Midnight at the Magnolia (Venom and Virtue #1)

2. Ethan

2

ETHAN

INTERNAL FBI MEMO

Agent E. Blake assigned to Viper case. Note: Similar MO to unsolved Chicago murders. Cross-reference botanical toxin databases.

The muggy New Orleans air sticks to me like old regrets as I step out of my rental car. The city’s nocturnal heartbeat pulses around me—a seductive rhythm of distant jazz, drunken laughter, and whispers of secrets best kept in the dark.

Three bizarre deaths in as many weeks, and all I’ve got is a greasy diner lead at midnight. Lauren would have laughed at this—me chasing shadows while the real answers probably stare me in the face.

Would have laughed. Past tense. Always past tense now.

Fresh hell, different zip code. But something about this one feels... different. More dangerous. More like the case that took her from me.

I’ve been in town less than six hours, and already I’m drowning in the murky depths of this investigation. Three deaths, each more impossible than the last.

A corrupt cop found in his locked cruiser, lungs filled with swamp water despite being miles from any body of water.

A judge discovered in his chambers, body desiccated as if every drop of moisture had been sucked out.

A prominent businessman who seemingly spontaneously combusted in the middle of Bourbon Street.

Here, the corruption has the decency to be creative, at least.

I check my weapon out of habit, the familiar weight grounding me. The local PD is baffled, which means I get to wade through another jurisdiction’s nightmare.

Just like Lauren’s case.

Stop. Focus.

The bell chimes as I push open the diner door. The aroma of burnt coffee and decades of grease hits me first, followed by the quiet desperation of late-night regulars hunched over their cups. Standard stuff, until I see her.

She’s working the counter, dark hair escaping a messy bun, curves wrapped in a faded pink uniform that’s seen better days. But it’s her movements that catch my investigator’s eye—too precise, too measured. Waitresses develop a certain efficiency, but this is different. More like a dancer who’s memorized every step of a deadly ballet.

“Evening,” she calls out, voice pure Louisiana honey over broken glass. “Coffee?”

I slide onto a stool, cataloging details. No visible tattoos or scars. Calluses on her right hand inconsistent with waitress work. Eyes that scan the room every 47 seconds—I count twice to be sure.

“You’re new in town,” she says. It isn’t a question. Her gaze catches on my shoulder holster, barely visible under my jacket. Most civilians miss it. She doesn’t.

I clear my throat, fighting the urge to loosen my tie. “That obvious? And here I thought I was blending in with my tourist who’s lost everything at the casino look.”

She smiles, a slow, dangerous curve of her plump lips that sends electricity through my veins. “We don’t get many suits in here this late. Especially not ones who look like they’re carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders.” She leans in slightly, close enough that I catch a hint of something floral, at odds with the diner’s greasy atmosphere. “I’m Celeste.”

“Ethan,” I reply, taking a sip of coffee to steady myself. It’s surprisingly good, rich with chicory. “I’m here on business. You know, the kind that involves cheap motels and endless paperwork. Living the dream.”

Her eyebrow arches, a challenge in her gaze. Beneath the southern charm, I catch something sharper. More calculating. “What kind of business brings a man like you to our humble diner at this hour?”

I hesitate, professional discretion warring with instinct.

Lauren’s voice echoes in my memory. Sometimes the best way to catch a predator is to show a little blood.

“I’m investigating a series of unusual deaths,” I say carefully, watching her reaction. “Just your average, run-of-the-mill cases of impossible drownings, spontaneous mummification, and human combustion. You know, a typical Tuesday in New Orleans.”

Her eyes widen slightly, a flicker of something—recognition? Fear?—dancing across her face before disappearing behind practiced indifference. Her hand touches her wrist, an unconscious tell. “Unusual indeed.”

“Let’s just say they don’t look like accidents,” I reply, studying her closely. My voice drops lower. “And word on the street is that this diner might be ground zero for some of the city’s less-than-legal activities. But I’m sure that’s just idle gossip, right?”

As I speak, I watch her face, searching for any flicker of recognition, any tell that might betray knowledge. The air between us crackles with tension, equal parts attraction and danger.

Celeste’s laugh is low and husky, but her fingers tap the counter in a pattern I recognize from firearms training. One, two, pause. Three, four, pause. She’s counting exits.

“Well, Agent Ethan, you’ve certainly come to the right place for information. This diner sees all kinds. The good, the bad, and the deliciously wicked.” She winks, but her body language shifts—subtle increase in distance, weight on the balls of her feet. Ready to move if needed. “But I’m afraid I can’t help you much. I just pour the coffee and ignore the whispers. It’s better for my health that way.”

“Ah, the old see no evil, hear no evil approach. Classic.” I lean in closer, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But between you and me, Celeste, I think you see and hear a lot more than you’re letting on. And I have a feeling you might be the most interesting puzzle in this whole damn city.”

The door chimes again. A disheveled man stumbles in, alcohol wafting off him like cheap cologne. My focus splits—threat assessment becomes automatic after enough field work. Drunk, nervous, right hand keeps twitching toward his jacket pocket. Armed, probably amateur hour.

“Evening, Gregory,” Celeste calls out, her tone noticeably cooler. I note the shift in her stance—subtle but telling. She’s positioned herself for quick movement, maintaining clear sightlines to both exits. “The usual?”

Gregory nods, slumping onto a stool a few seats down. As Celeste busies herself with his order, I strain to catch their conversation, professional curiosity mixing with something that feels uncomfortably like jealousy.

“...big plans, sweetheart,” Gregory slurs, his voice low and urgent. “Gonna make a name for myself in this town.”

Celeste laughs, the sound somehow both warm and dismissive. Her eyes flick to me for a fraction of a second. “You say that every week, Gregory. What makes this time different?”

