Page 17 of Midnight at the Magnolia

I fall into an uneasy sleep, my dreams a chaotic mix of dancing shadows, haunting jazz, and Celeste’s enigmatic smile. In the distance, a clock tower chimes, marking the hours until dawn. Until the next move in this dangerous game we’re playing.

Just as I’m drifting off, my phone buzzes with a text. Bleary-eyed, I reach for it, my blood running cold as I read the message:

Unknown: Tread carefully, Agent Blake.

Sleep flees as I sit up, fully alert now.

As the first light of day begins to creep across the sky, I can’t shake the feeling that in New Orleans, the line between hunter and hunted is as blurred as the boundary between love and obsession. I’m drowning in a sea of contradictions, and my badge is the anchor pulling me under.

And Celeste Deveraux is at the center of it all.

6

CELESTE

FRENCH QUARTER TIMES

Editorial: Vigilante Justice in the Big Easy? As Viper’s body count rises, all victims linked to corruption cases. Public debate over morality of street justice grows.

The pre-dawn lightslithers through my apartment windows like poison through veins, casting long shadows across the kitchen table where I meticulously arrange my tools.

Grandma’s voice whispers in my memory:“Every weapon has its purpose, child. Even the prettiest flowers can kill if you know their secrets.”

Each item has its place in this macabre ritual—lockpicks that gleam with deadly promise, a compact flashlight that can pierce the darkest secrets, and my crown jewels—vials of clear liquid, each labeled in Grandma’s precise hand. Angel’s trumpet for confusion, nightshade for silence, oleander for forever sleep. Nature’s justice, delivered with clinical precision.

A sachet of protective herbs hangs at my hip—rue for warding, yarrow for courage, thistle for strength. Old magicmixed with modern methods, just like Grandma taught me. The familiar scent grounds me, even as my mind races with contingency plans.

I run my fingers over each instrument, the cool metal a stark contrast to the feverish heat of my skin. These are the weapons of my crusade against the corrupt underbelly of New Orleans, each one an extension of my will, my vengeance. The dried herbs sewn into my jacket lining rustle softly—black cohosh for power, angelica root for protection.

Lessons written in blood and botany.

Unbidden thoughts of the previous night flood my mind—Ethan’s warm brown eyes, deep enough to drown in; the feeling of his strong hands on my waist as we danced, igniting a fire I thought long extinguished. The memory of his touch sends a shiver down my spine, a dangerous distraction I can’t afford.

“Focus, Celeste,” I hiss, crushing a sprig of rosemary between my fingers. The sharp, clarifying scent cuts through the fog of emotion.

Grandma’s voice echoes in my head:“Rosemary for remembrance, child. Remember who you are, remember why you fight.”

The news of James Morrow’s death spreads like kudzu through the city—fast, invasive, impossible to control. Just like the poison I’d chosen for him, extracted from the same vine that chokes the bayou’s cypress trees.

Poetic justice,Grandma would say.

Soon, Ethan will start connecting the dots. I need to move quickly, to stay one step ahead of the game.

With practiced efficiency, I pack my tools into a nondescript backpack, each vial nestled in specially padded compartments. My fingers trace the embroidered symbols Grandma sewed into the lining—protection sigils hidden in plain sight, just like me.

In the bathroom mirror, I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. Gone is the flirtatious waitress from last night, with her easy smile and come-hither eyes. In her place stands a hardened vigilante, eyes cold and flinty with determination. I touch the sachet at my hip, drawing strength from generations of bayou wisdom running through my veins.

“This is who you really are,” I tell my reflection, breathing in the mixed scents of herbs and gunpowder that define my double life. “Never forget that.”

For a moment, I allow myself to remember the girl I once was. The innocent child who believed in justice, who learned herbs for healing instead of harm. The girl who lost everything in one blood-soaked night. I see her in the mirror, a ghost of my past, her eyes wide with fear and confusion.

“This is for you,” I whisper to that long-lost version of myself. “For Sarah. For all of us who were failed by those sworn to protect us.” I touch the dried flowers braided into my hair—foxglove and belladonna, beautiful and deadly. Just like me.

The journey to the Magnolia Diner is a blur of pre-dawn streets and hollow-eyed commuters. I let the persona of Celeste the waitress settle over me like a well-worn glamour, the way Grandma taught me to disguise poisonous herbs in sweet-smelling bouquets. New Orleans is just beginning to stir, the air thick with the mingled scents of fresh beignets and last night’s sins.

My fingers brush against the sachets sewn into my uniform—protection herbs hidden in the hem, clarity herbs near my heart. The weight of the vials in my apron pocket is comforting, each one a little glass promise of retribution. Just in case.

The cheerful chime of the diner’s bell feels like mockery as I push through the doors. I scan the room automatically—two exits clear, security camera still broken, morning regulars intheir usual spots. No immediate threats, but in this city, that can change in a heartbeat.

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