Shadow‘s Reach (Halloween Noir) - 10. Come On, Jacques, Decision Time

The atmosphere was lively at Café du Monde, but Jacques picked quietly at his beignets.

Marcus, ever watchful, leaned slightly across the table. “Hey. You good?” His voice was quiet enough to escape the rest of the table’s notice, but Marcus held Jacques’ gaze pointedly.

Jacques tried to shake the feeling off. “I’m fine,” he lied, his voice low and brittle, “powdered sugar crash.”

Marcus didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press further. Jacques appreciated that—he didn’t have the capacity to explain it, not all at once, not now.

Their table remained loud with jokes and banter, but Jacques’ unease continued to simmer. By the time they began filing out into the street, the figure at the railing was gone, lost somewhere deeper in the night. Still, Jacques couldn’t forget him.

The French Market was alive with noise and light, a swirling tapestry of color and movement stretched out against the deep shadows of the night. Strings of bright, uneven lights swayed over the stalls like lazy fireflies, while vendors in all manners of dress hawked trinkets, food, and art with cheerful persistence. The air smelled of the damp wood of the market stalls, mingled with faint traces of the river’s musk from just beyond the levee.

Jacques and his friends wandered slowly through the market, weaving in and out of the scattered crowds. Mike had already gotten distracted at a booth selling vintage Mardi Gras masks, holding one aloft dramatically as Paul teased him about its “haunted vibes.” Devon loitered near a painting stall, dramatically negotiating with the seller over whether “frat bros” deserved a discount. Art took it all in, his gaze sharp, his outfit somehow managing to stay pristine even as the rest of them looked progressively rumpled.

Jacques trailed a few steps behind, letting their laughter wash over him without engaging. The world around him seemed both heavier and sharper than it should have, the lively energy of the market clashing with something darker that hovered just beyond the edge of things. He scanned faces automatically, his eyes drawn more and more frequently to the faint glimmers—the glowing lights he wished he could unsee.

A stall selling pralines sat just across the way, its vendor leaning against the counter with slumped shoulders and a vacant expression. Though the colorful lights strung above the booth cast a warm glow over her booth, Jacques could see the faint flicker around her hands, faint strings of shimmering light curling and dissolving like smoke. Nearby, a man huddled over a makeshift display of antique books, his glow pale and erratic, a low pulse that made Jacques’ stomach tighten.

“What’s he staring at now? Books?” Devon’s voice reached him from a few feet away, high-pitched and playful as usual. Jacques blinked, realizing he’d stopped walking completely.

“Nothing,” Jacques muttered, catching up quickly.

“Let him be,” Marcus said, his voice calm but edged with something Jacques couldn’t pin down. He glanced at Jacques and put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s just remembering that stories could be told be stringing these letter thingys together… Don‘t expect him to walk at the same time.”

Jacques smirked weakly at the lame joke but didn’t reply, his mind buzzing.

Soon, they were through the French Market and heading back toward to Jackson Square. When the lights grew dimmer and the laughter of the crowd softened into something much quieter, Jacques’ attention was drawn to a dark patch of green just outside the market, Latrobe Park.

***

He slowed instinctively as they passed the small space. Eight or nine people sprawled along the benches. It wasn’t uncommon—homeless people probably gathered here daily, retreating from the chaos of Bourbon Street to quieter corners—but some of these people weren’t what Jacques would have called “normal” anymore.

They were slouched, their heads drooping as they muttered to themselves, their voices like faint static. One twitched with sharp jerks, his body moving as if commanded by invisible strings. The glow that pulsed around those people made Jacques’ stomach churn—weak, sickly trails of light that seemed weighted and desperate, clinging to them like cobwebs on cloth.

One man, his suit jacket shredded and his shoes mismatched, turned his face toward Jacques. His eyes were too wide, too desperate, as if he were staring into Jacques’ chest instead of his face. Jacques quickly averted his gaze.

“Hm.” Marcus came to a subtle stop a pace behind Jacques, leaning his elbow casually on a lamppost. His movements looked nonchalant to anyone watching, but his voice—low and subdued—carried only to Jacques. “What is it? You’ve been freezing up again.”

The question rippled through Jacques’ thoughts, a gentle invitation he didn’t quite know how to answer. “It’s nothing,” he said automatically, but the words weren’t convincing, even to him.

Marcus tilted his head. “Okay, maybe ‘nothing’ isn’t the word you’re looking for. But I’ll buy that answer if you, you know, want me to.”

