Midnight at the Magnolia (Venom and Virtue #1)

1. Celeste

1

CELESTE

NEW ORLEANS GAZETTE

Local businessman found dead in home, police suspect foul play. Medical examiner confirms traces of rare plant toxins in victim’s system. Sources close to investigation draw connections to three similar deaths in past month. “These aren’t random,” says Detective Reeves. “Someone’s choosing their targets carefully.”

The Magnolia Diner. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead like dying fireflies, casting shadows across the worn linoleum. The acrid scent of cheap disinfectant mingles with burnt coffee, creating a miasma that could strip paint.

Or evidence.

Both equally useful in my line of work.

I drag a damp rag across the counter, my fingers absently tracing the crescent scar on my wrist—a tell Grandma always warned me about. The ancient clock on the wall ticks away, each second bringing me closer to the end of my shift and the beginning of my true purpose.

The sticky floor clings to my shoes with each step. New Orleans in summer, where even the air feels like it needs a shower. In the distance, a saxophone wails through the night, its notes carrying across the Quarter like a mourner’s cry.

The bell above the door chimes. Gregory Thompson stumbles in, reeking of whiskey and bad decisions. Small-time crook with bigger aspirations. The slight tremor in his hands catches my attention—similar to the shake angel’s trumpet induces, but this is cheaper poison. Bourbon, if I had to guess. The bottom-shelf kind that strips your throat raw.

Our eyes meet, and I catch a familiar darkness there. The look of a man about to do something stupid and dangerous. Perfect.

“Evening,” I call out, my voice honey-sweet, a sharp contrast to the calculations already running through my mind. “What’s your pleasure?”

His gaze rakes over me, lingering on curves I’ve learned to weaponize. A shiver crawls down my spine—not revulsion, but anticipation. Every predator believes they’re at the top of the food chain until they meet something higher up.

Gregory collapses onto a stool, the vinyl creaking beneath him. His eyes dart around the diner, nervous energy rolling off him in waves. Amateur. Real killers know how to sit still.

“Coffee,” he grunts, voice rough with an edge of desperation that makes my fingers itch. “Black as my soul.”

I bite back a smile as I pour his coffee. If his soul is half as dark as mine, we’d make quite the pair. The rich aroma rises between us, and I watch him wrap his trembling fingers around the mug. His eyes are bloodshot, haunted. The stench of bourbon triggers a cascade of memories—rough hands, sour breath, Sarah’s scream...

I tighten my grip on the coffee pot until my knuckles whiten, forcing the ghosts back where they belong.

Focus. The hunt requires a clear mind.

“Rough night?” I ask, sliding the mug toward him. The ceramic scrapes against laminate, a discordant note in this midnight symphony we’re composing.

Gregory cradles the mug like it holds salvation instead of mediocre coffee. When he speaks, his voice drops low, conspiratorial. “Life’s a cruel mistress, sweetheart. And I’m her favorite whipping boy.”

The laugh I offer sounds genuine enough—years of practice pay off. “Ain’t that the truth. Want to talk about it?” I lean in just enough to show interest, careful not to trigger his survival instincts. Like catching moths, the trick is to make the flame seem welcoming.

His eyes narrow, and something predatory gleams there. Oh, if he only knew what a real predator looks like. I’ve spent years studying them, becoming them, hunting them.

“Some things are better left unsaid,” he whispers, and the scent of whiskey rolls off him in waves. “But let’s just say I’ve got friends in high places. And low ones too.”

The weight of my blade against my thigh offers comfort, but patience wins more battles than steel. I’ve learned that lesson in blood.

“Aw, come on,” I tease, channeling every bored waitress I’ve ever met. “You’ve got me all curious now. The most exciting thing that happens around here is when we run out of day-old beignets.”

He grins, showing teeth. A shark’s smile. “Maybe you need a little excitement in your life. Ever feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, one step away from flying or falling?”

For a heartbeat, I’m back in the bayou, the night air thick with the scent of death and revenge. I’ve done more than stand on that cliff’s edge. I’ve learned to soar.

“Can’t say that I have,” I lie, touching the scar behind my ear, a map of pain etched in flesh. “The biggest thrill I get is switching from the lunch menu to dinner.”

Gregory leans closer, his cologne mixing with whiskey in a toxic cocktail of desperation and ambition. “Maybe it’s time to spread those wings. I’ve got plans. Big plans that could change everything.” He pauses, trying to build suspense. “But it’s risky. The higher you fly, the harder you fall.”

The thrill of the hunt pulses through me, as familiar as my own heartbeat. I keep my breathing steady, maintaining the facade of wide-eyed interest, but my mind is already plotting trajectories.

Like Grandma always said. Know your herbs, know your marks, know your moment.

“Sounds dangerous,” I murmur, allowing my fingers to brush his arm. The touch sends revulsion crawling across my skin, but it’s a calculated risk. Touch builds trust, and trust makes men careless. “A girl could get hurt playing those kinds of games.”

His eyes gleam with perceived victory. The look every mark gets when they think they’re the smartest person in the room. “Oh, it is. But that’s what makes it worth it. The danger. The risk. The reward.”

