Midnight at the Magnolia (Venom and Virtue #1)

5. Ethan

5

ETHAN

CASE FILE UPDATE

Victim analysis shows killer has extensive knowledge of local flora. Agent Blake notes possible connection to traditional herbalists, family practices.

The humid night air clings to my skin, heavy with the scent of jasmine and sin. I wait outside the Magnolia Diner, my heart a caged animal against my ribs, while my mind catalogs every detail with practiced precision.

Two security cameras on the corner—one broken.

Three possible escape routes.

A drunk tourist stumbling past, his wallet an easy target in his back pocket.

Old habits die hard.

What the hell am I doing, agreeing to let a potential witness—maybe even a suspect—show me around New Orleans?

Lauren’s voice echoes in my head: “Your instincts are good, but your heart’s always been your blind spot.” She wasn’t wrong then, and she’s not wrong now.

My hand unconsciously touches my shoulder holster, hidden beneath my jacket.

Lauren would laugh at that too. “Always armed, never prepared for the real dangers—the ones that steal your heart before they break it.”

But Celeste... God, Celeste isn’t just any witness. She’s a labyrinth of secrets, each turn more alluring and deadly than the last. A part of me—the trained investigator, the man who watched Lauren die because he missed something crucial—wants to unravel her mysteries, to expose the truth hidden beneath her enigmatic smile.

The other part? The other part wants to see just how deep this rabbit hole goes, even if it means getting lost along the way.

“Ready to see the real New Orleans, Agent Blake?” Her voice, low and smoky, sends a shiver down my spine.

I turn, and the world tilts on its axis.

Gone is the diner uniform, replaced by a black dress that hugs curves like a second skin. But it’s the details that set off my professional alarms—the dress is cut for ease of movement, not just show. Her heels are practical beneath their polish. Her small clutch sits at the perfect angle for quick access. Every choice calculated, just like Lauren described in her last case notes about surveillance subjects.

I run a hand through my own dark hair, suddenly aware of my rumpled appearance—the loosened tie, the day-old stubble that shadows my jaw. Next to Celeste’s effortless grace, I feel like a bull in a china shop, all hard angles and rough edges.

“I’m off duty,” I manage, my mouth suddenly dry. “Call me Ethan. Although I’m not sure I’m ever really off duty in this city.”

Lauren’s voice again: “You’re never off duty because you’re hiding from something. The question is, what?”

Celeste’s smile is a dangerous thing, sharp enough to draw blood. “Alright, Ethan. Shall we?” She moves with a predator’s grace that my training screams to notice. Too aware of her surroundings. Too precise in her movements. Too perfect.

Christ, Blake, what have you gotten yourself into?

We plunge into the pulsing heart of the French Quarter, and I find myself cataloging details out of habit—security camera positions, entrance and exit routes, sight lines across streets.

Lauren taught me to see cities this way. “The devils hide in the details,” she’d say. “You just have to know where to look.”

The cobblestones whisper beneath our feet, telling tales of centuries past. I’m torn between admiring the wrought-iron balconies dripping with ferns and analyzing Celeste’s behavior. The way she moves through the crowd sets off warning bells—too fluid, too calculated. Her eyes scan constantly, marking exits and threats with a precision that mirrors my own training.

As we pass a dimly lit bar, a grizzled old man stumbles out, his weathered face a map of hard living. My hand instinctively moves toward my weapon until I assess the threat level—drunk, unarmed, familiar with Celeste based on body language.

Old habits from Lauren’s training never die.

He squints at us, then breaks into a toothless grin. “Well, if it ain’t the lovely Miss Celeste.” His eyes, sharper than his disheveled appearance suggests, scan me with surprising alertness. “And who’s this fine gentleman? New beau?”

Celeste laughs, a sound like dark honey. “Just a friend, Uncle Lou. How’s tricks?”

I watch their interaction through an investigator’s lens. The casual familiarity feels rehearsed. There’s information being exchanged in their seemingly innocent banter, just like Lauren taught me to spot.

“Every conversation in the streets has three layers,” she’d say. “What’s said, what’s meant, and what’s hidden.”