Something about the way Marcus said it—like he wouldn’t push but also wouldn’t leave if Jacques wanted to talk—made Jacques let out a slow sigh. He shifted his weight, turning only slightly toward Marcus so that their conversation remained private.

“There’s something… weird about those people,” Jacques said, his voice low enough to blend into the buzz of the nearby market. His hand gestured toward the group in the park. “I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”

Marcus shifted his weight, his hands slipping into his pockets as he leaned against the lamppost. His expression didn’t shift from calm, but there was something sharper in the way he followed Jacques’ gaze into the park, his eyes narrowing. When he spoke, he kept his voice low enough not to drift to the others.

“Okay,” Marcus began, his tone measured, “I know I don’t usually throw this kind of thing out there, but… my family’s had some issues, problems, I guess. A long-ass time ago.” He pressed his lips together for a beat, as if debating how much to say. “I don’t… see anything like you obviously do, but that doesn’t mean something’s not there.”

Jacques frowned, surprised by the sudden admission. “Problems?”

Marcus gave a tight, humorless smile, glancing at Jacques. “Yeah. My great-grandma had all these stories about people in the family messing around with ‘things they shouldn’t.’ Curses, blessings, hexes—it’s a whole mess my mom’s been dodging for years. I always thought it was just stories to keep us in line, you know? But every now and then… ” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck.

“When I was a kid,” Marcus continued, “we had these little rituals my grandma would make us do. She said they were just for ‘protection.’ I’ve never seen anything happen.” He paused, his voice softening. “But sometimes, when something’s there—something off—you just know. A bit like infrared light. You don’t see it, but if you concentrate you can sense it or…” He gestured vaguely in frustration. “You just sense it. Like it’s brushing right up against you.”

Jacques blinked at him, startled both by Marcus’ honesty and the clarity of his description. He wanted to ask more, to dig into why Marcus seemed to understand this with such calm certainty, but before he could find the words, Marcus straightened and tilted his head back toward the park.

“Like those two, for example,” Marcus said, his voice even, as he nodded toward a woman slouched on the bench with cracked shoes and wild hair and the man with the shredded suit jacket. “It’s subtle, but something’s off, right? I can almost feel it—it’s like this weird pressure, like I’m standing too close to an old TV humming on static. Or that guy over there.”

Jacques’ gaze followed Marcus’ gestures, his breath catching. His heart jumped despite himself. “Yeah,” he said quietly, the word sinking low into his chest. “Those three… you’re right.” He glanced sideways at Marcus. “They’re glowing.”

Marcus’ body stiffened, as if the confirmation had hit deeper than he anticipated, but he just nodded with that same grounded calm. He gave Jacques one last look, his dark eyes steady. “You’re not crazy, man. Just don’t go round shouting that you’re the only totally sane one here, ok?”

Jacques let Marcus’ words hang in the still air between them, a thread of relief flickering somewhere in his chest. The tension in his shoulders lightened by just the smallest fraction—not enough to chase away the unease gnawing at the back of his mind, but enough for now.

“Thanks,” Jacques muttered, his voice quieter than he intended. He glanced back at the silhouettes of the glowing figures in the park, their faint lights flickering like dying embers, before shaking his head as if to clear it. Reluctantly, he confessed “I‘ve got an offer today. Maybe I could do something to help these people… ”

They stood in silence for a moment longer, their shoulders turned toward one another, as though bracing against the rest of the group’s noise without meaning to. Marcus wanted to ask for detail, but felt that Jacques was uncomfortable to speak about it. From a block away, Devon’s enthusiastic voice broke through the calm.

“Hey! Jacques! Marcus! Stop whispering sweet nothings and hurry up—we need a drink!”

A reluctant chuckle rose unbidden from Jacques’ chest, and Marcus shook his head, smirking. “He’s unbelievable,” Marcus muttered, clapping Jacques on the shoulder. “C’mon. Before they embarrass all of us.”

Jacques gave one last glance toward the figures in the park before following Marcus. The magic might’ve lingered in the park’s shadows, clinging to the forgotten lives it had tangled with, but Jacques didn’t look back again.

***

After turning the corner at Jackson Square and walking up St. Ann street, they stepped onto Bourbon Street, and the smell hit them at once—a thick mix of spilled beer, sweet rum, cigarettes, and sweat, impossible to ignore and entirely intoxicating. The world here was kaleidoscopic: neon lights dripping from every awning, music pounding out of open doorways, and people spilling onto the street in clusters of garish costumes or glittery party hats. Halloween and the days of the dead still had a solid hold on the city. Laughter, shouts, and clinking glasses blended into a symphony of indulgence as the city pulsed with the raw energy of revelry.