I laugh, and this time there’s genuine amusement. If he knew the real dangers that stalk the streets of New Orleans, he’d never leave his house. “I wouldn’t know. My idea of danger is forgetting to restock the syrup before the breakfast rush.” I let longing creep into my voice, watching him take the bait.

He drains his coffee, the mug hitting the counter with a dull thud. “Your loss. But remember, when you hear about the big score that rocks this city, you’ll know who was behind it.”

Something dark stirs inside me, a familiar hunger that tastes like justice and smells like Sarah’s favorite magnolia perfume. This arrogant fool thinks he can walk into my city and paint it red. The last person who tried that ended up feeding the cypress roots in the bayou.

“I’ll keep an eye out,” I promise, voice light as arsenic sugar. “Maybe I’ll even see your name in lights. Gregory Thompson: King of the Big Easy.”

He stands, tossing crumpled bills on the counter. His hand lingers near mine, an invitation I’ll never accept. “You do that, sweetheart. And who knows? Maybe I’ll come back and sweep you off your feet with my newfound riches.”

“I’ll be waiting with bated breath,” I say, thinking of the various ways breath can be bated—nightshade, hemlock, oleander. So many possibilities, each with its own poetry. “Don’t forget to bring me one of them fancy café au laits from Café du Monde.”

As the bell signals his exit, I let my mask slip slightly. Just enough to breathe. Gregory’s big score isn’t what interests me—it’s what it might lead to. Every criminal in this city is connected, a web of corruption that all leads back to the men who took Sarah. Gregory is just another thread to pull.

The rest of my shift blurs into a routine of coffee and meaningless chatter until a conversation from the corner booth catches my attention. Two of Boudreaux’s men, drunk enough to forget the cardinal rule of their profession: loose lips end up in shallow graves.

“Gregory’s got it all planned out,” the first one slurs, his fingers drumming an anxious rhythm. “The art gallery on St. Charles. Opening night of the new exhibit. It’s gonna be huge.”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” the other hisses, grabbing his companion’s wrist. His eyes dart around the diner like scared rabbits. “You want Boudreaux to gut us both?”

The name sends electricity through my veins. Boudreaux. Another piece of the puzzle, another step closer to the men who destroyed my sister. I keep wiping tables, my movements mechanical while my mind races. An art heist connected to Boudreaux means this is bigger than Gregory’s desperate grab for glory.

I arrange the sugar packets with steady hands, but my pulse pounds with possibility. Every monster I remove from New Orleans brings me closer to the ones who matter. The ones who thought they could play gods with my sister’s life.

Dawn bleeds across the sky in shades of purple and gold as I leave the diner, the city stirring to life around me. The scent of fresh beignets and chicory coffee drifts from Café du Monde, mixing with the ever-present undertone of decay that marks the French Quarter. Like everything in New Orleans, beauty and rot dance together in an endless waltz.

Tourists stumble past, drunk on overpriced hurricanes and the city’s manufactured magic. They don’t see the real power here—not in the voodoo shops or ghost tours, but in the quiet places where decisions are made and lives are broken. The places I hunt.

My apartment in the Marigny offers sanctuary, but I head straight for the hidden panel in my closet. The scent of gun oil and leather mingles with dried herbs—my two worlds colliding. Grandma would laugh at that, how I’ve married her ancient knowledge with modern methods.

“The best poison,” she always said, “is the one they never see coming.”

Inside the panel, my tools wait. Lock picks, bugs, and vials of clear liquid that’s sent more than one monster to their judgment. Each bottle is labeled in Grandma’s precise hand—names in French that mean nothing to anyone else. In the next few weeks I might require the essence of hemlock, sophisticated enough to look natural in an autopsy.

As I catalog my supplies, memories surface like corpses in a flood:

Sarah’s laughter at dawn, planning our escape to the city.

The way her hand felt in mine, cold and lifeless in the bayou.

The deputies’ casual dismissal of another runaway girl.

I don’t fight the memories anymore. Pain is a teacher, and I’ve learned its lessons well. Every death I orchestrate brings me closer to the men who took her, who thought they could bury their sins in swamp water and silence.

I check my burner phone—no messages. The clock reads 6:17 AM. Time enough for sleep before tonight’s reconnaissance at the art gallery. I need to understand the layout, the security, the players. Gregory’s heist isn’t my target, but it’s a thread that leads to Boudreaux, and Boudreaux might lead to the others.

Exhaustion settles over me as I secure my tools and prepare for bed. My mind catalogs the night’s revelations, sorting them like Grandma taught me to sort herbs: by usefulness, by risk, by effect.

Gregory: Disposable but connected.

The art heist: A means to an end.

Boudreaux: A stepping stone to higher prey.

As sleep claims me, I think of Sarah. Would she recognize what her death has made of me? Would she understand how her gentle sister became this creature of shadow and vengeance?

But those answers don’t matter. What matters is the next hunt, the next kill, the next step toward justice. New Orleans takes care of its own, they say.

Well, I’m taking care of New Orleans—one monster at a time.

Tomorrow, the real work begins. The art gallery will need studying, Gregory’s crew will need identifying, and I’ll need to prepare the right combination of herbs for whatever comes next. Like Grandma always said: proper preparation prevents poor performance.

And in my line of work, poor performance means death.

Just not usually mine.