldn’t show you, since it’s not officially part of our collection.”

She reached into her desk drawer and withdrew a slim leather journal, its cover worn smooth by age. “This belonged to my great-great-grandmother. Family legend says she was present during the 1906 fire, that she witnessed things the official reports don’t mention.”

The moment his fingers touched the leather cover, the locket nearly burned through his shirt. Whatever was written in these pages was directly connected to the soul-tethering magic that bound him to Charlotte’s bloodline.

He opened to the first page and found spidery handwriting in faded brown ink:

“The flames were not natural flames. They burned with purpose, with intention, following patterns that spoke of ritual work gone terribly wrong. I saw figures dancing in the fire, saw them reach for connections that should have been forged in love but were severed by chaos instead.”

“She mentions seeing a man in the flames,” Delphine said, leaning closer to read over his shoulder. “Someone who appeared to be searching for something—or someone—he’d lost.”

Bastien found the passage she meant:

“He moved through the burning district as if the flames could not touch him, calling a name I could not quite hear. There was such anguish in his voice, such desperate love, that even strangers wept to hear it. When the fire finally died, I saw him cradling something in his arms, and I knew that whatever he had sought, he had found it too late.”

The words hit him like physical blows. This woman—Delphine’s ancestor—had witnessed his final moments with Delia. Had seen him carry her lifeless body from the ruins. Had recorded his grief for posterity without ever knowing who he was or what he had lost.

His hands held the slightest tremor as he held the journal.

“Are you all right?” Delphine asked. “You look pale.”

“Fine,” he lied. “Just intense material.”

“It is that. Grandmother always said her great-grandmother never got over what she saw that night. She would wake up sometimes, even decades later, talking about the man in the flames and how his sorrow had changed the very air around him.”

Bastien closed the journal and handed it back to her with hands that weren’t quite steady. “Thank you for sharing this. It provides context that the official records lack.”

“I hope it helps with your investigation.” She filed the journal away, then began gathering the archival materials they’d been studying.

“Though I have to ask—what exactly are you investigating? You mentioned current incidents that might connect to historical patterns, but you’ve been rather vague about specifics. ”

The question was reasonable, professional. But something in her tone suggested deeper curiosity—not just about his case, but about him personally.

“Unexplained phenomena in the Quarter,” he said. “Events that don’t fit normal parameters but seem to follow historical patterns. My clients prefer discretion.”

“I see.” She finished stacking the files, but her gaze remained fixed on his face. “And does your investigation involve any personal interest in these particular historical events?”

The question was perceptive enough to send alarm through his chest. She was intelligent, observant, and she’d had an hour to study his reactions to the archival materials.

“Professional interest only,” he said, standing to indicate the meeting was over.

“Of course.” But her smile suggested she didn’t entirely believe him. “Well, if you need any additional research assistance, please don’t hesitate to call. The Obscura Archive specializes in these kinds of unusual historical inquiries.”

She handed him a business card—simple white cardstock with her name and the Archive’s contact information. As their fingers brushed during the exchange, the locket pulsed so violently he nearly dropped the card.

If Delphine noticed his reaction, she gave no sign. But as he turned to leave, she spoke again.

“Mr. Durand? That melody I was humming—if you ever remember where you’ve heard it before, I’d be curious to know. It’s been bothering me for years, feeling like I should remember something about it but never quite managing to place what.”

He paused at the Archive door, his hand on the handle.

The honest thing would be to tell her she’d hummed that melody in 1906, that it had been the soundtrack to the happiest moments of his existence and the most devastating night of his life.

That he’d carried it with him for 119 years like a wound that never healed.

Instead, he said, “If I remember, I’ll let you know.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

The afternoon sun was blinding after the Archive’s dim interior. Bastien stood on the sidewalk, his vision adjusting while his mind—and his heart—reeled from the encounter.

She was everything he’d expected and nothing like he’d prepared for.

The soul was the same—he’d felt that connection the moment she’d looked up from her research desk.

But the woman who carried that soul was someone new, someone who’d grown up in a different world with opportunities Charlotte and Delia could never have imagined.

Strong. Independent. Intellectually formidable.

And she had no memory of him whatsoever.

The locket had gone silent against his chest, but it retained heat like a coal. Whatever had awakened it was growing stronger, responding not just to Delphine’s presence but to her proximity to the archival materials about her own bloodline.

She was the key. The focal point around which the arcane recursion was building. Charlotte’s descendant, Delia’s reincarnation, the living embodiment of connections that had been severed but never truly broken.

And she was in terrible danger.

Bastien pulled out his phone and dialed Maman Brigitte’s number as he walked away from the Archive. The conversation was brief, coded in language that would mean nothing to casual listeners.

“The pattern is accelerating,” he said when she answered.

“Made contact?”

“Just did.”

“And?”

He glanced back at the Archive’s second-floor windows, where he could see Delphine’s silhouette moving between the shelves.

She had returned to her work as if their meeting had been routine, professional, forgettable.

She had no idea that their encounter had just shifted the trajectory of forces that had been building for over a century.

“She doesn’t remember,” he said quietly. “But the magic does. ”

“Then you know what you have to do.”

“I have to protect her.”

“You have to let her choose,” Maman corrected. “Some stories don’t end just because people die. But some people get to decide how their stories continue.”

The line went dead, leaving Bastien alone on Ursulines Street with the weight of impossible decisions.

He could try to shield Delphine from what was coming, could attempt to solve the crisis without involving her directly.

But the locket’s response to her presence, the way the archival materials had resonated with mystical energy when she touched them, suggested that she was already involved whether she knew it or not.

The arcane recursion was building toward something that required her participation. The question was whether that participation would be knowing and willing, or whether she would be swept up in forces beyond her understanding just as Delia had been in 1906.

As he walked back toward the Quarter, Bastien made a decision that would haunt him regardless of its consequences. He would tell her the truth. Not all of it, not yet, but enough that she could make informed choices about her own fate.

She deserved that much. Charlotte had died without knowing what her experiments would cost. Delia had died confused and alone, unable to recognize the man who loved her. Delphine would face whatever was coming with her eyes open and her mind clear.

Even if the truth destroyed any chance they might have at happiness.

Even if it killed them both.

Behind him, the Obscura Archive’s windows reflected the setting sun like eyes watching his retreat. Inside, Delphine Leclair continued her work of preserving the past, unaware that she was about to become its living embodiment.

The locket pulsed once against his chest—not warning . . . but promise. Whatever was coming, they would face it together. Whether she remembered their connection or not, whether she chose to rebuild what they’d lost or forge something entirely new, they would not be separated again.

This time, he would reach her in time.

This time, he would not let the flames win.