Shadow‘s Reach (Halloween Noir) - 9. Catching Up with the Guys

Catching up with Devon and Marcus at the entrance to the large hotel lobby, they went looking for the rest of their group. No surprise, Jacques spotted them lounging near the bar, drinking.

“There they are,” Marcus said, tilting his head toward them. “Tweedle Dumb, Tweedle Duller, and King Knowledge are back from their plantation postcard tour.”

Devon snorted, his playful energy still running high after their earlier excursion. “Man, we’ve been waiting forever to reunite with the ‘cultural elite.’ Let’s see what they’ve done with their day. Spotted filming locations of some horror films or shows?”

Jacques smiled faintly at their antics, though it didn’t quite touch the tension buried beneath his skin. Something about the deep, almost-electric hum of the French Quarter—the heat, the laughter, the visceral weight of the city—felt overwhelming. Or maybe it wasn’t the city at all. He adjusted his collar, it was already too warm in here.

They were close now, and Art, dressed sharply in a linen blazer and a stylish tie, spotted them first, his practiced smirk widening as he raised a hand. “Finally. Thought you might’ve gotten eaten by gators or joined an artists’ commune… although that is, of course, unlikely with dimwits like you.” His gaze flicked to Jacques, narrowing mischievously. “Or, more likely, our dear Jacques here went off to explore his newly found sexually explorative side.”

Paul glanced up from his phone. “Which one’s Jacques again? Oh, right—the slightly exhausted looking one. Must have done quite some exploring.” His face cracked into a sly grin just as Devon threw himself over Jacques’ shoulder.

“No introductions needed,” Devon announced dramatically, waving a hand in the air like a carnival barker. “Ladies and gentlemen, straight from the French Quarter, I present to you the one, the only cursed football jock! Now glowing with freshly brewed zombie magic!” He mimed a drumroll on Jacques’ back.

Mike, who had been licking hot sauce off his fingers, perked up. “Hold up—cursed? What’d you guys do today?”

After telling the guys about their experience with Madame Marie and the Limo ride with Solomon, Art grinned.

Stepping closer, he pretended to inspect Jacques more carefully. “I see, yes. He’s obviously glowing and possibly he’s a cursed zombie. Is that why he looks like he hasn’t had a solid meal since Wednesday? Dark magic and no carbs. No wonder, I believe brains have no carbs…”

“Oh, shut up,” Jacques groaned, batting Devon off him. “I’m not glowing, I’m not a zombie, and nobody’s cursed. These two,” he gestured vaguely at Marcus and Devon, who pretended to clink imaginary glasses in a toast, “just can’t handle a little dramatic flair in a fortune teller’s shop.”

“Dramatic flair?” Marcus scoffed. “Bro, you got, like, two fortunes and a half curse for free.”

“I’ll raise a glass to that,” Art added. “If this doesn’t end with Jacques having his soul—or something else—eaten by a sexy demon by sunrise, I demand a refund.”

Jacques groaned again, but there was mild comfort in their stupidity. It felt almost normal. Almost. “If I’m glowing, it’s from being starving,” he said finally, tightening the knot in his hoodie strings. “Can we eat already?”

“Food. Yes.” Mike’s tone was borderline desperate. “Let’s down the drinks. I’m not dying on vacation because you clowns didn’t plan for dinner. Where’s the nearest not sketchy place?”

The group weaved into the streets of the Quarter, falling easily into a rhythm of jesting arguments and exaggerated commentary. The sprawling tangle of tourist traps, antique shops and art galleries, and gas-lamp lit side streets unfurled before them, every corner humming with life. A street vendor waved brightly colored masks at passersby, her heavy Cajun accent buried under the din of jazz spilling out of a nearby bar.

Mike darted into a stall along the way—drawn by a luridly sparkling vampire cape—and within seconds, he’d thrown it on, snapping exaggerated poses in a dingy mirror. Devon doubled over laughing as Paul took pictures. “God,” Paul said, tapping rapidly on his phone. “I can’t wait to send this to, like, everybody you’ve ever dated.” Devon was glad that he didn’t buy any of the vampire related stuff earlier that afternoon. Let Mike make a fool of himself.

Art, meanwhile, grinned with almost parental affection as he idly pointed out sights: a weathered brass plaque marking an old Creole townhouse, a street cafe so quaint it looked like it had been planted there purposefully for Instagram. He walked a pace ahead of them, narrating their route like he’d lived there for decades. “What you’re looking at here,” he said, gesturing grandly toward the cobblestone underfoot, “is history, gentlemen. Worn by the footsteps of pirates, politicians, slave traders—William Faulkner and Tennessee Williams!”

“Oh, hell,” Marcus muttered, nudging Jacques. “Art’s in Tour Guide Mode. Get ready for twenty facts you didn’t ask for.”

