The French Quarter was in that weird transition period between drunk tourists stumbling home and coffee shops opening for the day shift. Street cleaners worked around passed-out party-goers as smoothly as those Roomba automaticvacuums. To make matters worse, the morning sun was already brutal despite the early hour.
"God, I love this city," Kota said sarcastically as we stepped out of the SUV into what felt like walking into a sauna that smelled of spilled beer and beignet grease. "Nothing says 'you’re on the right track' like dodging vomit puddles before eight AM."
Preservation Hall sat on St. Peter Street like a time capsule from another era. Its weathered facade hid one of the most important cultural institutions in the city. Even approaching the building, I could feel the thrumming energy that made my magical senses sing.
"The magical resonance here is incredible," Dea breathed. I could only imagine what she was picking up with her empathic and spiritual abilities. "It's like the building itself is alive through the music."
"It’s connected somehow. Look at the architectural details," Phi said, pointing to carvings above the doorway that most people would never notice. "Those are protective symbols."
I squinted at what she was indicating. The symbols were subtle, worked into the design so seamlessly that tourists would assume they were just artistic flourishes. After everything we'd learned about Guardian families, I knew they were exactly what Phi said.
"The Moreau family has literally been weaving protective spells into the fabric of this building." Lia's voice was filled with excitement as she took it all in. "Through every performance and song, they've been maintaining magical barriers. And I bet some of them don’t even know they're doing it."
That fit with what we knew. Sometimes the most powerful healing happened when patients weren't consciously trying to get better. When their bodies just knew what to do. Maybe Guardian magic worked the same way. It would make sensethat the power was embedded so deeply in family traditions it became as natural as breathing.
Inside, Preservation Hall was exactly what you'd expect from a venue that had been hosting jazz performances since 1961. There were wooden benches that had probably seen more history than most museums. The exposed brick walls had seen decades of stories. There was an intimate stage that had showcased some of the greatest musicians in American history. What I hadn't expected was the subtle magical hum that made my witch senses tingle like the moment before a thunderstorm.
"Excuse me," I approached the woman setting up chairs for the evening performance. "I'm looking for Claude Moreau. Is he performing today?"
The woman looked up. The wariness in her expression was evident. It was the same look I'd seen on parents' faces when social services showed up at the hospital. It was the instinctive defensiveness of someone protecting something they cared about. "Claude's not here right now," she said carefully as she never stopped her work with the chairs. "Can I ask what this is about?"
My sisters tensed beside me. They had no doubt picked up on the same thing I had. This woman knew something, and she wasn't about to share it with strangers who'd just walked in off the street asking questions about one of their performers. Time for a different approach.
"I'm sorry," I said, letting my professional demeanor soften into something more genuine. "I should have introduced myself properly. I'm Dani Smith—I'm one of the Six Twisted Sisters, and these are my sisters who happen to be the other five. We own Willowberry House Plantation. We're not here to cause any trouble for Claude or anyone else. But we have reason to believe his family might be in danger."
The woman's hands stilled on the chair she'd been arranging. "What kind of danger?"
"The kind that involves people asking too many questions about family traditions right before those families start to disappear," Lia added. "Have you noticed any unusual interest in your performers lately? Researchers, historians, people claiming to document traditional music?"
The woman's expression shifted from wariness to something closer to alarm as she nodded. "You're not the first people to come asking about Claude." She glanced around the empty hall, then moved closer to us. "There have been others. They claimed they were preserving cultural heritage, but something about them felt... wrong."
"Wrong how?" I asked, falling back into that calm, encouraging tone that had served me well with anxious families.
"They were too intense and gave me the willies. But really, they didn’t seem to actually be interested in the music. They wanted to know about instruments, family heirlooms, and who had access to what." She shook her head. "Claude's been performing here for decades, and suddenly everyone wants to interview him? It doesn't add up."
My sisters exchanged glances behind me. We were on the right track. "When did this happen?" Phi asked.
"Several months ago? It started with one or two people. Lately, it's been a steady stream. Claude's been getting nervous about it. He says it reminds him of stories his grandmother used to tell him." The woman studied our faces carefully. "You really think he's in danger?"
"We think several families are in danger," I replied honestly. "Including his. The researchers you mentioned—did any of them seem particularly interested in when Claude performs, or where he keeps his instruments?"
"Now that you mention it..." She frowned. "One of them asked specifically about family instruments. He said he was documenting traditional music families and their inherited pieces. He wanted to know if Claude had any instruments that had been passed down."
"What did you tell him?" Dre asked.
"Nothing specific. But..." She hesitated. "Claude's grandson Marcus was here that day. He was excited about the project. He said they were helping preserve his family's musical heritage."
The same chill I'd felt when everything was about to go wrong settled in my stomach. "The grandson is Marcus Moreau, correct?"
"That's right. He’s a nice young man. Very proud of his grandfather's music. He's been helping these researchers document traditional families. He’s been coming around a lot lately, asking Claude about the old songs and family stories, that sort of thing." The woman's expression went from wistful to concerned. "Marcus has been particularly interested in anything that's been passed down through the family. You don't think Marcus would do anything to hurt Claude, do you?"
"Family relationships can be complicated," Lia said diplomatically as my stomach churned. "Has Marcus been sharing information about Claude's collection with these researchers?"
"I'm not sure exactly what he's told them. All I can say is that he’s been enthusiastic about the project. Last week I overheard him talking to one of them about some special instruments Claude keeps in storage. He said something about a special room." She lowered her voice. "Claude wasn't happy about that conversation. He told Marcus he was talking too much about family business."
"Do you know where we might find Claude right now?" I asked, trying to keep the urgency out of my voice.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. "He's usually here by noon for rehearsal, but you can probably find him at Café Beignet around the corner. He has his coffee there every morning at exactly ten-thirty. Old habits die hard. He's been playing this stage longer than I've been alive."