Strands of music overlapped, creating an auditory blur: a saxophone riff mingled with a pounding bass line from a club, snippets of shouted conversation darting between the notes. A drag queen posed on a balcony overhead, waving a feather boa at the crowd below, while two Go-Go boys in the bar across the street danced on bar counters, their abs awash in flickering strobe lights.

Devon shoved his way forward, loud as always, raising his hands to the night sky as if absorbing the energy of the street like some kind of drunken superhero. “God, I love this city!” he declared, spinning in mock ecstasy. “New Orleans, you beautiful beast! Put Jacques on a leash! No-one will care, but otherwise we might accidentally lose him again…”

Mike stumbled beside him, laughing so hard he almost fell into a group of tourists clutching plastic skull cups. Art followed them without effort, ducking under a cascade of beads flying from a nearby balcony and catching them midair before looping them smugly around his neck. They clashed with his stylish tie, but this late he didn‘t care. Paul jogged behind, taking it all in, snapping pictures whenever something new and absurd caught his eye.

“Seriously, though,” Paul shouted over the noise, “where are we going? I need direction and drinks. Drinks and direction.”

Jacques trailed at the back of the group, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Bourbon Street had always been overwhelming—the sheer magnitude of it, the crush of people, the relentless rhythm pounding against his skull—but tonight it was different. He couldn’t tell if it was because of the glowing figures and erratic energy he’d been sensing all night or something in the street itself, but everything now had an edge, an invisible thread pulling at his chest in ways he couldn’t ignore.

He slowed, his movements cautious, his eyes darting toward every flash of light out of the corner of his eye. The magic here wasn’t subtle anymore, wasn’t lingering on the margins like it had been in the café or at the park. It was everywhere. Pulsing, grasping, weaving through the throngs of people like a living, breathing thing.

Along the gutter, a figure leaned against a pole, faint lines of magic spiraling from their chest, dissolving into the ground like mist. In a doorway, a woman laughed with perfect, exaggerated glee, her glow bright and sharp as it curled outward and wrapped around the shoulders of a dopy looking man with glazed eyes, standing too close to her and staring at her boobs. Above them all, from the balconies of Bourbon, the magic poured out like smoke, tendrils hanging in the humid air, melting into the crowd. The street practically hummed with it, invisible to everyone but Jacques.

And it wasn’t just the glow. It was the feeling. The air seemed heavy, pressing against his skin, thick with a raw energy he could only describe as hunger—hungry for laughter, for desire, for indulgence. Jacques’ chest tightened. It felt like coils tightening around him, pulling him toward something he couldn’t see but could sense in every breath.

The reek of frying fat was ever present, all along this section of the street, but when Jacques concentrated, he could tell there was something hidden beneath it. It wasn’t pleasant.

“Jacques!” Marcus called from a few steps ahead, snapping him back to reality. He gestured toward the others, who were ambling toward the bar-lined strip ahead, laughing and gesturing toward a garish entrance with a spinning neon martini glass. “You coming or what?”

Jacques blinked, forcing a short nod, and willed his feet to move.

***

After several bars and many more drinks, enthusiastic sing-alongs to live music acts and bars with obnoxiously loud, hard driving hip hop beats, the night was taking its heavy toll on the guys.

Staggering toward Canal street and their hotel, the group passed the entrance of a gentlemen’s club, looking almost subdued in comparison to the other bars. Its sign flickered in the humid air. Behind a thick rope stood a bouncer who looked bored but didn’t stop excited guys from streaming inside. A lady in rather revealing leathers stood next to him, her looks promising exciting things waiting for daring guys inside. Another bouncer tried desperately directing even more people from the street inside.

“Last drink of the night!” Devon declared, his arms raised like a preacher before his congregation. “We’re drinking something strong and going out in style, boys. Someone tell me this place has, like, $2 daiquiris or something life-changing.”

Mike squinted up at the sign above the club’s door, then back at the messy, swaying clusters of people in the street. “It’s not exactly our level of sophistication, and I doubt the $2 theory,” he said pointedly, wagging his eyebrows at Art, “but I’m down if you are.”

Art turned up his nose at the bar’s pulsing neon lights but didn’t resist when Paul shoved him half-playfully toward the entrance. “Oh, get over yourself,” Paul said, grinning as he tugged on the beads slung around Art’s neck. “Nothing about tonight has been remotely classy, anyway.”

