Read Chapter 22: The Truth of the Curse

The Baton Rouge lab’s fluorescent lights hummed like a trapped insect. Elodie gripped the edge of the counter, watching the technician slide a printed report across the laminate surface. Julien stood behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath on her neck.

“Mitochondrial DNA,” the technician said, tapping a finger on the chart. “Matches the maternal line sample you provided. Over 99.8 percent confidence. Whoever left that hair in the bassinet was a direct maternal ancestor of Mr. Fontenot here.”

Elodie’s vision tunneled. She’d hoped—prayed—for some ambiguity, some loophole that would let her reframe the narrative. But the numbers didn’t lie.

Julien was Céleste’s descendant. Which meant he was Marie Leveau’s descendant too.

“That’s impossible,” Julien whispered. “My grandmother was a Fontenot. Her mother was a Fontenot. We have the family bible, the baptismal records, the—”

“Records can be altered,” Elodie said softly. “Adoption records, more easily than most. Marie took Céleste in 1860. She raised her as a Leveau. But if Céleste ever married back into the Fontenot line—if she ever had children with a Fontenot man—the maternal DNA would pass down regardless of the surname on the birth certificate.” She looked at him. “Your bloodline was never erased, Julien. It was merged.”

Julien’s face went pale. He took the report from her hands, scanning the dense paragraphs of genetic notation as if he could argue with them.

“Elias was right,” he said finally. The words came out hollow. “I’m a Leveau.”

“You’re both,” Elodie corrected. “That’s what Marie couldn’t control. She thought she could bury Clarisse’s claim by taking the child, but she couldn’t bury the blood itself. It resurfaced. It found its way back into the Fontenot family.” She took a breath. “The gold isn’t just Fontenot property. It never was. It belongs to the line that Céleste carried—the line that runs through both of us.”

Julien’s jaw tightened. “What do we do with that?”

“We stop Thorne from using it against you.” She folded the report carefully and slid it into her bag. “We show him the truth.”

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Elias Thorne was waiting for them on the mansion’s gallery when they returned, twilight bleeding orange across the garden. He sat in one of the rockers, the voodoo doll balanced on his knee, fingers stroking its stitched fabric head as if it were a pet.

“Took you long enough,” he said without looking up. “I assume the lab results were conclusive.”

Elodie stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “You knew.”

“Of course I knew.” Thorne rose, the doll dangling from his hand. “I’ve known for twenty years. I’ve spent my whole life tracing the branches of that family tree, watching them twist and tangle. Do you think it was an accident that I showed up here? That I started listening to that damn music every night through the fence like a lovesick boy?”

He laughed, low and bitter. “We’re cousins, Julien. You and I. Distant, sure—but blood calls to blood. That’s why the house sang to me. That’s why I could hear it from outside the walls. It recognized one of its own.”

Julien’s hands curled into fists. “You left my father’s hair on my door. You’re working blood magic against your own family.”

“Your family,” Thorne said, the word snapping like a whip. “The Fontenots. The family that stole everything from me. My grandmother—Marie’s granddaughter through her second son—was written out of the will in 1921. The lawyers said it was a forgery, but no one could prove it. My branch got nothing. Not a cent. Meanwhile the Fontenots lived off that gold like kings, pretending it was theirs by right.”

“The arrangement was between Abraham Fontenot and Marie Leveau,” Elodie said, stepping forward. “The gold was sealed by Marie’s magic. If the arrangement was broken—if she broke her promise to Abraham—then the terms may never have been fulfilled.”

Thorne’s eyes glittered. “And whose version of ‘broken’ do you believe? The Fontenots’? They were always the victims, weren’t they? Poor Abraham, betrayed by the voodoo queen. Poor Fontenots, cursed for a hundred years.” He spat on the ground. “Marie didn’t break her promise. She fulfilled it exactly as written—and Abraham’s descendants refused to honor their half. So she took the child to ensure payment. Céleste was the collateral. The insurance. And when the Fontenots still refused to give up what was owed, Marie sealed the gold so that no one could touch it until the debt was settled.”

He looked at Julien, a terrible smile spreading across his face. “But you see, cousin, the debt now runs through your veins. You’re the living embodiment of Marie’s claim. The Fontenot heir and the Leveau heir, merged into one. Only you can unlock the vault. Only you can decide who gets what.”

“So that’s what this is?” Julien’s voice shook. “You want me to hand you the deed so you can sell the house and dig up the gold yourself?”

“I don’t need the deed,” Thorne said. The smile vanished. “I don’t need the house. I don’t need you.” He stepped backward toward the garden, reaching into his coat. “I just need it all to burn.”

He withdrew a matchbook—plain, red, unremarkable—and struck it against the railing. The flame danced in his palm for a single, suspended second.

“You carry the curse now, Julien,” he said softly. “And I carry the cure. But if I can’t have the gold, no one will. I’ll burn it into the ground. I’ll take the treasure with me to hell.”

Elodie lunged for him, but Thorne was faster. He flicked the match into the dry tangle of wisteria that climbed the east wall. The vine caught instantly, flame licking up the wood like a hungry tongue.

“The deed,” Julien shouted, grabbing Elodie’s arm. “We need to get the deed and the music box. Now.”

Thorne’s laughter followed them up the stairs as smoke began to curl through the gallery. Elodie glanced back once—just once—and saw him standing at the garden gate, the voodoo doll held above his head like a trophy, watching the fire he had started with his own two hands.