Bastien activated the sigil on his forearm. The pattern flared against his skin, heat spreading through muscle and bone, channeling power that his angelic nature could no longer manifest directly without significant preparation but which knowledge and three centuries of experience allowed him to direct. He focused on the nearest mirror panel, imposing order on the fractured reflections through sheer force of celestial will.
The mirrors steadied. Images consolidated back into single reflections, temporal lag reducing to barely perceptible delay. The hum faded beneath audible thresholds, vibration dissipating into the kind of background resonance that most people experienced as vague unease rather than specific threat.
The auctioneer recovered her composure with professional grace, attributing the disturbance to electrical fluctuation or atmospheric pressure. Her explanation satisfied most of the audience—those whose worldview required mundane causes for strange effects. A few remained skeptical, but social convention prevented them from voicing doubts that would mark them as superstitious or even paranormal themselves. Bastien’s ability to detect the true nature of those around him unveiled a werewolf, a vampire, and a fae among the crowd in attendance.
The gavel fell. The elderly woman’s bid was confirmed. Staff members approached the platform to facilitate payment and transfer procedures, surrounding the glass bell jar with the kind of careful attention reserved for objects whose value exceeded their material composition.
Bastien watched as they lifted the jar away from the grimoire. He sensed the moment of exposure, registering the spike in resonant energy that occurred when air touched binding forthe first time in however long the jar had sealed it away from environment.
But his attention fixed on what remained on the pedestal after staff removed the grimoire.
A mirror shard. Black glass shaped like a dagger blade, no longer than his hand from wrist to fingertip. It rested on the velvet surface where the grimoire had stood, partially hidden by the depression the larger artifact had left in the fabric.
The shard pulsed with energy that matched the frequency of spiritual boundaries—that permeable membrane between mortal realm and what lay beyond. Not quite the same signature as Charlotte’s tether work, but adjacent to it. Related. As though someone had studied her techniques and adapted them toward purposes she’d never intended.
The grimoire had been bait. This was the real prize. This is why he’d been lured here.
The auction continued. Items sold, paddles rose and fell, transactions were completed with the smooth efficiency of long practice. But Bastien’s attention remained fixed on the pedestal where the mirror shard still rested, apparently forgotten by staff whose focus had shifted to processing the grimoire’s sale.
He waited until the crowd began to thin—some collectors departing after losing their desired items, others repositioning for better views of remaining lots. Then he stood and moved toward the platform with purposeful stride, demonstrating the confidence of someone who belonged in spaces where ordinary people hesitated.
A staff member glanced at him as he approached the velvet ropes. Bastien gestured toward the pedestal with his paddle. “Excuse me. That shard—was it part of the grimoire lot, or is it being sold separately?”
The young man blinked, following Bastien’s gesture to where the black glass rested on red velvet. He frowned slightly,consulting the tablet in his hands. “I don’t . . . There’s no separate listing for that item. Must have been under the bell jar with the grimoire. Probably goes to the winning bidder as part of the lot.”
“Would you mind checking with the buyer? I’d be interested in purchasing it separately if she’s amenable.” Bastien kept his voice casual, the tone of someone making a minor inquiry rather than negotiating for an artifact that could destabilize reality if mishandled.
The staff member nodded and moved toward where the elderly woman was completing paperwork with the auctioneer. Bastien watched him go, then shifted his attention back to the pedestal.
The shard called to him. Not literally—it didn’t speak or project consciousness—but he felt the pull of its resonance the way a tuning fork vibrated in sympathy with matching frequency. His celestial nature recognized kinship in its structure, the way mirror magic operated at the intersection of observation and reality.
He reached across the velvet rope. His fingers closed around the shard’s cool surface.
Power seared through his palm. Not pain, exactly, but sensation intense enough that his fingers tightened involuntarily. The artifact was active—fully charged, resonating at frequencies that recognized him in the way old magic recognized those who’d spent lifetimes working with forces that operated beyond conventional physics.
“This gentleman is interested in the glass piece,” the staff member explained. “It was under the bell jar with the grimoire?—”
“Keep it,” the woman said, her voice carrying the aristocratic accent of old New Orleans families. “I wanted the book, notbroken glass. Though I’d appreciate knowing why someone thinks a shard is worth separate purchase.”
Bastien inclined his head slightly. “Sentimental reasons. My grandmother collected unusual glass. This piece reminded me of something from her estate.”
The lie flowed smoothly, practiced across centuries of necessary deception. The woman studied him for a moment, then shrugged and turned back toward the auctioneer. The staff member made a note on his tablet and moved to assist with other departing collectors.
Bastien stepped away from the platform, the shard’s weight solid in his pocket. The artifact pulsed against his ribs in rhythm with his heartbeat, or perhaps it was creating that rhythm, imposing its frequency onto his physical form. He’d need to examine it properly, run diagnostic sigils to determine its exact purpose and how it connected to the mirror-forged envelope that had brought him here.
“Academic integrity would suggest declaring one’s true interest before acquisition.”
The voice came from his left. Gideon Virelli had materialized beside him with such quiet approach it suggested either he had supernatural awareness—which Bastien did not detect—or simple skill at moving through crowds. He stood at conversational distance, close enough to speak without being overheard but far enough to maintain social propriety.
“I declared my interest,” Bastien said. “Sentimental value. Quite true—I’m very sentimental about preventing dangerous artifacts from falling into uninformed hands.”
Gideon smiled, his expression stopping just short of amusement. “Is that what you are? A guardian of occult safety? How noble. Though I had the impression you were more interested in the Lacroix family’s particular contributions to mirror theory.”
The casual mention of Charlotte’s surname required a moment before he responded. He kept his voice level. “You seem remarkably well-informed for someone I’ve never met.”
“Research is part of any academic discipline. When one encounters work as sophisticated as the Lacroix corpus, one naturally seeks to understand the context of its creation.” Gideon withdrew a card from his jacket pocket, the motion fluid enough to suggest practice. “If you’d like to discuss Charlotte Lacroix’s mirror work, I’m always available for academic exchange. I suspect we have overlapping interests. In fact, I’m quite sure of it.” His dark gaze landed on Bastien and a smirk barely formed on his pale, thin lips.
Bastien took the card, noting its warmth against his fingertips. The weight was wrong for ordinary paper—density that he recognized as more than purely physical. The cream-colored cardstock bore a name and phone number in elegant script.Gideon Virelli, followed by the designation “Independent Scholar.”
