Page 2 of Midnight at the Magnolia

As the airboat carries us back to shore, my mind races with plans. New Orleans isn’t just an escape anymore; it’s a hunting ground. And I am the apex predator.

Little do I know that a decade later, I’ll be standing in this same godforsaken swamp, my hands stained with blood that isn’t my own. The naive girl will be long dead, replaced by awoman who has learned to turn pain into power, to deliver justice from the shadows.

But on this night, as the bayou slowly devours the scene of my sister’s murder, all I know is that nothing will ever be the same again.

And God help me, I’m fucking glad for it.

1

CELESTE

NEW ORLEANS GAZETTE

Local businessman found dead in home, police suspect foul play. Medical examiner confirms traces of rare plant toxins in victim’s system. Sources close to investigation draw connections to three similar deaths in past month. “These aren’t random,” says Detective Reeves. “Someone’s choosing their targets carefully.”

The Magnolia Diner.Fluorescent lights flicker overhead like dying fireflies, casting shadows across the worn linoleum. The acrid scent of cheap disinfectant mingles with burnt coffee, creating a miasma that could strip paint.

Or evidence.

Both equally useful in my line of work.

I drag a damp rag across the counter, my fingers absently tracing the crescent scar on my wrist—a tell Grandma always warned me about. The ancient clock on the wall ticks away, each second bringing me closer to the end of my shift and the beginning of my true purpose.

The sticky floor clings to my shoes with each step. New Orleans in summer, where even the air feels like it needs a shower. In the distance, a saxophone wails through the night, its notes carrying across the Quarter like a mourner’s cry.

The bell above the door chimes. Gregory Thompson stumbles in, reeking of whiskey and bad decisions. Small-time crook with bigger aspirations. The slight tremor in his hands catches my attention—similar to the shake angel’s trumpet induces, but this is cheaper poison. Bourbon, if I had to guess. The bottom-shelf kind that strips your throat raw.

Our eyes meet, and I catch a familiar darkness there. The look of a man about to do something stupid and dangerous. Perfect.

“Evening,” I call out, my voice honey-sweet, a sharp contrast to the calculations already running through my mind. “What’s your pleasure?”

His gaze rakes over me, lingering on curves I’ve learned to weaponize. A shiver crawls down my spine—not revulsion, but anticipation. Every predator believes they’re at the top of the food chain until they meet something higher up.

Gregory collapses onto a stool, the vinyl creaking beneath him. His eyes dart around the diner, nervous energy rolling off him in waves. Amateur. Real killers know how to sit still.

“Coffee,” he grunts, voice rough with an edge of desperation that makes my fingers itch. “Black as my soul.”

I bite back a smile as I pour his coffee. If his soul is half as dark as mine, we’d make quite the pair. The rich aroma rises between us, and I watch him wrap his trembling fingers around the mug. His eyes are bloodshot, haunted. The stench of bourbon triggers a cascade of memories—rough hands, sour breath, Sarah’s scream...

I tighten my grip on the coffee pot until my knuckles whiten, forcing the ghosts back where they belong.

Focus. The hunt requires a clear mind.

“Rough night?” I ask, sliding the mug toward him. The ceramic scrapes against laminate, a discordant note in this midnight symphony we’re composing.

Gregory cradles the mug like it holds salvation instead of mediocre coffee. When he speaks, his voice drops low, conspiratorial. “Life’s a cruel mistress, sweetheart. And I’m her favorite whipping boy.”

The laugh I offer sounds genuine enough—years of practice pay off. “Ain’t that the truth. Want to talk about it?” I lean in just enough to show interest, careful not to trigger his survival instincts. Like catching moths, the trick is to make the flame seem welcoming.

His eyes narrow, and something predatory gleams there. Oh, if he only knew what a real predator looks like. I’ve spent years studying them, becoming them, hunting them.

“Some things are better left unsaid,” he whispers, and the scent of whiskey rolls off him in waves. “But let’s just say I’ve got friends in high places. And low ones too.”

The weight of my blade against my thigh offers comfort, but patience wins more battles than steel. I’ve learned that lesson in blood.

“Aw, come on,” I tease, channeling every bored waitress I’ve ever met. “You’ve got me all curious now. The most exciting thing that happens around here is when we run out of day-old beignets.”

He grins, showing teeth. A shark’s smile. “Maybe you need a little excitement in your life. Ever feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, one step away from flying or falling?”

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