Page 10 of Langiappe & Lost Legends

Céleste’s response was to direct us to the back room. The place looked like a history professor's office had a wild night with a fortune teller's parlor and neither bothered to clean up afterward. Books and papers covered every surface. The massive corkboard on one wall screamed 'I've solved the conspiracy' with its web of photos, newspaper clippings, and red string connections. The smell of coffee that was strong enough to wake the dead tickled my nose. I could've used a cup of that liquid resurrection.

"The Legends," Céleste said without preamble as she settled behind her desk like a queen about to deliver bad news, "were not what you think. The stories do say Marie Laveau was involved in their disappearance. But sugar, that's like saying the ocean is 'involved' in making waves. What really happened?" She tapped a yellowed newspaper clipping. "That's been buried deeper than most family secrets in this town."

"What exactly do the stories say?" Phi asked as she clutched her tablet to her chest like a shield.

"They say she discovered something about their nature. That she learned about what drove them down the road they took. But the exact details..." Céleste trailed off and shook her head. "Those who knew the truth took many secrets to their graves."

"Let me guess," Lia interrupted with a grim expression, "no one wrote anything down. That would've been too freaking helpful."

I shot Lia a look. Steve always said my sisters had all the subtlety of a hurricane in a China shop. That was never more evident than now. It was a family trait. What can I say? None of us tolerated bullshit very well.

Céleste's laugh was like wind chimes in a storm. "Oh, child. They wrote plenty down. The question is, who has those writings now? And what else might they have found with them?"

"The attacks are following the same patterns as before," Dea pointed out. "Someone must have access to detailed records so we can compare and find out how they were stopped last time."

"Or perhaps they have more than just records," Céleste mused as she ran her fingers along the spine of an ancient ledger. "They found the Larmes du Bayou - the Tears of the Bayou. It's a crystalline formation that grew where reality fractured in the deep swamps. It is said to have collected memories like morning dew. Marie discovered it where three ley lines crossed beneath an ancient cypress grove. It was a place where the boundary between what-is and what-could-be had worn as thin as Spanish moss."

She pulled down a journal bound in alligator hide. "The stories say it wept actual tears of liquid time. Each drop contained fragments of alternate realities. Marie never revealed the exact details. But the whispers..." Céleste's eyes went distant. "They say if you listened closely, you could hear the voices of every possible New Orleans that ever was or could be, all speaking at once."

My phone lit up with rapid-fire texts from Steve. "Major situation developing." "Reality going sideways." "Literally sideways." "Send backup." "Also, bring coffee."

Before I could respond to either Steve or Céleste, screams erupted from outside. I’m not talking your standard ‘woo-girl finding another Hurricane special’ French Quarter screams.These were the ‘oh shit, demons are attacking’ kind. It made my magic do the supernatural equivalent of hitting the panic button.

I was out the door before my brain caught up with my feet. The scene outside looked like reality had decided to take acid and go on a bender. The streets were bleeding history. Every crack in the pavement spawned technicolor wisps that showed past moments. They twisted up like demented jack-in-the-boxes. Marie Antoinette popped out of a storm drain. She didn’t have her head but was still trying to serve cake to screaming tourists. And because this is New Orleans, they couldn't decide to run or record everything to put on TikTok. The air rippled like reality was having a seizure. It folded in on itself in ways that would make physics professors drink themselves into early retirement.

Fragments of different centuries collided and merged in the middle of the street. A horse-drawn carriage clipped through a Prius like a video game glitch. It left both vehicles sporting a concerning blend of past and present. The brick walls of the buildings were breathing and occasionally spitting out chunks of their own historical moments. It reminded me of a cat coughing up particularly nasty hairballs.

"Well, shit," I muttered as my sisters fell into formation beside me. "They're not even pretending to be subtle anymore."

A hot dog cart did a somersault overhead before turning itself inside out. Some poor tourist's selfie stick transformed into a very annoyed python. And because, why the hell not, a streetlight was performing Hamlet. In Latin.

We moved together like we'd practiced a thousand times, but these temporal rifts weren't playing by any rulebook we knew. Historical moments kept crystallizing in the air like deadly snowflakes. Each one was a razor-sharp slice of the past that could shred through the magical barriers we erected. A shard of eighteen-twelve sliced through our defenses. My magichiccupped like it had swallowed a time bubble sideways. How the hell did you fight something like this?

"They're stronger," Phi shouted over what sounded like three different centuries having a bar fight. Her fingers flew over her phone while pieces of the past tried to rewrite themselves around us. "And more coordinated. This isn't random anymore!"

Céleste emerged from her shop like she owned time itself. Power rolled off her in waves that made my magical senses want to file for overtime pay. She raised her hands. Suddenly, symbols, that looked like they'd been written before language got its driver's license, crystalized. The temporal rifts froze, and each piece of fractured history retreated back to its proper century.

"They're not just copying the old patterns anymore,” Phi pointed out. “They're improving on them."

"How is that possible?" Dani asked. "The original Lost Legends took years to build up this kind of temporal juice."

"Unless they're not starting fresh," Phi said. Her face lit up like it did when she had a scientific discovery. She’d figured something out that was eluding me. "What if they found more than dusty old records? What if they tapped into the original power source and are starting where they left off?"

"The Larmes du Bayou," Dea breathed. It was as if she was afraid saying it too loud might summon another century-bending disaster. "They've got to have it nearby to cause this level of temporal fuckery. No way they're managing this kind of reality remix from a distance."

"But where would you hide a crying time crystal in New Orleans?" I wondered out loud. "It's not exactly something you can stash in a tourist shop between the voodoo dolls and hot sauce."

"The old Canal Street power station," Lia said, already pulling up the location on her phone. "Think about it. It's gotthe electrical infrastructure to amplify magical energy across the whole city. Plus, the place has been collecting dust and bad vibes since the nineties. Perfect spot to set up shop."

"Great," Dani groaned as she shoved her hair back from her face. "Because my day isn't complete without exploring an abandoned building that's been marinating in darkness since Bill Clinton was trying to explain what the definition of 'is' is. You think the rats there have evolved to time-traveling abilities yet?"

"Only one way to find out," I said as I checked to make sure my weapons were in my bag. "Though if we run into any rodents speaking French and carrying the plague from three different centuries ago, I'm calling in sick for the rest of the year."

CHAPTER 4

DAHLIA

Driving across New Orleans when reality was having a nervous breakdown was about as fun as you'd expect. Every traffic light we passed had a fifty-fifty shot of either working normally or sprouting legs and doing the can-can. I'd already had to swerve around three different time periods worth of horse-drawn carriages. Then there was a group of flappers who were determined to teach proper Charleston techniques to confused tourists. The thing was, I couldn’t tell if the women were from a hundred years ago, or now. That wouldn’t have been an uncommon thing in the Quarter.

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