Devon was already halfway to the door, laughing as he bro-fisted the bouncer and declared, “This place is calling my name. Let’s get wrecked.” Mike whooped in agreement, practically hopping with excitement beside him as if the club promised answers to every problem he never said out loud. Paul followed, nodding eagerly. Art gave a halfhearted scoff but still moved with them, his usual air of cool indifference cracking under the haze of the moment. Actually, he thougth going inside was a grand idea.

Jacques froze in the middle of the street. His eyes were locked on the tendrils of magic—no longer passively drifting about but crawling along the ground, searching, reaching out, pooling around his friends like fog, creeping higher and ensnaring them. The omnipresence of the magic that Jacques saw all evening hadn’t lessened. If anything, it had sharpened, a predatory edge crawling into the atmosphere. Even though the wispy tendrils did not seem to notice him, passing right by, they actively targeted his friends.

It wasn’t just surrounding them anymore. It was burrowing inside them, hooking itself somewhere deep and dangerous. He could see it now: the way Art’s laughter came too easily, too sharp, the way Mike’s wild energy masked something desperate, the way Paul’s grin felt less about the moment and more about needing to belong.

Panic overtook him. Without a thought, Jacques darted toward Devon. The tendrils of magic writhed like living chains, coiling ever tighter. Jacques tried grabbing a handful with trembling fingers, expecting his hand to pass right through—but they didn’t.

His palms burned with freezing cold, the threads squirming like something alive. They resisted, pulling harder as he yanked, his breath hitching as they snapped free. For a split second they hung in the air—then shot into him.

Jacques stumbled, choking on the sharp, icy rush spreading under his skin. He barely had time to flinch before his body moved again, his hand flying toward the tendrils tightening around Marcus. He needed to pull them off. But as his fingers neared them, something strange happened.

The tendrils began to tremble. Then, with a sickening shudder, they tore loose, twisting violently as they hurtled toward him. Jacques froze, his chest lurching as the strands hit him full force, vanishing beneath his skin like water sucked into a sponge.

His arm moved, and without touching anything at all, the tendrils from farther away wrenched free. One by one. Snapping. Funneling toward him. Jacques staggered, an invisible pull emanating from him relentless now. The air around him felt heavier, tighter, as more and more magic rushed in, drawn to him like iron filings to a suddenly switched on electromagnet.

It stopped as abruptly as it began. All the glow was gone.

Jacques stood shaking, surprised to be standing at all. The street felt empty, the twisting magic gone. Except, somehow, it wasn’t. His chest rose and fell, his hands limp, but he could feel it churning deep inside.

Hunger, a need, gripping with enough force to pierce through his chest. It made him desire things. Fun things, darker things, things to die for and give up everything.

The magic clawed at his soul, sneaking through the cracks in his mind, whispering promises in a voice smooth as silk but cutting with a sharp and sinister edge. It pulled at every corner of him, calling to him with promises of things he wouldn’t admit to desire—not to himself, not to anyone.

You want this.

Images flared in Jacques’ mind, vivid and overwhelming. Strangers leaned in too close, their touches featherlight at first, brushing against his arms, his neck. Warm lips pressed against his skin—his jaw, the corner of his mouth—soft, teasing, trailing heat wherever they touched. Hands caressed him, slipping behind his neck, pulling him close, as low whispers curled into his ear. A rush of desire flooded him, heady and consuming. His heart raced, his breath quickened, and for the briefest of moments, he let himself lean into it.

The magic promised him indulgence, surrender, pleasure without consequence. The sensations deepened, pressing against the places inside him he tried so hard to keep closed. He heard the call, the need to give in, to let the warmth drown out everything else—to stop fighting and allow himself to feel.

But as the kisses deepened and hands began to grip tighter, the edges of the vision began to shift—almost imperceptibly at first. The alluring, faceless strangers blurred in Jacques’ mind, their collective warmth flickering, faltering. There was a softness growing beneath the murky temptation, a steady warmth breaking through the fog, less hollow, more alive. The caress on his skin transformed, becoming firmer, more deliberate, more real than the desperate touches before. Warmth flooded through him.

And then, all at once, every phantom hand, every stranger’s touch, every faceless whisper fell away as a part of his soul remembered.

Alex.

The memory hit him like a lightning strike, impossible to resist. Alex’s lips against his—not teasing or fleeting, but magnetic, charged. Alex had kissed him like the world might unravel, his hands gripping Jacques’ shirt as though needing to hold on to him, needing him to stay close. The heat of that kiss, raw and exhilarating, washed over him with full force.