The old man’s rheumy eyes twinkle with unsettling intelligence. “Can’t complain, can’t complain. City’s full of secrets, and I aim to know ‘em all before I die.”

He turns to me, his gaze suddenly sharp enough to cut glass. “Word of advice, son. In New Orleans, nothing’s what it seems. Especially not the pretty ones.” He winks at Celeste and shuffles off into the night.

I turn to Celeste, eyebrow raised. “Friend of yours?”

She shrugs, a fluid motion that does interesting things to the neckline of her dress. My eyes catch the movement, but my mind catalogs how the gesture masks her scanning the street behind us. “Uncle Lou knows everyone and everything in this city. He’s harmless... mostly.”

The encounter leaves me unsettled, adding another layer to the mystery that is Celeste Deveraux.

Lauren’s voice whispers in my memory: “The most dangerous sources are the ones who appear harmless. They see everything because nobody sees them.”

“You know, that’s the third cryptic warning I’ve received since arriving in this city,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “What is it about New Orleans that has everyone speaking in riddles? Is there a secret handbook I missed at the airport?”

Celeste steps closer, her perfume enveloping me in a cloud of jasmine and danger. Even as desire pools in my gut, I note how the movement puts her back to a wall, gives her clear sight lines in three directions.

Too tactical to be coincidental.

“Oh, Ethan. You’re such an outsider.” Her eyes lock with mine, bottomless pools that promise both answers and oblivion. “New Orleans isn’t just a city, it’s a living, breathing entity. It has its own rules, its own language. And it doesn’t take kindly to those who try to impose their own order on its chaos.”

Lauren would have loved that line—right before pointing out how it deflects from any real answers. God, I miss her analytical mind almost as much as I miss her smile.

“And you?” I can’t help asking, professional objectivity warring with growing attraction. “Are you one of those mysteries I’m supposed to lose myself in?”

Lauren’s voice chides me: “The obvious question isn’t always the right one.”

Celeste’s smile is enigmatic, a perfect blend of promise and threat. “I guess you’ll have to keep digging to find out, won’t you?” She turns, continuing down the street. The movement is too smooth, too controlled. Like someone trained to always be ready for anything.

As I follow her, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being led deeper into a labyrinth. Lauren’s last case had felt like this too—each answer spawning three new questions, each step forward feeling more and more like a carefully laid trap.

We continue our walk, my senses cataloging everything. The sweetness of pralines, the spice of jambalaya, the sour tang of spilled beer—all perfect cover scents for less innocent activities. Three cops on the corner, two tourists stumbling drunk, a street musician whose case offers perfect concealment for a weapon. In the distance, a saxophone wails, its mournful sound matching the ache in my chest.

“So, Ethan,” Celeste says, breaking the charged silence. “What really brought you to New Orleans? Besides the obvious, I mean.”

I hesitate, weighing truth against caution. Lauren’s voice whispers: “Sometimes the best way to get truth is to offer it first.” Still, old habits die hard. “I needed a change,” I admit, the words tasting bitter. “My last case in Chicago... it didn’t end well.”

Celeste’s expression softens, but I catch the micro-tell—a slight tension around her eyes. She’s gathering intelligence, just like I am. “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you want to talk about it?”

To my surprise, I do. “It was a serial killer case. I got too close, too involved.” My throat tightens around the words. “In the end, I caught him, but... the last victim was someone I cared about.”

My fiancée.

My Lauren.

The woman whose voice still guides me, even from the grave.

Celeste’s hand touches my arm, and electricity arcs between us. Even through that jolt of attraction, I notice how she positions herself—casual but ready, always ready. “I’m so sorry, Ethan. That must have been hell.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “It was. That’s why I requested this transfer. I thought a change of scenery might help exorcise some demons.” I meet her eyes. “Turns out, New Orleans has plenty of its own.”

“Has it helped?” Her voice is soft as velvet, genuinely curious. Or at least, an excellent imitation of genuine curiosity.

I hold her gaze, feeling that now-familiar mix of attraction and wariness. “In some ways, yes. In others...” I think of her reactions to my case files, her too-smooth movements, her perfectly crafted responses. “This city is like one of those Magic Eye pictures. The longer you look, the more you see hidden patterns emerging. And not all of them are pretty.”

