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)
“Where do I find her?”
“You don’t find Lavinia. She finds people when she has use for them.” Eulalie stood, the conversation clearly ending. “Start with the others. Work your way through the obvious suspects. If none of them fit, then you might need to consider that the person you’re looking for is someone who shouldn’t exist.”
“Shouldn’t exist?”
“Someone too skilled to be unknown. Too capable to have avoided notice. Too prepared for work this complex to have arrived from nowhere.” Her eyes held something that read as warning. “The murkiness of your investigation isn’t accident, Durand. Someone created it. Someone who understands that clarity is dangerous and fog is safety. The witch you’re hunting may not want to be found. And they may have the skills to ensure they never are.”
Bastien let himself out.
Frenchmen Street had filled with the evening crowd—music spilling from open doors, laughter and conversation mixing with trumpet and trombone. He walked back toward Dauphine Street through routes that avoided the surveillance he knew waited at predictable intersections. The curse broadcast his position regardless of path, but there was satisfaction in denying the watchers the ease of direct observation.
Eulalie’s list sat in his pocket. He unfolded the paper under the glow of a streetlamp on Chartres and read while he walked, cataloging names against what he knew of the city’s practitioners.
He was three blocks from his building when the temperature dropped.
Not the gradual cooling of a night breeze off the river. A localized drop, sharp and specific, the kind that raised the hair on the back of his neck and preceded nothing good. Bastien’s fallen nature registered it before his mind could name it—a signature that was old, hungry, and radiating from the narrow gap between two buildings to his right.
He stopped walking.
The revenant stopped with him.
New Orleans produced them the way other cities produced rats—inevitably, in quantity, from the particular combination of violent history and ambient spiritual energy that had been accumulating in this ground since before the French arrived. Most revenants were minor things, barely coherent, more impression than presence. They haunted specific locations and fed on ambient grief and were generally more nuisance than threat.
This one was not minor.
It stood in the gap between buildings with the shape of a person and the substance of smoke, its form present enough to displace shadow but not solid enough to have weight. Features suggested rather than defined—the approximate location of eyes that held no pupils, only a faint luminescence the color of old bone. Hands that ended in suggestions of fingers. A mouth that had forgotten what mouths were for.
And it was watching him with focused, deliberate hunger.
The street held its normal activity—a couple crossing ahead, a delivery cyclist ringing his bell—none of them registering the drop in temperature, none of them seeing what stood ten feet from the nearest pedestrian. Revenants didn’t register on human perception unless they chose to. This one had no interest in the humans. What Bastien carried in his forearm had drawn it here, and it had locked onto the source with the single-minded focus of something that had not fed in a long time.
Maman’s warning, he thought. Old things. Things that feed on exposed celestial energy.
“You’ve come a long way,” Bastien said, keeping his voice conversational, his pace unchanged. “The answer is no.”
The revenant’s approximate head tilted. The luminescence in its eye-spaces brightened slightly—recognition, or interest, or both.
Then it moved.
Fast. Faster than anything without a body had a right to be, crossing the distance between them in less time than the drop in temperature had given him to prepare. It came from the right with force that carried none of the telegraphing of physical mass—no shift of weight, no winding up, just sudden violent presence where there had been absence.
Bastien stepped into it rather than away. Not instinct—instinct was to create distance—but the correct choice. Getting inside its reach before it could build momentum, denying it the space it needed to gather force. His hand found something that was simultaneously cold as river water and faintly solid, like gripping dense fog. His shoulder dropped. He used its own velocity to redirect it into the brick wall of the nearest building.
The impact produced a sound like a thunderclap in a small room. Dust rained from the second-floor shutters. The couple ahead spun around, saw nothing—the revenant was already reforming, the dispersal of its physical coherence temporary, its will pulling the borrowed mass back into shape faster than should have been possible for something this far from its origin point.
Stronger than it looked. Which meant it had been feeding already, somewhere between wherever the beacon had drawn it from and this street.
Three seconds of close work—controlled, no wasted motion, the centuries of practice distilled into efficient response. He kept his left forearm pressed against its center of mass, which was the wrong choice tactically and the right one instinctively, because the mark flared the moment contact held—not the usual slow warmth but a sharp outward pulse, celestial energy discharging against something that fed on celestial energy the way a short circuit discharged against a live wire.