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.
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 automatic vacuums. 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 sense that 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."
I checked my phone. He would be there in five minutes. Perfect timing.
"And Marcus?" Lia asked. "Does he have a regular schedule too?"
She lifted one shoulder. "He's been coming by most afternoons lately, learning the family traditions. Claude's been teaching him the songs his grandmother passed down. Marcus was particularly interested in the ones that Claude always said weren't meant for public performances."
"What do you mean by that?" Phi asked.
"Claude calls them sacred family songs. His grandmother made him promise to only play them at certain times, in certain places.
He said she was kinda nutty but everyone always appeased her and now it's like a family superstition.
No one plays them any other way. Marcus has been pressing him to share those.
If you ask me, those researchers are pressuring him to get the information.
They probably offered to pay him for them. "
"Thank you," I said sincerely, though my mind was racing with implications. "And if any more researchers show up asking questions about Claude or his family..."
"I'll call you," she said, accepting the business card Phi handed her. "Claude's a good man. Whatever's happening, I hope you can help him. And I hope Marcus isn't involved in anything dangerous. He's young, you know? Sometimes young people don't understand the consequences of their actions."
"So do we," I replied as we headed for the door.
"Café Beignet," Lia muttered as she typed the name into her phone for directions. "Let's hope Claude is as predictable as she thinks he is."
"And let's hope we get to him before Marcus does," Kota added grimly. "Sounds like the kid's been feeding information to the wrong people."
"Or the right people, depending on which side he's really on," Dre said quietly.
“You don’t think he’s working against his grandfather, do you?” My hand went to my stomach as I asked that.
Turning the corner, Dre lifted a shoulder. “I really hope not.”