Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 105939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
“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.”