A woman with graying temples studied us with intelligent eyes. "What do you know about the Gardiens?"
"We know they bound something during the yellow fever epidemic," Dea replied smoothly. "We also know that binding is failing."
After some tense back-and-forth, the woman nodded toward an older man with a walking stick. "Marcus, tell them about the alignment."
Marcus stepped forward, leaning heavily on his cane. "Every one hundred and seventy years, the celestial bodies align in a way that weakens the veil between worlds. The binding needs to be renewed during these alignments."
"Baron Samedi's hurricane hit during the last alignment period," the woman continued. "Some of us believe the Collector's return is inevitable, so we should work with it rather than against it."
"Work with it how?" Dea asked with a frown.
"The Collector has promised to share its power over death," a younger man said. His eyes were gleaming with fanatic fervor. "Think about it. We would have no more fear of dying, no more loss. We could bring everyone we've ever lost back."
"At the cost of how many lives?" I demanded. "The yellow fever epidemic killed eleven thousand people."
"Sacrifice is necessary for transformation," he replied coldly.
Lucas issued a warning growl then, which made every hair on my body stand on end. It wasn’t until the temperature dropped twenty degrees that I realized it was not directed at the young man. The shadows between the containers began moving with predatory intent.
"The Collector's harvesters have been watching," the silver-haired man said with satisfaction. "Waiting to see if any troublemakers would show up."
Semi-transparent figures materialized from the darkness. They crackled with stolen life energy. These made the harvesters from Jackson Square look weak. "Time to go," I said, backing toward the door we’d just come through. "Now would be good."
No one needed to be told twice. My sisters and I ran. Lucas and Noah flanked us as we sprinted through the maze of containers. "The cathedral," Dea gasped as we reached our vehicles. "Cami told me earlier that she found a record that indicated there are archives of Les Gardiens du Voile hidden at the St. Louis Cathedral."
"I've always wanted to break into a cathedral," Kota panted.
Laughter bubbled up and spewed out as we piled into my vehicle. I hated leaving the suspicious group, but we wereoutnumbered. The drive to the Quarter was a silent blur of adrenaline and desperation. We parked blocks away in the pack’s parking lot and approached on foot.
St. Louis Cathedral loomed against the night sky like a Gothic prayer made of stone and faith. Dani made short work of the crypt door's lock with a spell that would've made professional thieves weep with envy. Without a word, we descended into darkness thick enough to choke on. Dea conjured a ball of her purple witch fire to illuminate the area when we reached the bottom.
"Look," I whispered, pointing to a section of wall that didn't quite match the rest. "Those stones are newer."
Dea moved closer. "I think this was built to hide something." Her voice was barely audible.
"It's deliberate concealment," Kota agreed, running her fingers along the edges where the stones met. "Think it's what we're looking for?"
"Only one way to find out," Dani murmured as she examined the area. "Looks like it shifts on some kind of pivot system." She gestured to an arch carved into the ceiling. It looked like what would happen when a door swung open.
Lucas and Noah moved the heavy panel. The scrape of stone against stone seemed impossibly loud in the silence of the crypts. The hidden entrance revealed a narrow passage that led deeper underground. The air that wafted up carried the unmistakable scent of old parchment and preservation magic.
"Jackpot," I breathed.
The archives of Les Gardiens du Voile were everything we'd hoped for and more. There were dozens of carefully preserved journals, ritual diagrams, and detailed accounts. It filled wooden shelves that stretched back into the darkness. Maps covered every available surface, showing the original seven convergencepoints and the precise celestial calculations that had been used over a century ago.
"Here," Dani called softly from a table near the back of the chamber. "The binding protocol. They use seven specially prepared gris-gris bags so that each one is keyed to a specific convergence point. They should be charged during the celestial alignment."
I studied the ritual diagrams spread across the table, noting the complex interplay of voodoo traditions. Fae runes, Catholic prayer, and witchcraft had been required to imprison the Collector the first time. The more I read, the more my stomach sank.
"There’s so much more than placing the bags," I said. "The binding has to be renewed by someone from each of the original bloodlines, working in perfect synchronization."
"How many bloodlines?" Kota asked, though her expression said she suspected the answer.
"Seven," Dea replied, cross-referencing family records. "And we're missing three of them. The Collector has already eliminated entire family lines."
"We’re screwed,” Kota summed up, saying what none of us wanted to acknowledge.
CHAPTER 8
