Page 3 of Whispers in the Quarter

I end the call and look up at the moon hanging low over the Mississippi, its reflection fractured by river boats and secrets. “I’m getting closer,” I whisper, to Lauren, to myself, to this cityof beautiful lies. “And this time, I’m burning it all down to get to the truth.”

Just as I’m about to leave my phone buzzes once more.

Unknown: Café du Monde, Tuesday, 10am.

It could be a trap, it could be everything.

The night wraps around me as I head back to my apartment, back to my wall of evidence and red strings. New Orleans may be a city built on secrets, but I’ve always been good at excavating ugly truths from pretty lies.

And somewhere in this web of deception, Celeste Deveraux is watching, waiting, playing her own game. That’s fine by me. After all, I’ve got nothing but time and a promise to keep.

Game on, Celeste. Game on.

1

EVANGELINE

PERSONAL NOTES—Madame Adeline Deveraux

Date: [16 years ago]

The girls take to the old ways differently. Sarah studies the herbs like a scientist, always wanting to know the why. Celeste feels them in her bones, pure instinct. Together they balance each other.

I pray they never need the darker lessons I could teach them. But in this family, shadows have a way of finding us all.

The New Orleansnight wraps around me, humid and full of promise. From my perch near the wrought-iron balcony of the Old Ursuline Convent, I watch tourists stumble past, their Hurricane-induced laughter echoing off centuries-old brick. A street performer dressed as Marie Laveau catches my eye, and for a moment, I see Celeste—my sister, my ghost, my stolen identity—in the woman’s knowing smile.

I push the memory away, focusing on the pulsing rhythm of jazz from Preservation Hall, letting it sync with my heartbeat. Evangeline, Sarah—the names swirl in my mind like Spanishmoss in a bayou breeze. But Celeste... that name sits differently. A constant ache, a reminder of promises made in blood and whispered in the dark.

The midnight air carries traces of pralines and bitter chicory, mingling with something darker—secrets as old as the city itself. My domain now, this twilight world between justice and vengeance. A familiar prickle dances along my spine, disrupting my surveillance of the antiquities shop across the street.

Someone’s watching. Following. Amateur.

I slide deeper into the shadows cast by gas lamps, my hand instinctively finding the vial hidden in my boot—a lethal cocktail of local flora, courtesy of my grandmother’s lessons.

A girl’s got to have her insurance policy, after all. Especially one wearing a dead woman’s name like armor.

“Whoever you are,” I drawl, not bothering to turn around, letting my voice carry just enough edge to warn, “I hope you’re better at hiding than you are at stalking. Otherwise, this might get embarrassingly fatal.”

“You know,” a familiar voice responds, rich with the same manic enthusiasm he usually reserves for his most fascinating autopsies, “for someone trying to stay under the radar, you’re practically screaming for attention. Might as well hang a neon sign:Here I am, come kill me.”

I spin around, my heart performing an unwanted acrobatic routine as Lucas steps into view. The streetlight catches his eyes—brilliant, fevered, almost phosphorescent in their intensity. He’s still wearing his lab coat, spattered with... something I probably don’t want to identify. His hair is wild, like he’s been running his hands through it while pursuing some obsessive train of thought.

“Says the man lurking in alleyways looking like a rejected mad scientist,” I retort, arching an eyebrow. “What’s the matter, Lucas? Run out of dead bodies to talk to?”

He laughs—that unsettling sound that makes his junior staff members avoid eye contact in the hallways. “Oh, my dear,” he practically purrs, closing the distance between us with predatory grace, “the dead are terribly boring tonight. All their secrets laid bare, quite literally in most cases.” His fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s imagining wielding a scalpel. “But you... you’re a walking symphony of mysteries. Layer upon layer of lies, each one more beautifully constructed than the last.”

“Careful,” I warn, my voice low and husky even as I fight the urge to step back. “Your obsession is showing, Doctor.”

“Obsession?” He cocks his head, reminding me eerily of a crow examining something shiny and potentially deadly. “Such an inadequate word. I prefer... scientific curiosity.” He moves closer, and I catch the mingled scents of sandalwood, formaldehyde, and something metallic. “For instance, I’m desperately curious about how many hearts stop beating in this city under such fascinating circumstances. Did you know that certain toxins can mimic natural causes almost perfectly? Almost.” His eyes gleam. “But there are always tells, little whispers in the tissue that speak to those who know how to listen.”

The air between us crackles with dangerous possibility. This is what makes Lucas both valuable and terrifying—his brilliant mind dancing on the knife’s edge between genius and madness, his moral compass spinning like a broken weather-vane in a hurricane.

“Sounds like quite the research project,” I say carefully. “Though I imagine that kind of curiosity could get a person killed.”

His smile widens, showing too many teeth. “That’s the exquisite beauty of it, isn’t it? The danger. The dance.” He reaches out, trailing one long finger down my arm, leavinggoosebumps in its wake. “Besides, I’ve found that the most fascinating specimens are often very much alive.”

I fight back a shiver. “Lucas...”

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