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)
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.
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.