Midnight at the Magnolia (Venom and Virtue #1)

3. Celeste

3

CELESTE

BAYOU BEAT

Third victim in month discovered. Pattern emerging in deaths - all connected to dismissed court cases. Police refuse to confirm serial killer theory.

The Magnolia Diner simmers in the early morning lull, a deceptive calm before the storm I know is brewing. The air hangs heavy with the scent of sizzling bacon and burnt coffee, a greasy perfume that clings to my skin like the guilt of a thousand sins.

I drag the rag across the counter for the thousandth time, the monotonous motion a stark contrast to the chaotic whirlwind of my thoughts.

Another day in purgatory. How many more until I’ve atoned for my sins?

The quiet shatters like a fallen angel’s halo at the chime of the bell. Agent Ethan strides in, looking as crisp and determined as he had last night, despite the ungodly hour. The sight of him sends a jolt of electricity through my body, a current of desire and danger that threatens to short-circuit my carefully constructed facade.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite federal bloodhound,” I purr, my voice dripping honey while venom courses through my veins. “Back so soon, darling? I’m starting to think you’ve got a fetish for grease-stained countertops and the sweet stench of desperation. Or perhaps it’s just the siren call of our beignets, luring you to a sugar-coated doom?”

Ethan’s eyes meet mine, molten amber that seems to see right through my mountain of lies. “What can I say? The coffee was too good to stay away.” His voice is gravel and honey, and it sends shivers down my spine like a lover’s caress. “Though I wouldn’t say no to one of those beignets you’re bragging about.”

I laugh, the sound as brittle as the masks I wear. “Careful what you wish for, sweetheart. Our beignets are like this city—sweet on the surface, but they might just rot you from the inside out.”

And I’m the most dangerous confection of all, a poison paradise wrapped in sugar and spice.

As Ethan settles at the counter, spreading his files out before him like a roadmap to my downfall, I busy myself with the coffee. My mind races, a thousand scenarios playing out, each more devastating than the last.

What delicious secrets do those files hold?

Are they the key to Gregory’s planned heist?

Or worse, have they uncovered the trail of bodies I’ve left in my wake, like breadcrumbs leading to my door?

I set the steaming mug in front of Ethan, careful not to let my gaze linger on the papers strewn across the counter. My fingers itch to snatch them, to devour every word, every clue, like a starving woman at a feast.

“Burning the midnight oil, I see,” I say, nodding towards the files. “You know what they say about all work and no play, Agent. It’ll turn you into one of those zombies stumbling down Bourbon Street at dawn, all glassy-eyed and hungry for brains... or is it just bourbon they’re after?”

Ethan sighs, running a hand through his hair. The gesture is oddly vulnerable, at odds with his hard-edged exterior. “These cases... they just don’t add up. Three deaths, all seemingly unconnected, but there’s something I’m missing. I can feel it in my gut.”

If only you knew, Ethan. The pieces fit perfectly—they just form a picture you’re not ready to see.

Guilt slithers through me, a venomous snake coiling around my heart. I know exactly what connects those deaths—me. I am the missing link, the shadow that ties it all together. I push the feeling aside, locking it away in the dark recesses of my mind where all my other delightful sins reside.

“Maybe you just need a fresh pair of eyes,” I suggest, leaning forward slightly. The counter digs into my hips, a physical reminder of the barrier between us. “I’ve seen my fair share of crazy shit in this diner. Might surprise you what I could bring to the table. After all, sweetness, sometimes the best view is from the gutter.”

Ethan looks up at me, his gaze so intense I feel stripped bare, my many personas falling away like discarded masks. For a moment, I think he might confide in me, might let me in. But then he shakes his head, the walls slamming back into place. “I appreciate the offer, Celeste, but this is sensitive information. I shouldn’t even have it out here, to be honest.”

As if the universe itself wants to punish him for his carelessness, his elbow knocks against the coffee mug. Time slows to a crawl as I watch the dark liquid spread across the counter, seeping into the papers like blood soaking into earth. How poetic, darling. Your secrets spilled like so many others in this godforsaken city.

“Fuck!” Ethan exclaims, jumping up. I’m already moving, adrenaline surging through my veins as I grab a towel and rush around the counter.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I soothe, my tone at odds with the frantic beating of my heart. “We can save them. Trust me, I’ve seen worse spills in my time. This ain’t nothing compared to Mardi Gras aftermath. You should see what comes out of people after a few too many Hurricanes. Now that’s a mess.”

As we work side by side, I can’t help but steal glances at the sodden papers. Names, dates, locations... my eyes devour every detail, committing them to memory with the desperation of a dying woman grasping at life.

James Royal, 52, found drowned in his locked office.

Jude Thibodeau, 34, aged decades overnight in his French Quarter apartment.

Marcus Dupree, 41, spontaneous combustion on Bourbon Street.

All three connected to the upcoming art gallery opening on St. Charles Avenue. All three with ties to the city’s underbelly that I know all too well.

Names, dates, locations... pieces of a puzzle I never meant anyone to solve. My little masterpiece, coming together stroke by bloody stroke.

“I’m so sorry about this,” Ethan mutters, his face flushed with embarrassment. The tips of his ears have turned red, and I find the sight absurdly endearing.

Oh, darling, if only that was the worst of your worries.

I look up at him, suddenly hyperaware of our proximity. The heat from his body radiates against me, a temptation I can’t afford to indulge in. “Don’t worry about it, sugar. Accidents happen. Though I gotta say, I usually save the wet t-shirt contests for after hours. You’re getting a sneak preview, Agent. Hope you can handle it.”

