Martin Graves stepped out of the taxi and onto the cobblestone street, suitcase in hand. The sun, dipping low over New Orleans, cast long shadows through the French Quarter, darkening the historic district with an eerie glow. He stared up at the Hôtel de Saint-Jean, a towering relic that seemed to pulse with life, despite its age. The building loomed over him, its wrought-iron balconies twisted like ancient, grasping fingers. Gas lamps flickered weakly, struggling to push back the encroaching night.
