Page 29 of Midnight at the Magnolia

Another prominent figure falls to ‘The Viper’. Authorities confirm death of former judge matches pattern of previous victims. “The precision of these kills suggests someone with extensive knowledge of botanical toxins,” says Dr. Lucas Gautier, forensic consultant. “We’re dealing with a highly educated killer.”

The night wrapsaround me like silk sheets, promising pleasure but concealing danger. I adjust the sachet of protective herbs at my hip—yarrow for courage, rue for clarity, angelica root to ward off those who’d harm me. New Orleans at midnight is when even the saints turn their eyes away from what happens in the shadows.

Perfect time for judgment.

I watch Marcus Delacroix stumble out of the Blue Room Bar, cataloging details with practiced precision. His gait suggests he’s had at least five drinks—cheap whiskey based on the bar’s standard pour.

Grandma’s voice whispers in memory:“Even poison has its preferences, child. The cheaper the drink, the easier the mark.”

He’s one of Gregory’s trusted lieutenants, thoughtrustedmight be too generous a word for our circles. The neon signs paint him in alternating shades of red and blue, while I finger the vial in my pocket. My own special brew—nightshade and oleander, mixed according to traditions older than this city’s sins.

My lips still tingle from Ethan’s kiss earlier, a distraction I can’t afford. The memory makes the protection herbs seem to burn against my skin, a warning I should heed but won’t. Some prices are worth paying, even if they cost you everything.

Sarah’s face flashes in my mind—not the broken body I found in the bayou, but her smile, bright and alive and forever frozen in time. The memory ignites something deeper than vengeance in my veins. This isn’t just murder, it’s justice. Another piece in the puzzle that will bring down the men who took her from me.

Marcus weaves down Bourbon Street, making rookie mistakes that would have Grandma clicking her tongue in disapproval. No awareness of his surroundings, no protection against the city’s darker elements. In a place where even the cockroaches have learned to watch their backs, his carelessness is practically begging for intervention.

I trail him with the patience Grandma taught me, letting the night swallow me whole.

Her lessons echo in my head:“Move like water, child. Silent but unstoppable.”

Years of practice have taught me how to become just another ghost in a city full of them. Each step calculated, each movement precise.

Sometimes I wonder if Sarah would recognize the creature I’ve become—part avenging angel, part poisoner, all sharp edges where there used to be light. The herbs against my skin pulsewith ancient power, reminding me that some transformations can’t be undone.

When Marcus stumbles past the perfect alley—dark, secluded, practically gift-wrapped for what comes next—I breathe in the scent of my protective herbs and make my move. The cloth in my hand is soaked with a special blend Grandma taught me, but never meant for this.

Some lessons we twist to serve our own purposes.

His body bucks against mine like we’re dancing some twisted waltz, but I’ve done this dance before. Three steps forward, two steps back, until the chemicals take hold and he goes limp in my arms. The power of it all rushes through me, not intoxicating anymore but necessary, like breathing.

Some nights, the weight of what I’ve become sits heavier than others. Tonight, with Ethan’s kiss still haunting me and Sarah’s memory burning bright, each movement feels like a choice between salvation and damnation.

But I made my choice long ago, in a bayou stained with my sister’s blood.

I prop him against the dumpster with practiced efficiency, taking care to arrange him just so. Marcus Delacroix—money launderer, human trafficker, one of the men who helped cover up Sarah’s murder. The herbs in my pocket seem to hum with anticipation, knowing what comes next.

“You shouldn’t have gotten greedy,” I whisper, though he’s far past hearing. “Laundering money for Davis wasn’t enough? Had to start moving girls too?” The words taste like bile.

Young girls, just like Sarah.

Just like I was.

Some sins cry out for judgment.

The syringe feels cool against my skin as I pull it from its hiding place, moonlight catching on the glass like diamonds. This particular blend took weeks to perfect—a mixture oftraditional herbs and modern chemistry that would make Grandma proud, even if the application would break her heart.

“Knowledge is neutral,”she always said.“It’s what we do with it that matters.”

“For Sarah,” I whisper, the words a ritual I can’t abandon. But tonight they taste different, heavier with the weight of Ethan’s kiss and Marcus’s sins. The needle slides home, smooth as silk, when a cat’s yowl shatters the silence.

Well, isn’t this just perfect?

The syringe slips through my fingers like a broken promise, clattering against the ground. My heart jumps into my throat as I dive after it, cursing every spirit and saint in this godless city.

Grandma’s first rule of poisoning:never lose control of your tools.

Footsteps approach—because naturally, the universe isn’t done playing games. I press deeper into the shadows, the protection herbs at my throat pulsing with warning. A couple staggers past, lost in each other, drunk on love or booze or both. They have no idea they’re walking past a killer, past a man who traded in young lives like commodities.

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