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, the world falls away. I can see the flecks of gold in Ethan’s eyes, could count every eyelash if I wanted to. My breath catches in my throat, and I feel a dangerous warmth blooming in my chest.

Ethan’s gaze drops to my lips, and I feel a surge of heat that has nothing to do with the spilled coffee. For a wild, reckless moment, I want him to kiss me. I want to taste the danger on his lips, to lose myself in the oblivion of his embrace.

But reality comes crashing back with all the subtlety of a jazz funeral. I am a vigilante, my hands stained with the blood of those I’ve judged unworthy. He is an FBI agent, sworn to uphold the very laws I break in the name of justice. This can never work. We are star-crossed in the worst possible way.

In another life, we could have been something beautiful.

In this one, we’re on a collision course to mutual destruction.

I clear my throat, taking a step back. The loss of his warmth is like a physical ache. “I think we’ve salvaged what we can,” I say, my voice hoarser than I’d like. “Though I gotta say, Agent, if this is how you treat all your confidential files, I’m a little worried about national security. Maybe stick to crayons next time, yeah? Less mess, more color. Win-win.”

Ethan blinks, as if coming out of a trance. “Right. Yes. Thank you, Celeste.” He gathers up the damp files, but I can feel his eyes on me. His brow furrows slightly, as if he’s trying to solve a particularly vexing puzzle. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me.

Does he see the mask, the carefully crafted persona of the sassy waitress?

Or does he glimpse the monster that lurks beneath, the avenging angel with blood-soaked wings?

“Is everything okay?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady even as anxiety claws at my insides like a caged beast.

Ethan hesitates, and I brace myself for the worst. “Celeste... that man you mentioned last night. The one who collapsed outside the diner. Can you tell me more about what happened?”

One slip, one moment of weakness, and everything could come crashing down.

Ice floods my veins. I’d hoped he’d forgotten about that slip, that momentary crack in my armor. I turn away, busying myself with cleaning up the last of the spill. My hands shake slightly, and I pray he doesn’t notice.

“I told you, sugar, it wasn’t anything unusual. Just a tragic accident. Heart attack or something, I guess.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, like the dregs of day-old coffee.

I can feel Ethan’s eyes on me, assessing, analyzing. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, almost tender.

“I understand. But if you remember anything, anything at all, please let me know. It could be important. You might have seen something crucial without even realizing it.”

I turn back to face him, my body tensing slightly. “Some things in this city are better left alone, Agent. Trust me on that.” I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. “I should get back to work. Was there anything else you needed? Besides a lesson in basic coffee safety, I mean? Or perhaps a crash course in the art of New Orleans’ secrets?”

For a moment, I think Ethan might push further, might peel back the layers of lies and half-truths I’ve wrapped myself in. But then he shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “No, thank you. You’ve been very helpful. More than you know.”

“Glad I could be of service,” I reply, unable to keep a hint of bitterness from my voice. “It’s what I do best—cleaning up messes and keeping secrets. The twin pillars of the service industry, wouldn’t you say?”

As he gathers his things to leave, I feel a confusing mix of relief and regret wash over me. I’ve gotten the information I needed, a treasure trove of data that could prove invaluable in my mission.

But at what cost? The connection I feel with Ethan is undeniable, a spark that threatens to ignite into an inferno. But it’s also dangerous, a flame that could burn us both to ashes.

“Celeste,” Ethan says, pausing at the door. The way he says my name sends shivers down my spine. “Thank you. For everything. I mean it.”

I meet his gaze one last time, allowing myself a moment of vulnerability. “Anytime, Agent. You know where to find me. Just try not to drown any more government secrets, alright? Next time, I might not be so quick with the towel. A girl’s gotta have some standards, even in a place like this.”

As the door closes behind him, I let out a shaky breath. The mask I wear feels heavier than ever, a burden that threatens to crush me. I’ve played a dangerous game this morning, dancing on the razor’s edge between truth and lies. And I’m not sure if I’ve won or lost.

I make my way to the back of the diner, my mind whirling with the information I’ve gleaned from Ethan’s files. Names, dates, connections I’d never known existed. I need to warn my contacts, adjust my plans. The stakes have just gotten a lot higher, and one false move could bring everything crashing down.

As I reach for my phone, I catch sight of my reflection in the grimy window. For a moment, I hardly recognize myself. The hardened vigilante, the flirtatious waitress, the scared little girl I’d once been... all these facets of myself seem to blur together, a kaleidoscope of identities that leaves me dizzy and disoriented.

Who even am I anymore?

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. When I open them again, my resolve has hardened, sharp as the blade I keep strapped to my thigh. I have a job to do, a mission to complete. I can’t let my growing feelings for Ethan distract me from what really matters.

Justice. Vengeance.

The only things that have kept me going all these years.

But as I dial the familiar number, I can’t quite shake the memory of Ethan’s eyes, the warmth of his body so close to mine. For the first time in years, I find myself questioning the path I’ve chosen. The road of retribution is lonely, paved with the bones of those I’ve judged unworthy. Is there room for something else? Something more?

Careful, Celeste. Hope is a dangerous thing for women like us. It’s a poison sweeter than any you’ve ever wielded.

One ring and he answers. Though not with a hello. No, he doesn’t need a greeting.

“Things have changed,” I whisper into the receiver, my voice a mix of determination and something dangerously close to regret.

There’s no reply. There never is. Just a grunt of acknowledgment.

God help me, I’m in trouble. And I’m not sure if I’m the player or the prize anymore.