Page 8 of Curse in the Quarter (Bourbon Street Shadows #1)
Witches clustered near the refreshment tables, their jewelry humming with barely contained power.
Crystals that pulsed with internal light.
Rings that whispered protection spells. Necklaces strung with objects that might have been exotic gems or preserved organs from creatures that existed only in nightmares.
They discussed herb cultivation and lunar influences with the casual expertise of professionals comparing techniques.
Werewolves wore formal attire like uncomfortable costumes over their true nature.
Their supernatural strength showed in the careful way they handled crystal champagne flutes, their enhanced senses evident in the constant small movements of heads tracking scents and sounds invisible to lesser beings.
They spoke in the abbreviated phrases of pack hierarchy, every word carrying weight beyond its surface meaning.
New Orleans’ supernatural elite, gathered in a space hidden from human awareness by layers of glamour and misdirection.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?”
The voice came from his left shoulder, though he’d heard no approach despite enhanced senses that should have detected footsteps on marble floors.
Bastien turned to face a man of medium height with tawny hair that caught light like spun gold.
His dinner jacket fit with impossible precision, every line and curve suggesting a tailor who understood his personal anatomy better than human designers ever could.
But it was his smile that commanded attention—warm and inviting and dangerous as honey-coated razor wire. The kind of expression that made mortals forget their own names and immortals remember why they’d learned to fear the fae courts.
“You must be Maestro.” Bastien had previously heard whispers of the Maestro in the darker corners of New Orleans' magical community—a fae so old and powerful that even vampires and werewolves spoke of him in hushed tones.
But before, he'd always assumed the creature was more legend than reality, a boogeyman used to frighten lesser practitioners.
“Guilty as delightfully charged.” The fae’s bow was elaborate, theatrical, performed with fluid grace that suggested centuries of practice in courts where etiquette equaled the weight of law.
“And you’re the fallen angel who’s been asking such fascinatingly specific questions about old bloodlines and recurring patterns. ”
His voice carried accents that shifted like smoke—now refined British upper class, now cultured French aristocracy, now something older that predated human languages entirely. The effect was hypnotic, designed to lull listeners into the kind of trust that preceded spectacular betrayals.
“Word travels fast in your circles.”
“Oh, faster than you might imagine. Especially when someone begins investigating patterns that certain parties worked very hard to establish over considerable periods of time.” Maestro gestured toward the assembled guests with one elegant hand, drawing attention to the way conversations paused as supernatural senses focused on their exchange.
“The genealogical research, the historical archives, that deliciously intense consultation with our brilliant young archivist. Such dedication to understanding forces that most prefer to leave undisturbed.”
The casual reference to Delphine sent alarm through Bastien’s chest, but he kept his expression neutral. Show interest too quickly, and Maestro would have confirmation that she mattered. Deny connection too strongly, and the fae would know he was lying.
“Scholarly curiosity,” Bastien said. “Some patterns repeat across generations. Understanding the causes can prevent unfortunate repetitions.”
“How wonderfully altruistic. Though I suspect your motivations run somewhat deeper than academic interest.” Maestro’s eyes shifted color in the chandelier light—now green as spring leaves, then gold as ancient coins, now silver as moonlight on water.
“Shall we find somewhere more private for our conversation? I have such interesting thoughts about your recent discoveries.”
They moved through the crowd, past exchanges that would have fascinated anthropologists studying supernatural culture.
A vampire couple negotiated hunting territory boundaries over champagne that sparkled with dissolved starlight, their voices carrying the careful courtesy of predators avoiding conflict through mutual respect.
Two fae nobles played chess with pieces carved from crystallized emotions—joy and sorrow, love and hate, hope and despair captured in forms that screamed when captured or sang when promoted.
A witch demonstrated scrying techniques to an attentive audience, her crystal sphere opening windows into parallel dimensions where different choices had shaped reality.
In one reflection, New Orleans had burned completely in 1906, leaving nothing but ash and memory.
In another, the city had never existed at all, the Mississippi delta remaining untouched wilderness where nothing more complex than alligators disturbed the peace.
Maestro led him deeper into the mansion, through corridors lined with artwork that moved when observed directly.
Portraits of historical figures who turned to follow their passage.
Landscapes that shifted between seasons with each blink.
Abstract compositions that rearranged themselves into new patterns of color and form, as if the very concept of static art offended whatever force animated the building.
They passed rooms dedicated to specific supernatural activities—a ballroom where couples danced to music that existed only in memory, their steps tracing patterns that had been ancient when Rome was young.
A gaming parlor where fortunes were wagered on contests that determined the fate of mortal bloodlines.
A conservatory where plants from dimensions humanity had never discovered grew in soil that might have been ground bone or crystallized time.
The library occupied the mansion’s east wing, its grandeur stopping conversation as they entered.
Books lined floor-to-ceiling shelves that stretched farther than the building’s external dimensions should have allowed.
Volumes bound in materials that violated natural law—dragon leather that still held traces of flame, pressed moonbeams that glowed with their own light, the cured skin of concepts that had died before achieving full existence.
Reading tables carved from single pieces of ancient wood held open books whose pages turned themselves, revealing text that rewrote itself based on the reader’s needs and fears.
Comfortable chairs surrounded a fireplace where flames burned without fuel or heat, casting light that revealed truth rather than merely illuminating surfaces.
The air itself seemed thick with accumulated knowledge, centuries of secrets pressed between pages and stored on shelves where casual browsing could drive lesser minds to madness.
“Something to drink?” Maestro moved to a sidebar where crystal decanters held liquids in colors that had no names—violet that pulsed like a living heart, gold that moved like mercury, black that seemed to absorb light while somehow remaining transparent.
“I have vintages from dimensions where wine ferments in the dreams of gods.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you? How fascinating.” The fae settled into a chair across from him, legs crossed with casual elegance that somehow managed to convey both relaxation and readiness for violence.
“Because from where I sit, you appear to be a man whose legendary self-control is beginning to develop some rather interesting cracks.”
Bastien chose his own chair carefully, positioning himself where he could see both the library’s entrance and the tall windows that looked out over gardens that existed in several dimensions simultaneously. “You seem remarkably well-informed about my state of mind.”
“I make it my business to understand those who stumble across my work. Particularly when they begin asking questions that suggest familiarity with patterns that should have been forgotten long ago.” Maestro’s smile widened, revealing teeth that were perhaps slightly too sharp for human anatomy.
“Tell me, what did you think of our young archivist? Such brilliance, such dedication to preserving the past. Such a lovely voice when she hums those unconscious little melodies.”
The direct reference to Delphine’s humming drew his lungs into a shallow hold, but he forced his expression to remain neutral. “She’s certainly knowledgeable about historical research methods.”
“Oh, she’s far more than that. Though I suppose you’ve already begun to suspect as much.
” Maestro leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carried perfect clarity.
“Three lifetimes of the same pattern, Mr. Durand. You find her, you fall in love, you fail to recognize what she truly represents, and circumstances conspire to separate you before you can grasp the larger picture.”
The casual revelation hit like physical blows. Maestro wasn’t just aware of his nature or his recent investigation. He knew about Charlotte, about Delia, about connections that spanned centuries and should have remained private between souls separated by death and reincarnation.
“You speak as if you were there,” Bastien said carefully.
“Oh, but I was. In various capacities, playing different roles as circumstances required.” The fae’s expression shifted, becoming something older and more calculating.
“Charlotte Lacroix was a brilliant woman, you know. Curious about forces that proper young ladies of her era weren’t supposed to acknowledge.
She came to me with the most fascinating questions about the nature of souls, about whether connections forged in life could survive the transition through death. ”