Chapter 9
The Informant Dupree
Elara seeks out Dupree, a world-weary man on the fringes of the society, who warns her of the de Valois' ancient curse and their need for a sacrifice.
The rain had begun to fall again, a soft, insistent drizzle that slicked the cobblestones and turned the gaslights into hazy, trembling orbs of gold. I pulled my cloak tighter, the damp wool clinging to my shoulders as I slipped through the narrow, winding streets of the Vieux Carré. The revelry of the ballroom seemed a lifetime away, a distant dream of silk and candlelight, and I was now firmly in the waking nightmare that followed.
I had spent the better part of two days watching, waiting, learning. The de Valois' world was one of whispered names and averted glances, a society that existed in the periphery of the ordinary. And at its very edge, a man named Dupree. He was a fixture in the coffee houses and taverns that clung to the fringes of respectability, a man whose eyes held the weary knowledge of one who had seen too much. The servants at the de Valois' mansion had mentioned him only in hushed tones, a figure of cautionary tales and dark warnings. He was my only lead.
I found him at a place called Le Corbeau Triste, a tavern that seemed to lean into the shadows of a forgotten alley. The sign above the door creaked mournfully in the damp breeze, a painted raven with one eye missing. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale wine, pipe smoke, and desperation. A few patrons huddled at scattered tables, their faces hidden in the gloom. At the bar, a man sat alone, a bottle of dark rum before him, his back to the room.
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