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She leaned against the brickwork of an old apothecary, her fingers tracing the edge of a heavy, leather-bound journal tucked into her coat. It was the only thing her father had left her—a guide to a lineage she never asked for and a curse she couldn't outrun. "You’re late, Sheena," a voice purred from the darkness.

She didn't flinch. She knew that voice. It was smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. Julian stepped into the dim light of the streetlamp. He looked like a relic of a more elegant century, draped in a charcoal overcoat, his eyes glowing with an amber hue that wasn't entirely human.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Julian reached out and touched the cover of the book. A faint crimson light began to pulse from the leather, syncing with Sheena’s heartbeat. The ground beneath them seemed to hum.

"I had trouble finding the entrance," Sheena replied, her voice steady despite the hammering of her heart. "The wards are stronger than you said."

The rain in New Orleans didn’t just fall; it haunted. It slicked the cobblestones of the French Quarter, reflecting the neon hum of jazz clubs and the deep, hungry shadows of the alleys. For Sheena Jolie, the humidity felt like a physical weight, a reminder that in this city, the air was thick with more than just moisture. It was thick with magic.