Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 124479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
“And if the witch is aligned? If they believe in what they’re doing?”
“Then they have chosen their side. And you must respond accordingly.”
Bastien moved toward the door. Maman’s voice stopped him at the threshold.
“One more thing.” Her tone had changed—quieter, carrying weight she had been holding back. “What you carry is drawing things from beyond the city, cher. I felt it shift this morning. Whatever your arm is putting out, it reaches further than I initially understood. Things are moving toward New Orleans that were not here last week.”
A pause. “Be watchful tonight. Not just of watchers.”
He held her gaze. “What kind of things?”
“Old things. Things that feed on exposed celestial energy.” Her silver braids shone in the candlelight. “Things that have not had reason to come to this city in decades.”
He nodded once and stepped into the evening.
Eulalie Marchand occupied a shotgun house on Frenchmen Street, three blocks from the music venues where tourists gathered, far enough to avoid the noise but close enough to watch the foot traffic. Her reputation preceded her in the way that mattered among practitioners: she knew things, heard things, connected patterns that others missed. The Thirteen Coven had invited her to join three times over the decades. She had declined three times with language that Bastien suspected had become legendary in certain circles.
The house showed no lights when he approached, but that meant nothing. Eulalie worked according to schedules that had nothing to do with solar position. Her wards pressed against his awareness as he reached the property line—old workings, maintained with the dedication of someone who understood that security required constant attention.
He stopped at the threshold and waited.
A minute passed. Two. The street behind him continued its evening routine. A group of musicians walked past, instrument cases slung over shoulders, conversation animated with the energy of people heading toward their first set. A couple argued in French on the opposite sidewalk, their disagreement sharp but affectionate.
The door opened.
Eulalie Marchand stood in the frame, silhouette backlit by candles burning deep in the house. She was smaller than he remembered, but the presence she carried had nothing to do with physical dimensions. White hair cropped close to her skull. Skin the color of coffee with too much cream, lined by decades that had not been gentle. Eyes that assessed him with the quick calculation of survival instinct.
“Durand.” Her voice carried the Ninth Ward accent of her childhood, maintained through years of practice that had taken her far from those streets. “Maman called ahead.”
“She mentioned you might be willing to speak with me.”
“Willing is a strong word.” But she stepped aside, gesturing into the house with a hand that bore rings on every finger—silver and iron and something older than either. “Come in before someone sees you standing on my porch. Your beacon is giving me a headache.”
The interior contradicted its modest exterior. Shotgun architecture stretched back in the traditional style—room opening into room, no hallways—but the contents defied the simple floor plan. Books covered every surface, stacked in configurations that suggested organization according to principles Bastien could not determine. Dried herbs hung from ceiling hooks. The smell was complex: sage and copper and something floral beneath, something that might have been gardenia or might have been decay.
Eulalie led him to a sitting room in the middle of the house, where two chairs faced each other across a low table covered in tarot cards spread in a pattern that matched no reading Bastien recognized.
“Sit,” she said. “Don’t touch the cards.”
He sat. She settled across from him, her movements carrying the careful economy of joints that had started protesting years ago. Candles cast shifting light throughout the house, and shadows moved in ways that suggested observation rather than accident.
“You’re looking for a witch.” It was not a question.
“I’m looking for the witch who placed this curse.”
Her eyes dropped to his left forearm. “I felt that when you came within three blocks. The whole street probably felt it, the ones with any sensitivity at all. You’re walking around broadcasting, and you want to know who lit the fire.”
“Can you tell me anything about the casting?”
“I can tell you it’s good work. Clean. The kind of work that takes years to learn, more years to perfect.” She leaned back in her chair, rings catching candlelight. “I can tell you it’s not coven standard. Isolde’s people leave marks, little signatures woven into the structure. Professional courtesy, they call it. This has none of that.”
“An independent, then.”
“Or someone who learned coven technique and then chose to abandon coven identification.” Eulalie’s eyes narrowed. “There’s a difference between not being trained and being trained and hiding it. This feels like the second.”
“Who in the city has that kind of skill working outside the Thirteen?”
She laughed—a short, sharp sound without humor. “You want a list? I can give you names. A dozen practitioners with the knowledge to attempt something like this, maybe half that with the skill to actually pull it off. But names don’t mean anything without context. Knowing who could do a thing is not the same as knowing who did do a thing.”