We turn a corner, and the majestic spires of St. Louis Cathedral loom before us. Even as I admire the architecture, I’m mapping lines of sight, possible surveillance points, potential escape routes.

Lauren’s voice echoes: “Beautiful things make the best cover for ugly truths.”

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, meaning both the cathedral and the woman beside me.

“Did you know there are catacombs beneath the cathedral?” Celeste asks, her eyes reflecting the golden glow of streetlights. My investigator’s mind snaps to attention at her tone—too casual, too informed.

“Catacombs? Let me guess, they’re filled with the bodies of nosy FBI agents who asked too many questions?” I keep my tone light, but I’m watching her reaction carefully.

“Oh yes,” she says, her voice taking on a storyteller’s cadence. “They say the ghosts of long-dead priests still wander those tunnels. Some believe they’re connected to a network of secret passages throughout the city.” She pauses, then adds with calculated casualness, “Not that I’d know anything about that, of course.”

“Sounds like the perfect setup for a heist,” I say, testing her reaction.

Lauren’s ghost approves: “Sometimes the best way to catch a lie is to offer bait.”

Celeste stiffens—a micro-movement most would miss. But I’ve been trained to notice exactly these tells. “A heist?” Her tone is carefully neutral. Too neutral.

I push forward, watching her body language. “Yeah, actually. We’ve received intel about a potential art theft. Something big, possibly involving multiple locations.” I pause, then add, “It’s part of a larger conspiracy we’re uncovering.”

Her eyes widen slightly—fear? Recognition? “Really? That sounds dangerous.” She steps closer, and despite my training, my breath catches. “Be careful, Ethan. This city has a way of drawing you in, making you see things that aren’t there... and missing things that are right in front of you.”

As we pass a jazz club, the sound of a saxophone pulls us in. The space is small, dimly lit. I note the exits, the crowd composition, potential weapons.

Lauren would be proud—and then tell me to stop being so paranoid.

“Do you dance, Ethan?” Celeste asks, her eyes closed as she sways to the music.

I chuckle, trying to ignore how the movement emphasizes her curves. “Not if I can help it. I’ve been told my dancing looks like a giraffe having a seizure.”

“Live a little, Agent.” Her eyes open, full of challenge and something darker. “Sometimes the best way to solve a puzzle is to stop trying so hard to piece it together.”

She pulls me onto the dance floor before I can protest. The music shifts to a slow blues number, and suddenly she’s in my arms. Even through the haze of attraction, I notice how she positions us—clear view of both exits, back to the wall. Just like I would.

“Just follow my lead,” she murmurs, placing my hands on her waist. The silk of her dress is cool beneath my palms, but her skin burns hot. “Sometimes, Ethan, you need to stop thinking like a cop and start feeling like a man.”

Lauren’s voice fades as Celeste moves against me.

For once, the investigator takes a back seat to the man. Her body fits against mine perfectly, dangerously well. Her fingers trace up my arms, and I feel the calluses that a waitress shouldn’t have.

“You’re not as bad at this as you claim,” she murmurs.

I pull her closer, professional judgment clouded by the scent of her perfume, the heat of her body. “Maybe I just needed the right partner.”

Our eyes meet, and the world narrows to this moment. I see myself reflected in her gaze—desire, fear, secrets. My lips are inches from hers when reality crashes back in.

“...breaking news,” a TV blares. “Prominent businessman James Morrow has been found dead in his French Quarter home...”

Celeste goes rigid in my arms. Not just surprise—recognition. Fear. Guilt? My investigator’s instincts roar back to life, and Lauren’s voice returns: “Watch their first reaction. It’s the only honest one.”

“Celeste?” I keep my voice gentle, even as my mind races. “You okay?”

She blinks, composing herself with practiced ease. Too practiced. “I... yes. I just... I knew him. Mr. Morrow. He was a regular at the diner.”

The walk back to her apartment is heavy with unspoken questions. Every step is a battle between the investigator who notes her tells and the man who wants to pull her close again.

Lauren’s voice is relentless: “Follow the evidence, no matter where it leads. No matter who it hurts.”

