DANIELLE
The cathedral archives felt like a tomb—which, considering we were literally surrounded by centuries of the dead, wasn't entirely inaccurate. The musty air carried whispers of old prayers and even older secrets as we hunched over the Les Gardiens du Voile documents by the light of Dea's purple witch fire. My hands trembled as I traced the intricate binding diagrams. Each line represented a thread that held back something that had killed eleven thousand people. It was impossible to wrap my mind around the magnitude.
"Okay, let's back up. We need seven bloodlines," I muttered for the tenth time, as if repeating it would magically make the missing families reappear. "Specific families to work in perfect synchronization during the celestial alignment."
"Which is in three days," Kota added grimly, checking her phone. "During the new moon. Perfect timing for a supernatural shitstorm."
Dea looked up from a family genealogy chart she'd been studying. "What happens if we can't find representatives from all seven lines? What if the Collector really has eliminated them?"
"Then we improvise," I said, though the words felt hollow even as I spoke them. "We find a way to adapt the ritual or?—"
"Or we're all dead," Lia finished bluntly. "Along with everyone at the reunion party."
The silence hit like a brick to the face. Even Lucas and Noah, who were doing their whole protective-shifter thing at the entrance, looked like someone had just told them Christmas was canceled. Forever.
I rubbed my temples, feeling a headache brewing that had nothing to do with the questionable coffee I'd chugged earlier. "You know what I really miss about the old days?" I muttered. "When the biggest crisis was running out of rum on a Friday night."
"You and me both," Kota agreed.
Don't get me wrong—I could handle a good old-fashioned life-or-death situation. Those were simple. Straightforward. Someone tries to kill you, you try to kill them back. Preferably with more success. Easy math.
But this? Having the fate of every poor bastard in the city—hell, maybe the entire country—sitting on our shoulders like the world's worst backpack? That was a special kind of torture I hadn't signed up for.
I was about to suggest we pack up and head back to Willowberry when Dea suddenly went rigid. Her eyes rolled back, showing only whites, and her voice dropped to a whisper that seemed to come from somewhere else entirely.
"The threads are not broken," she said in a tone that made my skin crawl. "The bloodlines persist. They are hidden and protected. They are waiting for the call."
"Dea?" I reached for her, but Lia stopped me with a sharp shake of her head. This was the lifeline we needed. Shaking whatever spirit had hitched a ride would be monumentally stupid.
"The Castellano line... the old cemetery by the river. The Moreau branch... hiding in plain sight among musicians. The Fontaine family... they weren't killed... changed their name." Her voice carried an otherworldly quality that definitely wasn't hers. "They're all still here. All still alive. We just have to find them."
The spirit released its hold abruptly, and Dea stumbled backward, catching herself against the nearest shelf. She pressed the heel of her palm against her forehead and winced. "Ugh, that was like having someone rummage through my brain with oven mitts."
"What else did you learn?" I asked as Lia helped steady her. "Because whatever just hijacked your noggin felt important."
"I got the impression of a roadmap." Dea rubbed her temples. "The families everyone thought were wiped out? They're not dead. They just got really, really good at hiding."
We spent the next hour digging through the archives, turning Dea's spirit-guided intel into actual leads. Dusty ledgers, faded marriage certificates, and yellowed birth records became our new best friends as we traced bloodlines through generations of careful camouflage.
"This is interesting," Lucas said, holding up a yellowed property deed. "There's a notation here about perpetual care arrangements for cemetery plots tied to the Castellano name."
Noah frowned at a church registry. "And this mentions 'special musical arrangements for the Moreau family relocations’. What the hell does that even mean?"
"Probably code for 'we're helping these people disappear’," Lia said, studying another document. "Look at this birth certificate. Someone scratched out the original surname and wrote one over it. You can still see traces of the old name underneath but it’s difficult to make out either name."
I stared at our meager pile of cryptic paperwork. "Okay, we've got cemetery caretakers, underground musicians, and name-changes. Someone left us a puzzle with half the pieces missing."
"At least it gives us hope," Lia said, stuffing documents into her bag. "And actual places to start looking."
"It's like winning the lottery," Kota quipped. "One that involves preventing apocalyptic doom."
The climb back to street level felt like ascending from the underworld. When we finally emerged into the humid New Orleans night, the city felt different. It was more alive and infinitely more dangerous. Every shadow could hide a harvester. Every stranger could be working for the Collector.
"Where should we start?” I asked
Dea lifted her long, red curls off her neck and fanned herself. "I vote we start with the cemetery. Maybe there's a Castellano descendant hanging around that can tell us what happened to those who came after."
"That’s actually a great idea,” Dre replied as we reached the pack parking lot.
