One
Bastien adjusted his name tag—Mr. Duvall in neat script—and stepped into the Rousseau Auction House seven nights after the threat arrived.
The registration desk sat just inside the entrance, staffed by a young woman whose polished professionalism extended to checking his forged credentials without comment. She handed him a paddle numbered seventeen and gestured toward the viewing room where other collectors had already begun assembling. Bastien tucked the paddle under his arm and moved through the foyer, his mind cataloging details the invitation had deliberately omitted.
The building occupied a renovated space on Chartres Street, its interior maintained at the precise temperature and humidity levels that expensive artifacts required. Whoever managed the Rousseau Auction House understood how to preserve paper and leather without degrading wood or metal. Professional operation. Legitimate on the surface, though the catalog for tonight’s sale included items whose provenance wouldn’t survive serious scrutiny.
He’d spent the past week preparing for this moment. Forged credentials. Sigil work that left his fingertips aching. Researchthat confirmed his worst suspicions about the envelope’s seal—mirror-forged ink, the kind Charlotte had theorized but never implemented because she’d understood the danger. Someone with knowledge of her work, someone who understood the Lacroix bloodline well enough to weaponize that understanding, had orchestrated this auction specifically to draw him here.
The viewing room opened before him, two stories tall with walls lined in mirror panels framed by dark wood. Gas sconces retrofitted with electric bulbs cast amber light that made objects appear more valuable than morning sun would reveal them to be. Perhaps forty people occupied the space, their clothing marking them as serious collectors who treated occult artifacts with the reverence other wealthy patrons reserved for vintage wine.
A raised platform dominated the far end of the room, velvet ropes creating a barrier between viewers and displayed items. Bastien’s attention fixed on the central pedestal, where a glass bell jar protected a grimoire bound in leather so dark it absorbed light. The book measured perhaps nine inches by twelve, thick enough to contain substantial content, its spine marked with a sigil that made his celestial nature recoil the moment his gaze registered the pattern.
The seal from the envelope. Exact match.
The grimoire radiated energy. Not death magic, precisely. Something adjacent though, something that used reflection and resonance to manipulate the boundary between physical form and spiritual essence. He’d encountered similar techniques in Charlotte’s most experimental work, but this felt older and more refined. As though someone had taken her theoretical framework and developed it across centuries rather than decades.
His phone buzzed in his pocket—silent mode, but he felt the vibration through his jacket. He ignored it. Delphine had textedtwice today asking if they could reschedule the dinner they’d been attempting to have. Not quite a date… But almost… At least he hoped she thought so as well. He’d promised to call her after the auction, once he knew what he was dealing with. He needed to determine in the immediate whether the threat naming the Lacroix bloodline was theoretical posturing or something that required immediate containment.
The mirrors lining the room caught his attention as he positioned himself near the back wall. Polished surfaces that should have shown accurate reflections of the assembled crowd instead presented images that lagged microseconds behind their sources. A woman turned her head, and her reflection completed the motion after her flesh had already faced forward. A man raised his hand to adjust his collar, and his mirrored gesture trailed the original by the span of a heartbeat.
Mirror Bleed. Already active.
He scanned the crowd, looking for the kind of focused attention that would mark whoever had sent the envelope. His gaze caught on a man standing near one of the mirrored walls, positioned where he could observe both the displayed artifacts and everyone who entered the viewing room.
Mid-forties, perhaps. Six feet tall with aristocratic features—high cheekbones, straight nose, defined jawline softened only slightly by age. His build balanced strength with lean efficiency, the physique of someone who maintained discipline without vanity. Dark hair showed silver threading through at the temples, distinguished rather than diminishing. Steel-blue eyes tracked movement across the viewing room with steady focus, attention that assessed without appearing to strain. His charcoal gray suit had been cut to precise measurements, bespoke tailoring that emphasized broad shoulders and trim waist.
The man watched Bastien with the kind of frank interest that suggested recognition rather than curiosity. No attempt toconceal his attention, no pretense of casual observation. Just direct assessment, as though Bastien’s presence confirmed a hypothesis that had required testing.
Gideon Virelli. Had to be. The photograph in the archived university records had been twenty years old, but the bone structure matched. Scholar of comparative mysticism, published extensively on mirror symbolism in medieval spiritualism, known to have connections with private collectors throughout Europe and the Americas. The kind of academic who understood theory well enough to recognize when practice diverged from documented technique.
