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)
As he drove back toward the city, Votum Aeternum hummed softly against his hip with rhythm that matched his heartbeat. In that sound he heard echo of ancient vows and eternal connections, promises made across lifetimes that bound souls together regardless of distance or time.
But he also heard something else—faint but unmistakable melody of song that had been played only once, on a summer evening when future still held infinite possibilities and love felt like most natural thing in world.
Some echoes, he was beginning to understand, were meant to bloom rather than fade. The question now was whether he had courage to let them grow into whatever they were destined to become, or whether fear of consequences would drive him to keep trying to contain forces that were always meant to be set free.
Twenty-Eight
The blood-orange ink crawled across the Archive's iron door, forming words in elegant script that pulsed in rhythm with Bastien's pulse. He recognized the fae magic immediately—pixie dust harvested under new moons, bound with stolen children's dreams and sealed with essence that had never drawn breath.
She is remembering.
Three words that carried prophecy's weight. Bastien's fingers burned as he peeled the parchment the words glowed from away, watching the message dissolve into empty paper the moment it left the door's iron surface. But the warning remained branded in his mind. Delphine's awakening was accelerating beyond all previous cycles.
The day's heat pressed against him as he unlocked the Archive, seeking refuge among familiar shelves and leatherbound certainties. Yet even here, surrounded by cataloged knowledge and ordered facts, the blood-orange words echoed with Maestro's musical voice and its promise of terrible choices ahead.
Bastien settled at a desk and tried to focus on research, but his hands trembled as he opened volumes on soul-tethering theory. Each page seemed to whisper Charlotte's name, each footnote a reminder of the woman who had engineered their eternal connection with love and determination that transcended death itself.
The scent of winter jasmine filled the Garden District mansion despite December cold seeping through window casements. Charlotte worked by candlelight in her private study, her dark hair loose around shoulders draped in burgundy silk. She hummed under her breath as delicate fingers wove silver thread through a thick braid of her own hair, each movement precise despite the tremor that had begun affecting her hands.
“Almost finished,” she murmured without looking up as Bastien entered. “The moon-thread holds memory across any distance, any time. Spanish moss for binding, silver for permanence, and . . .” She pricked her finger with a silver needle, letting three drops of blood fall onto the completed braid. “Life to seal the working.”
“What are you making?” Bastien asked, though something in his chest already understood.
“A life line.” Charlotte held up the finished braid, its silver threads now pulsing with soft light. “When death parts us—and it will, mon coeur, sooner than either of us wishes—this will help you find your way back to love.”
“Charlotte—”
“Promise me.” Her dark eyes blazed with fevered intensity. “Promise you'll choose love over safety, connection over peace, even when it costs everything. Especially then.”
He promised, sealing the vow with a kiss that tasted of jasmine and forever.
The memory faded, leaving Bastien alone with the ancient promises. Outside, New Orleans hummed with morning life—coffee shops opening, tourists beginning their pilgrimages through the Quarter, ordinary people living ordinary lives unburdened by the weight of several lifetimes.
The summons arrived that evening as a whisper in his ear while he walked home through streets which had grown unnaturally quiet. Not words but musical notes that spelled out an address in harmonies only fae voices could achieve. The Beaumont mansion ruins, midnight sharp. Come alone.
Bastien arrived to find the skeletal ballroom transformed into something from a fever dream. Phantom chandeliers cast impossible light while ghostly couples waltzed to music that existed only in memory. At the center of this elegant illusion stood Maestro, his beauty untouched by time's passage, sharp features carved from moonlight and shadow.
“You received my message,” the fae lord said, his voice carrying perfect pitch that resonated in human bones. “I trust you understand our situation requires immediate attention.”
“Delphine's memories are surfacing faster, and the city is not . . . itself,” Bastien replied, maintaining careful distance. “Nothing I haven't handled before.” His attempt to appear calm as thin as the Veil was becoming.
“Ah, but this cycle differs from all others.” Maestro gestured gracefully, and the air between them shimmered with visions of past incarnations. “Observe the progression, cher ami. Charlotte took decades to fully awaken. Delia managed years. But our dear Delphine races toward complete awareness in mere weeks.”
The phantom images showed truth Bastien couldn't deny. Each incarnation had awakened faster than the last, accumulating power and memory with terrifying efficiency. This version of her soul was approaching dangerous levels of conscious awareness.