Page 64 of Curse in the Quarter (Bourbon Street Shadows #1)

Silence, but not the empty kind. The Quarter opened its hands: a door swung wide to release a swell of saxophone, a couple bickered affectionately over directions, somewhere a cook shouted for more oysters.

They passed a bookshop, lights low; Delphine’s gaze paused on a display of vintage maps.

He could almost see the paths arranging themselves behind her eyes.

“Do you ever wish for instructions?” she asked. “Some kind of—cosmic user manual?”

“Frequently,” he said. “I’ve never received one.”

“Me neither.” She smiled, small and rueful. “It would make this easier.”

“It might make it smaller,” he said. “I’m not convinced that would be better.”

Another block. The air cooled a fraction, enough to raise the hairs along his forearms. He noticed the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear when she was deciding whether to trust a thought out loud. He didn’t look at her while she decided.

“What if,” she said finally, “what I’m dreaming isn’t… metaphor. What if some memories arrive as stories first because it’s the only way I’ll accept them? What if I’m remembering things that never happened to me, except they did?”

He didn’t let himself move. “Then you’re already farther along than most people ever get.”

“And that’s… okay?”

“It’s not a diagnosis,” he said. “It’s a direction. You can follow it or not. Either way, it’s yours.”

She let out a breath he hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “You make it sound simple.”

“It isn’t,” he said. “But simple isn’t the same as easy.”

They reached Jackson Square; the cathedral’s spires cut clean lines against a deepening violet sky.

A painter closed his easel; the canvas, half-finished, already knew what it wanted to be.

Delphine slowed to watch. Bastien watched her.

The way she leaned in when she was curious, the way she gathered space with her attention.

He had loved that posture across more names than the city could catalogue.

“Tell me something true,” she said, still studying the painting. “Not big. Just… true.”

He thought of all the true things he could not yet say. He chose one that would not betray either of them. “You’re not alone in this.”

She turned then, measuring him. “Because you’ve… seen something like it?”

“Because I’ve seen people become themselves,” he said. “And I know what it looks like when they’re brave enough to keep going.”

For a heartbeat he thought she might ask the next question—the dangerous one, the one that would tug at threads he’d promised himself he would let her find on her own. Instead she looked past him to the river, where a breeze carried the faintest scent of rain.

“Sometimes I wake up with the feeling that I made a promise,” she said, voice low. “And if I could just remember the words, everything would click into place.”

He forced his hands to remain easy at his sides. “If it matters, the promise remembers you.”

She blinked, absorbing that, then smiled as if her bones recognized the cadence. “That’s your poet voice.”

“I don’t have a poet voice.”

“You do.” She bumped his shoulder with hers, light and deliberate. “You bring it out when you want me to stop spiraling.”

“Is it working?”

“A little.”

They cut back toward the river. The levee beyond the Quarter was a shade darker now, sketched in lamplight and shadow.

He could almost overlay another evening—the curve of a different hand in his, the clean certainty of a vow made without knowing its cost. He let the overlay pass. This was not then. This was this.

At the corner, two tourists argued amicably about where to find the best beignets; Delphine pointed them toward the answer and accepted their cheerful thanks. When they moved on, she looked up at him, expression open in a way that made something in his chest settle.

He was simply being the kind of man worth choosing, and Delphine had been choosing him freely. The difference felt revolutionary.

They fell into step again, the hum of the Quarter wrapping around them.

She told him about a new exhibit the Archive was preparing—rare maps that charted not just geography but the shifting borders of political ambition—and he let her voice do what it always did: make the world feel steadier.

At her car, she unlocked the door but didn’t get in right away, leaning lightly on the frame as they lingered in the pool of lamplight.

“Tomorrow,” she said, her tone a mix of certainty and invitation.

“I’ll be there,” he promised.

Her smile deepened, something unspoken flickering in her eyes. “Don’t be late.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

A few more seconds of quiet, and then she slid into the driver’s seat, giving a small wave before pulling into the night.

Walking back to his car, Bastien found himself noticing details that had been invisible during months of crisis and magical chaos.

The way lamplight caught in wrought iron balconies, the sound of jazz drifting from open doorways, the particular rhythm of a city that had survived everything history could devise and emerged stronger for it.

New Orleans felt alive around him in a way it hadn't since before Delia's death, as if the city itself was celebrating this small victory of love over circumstance.

