The plantation house rose above the scorched horizon like a white wound, too clean, too pristine. Its pillars gleamed even in shadow, and the shutters were painted the color of bone. Elias adjusted the bundle in his arms, linen, herbs, dried orange peel and mounted the steps with the gait of someone expected. That was the trick: walk like you belong.
Seraphine had prepared him. "You've been here dozens of times, Papa," she'd said. "To lay hands on their sick. To cleanse rooms when the mistress hears things in the walls." Then she had kissed a pouch of gris-gris and placed it in his hand. "But today you'll listen more than heal."
A young girl opened the door. No older than ten, her eyes held the eerie stillness of children trained in silence. She curtsied without a word and vanished.
Elias stepped inside.
The air changed immediately, cool, perfumed, oppressive. Ivory curtains moved like ghosts in the breeze. A clock ticked somewhere, sharp as a metronome, cutting the silence into obedient pieces. Elias stood on polished floors with a slave's posture but a priest's confidence.
He was shown to the drawing room.
Lucien Jourdain entered minutes later, flanked by two hounds. He was not a tall man, but his presence pressed against the walls like humidity. A crisp cravat, hair bound neatly back, hands gloved though the weather was far too hot. And those eyes, grey like Riverstone, weighing, measuring.
"Papa Louvier," Lucien said, voice oily. "Come to heal, or to meddle?"
Elias bowed slightly. "To do what I've always done, Monsieur Jourdain."
"Ah. Tradition. I do admire it." Lucien waved to a velvet chair. "My sister has been unwell. Says she dreams of ash falling like snow. Says she smells fire."
Elias sat, cautiously. "A common dream in these times."
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "And what times are those, Papa?"
Elias met his gaze, holding the silence a beat too long.
Lucien smiled tightly.
"You know, I've noticed something… curious," the man continued, pouring himself a drink. "You speak differently now. You move differently. You used to hum as you walked. Your voice was slower. Now, it's as if you've remembered yourself into someone else."
Elias remained still.
"Did the spirits change you, Papa?" Lucien asked, voice dropping lower. "Or are you a new skin entirely?"
Before Elias could answer, a shriek echoed from upstairs.
Lucien didn't flinch. "That would be my sister."
He gestured. Elias stood.
The room upstairs was sweltering. Thick curtains blocked all light. The smell of sweat and incense clung to the walls like mold. On the bed, the girl twisted, eyes rolling back, muttering in tongues that weren't quite Kreyòl.
Elias approached slowly.
Her skin was marked, not with illness, but with ink. Symbols, faint but familiar, shimmered across her arms: spirals, stars, and one unmistakable glyph from the mirror's shifting surface.
His breath caught.
"She began speaking in riddles last night," Lucien said from the doorway. "And woke screaming your name."
Elias bent, placing his fingers against her temple. Her skin was burning hot, but her pulse was steady. Whatever held her was not fever.
It was proximity.
The relic had begun its reach. It was seeding the world.
She seized his wrist suddenly.
Her eyes opened wide, and for a moment, they weren't hers.
They were Rae's.
Mouth open. Eyes wet.
But still, no words. Just the soundless scream of someone trying to warn, unable to shape meaning.
Then, just as suddenly, the girl let go. Her head hit the pillow. She slept.
Lucien was already watching Elias with predator stillness.
"What did she say?" he asked.
"Nothing," Elias lied. "Only dreams."
Lucien narrowed his eyes. "Dreams are dangerous lately. Especially when they become real."
Elias gathered his bundle and turned to leave. But before he reached the stairs, Lucien spoke again.
"Oh, and Papa?"
Elias paused.
"If you come here again uninvited, I'll have you beaten like the rest. Priest or no."
He didn't wait for an answer.
Outside, the sun was cruel. The house seemed to grow colder as Elias walked away.
At the tree line, Jean-Noël emerged from the underbrush, breathless.
"You saw him?" he asked.
Elias nodded.
"Good. Then you'll know he has the maps."
"Maps?" Elias frowned.
"Routes. Safehouses. Where the weapons are buried. We need them before the full moon."
Elias glanced back at the house.
"And how do you propose I get them?"
Jean-Noël grinned. "You're already the ghost they trust. All you have to do is haunt them a little more."