I watch as Gregory leans in closer, the stench of cheap whiskey reaching me even from several seats away. Celeste maintains a careful distance that speaks volumes. Smart girl. But it’s more than caution—there’s calculation in her movements.

“This time, I’ve got inside information,” Gregory whispers, though not quietly enough. “The art gallery on St. Charles. Opening night. It’s gonna be huge.”

My ears perk up, adrenaline surging. An art heist? Could it connect to the deaths I’m investigating?

Lauren’s voice whispers in my head: Follow the money, follow the bodies. They always lead to the same place.

I glance at Celeste, gauging her reaction. Her face remains impassive, but I catch the micro-expressions—a tightening around her eyes, fingers that pause a fraction too long when pouring coffee. Tells that most would miss, but I’ve built a career on reading people’s shadows.

“Sounds dangerous,” she murmurs, voice barely audible over the hum of the ancient refrigerator.

Gregory grins, revealing yellowed teeth. “Danger’s my middle name, sweetheart. You want in? Could use a pretty face like yours to distract the guards.”

For a moment, something dark and deadly flashes across Celeste’s features—a predator’s look that raises every warning flag in my investigator’s handbook. But then she laughs, light and carefree, a perfect act I never would have questioned if I hadn’t seen that momentary slip.

“I think I’ll stick to pouring coffee, thanks. Less chance of breaking a nail.”

As Gregory turns to his greasy eggs, Celeste makes her way back to me. Our eyes meet, and electricity crackles between us, a connection that goes beyond mere attraction. There’s recognition there—one hunter acknowledging another.

“Learn anything interesting?” she asks, challenge in her voice. Her fingers brush mine as she tops off my coffee, the brief contact setting my skin ablaze.

I swallow hard, fighting the urge to grab her hand. Instead, I shrug, maintaining the game. “Just that the coffee here is excellent. And the company’s... intriguing.” I pause, watching her closely. “Though I have to say, your friend Gregory seems like a real charmer. Does he always share his criminal masterplans so freely, or am I just special?”

Celeste smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She leans in close, her breath hot against my ear. “You know, Agent Ethan, New Orleans has a way of drawing people in. Making them see things that aren’t there. Watch yourself. This city’s quicksand for the unprepared.”

Her words send a chill down my spine, at odds with the heat her proximity generates.

Warning? Threat? Or invitation?

“Well, isn’t that delightful?” I murmur, matching her tone. “I do so love a challenge, Celeste. And something tells me you’re the most dangerous puzzle this city has to offer.”

Then Gregory’s voice shatters the moment. “Hey, Celeste! Tell your new friend about that weird thing last week. The guy who dropped dead right outside.”

I freeze, coffee cup halfway to my lips. Slowly, I turn to study Celeste. Her face has gone pale, but it’s more than fear—it’s calculation. She’s running scenarios, just like I’ve seen countless suspects do in interrogation.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gregory,” she says, voice tight. The transformation is startling—gone is the confident seductress, replaced by something more complex, more dangerous.

But Gregory, drunk and oblivious, won’t let it go. “Sure you do! Remember? The suit, kinda like this guy here. One minute fine, the next—bam! Face-down on the sidewalk.”

I set my cup down with deliberate care. “Is that true, Celeste? Did you witness one of the deaths?” I lean in, dropping my voice. “And here I thought we were becoming such good friends. You’ve been holding out on me, darling.”

Her eyes dart between me and Gregory like a cornered animal. But no—more like a predator assessing threats. “It... it wasn’t like that,” she stammers, her usual poise cracking. “The man just collapsed. Heart attack, probably. Nothing unusual.”

The lie sits between us, heavy as a loaded gun. I can see it in her eyes, in the tremble of her hands—she knows something. Something worth killing for.

“Celeste,” I say, voice low and intense. I reach out, gently grasping her wrist. Her pulse races beneath my fingers, a rhythm that matches the pounding in my chest. “Level with me. I can’t fight your demons if I don’t know what they look like.”

For a moment, I think she might break. Vulnerability flashes across her face, real emotion bleeding through the cracks in her armor. The urge to protect her wars with my investigator’s instincts.

Lauren’s voice whispers: That’s how they get you. That’s how I got got.

But then the moment passes. Celeste straightens, pulling free from my grasp. Her face settles into practiced confusion, the vulnerable woman I’d glimpsed vanishing behind southern charm.

“I’m sorry, Agent Ethan, but I really don’t know anything more.” She steps back, professional distance restored. “If you’ll excuse me, I have other customers.”

As she walks away, I feel a potent mix of frustration and admiration. Celeste is hiding something, that much is clear. But she’s also brilliant, complex in ways that both intrigue and unsettle me.

Like Lauren said: The dangerous ones always are.

I finish my coffee in silence, mind racing. This case is deeper than I thought, and I have a feeling Celeste is somehow at its heart. She’s a crossword puzzle with half the clues missing, and every answer spells trouble.

Standing to leave, I catch her eye one final time. The look we share crackles with unspoken tension—attraction, suspicion, challenge. A silent promise that this is far from over.

I know I’ll be back. Not just for the case, but for her. Celeste is a mystery I need to unravel, even if it kills me. And in this city of voodoo and secrets, it just might.

The night air hits me like a physical force as I step outside. My gut screams that I’m missing something obvious, just like with Lauren’s case. The difference is, this time I’m not letting it go. This time, I’m going to uncover the truth, no matter the cost.

Back in my car, the city’s neon heartbeat pulses around me. Three impossible deaths, an art heist in the works, and a waitress who moves like a trained operative. Who notices shoulder holsters and counts exits and speaks in carefully coded warnings.

Welcome to New Orleans, Agent Blake.

The game is on.

And Celeste?

She might just be the most dangerous player of all.