***

Jacques gave him a weak grin, dutifully keeping pace even as they plunged deeper into the Quarter. The streets felt alive in a way he didn’t remember from yesterday—alive, but also restless. Every sound, every flicker of movement under the glow of street lamps, felt like a low vibration inside him. His senses, usually dulled by the low murmur of his friends’ lives, sharpened the instant he spotted movement on a nearby doorstep.

A man sat slumped against an iron railing, his face shadowed beneath the brim of a battered cap. His clothes hung loose on his thin frame, and his hands, trembling slightly, clutched a Styrofoam cup. But it wasn’t the figure itself that made Jacques’ steps falter; it was the faint glow surrounding him. Weak, irregular, like the dying ember of a fire, it barely clung to him. And yet, Jacques couldn’t shake the feeling it burned for something unseen.

When Jacques blinked, the man’s glow vanished, and the rest of the world surged in to replace it—the shuffle of people passing, the high giggle of women spilling out of a nearby bar, the low growl of a muffler on the street. He glanced away quickly, the hairs on his neck standing on end.

“Yo,” Marcus called, quickly glancing at the slumped man. His voice pulling Jacques out of the haze. He’d fallen a few steps behind the others. Marcus gave him a look as the group paused at the next corner. “You good, or are you plotting your escape route? Don’t think I haven’t noticed you zoning out like you’re in some spooky-ass horror movie.”

Jacques forced out a chuckle, shaking his head. “I’m fine,” he lied, the sound brittle in his own ears. “Just... starving.”

“Same,” Mike called over his shoulder, still trailing behind them in the vampire cape, sometimes lifting his cape theatrically to embrace giggling girls that somehow kept escaping him.

***

The golden glow of Crimson & Bayou spilled out into the narrow street as the group approached, the warm light contrasting with the deepening purples of the early evening sky. The restaurant was tucked under a wrought-iron balcony draped with hanging plants and string lights, a quintessential blend of New Orleans charm and just enough quirkiness to draw in both locals and tourists.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Devon muttered, squinting at the chalkboard menu propped up at the door. “Spicy blackened catfish? Étouffée? Fried oysters? Oh, hell yeah. This looks like the kind of place that’s gonna ruin my arteries in the best way.”

Paul snorted, scrolling through Yelp on his phone. “Says here this place is four and a half stars. I guess we won’t die horribly.”

“You were literally eating street gumbo out of a Styrofoam bowl two hours ago,” Art pointed out, arching an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you suddenly have standards.”

“Excuse me,” Mike cut in, adjusting the absurd vampire cape he clearly intended to wear all night. “Whatever standards they have, it better pair with this fancy cape because I’m giving off awesome sophisticated vibes right now.”

Jacques hung back slightly as the group filtered inside, his gaze scraping restlessly over the street. Behind them, a man leaned against a streetlamp, waving faintly glowing hands as he muttered to himself. On the opposite corner, a woman in a tattered coat shuffled aimlessly, the dim flickering light around her feet pooling like spilled candle wax. Why did he never notice these people before? Jacques turned his back to them quickly as he followed the others into the restaurant, the heavy scent of frying oil and Creole spices washing over him.

***

Inside, Crimson & Bayou was everything the name promised—wood-paneled walls plastered with faded posters for Mardi Gras festivals, shelves stacked with old brass trumpets and carved masks, and red curtains framing the bar like a theatrical set. A jazz crooner with a karaoke system sang softly, blending into the cozy clatter of patrons laughing, talking, and toasting each other with foamy drinks in chipped mason jars.

“Table for six?” Paul asked the hostess, flashing her his most polished grin. She waved them toward a corner booth with mismatched wooden chairs clustered around a slightly tilted table.

As they settled in, Art adjusted his tie dramatically. “Now this is properly atmospheric. A little gritty, a little haunted, but warm enough to pretend I’m not scared of the food poisoning.”

“Man, can you stop saying that before we eat anything?” Mike groaned, tossing his vampire cape across the back of his chair. “I’m already feeling judged by these étouffée vibes.”

Devon leaned back, craning his neck to glance behind them at the chalkboard menu posted above the bar. “Let me order for you, Mike. You seem like a shrimp Po’boy guy with no hot sauce because you’re a coward.”

“I’m about to fight you,” Mike deadpanned.

Jacques laughed faintly at their antics, his eyes scouring the room reflexively, looking for... something. A waiter crossed in front of their table, stacked plates balanced precariously on his forearms. The man moved slowly, almost lazily—but more chillingly, Jacques briefly saw faint threads of glowing light flicker from his arms before winking out.

Jacques swallowed hard. He turned his attention back to his friends, but Marcus was already side-eyeing him again, subtle concern etched in the furrow of his brow.

