“You are looking for someone who was never visible to begin with.”
She returned to her seat, the jar cradled in her hands. Inside, the dark substance moved with slow intention, responding to her proximity.
“There are three possibilities,” she said. “The witch was hired. Payment in exchange for services, no questions asked about purpose or target. This is common enough—practitioners who need income, who convince themselves that ignorance of intent absolves them of responsibility for outcome.”
“The witch might not know what the curse enables.”
“Precisely. A hired practitioner places a beacon, collects payment, moves on. They may not understand that their work provides cover for murder.” Maman set the jar on the table between them. “Hired witches are not criminals by nature. They are craftspeople filling orders.”
Bastien absorbed this. A hired witch could be found, questioned, potentially turned into a source of information about who had placed the order. Their ignorance of the larger design made them vulnerable to cooperation.
“The second possibility?”
“Coercion. The witch was forced—through threat, leverage, magical compulsion. Someone held power over them and demanded this service as price.” Maman’s voice dropped. “A coerced witch still casts the spell. Still provides the skill that makes the working possible. Their suffering does not undothe harm their hands produce. But it changes how you would approach them. How you might break the hold that compels their obedience.”
“And the third?”
“Alignment.” The word fell between them heavy as judgment. “The witch believes in whatever purpose the curse serves. They cast willingly, knowingly, as a true participant in the design. Their hands and heart move together toward the same goal.”
“A believer.”
“Or a partner. Someone who stands beside the architect, not beneath them.” Maman’s eyes darkened. “This is the most dangerous possibility. A willing witch does not break under questioning. Does not offer information to save themselves. They hold to purpose because purpose is what defines them.”
Bastien considered the three paths: mercenary, prisoner, zealot. Each demanded a different approach. Each carried different implications for what he might find at the end of the hunt.
“Can you tell which one I’m dealing with?”
“The curse does not carry that information. The signature is obscured—the same technique used on the murder sigils. Whoever designed this understood that identification was a vulnerability and removed it with precision.” Maman reached across the table and touched the jar between them. The dark substance inside stilled. “I can tell you what was done. I cannot tell you who did it, or why.”
“Can you tell me if the curse-caster is also the killer?”
“No.” The word carried weight. “The murders require one set of capabilities. The curse requires another. They could be the same person—someone trained in both blood magic and beacon work. They could be partners, each contributing what the other lacks. Or they could be separate tools of the same architect, neither knowing the other exists.”
The candles flickered, shadows stretching and contracting across the shop’s walls. Something in the back room made a sound that might have been breath, might have been settling wood.
“Where do I start looking?”
“You know this city’s practitioners as well as anyone.” Maman withdrew her hand from the jar. “The Thirteen Coven maintains records—who is trained, who has demonstrated capability, who has violated their codes of conduct. Isolde Crane guards those records with the jealousy of someone who understands information as currency. She will not share freely.”
Bastien had dealt with Isolde before. Her cooperation would come at a price, measured in obligation.
“The independents?”
“Harder to track. They work outside coven structures for reasons—some philosophical, some practical, some criminal. Eulalie Marchand knows the street-level practitioners better than anyone. She trades in whispers and watches patterns that the coven considers beneath notice.” A pause. “She owes me nothing, but she might speak with you if you approach correctly.”
“And the curse itself—can you trace its origin? What tradition it comes from, where the practitioner might have learned it?”
Maman was quiet for a moment. A candle on the shelf behind her bent its flame toward them without any draft to explain it. “I have been working on that since you left this morning. The architecture is deliberate—layered to obscure. But beneath the obscuring, there is something older. A tradition that predates the coven structures, predates the organized magical communities of this city.” Her expression shifted into something he read as unease. “I will keep studying it. When I know more, I will find you.”
“The murders and the curse both obscure their origins,” Bastien said. “That level of coordination requires someone who understands both magical and vampire traditions deeply. Someone with resources. Patience.”
“Someone who has been planning this for a long time,” Maman agreed. “The witch is a piece of a larger design. Not the picture itself.”
Bastien rose from his chair. “The witch might lead me to the architect. Or they might be a dead end deliberately placed to consume my attention while the real work continues elsewhere.”
“Both are possible. But even a dead end tells you where not to look.” Maman rose with him, moving to stand at the threshold of the back room. “Be careful, cher. The witch may not know the full plan—may be a victim themselves, trapped in a design they did not consent to. If you approach with violence, you may destroy someone who could have been an ally.”
“And if the witch is aligned? If they believe in what they’re doing?”