Bastien turned his attention back to the displayed grimoire, refusing to acknowledge the recognition that passed between them. The glass bell jar distorted the book’s proportions slightly—function of the curve—but he could see enough detail to confirm what his celestial senses had already reported. The leather binding bore no maker’s mark, but the sigil work pointed to New Orleans origins, probably eighteenth century, created by someone with access to both Creole spiritual traditions and European ceremonial frameworks.
A placard beside the pedestal identified the artifact as the “Marie Laveau Grimoire, circa 1850,” had never worked with mirror magic. Someone had either mislabeled the piece deliberately or whoever compiled the catalog knew less about New Orleans occult history than they pretended.
The crowd shifted as an auctioneer appeared on the platform—a woman in her sixties whose cultured voice carried the kind of authority that came from decades spent facilitating transactions between people who measured wealth in assets rather than currency. Immediately the room quieted with her presence and authority. She welcomed the assembled collectors, outlined bidding procedures, and began with lesser items whose valueserved mainly to establish the room’s spending capacity and to move the antiquities quickly.
Bastien held onto his paddle at his side and settled in to wait. The auction progressed through occult manuscripts whose provenance was questionable, ritual implements whose supposed history outweighed their actual power, and artifacts that represented curiosity rather than danger. Bidders competed with polite restraint, raising paddles in increments that revealed how much they valued appearance over passion.
The man believed to be Gideon Virelli bid occasionally, always by the minimum increment, never pursuing any item past the first counter-bid. His attention remained on Bastien more than the platform, studying reactions the way researchers observed specimens in controlled environments. Testing. Measuring. Confirming whatever theory had prompted him to orchestrate this entire event.
The auctioneer’s voice took on additional gravitas as she introduced the featured item. The supposed Marie Laveau Grimoire, she explained, had been acquired from a private estate in Faubourg Marigny, discovered in a hidden compartment behind a false wall during renovation work. Analysis by unnamed experts had confirmed its age and authenticity, though she was careful to note that the auction house made no claims regarding the artifact’s efficacy.
Bidding opened at five thousand dollars. Hands rose in staccato rhythm, paddles lifting as collectors competed for ownership of something they couldn’t possibly understand. The price climbed through ten thousand, fifteen, twenty. Gideon raised his paddle once at twenty-two thousand, then lowered it immediately when someone countered. His attention never shifted from Bastien’s position against the back wall.
At thirty-five thousand dollars, the bidding pool narrowed to three serious competitors. An elderly woman whose jewelrymarked her as old money. A younger man whose tailored suit bore no label but whose posture spoke of military training. Last, a dealer Bastien recognized from previous occult transactions, someone who acquired artifacts for private collections that existed beyond legal oversight.
The mirrors around the room began to hum. No audible sound, exactly, but a vibration that registered in the bones of those sensitive enough to detect it. A resonance that generally preceded significant disruption, the way animals sensed earthquakes before the first tremor reached human awareness.
Bastien’s hand moved to his sleeve, fingers finding the sigil he’d drawn on his forearm that morning with ink infused with celestial resonance he’d created. The pattern rested against his skin, invisible beneath fabric but ready to be activated through intention alone. Mirror Bleed at this level meant the displayed artifact was still generating active interference, which meant proximity might trigger cascade effects that would alarm everyone present who lacked reflection-sensitive awareness.
The winning bid reached forty-two thousand dollars. The elderly woman’s paddle rose for the final time, lifted by a hand that trembled slightly with age or maybe anticipation. The auctioneer’s gavel prepared to fall.
The mirrors rippled.
Not literally—the glass remained intact, surfaces undamaged by any physical force. But the reflections themselves shifted, each showing a version of the viewing room displaced by a full second from reality. People moved through gestures they’d completed moments earlier. The crowd appeared frozen while their physical forms continued in motion. One mirror showed the room empty save for the displayed artifacts, as though rewinding through the evening’s preparation.
Gasps scattered through the assembled collectors. Several rose, their instincts recognizing danger even if understandingremained beyond their grasp. The auctioneer stumbled over her words, glancing toward where security personnel waited in alcoves designed to remain unobtrusive during normal operations.