The phantom images of strangers vanished altogether, replaced with the sensation of Alex. The warmth of his breath, the tang of beer on his lips, the press of his chest against Jacques’—it was vivid, intoxicating, and real. There was no emptiness here, no hollow promise wrapped in shadows.

It wasn’t just the kiss, though. There was something deeper: the way Alex had looked at him—not with hunger or fleeting desire, but with something rooted, something true. Jacques remembered the glow of Alex’s eyes against the backdrop of Halloween streetlights, the unspoken connection that had simmered between them, undeniable even when Jacques had tried to ignore it.

The memory surged, vivid and unshakable, and with it came a joy that spread outward from Jacques’ chest, steady and protective, pushing back against the cold claws of the intrusive magic like an unstoppable tide.

Alex was there now. He always was. Jacques could feel it—the surging, wild energy from earlier this morning, the moment Alex’s body had transformed, right in front of his eyes. Magic bursting from him, raw and blinding, with no words to describe the impossible beauty of that moment. And again, the kiss—brief as eternity, messy, alive—lingered now, bright with heat, undeniable even though Jacques had spent all day trying to suppress it.

The images burned through him, filling every inch of the space the magic had tried to claim. It recoiled, twitched and twisted, struggling to find a way back into Jacques’ mind, but slid away like oil on water. The thought of Alex—his eyes full of hurt and hope, his raw glow, the way his laugh carried something almost otherworldly—had become something the magic couldn’t push past.

Another realization came slow, warm, inevitable. It wasn’t just Alex that filled his mind. It was something bigger—something old, like a memory from somewhere else, something shared.

Jacques gasped aloud as the last of the tendrils left him, dispersing like mist in a light summer breeze . The rest of the group didn’t seem to notice—or didn’t want to. They still had a good time. Only Marcus hesitated.

“Jacques?” Marcus called, his distant voice breaking through the crowd. His expression flickered between concern and the faint memory of whatever force had just tempted them all forward. “You okay?”

Jacques’s chest rose and fell sharply, but for the first time since leaving the market, the air was clear and refreshing. His hand brushed the amulet under his shirt, its steady warmth still pulsing with power.

“No,” he said with force, cutting against the raucous flow of his friends’ conversation. His voice wasn’t calm. It burst out hot and wild, loud enough to earn confused stares even over the noise of Bourbon.

“No?” Art’s brow raised in question. “You’re vetoing this bar? After Devon dragged me into a dollar shot place earlier today that definitely gave me a parasite?”

Jacques didn’t back down. Time for drastic measures. He threw his arms over his head and started theatrically to wail. “You don’t get it, do you?” His voice screeched with an edge, partially out of panic, partially out of desperation. “You’re literally forcing me into this trashy straight bar! Don’t you get how I feel about this? I don’t need some stranger shoving her saggy boobs right into my face, expecting me to buy her a $200 drink. I literally don’t even like bars! You are so inconsiderate!”

Silence fell around the group, long enough for Jacques to make another dramatic gesture and end his outburst with a sigh. Marcus gave him a knowing smirk but didn’t intervene.

Devon broke the tension first, blinking with wide-eyed confusion. “Jesus, dude. Sorry. It was just a drink.”

Jacques exhaled and glanced at the growing awkwardness around him.

“Enough is enough,” he proclaimed, as Marcus and the others began to compose themselves beside him. “It’s back to the hotel now.” Without waiting for acknowledgement, he turned on his heels and disappeared into the fray.

Of course, he sneaked a glance back to make sure that they were following.

Marcus broke out laughing. “Dang, girl learns fast…”

***

Back at the hotel, the chaos of Bourbon Street felt like a distant fever dream. The faint hum of traffic from the road below filtered through the room, barely audible above the low whir of the air conditioning. The space was dim, illuminated only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp.

Jacques sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees. The weight of the ancient amulet under his shirt rested against his chest, its presence inescapable now, like a second heartbeat that reminded him how far his life had shifted in just over twenty-four hours.

The mattress dipped as Marcus settled on the other side of the bed, the simple movement grounding the quiet tension floating between them. For a moment, Marcus said nothing, leaning against the headboard with his arms crossed, watching Jacques with an expression that wavered between patience and expectation. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was careful, deliberate, as though Marcus were giving Jacques just enough space to breathe without letting him fall too far into his own thoughts.

When Marcus finally spoke, his voice was soft, measured. “You’re not coming back with us tomorrow, are you?”

