Page 7 of Curse in the Quarter (Bourbon Street Shadows #1)
T he invitation slipped beneath Bastien’s office door like a whisper made tangible.
No footsteps preceded it; no shadow passed the frosted glass window separating his space from the narrow hallway.
One moment his threshold stood empty, worn hardwood gleaming under the overhead light, the next a cream envelope rested against weathered boards as if materialized from darkness itself.
Bastien set down his coffee cup with deliberate care, noting how the liquid’s surface trembled despite his steady hand.
Several hours had passed since his encounter with Delphine at the Obscura Archive, hours of reviewing genealogical charts and trying to process the implications of her unconscious humming.
The melody still echoed in his mind—identical to Delia’s tune, perfect in every note and inflection.
He approached the envelope with the caution of a man who’d learned to distrust unexpected gifts.
The paper bore the texture of expensive handcraft, thick and substantial beneath his fingers.
But it was the scent that confirmed his suspicions—jasmine braided with ash; sweet florals twisted through the remnants of something burned.
The unmistakable calling card of fae magic that had aged in shadows and ripened through centuries of careful cultivation.
The keepsake locket pulsed against his ribs the instant his skin made contact with the envelope.
Heat spread through the metal like fever, responding to energies that shared roots with whatever force bound him to Charlotte’s bloodline.
His chest tightened as he lifted the invitation, feeling the weight of mystical attention focused on his movements.
Inside, elegant script flowed across paper that seemed to shift between cream and silver depending on the angle of light:
Mr. Durand,
Questions multiply faster than answers in your particular line of work, don’t they?
This evening, we host a gathering where the curious may find what they seek, and the seeking may discover more than they bargained for.
The Rothschild Mansion, Garden District.
Ten o’clock sharp. Come prepared to learn why some patterns repeat across lifetimes, and why certain melodies never truly fade.
Your devoted admirer of persistent dedication.
No signature marked the elegant script, but a postscript in different ink caught his eye—letters that seemed to pulse with their own internal light :
“Such a lovely melody she hums. So very familiar, don’t you think?”
A slow, creeping chill crawled along the back of his neck. Someone had been watching him at the Archive. Someone who knew about Delphine, about the tune that bridged lifetimes, about connections that should have remained private between souls separated by death and reincarnation.
He held the invitation up to the overhead light, studying the paper’s weave with his senses.
Fae glamour threaded through the fibers like silver wire—magic sophisticated enough to render the text invisible to human eyes while appearing perfectly ordinary to supernatural perception.
This wasn’t casual correspondence. It was a test of his nature, his knowledge, and his willingness to walk into whatever trap was being prepared.
The locket pulsed again, stronger this time, metal warming against his chest as it resonated with energies embedded in the very ink. Whatever force had created this invitation was already connected to the mystical currents stirring around Delphine.
Bastien checked his watch. Nine thirty-seven.
Time enough to prepare for the gala, though he suspected whatever awaited him would require more than blessed silver bullets or iron stakes.
He moved to the gun safe hidden behind false books on his shelf, selecting weapons that had proven effective against supernatural threats—a .
38 loaded with silver blessed by three different saints, iron knives forged in consecrated fire, a rosary that had absorbed enough divine energy to burn unholy flesh.
And the Votum Aeternum, a celestial blade he’d acquired about twenty-five years ago with powers he dared not initiate unless critically necessary.
But even as he armed himself, Bastien knew the evening’s real danger wouldn’t come from physical violence.
Whoever had sent this invitation possessed knowledge about his past, about patterns that connected Charlotte’s death in 1763 to Delia’s loss in 1906 to whatever was stirring around Delphine now.
Information was the deadliest weapon in supernatural politics, and his mysterious correspondent seemed to have plenty.
The walk to the Garden District took him through streets that felt different in the humid darkness.
Gas lamps cast pools of amber light that seemed smaller than usual, as if the shadows pressed closer with each step.
The French Quarter’s usual supernatural activity had grown muted—vampire courts conducting business behind heavily warded doors, werewolf packs avoiding territorial boundaries that had grown unstable, fae markets operating deeper underground than normal.
Everyone was being careful.
Everyone sensed something fundamental was shifting in the city.
St. Charles Avenue stretched before him like a corridor lined with monuments to vanished grandeur.
Antebellum mansions stood behind wrought iron gates and ancient oaks, their windows dark or glowing with the kind of light that suggested occupants who didn’t require electricity.
The streetcar tracks gleamed silver under streetlamps, and Spanish moss draped the trees like funeral shrouds that rustled without wind.
The Rothschild Mansion commanded the avenue like a temple to architectural excess.
Its Greek Revival columns rose three stories, supporting a portico that could have sheltered cavalry regiments.
Galleries wrapped the second and third floors, their railings worked in patterns with designs that defied perception.
To mundane observation, the building would appear abandoned—another historical property trapped in preservation limbo, slowly decaying while lawyers argued over inheritance claims.
But Bastien’s senses cut through the deception like blade through silk.
Light blazed from tall windows, warm and golden and impossible.
Music drifted across manicured gardens—strings and woodwinds playing melodies that predated human civilization.
Figures in formal wear moved through rooms that should have gathered dust for decades, their shadows falling at angles that defied the laws of physics.
Iron gates twenty feet tall blocked the main entrance, their bars twisted into scenes from mythology—gods and monsters locked in eternal combat, their metal faces frozen in expressions of divine fury.
But as Bastien approached, the gates swung open without visible mechanism, hinges moving in perfect silence despite their obvious age and weight.
The front walkway was paved with stones that seemed to shift color with each step, leading through gardens where flowers bloomed in shades that had no names.
Fountains carved from single blocks of marble sent water cascading in patterns that spelled words in languages predating Latin.
Statues of classical figures watched his approach with eyes that tracked his movement, their expressions shifting from welcoming to calculating as he passed.
The front door stood open before he could knock—mahogany panels twelve feet tall, carved with symbols that made his fallen angel nature recoil. Not demonic imagery, but something older and more alien. Fae magic worked into the very wood, transforming the entrance into a threshold between worlds .
Inside, the foyer took his breath away. Crystal chandeliers cast warm radiance over marble floors inlaid with mystical geometry—circles within circles, spirals that drew the eye toward their centers, straight lines that seemed to curve when viewed peripherally.
Tapestries depicted scenes from fae mythology: the Wild Hunt racing across storm-torn skies, the Court of Flowers where seasons were born and died, the Night Market where mortals traded years of life for moments of impossible beauty.
Oil paintings lined the walls between the tapestries, their subjects watching observers with eyes that held too much intelligence.
A medieval knight whose armor bore stains that might have been rust or blood.
A Renaissance nobleman whose smile revealed teeth filed to points.
A colonial-era woman whose dress seemed to move in unfelt breezes, her hands extended as if offering gifts that wise men would refuse.
But it was the guests who commanded attention.
Vampires whose beauty carried the artificial perfection of preserved death moved through conversations about territorial boundaries and blood rights.
Their formal wear was impeccable—silk evening gowns that cost more than most mortals earned in years, tuxedos tailored with precision bordering on perfection.
Yet beneath the elegance, predatory instincts showed in the way they positioned themselves, always maintaining clear lines of retreat, never quite turning their backs to potential rivals.
Fae nobles commanded their own spaces within the gathering, their inhuman grace making even the vampires look clumsy by comparison.
They wore glamour like expensive perfume—subtle until examined closely, then overwhelming in its complexity.
Their features were too symmetrical for mortal genetics, their movements too fluid for bones and muscles, their voices carrying harmonics that made conversation sound like music.