Page 9 of Midnight at the Magnolia

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. When I open them again, my resolve has hardened, sharp as the blade I keep strapped to my thigh. I have a job to do, a mission to complete.I can’t let my growing feelings for Ethan distract me from what really matters.

Justice. Vengeance.

The only things that have kept me going all these years.

But as I dial the familiar number, I can’t quite shake the memory of Ethan’s eyes, the warmth of his body so close to mine. For the first time in years, I find myself questioning the path I’ve chosen. The road of retribution is lonely, paved with the bones of those I’ve judged unworthy. Is there room for something else? Something more?

Careful, Celeste. Hope is a dangerous thing for women like us. It’s a poison sweeter than any you’ve ever wielded.

One ring and he answers. Though not with a hello. No, he doesn’t need a greeting.

“Things have changed,” I whisper into the receiver, my voice a mix of determination and something dangerously close to regret.

There’s no reply. There never is. Just a grunt of acknowledgment.

God help me, I’m in trouble. And I’m not sure if I’m the player or the prize anymore.

4

CELESTE

NOLA CHRONICLE

The name “Viper” first appears in police reports. Fifth victim shows traces of rare bayou flora in system. “Killer knows their plants,” says forensic expert.

The night wrapsaround me like a lover’s embrace, all sultry heat and whispered promises of sin. I finger the sachet of protective herbs in my pocket—a habit Grandma drilled into me along with her other lessons.

“Protection comes in many forms,”she’d say, threading dried rue and angelica root onto a string.“Some stop bullets, others stop darker things.”In this city, you need both.

I’ve been here for hours, waiting and watching with the patience of a spider. My muscles are coiled tight, ready to strike. The rough brick at my back is a constant reminder that this isn’t some fever dream—it’s the very real world I inhabit, so different from the sugar-coated fantasy I serve up at the diner.

This is the part of me the good folks at Magnolia Diner would never recognize—the vigilante, judge and executioner rolled intoone deadly package. Sometimes, in those dark hours before dawn when even the sinners are sleeping, I wonder what they’d think if they knew.

Would they recoil in horror, or would some part of them understand the necessity of what I do?

After all, everyone loves a good revenge story... until they’re on the wrong end of it.

A siren wails in the distance, its cry melding with the sultry notes of jazz floating from a nearby club. The city never sleeps, but its rhythm changes as night deepens. The laughter fades, replaced by whispers and secrets. In these hours, the true face of New Orleans reveals itself—beautiful and terrible, seductive and deadly.

Much like yours truly.

My watch shows 2:17 AM when I hear him—stumbling footsteps and drunken muttering that would make a sailor blush. Gregory Thompson, small-time crook with big-time aspirations, fumbles with his keys like a virgin on prom night. The streetlight catches his face, highlighting the sheen of sweat on his brow, the nervous darting of his eyes. He knows he’s in over his head, but it’s too late for second thoughts. The game is afoot, and he’s about to lose.

I slip on my gas mask, its weight a comforting reminder of the line I’m about to cross. The canister in my hand holds a brew of my own making—sweet flag root and devil’s snare, mixed according to Grandma’s careful instructions.

“The devil’s in the details,”she always said,“but salvation’s in the dosage.”

The metal is cool against my palm, a stark contrast to the humid air that clings to me like a second skin.

Gregory curses, his words slurred and colorful enough to make a preacher faint. “Fuckin’ lock...” His keys jangle, adiscordant melody in the quiet night. Oh, honey, that’s the least of your problems.

I move, swift and silent as a panther on the hunt. Years of practice evident in every step. As the door begins to close, I’m there, wedging my foot in the gap. The canister hisses, releasing its payload—a fine mist that hangs in the air for a moment before dissipating like so many broken dreams.

Gregory turns, eyes wide with shock. He opens his mouth—to scream, to question, to beg—but it’s too late. The poison does its work, swift and merciless.

I watch as he struggles to figure out who stands before him, then I watch as fear crosses his features, then vacancy. He crumples like a marionette with cut strings, a puppet whose master just went on permanent vacation.

I catch him before he hits the ground, grunting under his dead weight. The mixture had worked perfectly—just as Grandma promised it would. Angel’s trumpet for confusion, passion flower for sleep, with a touch of vervain to fog the memory. Nature’s own reset button, courtesy of the bayou’s deadliest garden.

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