Page 5 of Whispers in the Quarter

I shouldn’t find his madness charming. I really shouldn’t.

“You do realize you’re proposing we collaborate on murder investigations while simultaneously offering to help me commit more murders?” I point out.

His grin turns wicked. “I prefer to think of it as conducting revolutionary research into the intersection of ethnobotany and human mortality. With some practical field applications.”

I can’t help but laugh. “You’re absolutely insane, you know that?”

“Insanity is just genius viewed through the lens of mediocrity,” he quips, then pauses. “Though my last psychiatric evaluation did suggest some concerning tendencies. I wrote a fifteen-page rebuttal. With citations.” He waves this away as if questionable mental health evaluations are mere trivialities. “Besides, wouldn’t you rather have my particular brand of madness working with you than against you?”

He has a point, damn him. And he’s already involved, already knows too much.

The smart thing would be to eliminate the liability he represents. Instead, I find myself saying, “If we do this—and that’s a big if—we do it my way. No unauthorized experiments, no detailed record-keeping, and for God’s sake, stop writing notes about me on your lab coat.”

Lucas glances down at his coat sleeve where I can now clearly seeSubject E—possible use of water hemlock?scribbled in red ink. “Ah. Yes. Well, in my defense, I ran out of paper during yesterday’s autopsy, and I had the most fascinating theory about your extraction methods?—”

“Lucas.”

“Right, yes. Your way. Absolutely.” He makes a show of crossing his heart, though the manic gleam never leaves his eyes. “Though perhaps we could discuss your technique for handling those particularly stubborn alkaloids? I have several theories involving pressure and temperature variations that I’ve been dying to test. Not literally dying, of course, though there was that one incident last week?—”

“Goodnight, Lucas,” I cut him off, fighting back another inappropriate smile.

“Wait!” He catches my arm as I turn to leave, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone who spends his days cutting open corpses. “There’s something else. Something that’s been bothering me about the organization’s latest victim. The molecular structure of the toxin... it’s not just similar to your work. It’s identical to a formula that was stolen from my lab three months ago. My private lab.”

The implication hits me like a punch to the gut.

Someone has access to Lucas’s research on my methods.

“Be careful,” I tell him, allowing real concern to creep into my voice. “You’re already in deeper than you should be.”

His answering smile is pure madness and genius. “My dear, I passed the safe depth marker somewhere around the third journal of toxicology theories. Now I’m just enjoying the free fall.” He produces a small vial from his pocket, filled with an amber liquid. “Here. A little something I’ve been working on. Just in case. The effects are quite spectacular—causes temporary paralysis followed by the most fascinating cascade of systemic?—”

“Goodnight, Lucas,” I say again, but I take the vial. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and for a moment, I see something flicker behind the mania in his eyes—something warmer, more dangerous than his scientific obsession.

I make my way back to Madame Laveau’s, my mind churning with everything Lucas revealed. The shop is dark and quiet, the only light coming from the moon through the front windows, casting shadows through hanging bundles of herbs and gris-gris bags. The familiar scents of sage, myrrh, and dried roses wrap around me, but tonight they offer little comfort.

In the back room that serves as my apartment, I carefully place Lucas’s vial in my collection, hidden behind a loose brick in the fireplace. My fingers find the locket hidden beneath my shirt—the real Celeste’s most precious possession. Inside, a small photo of us as children, before everything went to hell.

Before I took her name, her identity, her mission.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to her memory. “I know you wanted me to stay safe, to stay away from all this. But I’m close now. Close to answers, close to justice.” I pause, thinking of Lucas’s brilliant madness, of the danger closing in from all sides. “Though your definition ofsafeand mine might differ slightly.”

Sleep, when it comes, is filled with dreams of chemical formulas dancing like fireflies, of Lucas’s fever-bright eyes, and of Davis’ shadows growing longer, darker, reaching for me with poisoned hands. In my dreams, I hear Celeste laughing—or maybe crying. After all this time, I sometimes can’t tell the difference.

Tomorrow search out Ethan, play another role, weave another web of half-truths. But tonight, in the quiet darkness of my room above a voodoo shop, I allow myself to feel the weight of all my names, all my lies, all my choices.

In this city of secrets and saints, I’m playing a dangerous game. And now I’ve drawn Lucas into it—brilliant, unstable,fascinating Lucas, who sees the artistry in what I do even as he catalogues all the ways it could destroy me.

The real question is: will he be my salvation or my undoing?

But then again, in New Orleans, sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

2

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