Nine o’clock found Bastien in his apartment, surrounded by the careful geometry of preparation. Flashlights lined up on the kitchen counter, their batteries tested twice. Chalk sticks arranged by color—white for protection, red for sealing, black for truth. The wards he’d drawn on parchment the night before lay flat under a stack of books, their ink still settling into the paper’s grain. Charlotte’s schematic spread across the dining table, its careful annotations catching the lamplight.
He checked each item methodically, the way he’d learned to prepare for ritual work two centuries ago. Nothing rushed. Nothing assumed. The kind of caution that had kept him alive through decades of increasingly dangerous practice.
Delphine arrived exactly on time, carrying a messenger bag that clinked with the sound of water bottles. She’d dressed practically—jeans, boots with good tread, a jacket with deep pockets. Her hair pulled back in a braid that wouldn’t catch on anything in the tight passages below.
“You’re being very careful,” she observed, watching him fold the schematic for the third time, making sure the creases aligned perfectly.
“Yes.”
“Are you scared?”
He stopped mid-fold and looked at her directly. “Yes.”
The honesty seemed to surprise her. She set her bag down on the counter next to his supplies. “Of Gideon?”
“Of failing Charlotte’s trust.” He finished the fold and slipped the schematic into a waterproof sleeve. “She built something extraordinary. Something that could preserve connection across lifetimes without forcing it. And someone corrupted it. Used it for exactly the kind of compulsion she was trying to prevent.”
“So you’re afraid of making it worse.”
“I’m afraid of breaking what she built while trying to fix it.” He met her eyes. “That’s a reasonable fear.”
Delphine nodded slowly. She seemed to understand the weight of his concerns. The difference between fear that paralyzed and fear that made you careful. “Then let’s make sure we do this right.”
They left together as the Quarter settled into its late-night rhythm. Jazz filtering from the bars on Frenchmen Street, tourists still thick enough on Bourbon that they had to navigate around clusters of people with oversized drinks. But the Warehouse District stayed quiet, industrial and abandoned in the way that made the Quarter’s party atmosphere feel like a different world entirely.
The iron panel waited in the same courtyard where he’d first shown Delphine the entrance. Rust streaked its surface, but the hinges moved smoothly when Bastien pulled it open. Easier than before. The network recognized them now. Recognized their frequencies, their intentions, the fact that they’d stood at the altar and survived Gideon’s doppelgänger attack the previous night.
“After you,” Delphine said, gesturing to the ladder.
Bastien descended first, testing each rung before putting his full weight on it. The shaft smelled of wet stone and old metal,the particular scent of underground New Orleans—perpetually damp, never quite dry no matter the season. His boots hit water at the bottom. Ankle-deep, but calmer than during the storm. The network had stabilized somewhat since he’d integrated the shard.
He heard Delphine on the ladder above him, her descent careful but confident. She’d been down here once before, during the crisis, but that had been under extreme duress. This time she came all the way down, stepping into the water beside him without hesitation.
“It’s warmer than I expected,” she said.
“River temperature.” Bastien clicked on his flashlight. “The whole system connects to the Mississippi eventually. Charlotte designed it that way—natural flow, natural drainage.”
The glass veins in the tunnel walls pulsed with light as they moved deeper. Gold for his frequency, silver for hers. The colors wove together in the channels, mixing without canceling each other out. Charlotte’s design accommodating multiple signatures, recognizing that soul bonds involved two people with distinct resonances.
Bastien watched the interplay of light and found himself thinking about intention. Charlotte had built this to preserve choice. Every component, every safeguard, every instruction she’d left—all of it centered on the idea that connection shouldn’t mean compulsion. That two people could be bound across lifetimes and still have the freedom to decide what to do with that bond.
Gideon had twisted that philosophy completely. Used the same network to broadcast the opposite message—that all bonds were cages, all connection was manipulation, all love was just sophisticated control wearing a prettier mask.
“The mirrors,” Delphine said softly.
Bastien followed her gaze. The tunnel mirrors reflected Delphine clearly—her face, her movement, the way her flashlight beam caught on the wet walls. But where he stood, the mirrors showed only empty space. Water and stone and the silver thread of her frequency in the glass veins, but no trace of him.
“The network trusts you,” he said. “Shows you as you are. Me, it’s still trying to figure out.”
“Because of the shard?”
“Because I integrated myself into the system through emergency measures instead of proper ritual. Charlotte’s design assumed consent. Mutual recognition. I forced my way in to stop the immediate crisis.” He kept his voice level, matter-of-fact. “The network remembers that.”
They moved through the passages together, Delphine’s presence making the space feel less threatening. The tunnel system had felt hostile when he’d navigated it alone—oppressive, watching, ready to turn dangerous at any moment. With her beside him, it felt merely old. Ancient infrastructure maintained through magic and intention, serving a purpose that outlasted its creator.
The altar chamber opened before them. Ten-thirty by his watch. They had time.
“It’s different with two people here than you described,” Delphine said, her voice carrying in the domed space. “Less . . . heavy.”
