Kota nodded and took it from me. She broke the seal before anyone could stop her. "'To all remaining families’," she read aloud. "'The watchers have found our safe houses. The networkis compromised. All correspondence must cease immediately. Families are instructed to go completely dark until the next alignment. Trust no one who claims to know your heritage. The children of betrayal walk among us, wearing friendly faces while serving ancient evil’."
"That was so long ago,” Phi noted. “Generations have grown up without knowing who they are."
"And the Collector's been picking them off one by one," Dre added grimly.
The thought turned my stomach. How did we find the families so we could stop the Collector and whoever was helping it? We had genealogical records, maps, and magical tools, but we were still hunting for people who'd spent their lives learning to be invisible.
"Where do we start?" Kota asked as we left the vault.
I looked at my sisters and felt that familiar surge of determination. "We start with what we know. We find the families using the information we found here and convince them to help."
"And if they don't want to be found?" Dea asked.
"Then we make them understand that hiding isn't an option anymore," I replied grimly. "The Collector's coming whether they're ready or not. The only question is whether we face it together or watch it pick us off one by one."
CHAPTER 11
DANIELLE
The information from the vault was spread across the dining room table at Willowberry like pieces of a puzzle. Too bad we didn’t have the big picture as a guide. Regardless, we were determined to solve this thing before the Collector turned our city into its personal buffet.
I was two Tall Boys in and buzzing from caffeine and sugar overload. We needed a place to start. The Moreau family's location had been circled in what looked suspiciously like dried blood. That was either incredibly ominous or desperate record-keeping.
"According to these notations," I said, tracing the carved symbols in the picture we’d taken, "the Moreau bloodline would choose locations near music venues." I looked up at my sisters, who were at various stages of caffeinated exhaustion. "The maps show markers at Preservation Hall, the Spotted Cat, and at least six other jazz clubs."
"That makes sense," Phi said, consulting her tablet where she'd been cross-referencing the vault information with modern city records. "Music has always been a form of magical practice. Rhythms, harmonies, and emotional resonance are all connected to supernatural energy."
"Plus," Kota added, stretching like a cat, "if you're going to hide magical knowledge for generations, what better way than through songs? People memorize lyrics and melodies without even thinking about it."
Lia nodded from where she was examining one of the preserved cassette tapes we'd taken from the vault. "The question is whether any of the current Moreau descendants know what they're really doing, or if they're just following family traditions."
"Only one way to find out," I declared, grabbing my go-bag and slinging it over my shoulder. "Road trip to the French Quarter. Again."
"We literally just got back," Dre protested, reaching for her bag with all the enthusiasm of someone volunteering for a root canal.
"The Collector isn't taking coffee breaks," Lia pointed out, and I had to admit she had a point. "Every hour we waste is another hour it has to pick off the remaining families."
My NICU training had come in handy after our lives took a left turn. I went into assess, prioritize, and act mode. We had critical patients scattered across the city, and time was the enemy. "She's right," I said. "We can't wait for convenient timing. Think of it like this. As you know, when a baby crashes you respond immediately even if you've been on shift for eighteen hours straight."
“Yeah, I know,” Dre muttered with a scowl as we left the house.
Adèle materialized on the portico. Her sleek gray form looked as tired as the rest of us. "The plantation's wards will hold while you're gone, but don't dawdle. The Collector is still testing our defenses like a shark bumping against a cage."
"Cheerful," Kota muttered with a wave as we continued to Lia's SUV.
The drive from Willowberry to the French Quarter should have been a chance to decompress from our vault discoveries and plan our approach. Instead, it felt like riding in an ambulance with the sirens off, but the urgency cranked to eleven. Lia gripped the steering wheel like she was personally wrestling the vehicle through traffic. Meanwhile, Phi frantically cross-referenced the genealogical data we'd photographed.
"According to the vault records," Phi began, interrupting the silence, "Claude Moreau should be the current keeper of the family line. He’s a seventy-eight years old, master trumpet player, who performs regularly at Preservation Hall."
"If he's still alive," Dea said quietly from behind me. "Remember, the Collector's been systematically hunting these families."
"We need to think positively," Lia insisted, taking the Claiborne exit. "We're going to find him. He's going to be delighted to help us save the world, and everything will go smoothly for once."
Kota snorted. "Since when has anything ever gone smoothly for us?"
"There's a first time for everything," Lia replied with determined optimism that would have been endearing if it weren't so completely delusional.
I found myself checking my phone as my anxious energy took over. When you spent years watching monitors for the slightest change in a baby's vitals, you developed a sixth sense for when things were about to go sideways. Right then, every instinct I had was screaming that we were walking into something complicated.