Jacques’ head jerked up at the question, his lips parting as though to deny it on instinct. But he hesitated. He didn’t have the energy to lie, not to Marcus. Not after everything. He let the truth settle into the quiet air around them before nodding, a barely perceptible motion that felt heavier than any words he could’ve spoken.

“No,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. The single syllable carried every ounce of the uncertainty and turmoil twisting inside him. “I can’t. There’s… there’s too much going on right now. I don’t even know what, but I know I can’t just leave.”

Marcus nodded once, as though he’d already known the answer and had just been waiting for Jacques to admit it. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Figured as much. You’ve been zoning out all damn day—and I don’t mean the kind of zoning out where you’re just tired. I mean the kind where your brain’s a world away.” He gestured to Jacques’ chest. “And I’m guessing it’s got something to do with… whatever’s tied to that thing you keep clutching.”

Jacques reflexively let go off the amulet tucked under his shirt, his fist clenching in midair before he let it fall to his lap. “Yeah,” he said. “Something like that.”

The silence stretched again, until Marcus was the one to break it. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, matching Jacques’ hunched posture. There was no judgment in his eyes—just steady resolve mixed with quiet understanding.

“You know,” Marcus began, his tone casual but deliberate, “I packed pretty decently for this trip. Everything I need to work remotely’s in my bag and suitcase. If I wanted, I could stick around for a few extra days. Help you figure out whatever this is.”

Jacques looked at him sharply, his heart catching in his chest. “You don’t have to do that,” he said, almost too quickly. “I mean it, Marcus. You’ve got work, a life... you don’t need to stay here because of me.”

Marcus tilted his head, his expression unreadable for a long moment before he snorted. “You know, despite how you keep pretending you’ve got this ‘I’m fine on my own’ thing down, you suck at hiding when you’re overwhelmed. I don’t mind staying—hell, think of it as an excuse to bother you as much as Devon does.”

Jacques chuckled despite himself, the sound short and broken but real.

“But in all seriousness,” Marcus added, his voice softening again, “you don’t have to figure this out alone, okay? Whatever’s going on here—whatever’s been on your mind all day—it’s big. I can see that much. So… let me have your back on this one.”

Jacques stared at him, a tight knot forming in his throat. He thought about deflecting, brushing off the offer like he’d done with so many others. But the weight of the night—and the relief of finally being understood, even partially—was enough to break through his usual defenses.

“…Thanks,” Jacques said, his voice rough. He didn’t need to say more. The word hung like lead between them, and from the way Marcus nodded, his expression unshifting, it was enough.

As the minutes passed, the noise from outside faded further, giving way to the deep quiet of the night. Marcus leaned back against the headboard again, stretching his legs out, as though to declare that he was in this for the long haul.

Jacques sat still for a while longer, as the tension began to drain from his body. The weight of the amulet against his chest shifted slightly as he straightened, but instead of the overwhelming sense of dread it usually carried, it felt... steadier now. Like it was still a part of the puzzle he hadn’t yet solved, but one he could face.

Marcus was right—he wasn’t going anywhere. Whatever had tied him to New Orleans hadn’t just been Alex or the fortune telling or the glowing people he’d seen tonight. It was something bigger than all of that, something woven into the heavy air of the city itself. And leaving felt impossible now, a betrayal of everything that had already demanded so much from him.

For the first time in days, Jacques didn’t want to run anymore. He pulled his arms tighter around himself and glanced at Marcus, who offered a small, lopsided grin in return.

“So,” Marcus said lightly, “do I book us a new room tomorrow, or are we camping in a crypt for kicks?”

Jacques let out a sharp breath of laughter, shaking his head. “Let’s aim for a room with a window. New Orleans actually doesn’t have a lot of crypts—or even cellars. High water table and stuff.” He leaned back on his bed, pressing his palms into the mattress for balance. “And maybe… maybe I’ve been told earlier I actually inherited my ancestral home here and the Limo driver works for me? He also hinted he’s guarding a substantial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow for me or something… I’m sure he can find us a couch or something to sleep on.”

Marcus stared at him for a moment.

“Excellent,” he said with a nonchalant shrug, flipping on the TV with the remote and leaning back against the headboard like everything was cleared up now. New Orleans can be a bit weird. Don’t react.

Jacques lay back then, staring at the ceiling as faint noise from the television filled the room. The decision had been made—he wasn’t leaving. Not yet. And whatever tomorrow brought, he knew somehow that Marcus would still be sitting across the room, a reminder that whatever came next, he wouldn’t face it alone.

And there was Alex. What did Alex think about all this?