***

The food arrived quicker than expected: steaming plates of fries, shrimp, spicy gumbo, and thin cornbread on wax paper trays that smelled like heaven and probably held enough sodium for several ER visits. Devon attacked his jambalaya like a man who hadn’t eaten in days, immediately coughing as the heat hit him.

Paul, emboldened by a dare, pointed his fork at Devon. “Is that all you’ve got? Watch a real man handle the spice.” He took a massive bite of his Étouffée, only for his face to turn an alarming shade of red half a second later.

“Oh, god.” Paul fanned his mouth in a panic, holding up his hand as if summoning divine intervention. “Why is this... it’s like eating Satan’s soup! Who eats this for fun?”

Devon wheezed with laughter. “Oh, spicy real man, huh?”

“They’re gonna have to roll him to the restroom,” Marcus said with quiet satisfaction, tearing into his fried oysters as Paul pleaded for water. Mike gleefully joined in—the table an explosion of chaotic banter and escalating jokes, the kind of warm madness that usually made Jacques feel safe.

But tonight, Jacques couldn’t match their energy. He offered a faint smile here, a low chuckle there, but every bite he took felt tasteless as his thoughts churned. His gaze kept snagging on details—a woman lingering near the bar with stringy hair and hollow cheeks, her faint glow pulsing erratically. Another waiter shuffled by, their shoulders slumped under movements too slow, too mechanical, their own flicker of light tugging at Jacques’ peripheral vision.

He stabbed his fork into his jambalaya as a sense of nausea swelled behind his ribs.

“Man, you’ve been staring at your food for, like, five minutes,” Marcus said quietly next to him. The playful tone in his voice was gone now, replaced with something softer, steadier.

Jacques straightened, forcing his face into something casual. “What? No...” He shook his head, rubbing his temples. “I’m just... tired, I guess.”

“Uh-huh.” Marcus didn’t press further, just gave him a careful look before popping another fried shrimp into his mouth. “I get it, man. This city’s a lot. Intense, you know?”

Jacques nodded, hoping Marcus would let the conversation die there. But Marcus surprised him, adding in a quiet voice, “Sometimes it just gets layered. Like... there’s more going on under the surface than you want there to be. Right?”

Jacques turned to look at him, startled by the observation. Marcus raised an eyebrow, shrugging like it wasn’t that big of a deal, but something flickered there—something that made Jacques feel like maybe, just maybe, Marcus knew more about what he was hiding than he let on.

***

“Earth to Jacques,” Devon hollered from the other side of the table, brandishing a crawfish tail like it was a weapon. “You’re killing the vibe. God of Glowing Jambalaya, bless us with your celestial vibes.”

Jacques blinked, shaking his head as Devon flapped the crawfish tail dramatically in his direction. “Would you not wave that around while I’m trying to eat?” Jacques quipped, brushing Devon’s hand aside.

“What, scared of a little shellfish?” Devon teased, laughing like the world hadn’t just tilted for Jacques in the past twenty-four hours.

Jacques leaned back in his chair, forcing another short laugh that barely rose above the raucous noise of the restaurant. His grip tightened on the edge of the table as his chest clenched. Across the room, the woman with the hollow face twitched her shoulders unnaturally, her glow sputtering. Jacques turned sharply back to his food, hating the way his focus kept snaring on people he didn’t want to see.

For the rest of the dinner, Jacques stayed quiet, listening numbly to the banter that rolled around the table but not engaging beyond a nod or a thin smile. The warm atmosphere of the restaurant, the laughter of his friends—it felt distant now, like a world he longed to be part of but could no longer reach.

With the meal concluded and their stomachs almost full, the group decided to tick off one more thing on their to-do list. Laughing and waving goodbyes at their lingering waiter, they spilled back into the night streets of the French Quarter. Jacques stepped last into the humid air, his stomach tight despite the meal, his mind already bracing for whatever came next.

***

The air outside had grown cooler, but the streets of the French Quarter remained alive with the constant ebb and flow of movement. Lanterns flickered gently against the encroaching night, their warm light pooling on cracked plaster walls and uneven cobblestones. Scents of powdered sugar, chicory coffee, and the residual tang of fried seafood mingled with the smoky undertone of spicy sausages being grilled on a street cart somewhere nearby. Crowds moved like lazy currents, laughing and stumbling out of bars or pausing to watch a jazz band that had set up just outside the cathedral.

“Okay, rule for New Orleans,” Paul announced, spinning abruptly to walk backward in front of them, his phone held aloft to take a picture. “You cannot leave without doing coffee and beignets from the original Café du Monde at the French Market. It’s law. I think the cops can arrest you or something if you try.”

“This is already, like, my fourth ‘law’ today,” Mike said, adjusting his vampire cape with theatrical flair before tugging it tight against his shoulders. “Didn’t you say jazz, gumbo, and balconies were also non-negotiable?”

“They are,” Paul replied seriously. “You’re welcome.”

