Page 14 of Whispers in the Quarter

I weave through the crowd with practiced grace, my grandmother’s words echoing in my mind.“The most dangerous poisons, child, come wrapped in beauty. Like the Angel’s Trumpet that blooms in moonlight, or the oleander with its delicate pink flowers.”

Right now, I’m both flower and poison, wrapped in emerald silk and deadly purpose.

My target, Harrison Beaumont, holds court near the center of the room. Corrupt businessman, philanthropist, and if my intel is correct, a key player in the criminal empire I’m dismantling piece by piece. The vial in my clutch feels warm, like it knows its time is coming. Another of grandmother’s recipes—derived from swamp lilies that only bloom at midnight during the dark moon.

“The timing must be perfect,”her voice whispers in my memory.“Too soon, and they’ll trace it. Too late, and the flower’s power fades like morning mist.”

I catch Lucas watching me again, his eyes darkening as a young businessman steps too close to me. The poor fool tries to engage me in conversation, but quickly retreats when Lucas’s manic grin turns predatory. I shouldn’t find his possessive insanity so appealing, but something about the way he saysmy Chimerasends delicious shivers down my spine.

“Mr. Beaumont,” I purr, pushing thoughts of Lucas aside as I extend my hand to my target. “Vivian St. Clair. I’ve been dying to meet you.”

His eyes rake over me appreciatively, and I hear my grandmother’s laugh.“Men like that, they see the flower, never the thorns. Let them prick themselves on your beauty, child. Let them bleed.”

Beaumont’s smile is all southern charm and hidden cruelty. “The pleasure is all mine, Ms. St. Clair. I don’t believe we’ve had the honor.”

“Oh, I’m new in town,” I laugh, the sound as light and deceptive as water hemlock’s white blooms. “But I’ve heard so much about your... business acumen. I was hoping we might discuss a potential investment opportunity.”

Across the room, I see Lucas pause in his conversation, his head tilting like a crow spotting something shiny and potentially deadly. His glass is empty—has been for an hour. He’s not here to drink. He’s here to watch his Chimera work.

The thought makes me bold. Dangerous.

“Perhaps,” I suggest to Beaumont, letting my voice drop to a seductive whisper, “we could discuss this somewhere more private?”

“The most lethal predators,”Grandmother would say,“are the ones that convince their prey to walk willingly into their jaws.”

As Beaumont leads me toward a secluded alcove, I notice Lucas’s posture shift. The brilliant madman is suddenly all predator, his scientific precision focused entirely on our movement through the crowd. I catch his eye briefly, and the heat in his gaze makes my breath catch.

“You know what they say about New Orleans,” Beaumont drawls, pulling my attention back to the mission. “It’s all about who you know.”

“Indeed,” I smile, letting my hand brush his arm. Grandmother’s voice whispers:“Skin to skin, that’s how the most elegant poisons work. Like a lover’s caress, quick and quiet.”

My ring—specially designed with a hidden compartment—presses against his flesh.

Phase one: complete.

“You remind me of someone,” Beaumont says suddenly, his voice dropping low. “A ghost from the past, you might say.”

I freeze, but before panic can set in, there’s a crash behind us. Lucas stands there, holding the shattered remains of a champagne flute, blood dripping from his clenched fist.

“Dr. Gautier,” Beaumont says, annoyed. “Is everything alright?”

“Oh, splendid,” Lucas’s laugh has that unhinged edge that makes lesser men step back. “Just testing a theory about stress fractures in crystalline structures. Fascinating results, really. Though perhaps not as fascinating as your conversation with Ms. St. Clair.”

His eyes meet mine, and I see the calculated madness there. He’s creating a diversion, but he’s also marking his territory. Thepossessive display should irritate me. Instead, heat pools in my stomach.

“The deadliest flower in the garden,”Grandmother used to say,“is the one that makes you want to reach out and touch, even knowing its poison.”

“Dr. Gautier,” I say, letting Vivian St. Clair’s accent drip like honey, “you’re bleeding.”

“Am I?” He looks at his hand with detached curiosity. “How wonderfully empirical. Though hardly my most interesting experiment of the evening.” His gaze flicks to where my ring touched Beaumont’s arm. “I do so love watching chemical reactions in their natural habitat.”

Beaumont shifts uncomfortably. The first tremors of my poison must be starting—a subtle weakness in the legs, a slight disorientation. Nothing traceable, nothing fatal. Just enough to end his evening early.

“Perhaps,” Beaumont says, his forehead beading with sweat, “we should continue this discussion another time, Ms. St. Clair. I’m feeling rather...”

“Of course,” I touch his arm again, completing the dosage. “We have all the time in the world.”

As Beaumont excuses himself, Lucas moves closer. The scent of his cologne mingles with antiseptic and something metallic—an intoxicating combination that shouldn’t be nearly as appealing as it is.

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