Page 10 of Whispers in the Quarter

A gift is a gift is a gift.

“The missing piece,” I breathe, holding it up to the light. “They have her shopping list but not her secret ingredient.”

My hands shake with excitement as I prepare the comparison test. If I’m right... if this is what I think it is...

“Only one way to find out,” I announce to my empty lab. Before I can think better of it, I place a single drop of the amber liquid on my tongue.

The effect is immediate and fascinating. My pupils dilate—I check in a convenient reflective surface—my heart rate increases—I really should hook myself up to the EKG next time—and the world takes on a slightly kaleidoscopic quality.

“Fascinating!” I scramble for my recorder, nearly knocking over a rack of test tubes in my haste. “Subject experiencing mild hallucinogenic effects, possible parasympathetic nervous system involvement. Taste profile includes notes of... is that nightshade? No, something more exotic. Local vegetation with possible mutations due to unique soil composition...”

I grab my coat, almost forgetting to remove my latex gloves in my excitement. The sun is rising—when did that happen?—but I have to find her. Have to warn her. Have to tell her howbrilliant she is for using the bayou’s own unique ecosystem as her personal pharmacy.

“The game is evolving, my beautiful Chimera,” I say to her photo on my wall. “And I, for one, can’t wait to see what chaos you bring next.”

As I stumble slightly—note to self: reduce sample size in future self-experimentation—I catch a glimpse of myself in the window. Wild hair, maniacal grin, probably shouldn’t be operating heavy machinery.

Perfect. Just another Tuesday. Or is it Wednesday?

Either way, time to find my dangerous muse and share my discoveries.

After all, what’s a little self-poisoning between friends?

4

EVANGELINE

PERSONAL JOURNAL—Alex Cross

[10 years ago]

Found her in the bayou today. Such raw potential in her grief. The organization wants me to eliminate loose ends, but I see something better—a chance to craft the perfect weapon.

Sarah Deveraux died with her sister. What rises from those ashes will be my masterpiece.

The soft glowof candlelight dances across the walls of my cramped apartment above Madame Laveau’s shop, casting long shadows that seem to whisper secrets of their own. I lean over the cluttered table, maps and notes spread before me like a tapestry of vengeance. The air is thick with the scent of incense and dried herbs—the same scents that filled my grandmother’s home the night everything changed.

“Focus, Evangeline,” I mutter to myself, but my hand strays to the locket at my throat. Inside, a small photo of Celeste, smiling, alive. Beautiful. Gone.

The memories rise unbidden, as sharp and clear as broken glass...

I pressed myself against the cold brick wall of the organization member’s office, heart thundering in my chest. Sixteen, stupid, and too grief-stricken to care about consequences. I’d spent weeks practicing Celeste’s signature, perfecting her walk, learning to pitch my voice just like hers. But getting the documentation I needed to assume her identity? That required a different kind of skill—one I didn’t possess.

Yet.

“You’re holding your breath,” a voice said from the shadows—rich, amused, dangerous. “Dead giveaway for an amateur.”

I spun around, nearly dropping my lock picks. A man emerged from the darkness like he’d been born from it. Tall, elegant in a predatory way, maybe ten years older than me. His eyes caught the streetlight—sharp, assessing, intrigued.

“Interesting technique,” he continued, nodding at my pathetic attempt at breaking and entering. “Sloppy execution, but the instincts...” He circled me slowly. “You’ve been following Councilman Davis for three days now. Quite impressive how you managed to stay unnoticed. Well, unnoticed by everyone except me.”

My voice caught in my throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His laugh was soft, dangerous. “Oh, but you do. Just like you know exactly whose identity you’re trying to steal.” He stopped in front of me, head tilted. “The question is: why would Sarah Deveraux want to become her dead sister?”

The sound of my real name hit like a physical blow. “How did you?—”

“I make it my business to know things, little girl. Like how you blend into shadows without training. How you’ve been ghosting through the Quarter, learning your sister’shabits, becoming her echo.” His smile showed too many teeth. “Watching you try to become Celeste’s shadow... it’s been quite entertaining.”

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