Jacques fell into step with Marcus at the rear of their group as they made their way toward Café du Monde, his gaze skimming over every flicker of motion, every shadow in the peripherals of his sight.

Paul slowed just enough to jab his elbow into Jacques’ ribs as they turned the corner. “You’re buying, Glowy McGlowerson,” he teased, already grinning at his own joke. “Call it your penance for ditching us with Art in the Garden District earlier. We had to suffer through culture while you hung out with a fortune-telling goth queen.”

“Fair trade,” Jacques shot back, arching a brow in mock irritation as the group reached the café. Its patio stretched toward Jackson Square, glowing faintly beneath strings of soft lights. Chairs scraped against the tiled floor as servers bustled about, balancing precarious trays of powdered-sugar-coated beignets and ceramic mugs.

***

The group settled at one of the café’s classic green-and-white tables, the air thick with frying fat and powdered sugar drifting on the breeze. Plates of beignets landed before them like fresh snowdrifts, their deep-fried scent mingling with the nutty richness of chicory coffee. The entire patio buzzed with life—clinking cups, the warm rush of people chatting, and the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby group of tourists.

Jacques stared down at his plate of beignets, absently swiping at the powdered sugar that clung to his fingers. He tried to let himself get lost in the atmosphere, to dig into the warmth and ease of the moment, but there was no escaping the way his thoughts churned, twisting through him with quiet intensity. Everything was louder now—the hum of the city, the creak of chairs, the faint rush of air behind the sounds of voices. Every movement caught his attention, every shadow fractured the edges of his focus.

He shot a glance at the perimeter of the street, his stomach twisting as his eyes drifted onto a figure standing near the railing. Hundreds of people went by, but now he saw them. An older man in a rumpled jacket leaned against a post, mumbling to himself. The first thing Jacques noticed was the flickering glow around his face—weak, uneven, as if the light was trying to cling to him but failing. The man gestured erratically with his hands, his mumbled words lost amid the sea of conversations, though he spoke as though someone unseen stood beside him.

Jacques blinked, clenched his fists beneath the table, and then looked away sharply.

“So,” Art said as he leaned forward suddenly, his elbows propped on the table. His tone was too casual, but his grin was already sharp with anticipation. “Jacques. Real talk time. What actually happened back at the fortune teller’s shop?”

Marcus gave a quiet laugh, sipping his coffee, but Devon was quicker, pointing at Jacques with a fork caked in powdered sugar and grinning like he’d found a secret weapon. “Yes. Details. The entire powdered-sugar-covered truth. Was there, like, chanting? A pentagram? Obviously some glowing. How naked was it? How naked were you?”

“Dripping in occult sex magic,” Art added with a theatrical wave of his hand. “Let’s hear it.”

Jacques tried for a groan, though it came out weaker than he wanted it to. “Can we not?” he asked, shaking his head. “I’ve already said it a million times—nothing happened. No one’s glowing, no one’s naked. We just… talked.”

“Talked,” Devon repeated, his mouth curled slyly as he made a show of dipping his beignet into his coffee. “Meaning…?”

“Meaning talked,” Jacques snapped, though his voice stayed quiet, his irritation tempered by exhaustion. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like… words. They came out of our mouths. That’s it. End of the story.”

“Boring,” Devon said, his voice rich with mock disappointment.

Jacques rolled his eyes, hoping they would let it slide this time. He reached for his coffee, the warmth of it calming, but his gaze flicked back to the man on the railing before he could stop himself. The glow around him still pulsed faintly, unsteady and wrong. Jacques clenched his jaw and stared down into his mug, trying to will himself to focus on anything else.

Devon piped in, “Actually, I have the theory that he arranged the whole fortune teller thing just to distract for his fling with zombie boy last night … .”

“Awwww, right, we need the details of that story too… but let me guess, you just talked, right?” Paul mocked Jacques. Under the laughter of his friends, Jacques’ face turned red, but he stayed silent.

“Alright guys, enough of that, pick on someone else…,” Marcus said, clearly noticing how unwell Jacques felt.

Fortunately, the group were actually good friends, and a young group of guys in the French Quarter finds lots of topics to entertain themselves, so Jacques was off the hook soon.

He just couldn’t get his head around what was happening to him. Maison Noir and the Foundation, his inheritance, Alex. Magic actually existed, and it was all around him, affecting him and very obviously many other people—and not in a good way. The constant chatter of his friends, normally so amusing, was just grating on his nerves today.

What was he supposed to do?

Jacques is still undecided. What does it take to push him into the right direction? But he's not alone...
 
Actually, I wanted to put the content of this chapter and the even longer next chapter (preview now available on my Patreon ) into a short "What we've been up to" dialog, but it looks like my readers enjoy a bit of banter way more than some hardcore whatever scenes ... so here you go. Let me know if I'm right with my assumption.