His phone buzzed as he reached his car, the screen lighting up with a text from an unknown number. Bastien glanced at it, expecting spam or a wrong number, then frowned as he read the message:

Unknown:

A Marie Laveau grimoire surfaced at Rousseau Auction House. Bidding tomorrow night. Cannot fall into civilian hands. Meet me tonight to discuss terms. - A Concerned Collector

The timing was irritating. He had been looking forward to spending the evening planning tomorrow's date, to savoring the satisfaction of finally moving forward instead of perpetually looking backward.

Marie Laveau artifacts appeared on the supernatural black market with depressing regularity, most of them fakes designed to separate wealthy collectors from their money.

But occasionally something genuine surfaced, and when it did, the consequences could be catastrophic if it fell into the wrong hands.

Bastien typed back:

Details? Authentication?

The response came immediately:

Provenance confirmed. Death magic still active. Auction house doesn't know what they're selling. Meet me at Café du Monde at 10PM. Come alone.

Standard supernatural crisis protocol. Anonymous tip from someone who preferred to remain in the shadows, probably a lower-level dealer who had gotten in over their head and needed help from someone with the resources to handle dangerous artifacts properly.

Bastien had fielded dozens of similar calls over the years.

Tedious but necessary, part of maintaining the delicate balance that kept New Orleans' hidden world hidden.

He glanced at his watch. Nine-fifteen, which gave him just enough time to drive to the French Market and find parking.

With any luck, it would be resolved quickly—pay off whoever needed paying, secure the grimoire before some amateur got themselves killed trying to use it, and be home by midnight with tomorrow's dinner date still the most important thing on his schedule.

The drive to Café du Monde passed in a pleasant blur of anticipation and mild professional annoyance.

Even the prospect of supernatural bureaucracy couldn't diminish the satisfaction of knowing that tomorrow night, he would sit across a dinner table from Delphine and continue building something real with her.

At Café du Monde, Bastien found a table with a view of the approaches and ordered coffee he didn't want while waiting for his mysterious contact to appear.

The tourist crowd was thin for a weeknight, mostly couples sharing beignets and locals grabbing late caffeine fixes.

Nothing that screamed "supernatural emergency" or "dangerous magical artifact. "

A woman approached his table at exactly ten o'clock, sliding into the chair across from him with the fluid grace of someone accustomed to moving unnoticed through crowds.

She was perhaps forty, with prematurely silver hair and eyes the color of winter storms. Everything about her suggested competence and careful planning.

"Mr. Durand," she said without preamble. "Thank you for coming."

"You have me at a disadvantage," Bastien replied, studying her face for clues about her identity or affiliations. "You know who I am, but I don't know who you are."

"Someone who knows your reputation for discretion and effectiveness.

Someone who understands that certain objects require certain kinds of handling.

" She placed a manila envelope on the table between them.

"The grimoire is authentic thirteenth-century Laveau family lineage.

Active death magic, designed for soul manipulation and forced spiritual binding. "

Bastien's blood went cold. Soul manipulation was exactly the kind of magic that had created the crisis they'd just resolved. "How do you know it's authentic?"

"Because I'm the one who sold it to the auction house." The woman's smile held no warmth. "Under a false identity, of course. I needed it to surface in a way that would draw the right kind of attention."

"What kind of attention?"

"Yours, specifically." She leaned forward, her winter-storm eyes never leaving his face. "I have a proposition for you, Mr. Durand. One that concerns someone you care about very much."

Something in her tone made Bastien's protective instincts flare to full alert. "If you're threatening?—"

"I'm not threatening anyone. Yet." The woman stood, leaving the envelope on the table.

"But Delphine Leclair's soul carries marks that certain parties find very interesting.

The grimoire is just the beginning. Read the file, Mr. Durand.

Then decide whether you're willing to discuss terms that might keep her safe. "

She melted back into the crowd before Bastien could respond, leaving him alone with coffee he couldn't taste and an envelope that felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

Inside were photographs of the grimoire—ancient leather binding inscribed with symbols that made his skin crawl—and a single sheet of paper covered in elegant handwriting. The message was brief but devastating:

The Lacroix bloodline carries more than just genetic memory. Some inheritances run deeper than death. Some debts transcend individual lifetimes. We know what she is, even if she doesn't . . . Yet.

Bastien stared at the paper until the words blurred, his mind racing through implications that threatened to destroy everything he'd just saved with Delphine.

Professional obligation had just become intensely personal, and he had the sick feeling that accepting this case had put the woman he loved directly in the crosshairs of forces that wouldn't hesitate to use her as leverage.

He had no idea that accepting this case would threaten everything he'd started building with Delphine.