Page 71 of Midnight at the Magnolia

As the needle slides into my arm, I feel the weight of my decision settling over me. There’s no going back now. Celeste, Sarah—both those women will die tonight. Someone new will rise from their ashes.

“Remember,”Grandma’s voice echoes as the compound begins to burn through my veins,“the strongest blooms are the ones that survive the fire.”

My vision starts to blur, the room spinning slightly. I feel Jazz’s arms catch me as I sway, pulling me against his chest. His heartbeat is strong and steady under my ear.

“I got you, cher,” he murmurs, his voice seeming to come from very far away. “Just rest now. Let the doc work his magic.”

The last thing I see before consciousness fades is Lucas’s intense gaze, watching me like I’m the most fascinating experiment he’s ever conducted. And maybe I am.

“The transformation has begun,” I hear him say, his voice fading in and out. “By morning, Sarah and Celeste will be gone. The question is... who will emerge in their place?”

As darkness claims me, I feel Jazz press a gentle kiss to my temple. “Whoever she becomes,” he whispers, “she’ll still be ours to protect.”

Grandma’s final wisdom follows me into the dark:“Every ending is just another beginning in disguise. The garden never truly dies—it just changes with the seasons.”

Tomorrow, I’ll be someone new. But tonight, held between Jazz’s warmth and Lucas’s fascination, I let myself be nothing at all. Nothing but possibility, waiting to bloom.

EPILOGUE

EVANGELINE

CRESCENT CITY GAZETTE

Councilman Davis suspected in Viper Cases.

The French Quarter pulses around me like poisoned blood through dying veins. Grandma would appreciate the metaphor—how this city feeds on sin and salvation in equal measure. Bourbon Street’s cacophony floods my senses—horse hooves on cobblestone like a funeral drum, a saxophone wailing like a lost soul, spilled bourbon and beignets mixing in the air like medicine and poison.

“New soil doesn’t mean the old roots are dead,”Grandma’s voice whispers as I adjust to my latest skin. Three months since the museum, since I watched betrayal bloom in Ethan’s eyes like nightshade. Three months of becoming someone new, though the old ghosts still linger.

I push open the door to Madame Laveau’s Voodoo Emporium, brass bells singing a warning more than a welcome. The air inside wraps around me thick as burial shrouds, heavy with incense and secrets. I breathe deep, cataloging scents like Grandma taught me—sage for cleansing, patchouli for power,and something darker beneath it all. Something that smells like fate.

Today, I am Evangeline, keeper of others’ secrets while nursing my own. My fingers trace the smooth wood of the counter, worn by countless desperate souls seeking answers. Some gardens grow in darkness, Grandma would say. Some flowers only bloom in shadow.

“Any messages, Claudette?” I ask the ancient woman hunched over her gris-gris bags. Her eyes, clouded with age but sharp as thorns, fix on me with knowing.

“Just one, cher,” she croaks, extending a piece of parchment like an offering to dark gods. “A man called. Said he’s an old friend.”

The paper burns in my hand like poisoned ivy, Ethan’s number searing into my flesh. My heart—that treacherous bloom I can’t seem to kill—skips a beat. Why now, when I’ve almost convinced myself I’ve pulled out love’s roots?

“Even the deadliest garden,”Grandma’s voice whispers,“remembers what grew there before.”

The TV in the corner catches my eye, its harsh light an invasion in the shop’s mystical gloom. “Corruption Scandal Rocks City Hall,” the headline blazes. I turn up the volume, feeling fate’s thorns pierce deeper.

“Several high-ranking city officials have been arrested,” the reporter drones, her plastic smile a mask as false as any I’ve worn. “An anonymous tip led to a treasure trove of incriminating documents.”

A smile curves my lips, savage as belladonna’s bloom. My parting gift to this cesspool of a city—papers I’d stolen the night everything changed, insurance against the darkness to come. But triumph withers quickly in this garden of corruption.

Councilman Davis appears on screen, and even through pixels, his eyes find me like a predator scenting prey. “This isn’t over,” he snarls. “You have no idea what’s coming.”

Ice spreads through my veins like winter killing summer flowers. He knows. In all my carefully planted lies, he’s found the truth growing wild. The shop’s walls press closer, voodoo dolls watching with button eyes that seem to know too much. For a moment, I swear I see Sarah’s face in one of them, her features twisted like kudzu strangling a tree.

“The most dangerous blooms,”Grandma’s wisdom echoes,“are the ones that grow back after you think you’ve killed them.”

My phone buzzes against my thigh like a rattlesnake’s warning.

Unknown number: We need to talk. The game has changed. - L

Lucas. The mad scientist with devil’s hands that heal and harm in equal measure. His scent ghosts across my memory—sandalwood and chemical burns, genius and madness mixed in perfect measure. I remember his fingers on my skin, stitching flesh while unraveling lies, his brilliant mind seeing patterns in my chaos.

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