At her door, Celeste turns to me. In the harsh streetlight, she looks both vulnerable and dangerous. “Thank you for tonight, Ethan. Despite how it ended, I had a wonderful time.”

She kisses my cheek, her lips soft but leaving ice in their wake. “Goodnight, Agent Blake.”

The title isn’t an accident. She’s reminding us both of who I am, what I represent.

“Goodnight Ms. Deveraux.” I tip my head and spin around.

I’ve crossed a line tonight, and the view from the other side is intoxicating. And terrifying.

As I walk back to my hotel, my mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions and half-formed theories. Celeste is a mystery, one I’m becoming increasingly desperate to solve. But as I replay the events of the night in my mind, one thing becomes crystal clear:

She is becoming my own personal gravity, pulling me in against all reason. And in my line of work, that could be the most dangerous game of all.

The streets of New Orleans seem to whisper around me, promising answers but offering only more questions. As I reach my hotel, the weight of the badge in my pocket feels heavier than ever. Tomorrow, I’ll have to start investigating Morrow’s death. And no matter where the evidence leads, I have a sinking feeling that all roads will eventually lead back to Celeste.

As I enter my room, Celeste’s scent seems to linger on my clothes, a tantalizing reminder of our closeness. The memory of her body pressed against mine as we danced sends a wave of heat through me.

I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of desire. This is dangerous territory, Blake. I’m an FBI agent, and Celeste is potentially involved in an ongoing investigation. I need to stay focused, professional.

But as I step into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over my tense muscles, I can’t shake the memory of her in my arms. The softness of her skin, the fire in her eyes...

“You’re falling for her,” Lauren’s voice whispers. “Just like you fell for me. But this time, the danger isn’t coming for her—it’s radiating from her.”

I press my forehead against the cool tile, water running down my back. This is a complication I don’t need. But as I close my eyes, all I see is Celeste in that black dress, moving like a predator, hiding secrets behind those mesmerizing eyes.

Part of me wants to chalk it up to the magic of New Orleans – the way this city wraps you in its sultry embrace, makes you believe in things you never would in the harsh light of day. But I know better. Celeste is a puzzle all her own, one that’s becoming dangerously addictive to solve.

I replay the night in my head, searching for clues I might have missed. The way she stiffened at the mention of the art heist. Her reaction to Morrow’s death. Every smile, every touch, every word—was it genuine, or just another act in her repertoire?

And that moment on the dance floor... Christ. I’ve faced down armed suspects with steadier nerves than I had when she was in my arms. It would be so easy to lose myself in those eyes, to let myself believe that there could be something real between us.

Fuck it.

I grip the base of my cock, hissing at the pleasure that ripples down my spine. As I stand under the hot spray, I try to push away thoughts of Celeste, but they persist, vivid and tempting. My hand moves almost of its own accord, stroking my length as I recall the sway of her hips, the fullness of her lips.

I envision her here with me, steam billowing around us, rivulets of water tracing her delicate curves. Her dark eyes are alight with need and submission, a potent combination that sends a jolt straight to my groin. I imagine pinning her against the slick shower wall, her wrists captured above her head in my firm grip. She mewls, her body arching into mine, yielding to my dominance.

“Please,” she begs, her voice a husky melody of surrender.

My hand strokes faster, pleasure building as the fantasy unfurls. I picture hoisting her up, her long legs wrapping tightly around my waist, heels digging into my flesh, arms clinging to my neck. I impale her, her heat and tightness enveloping me, her body offering complete surrender.

“You’re mine, Celeste,” I growl into her ear, her name on my lips pushing me to the brink. “Every inch of you belongs to me.”

I can almost hear her cry out my name, feel her nails raking across my back. The thought of her coming undone around me, her body pulsing with release, sends me hurtling over the edge.

“Celeste,” I growl, my own climax ripping through me. I brace myself against the tile, heart pounding, breath ragged, as the last of my fantasy washes down the drain.

As the haze of pleasure fades, guilt and frustration set in. This isn’t just unprofessional—it’s dangerous. Celeste is a puzzle I need to solve with a clear head, not clouded by lust and misplaced affection.

I finish my shower and crawl into bed, but sleep eludes me. My mind keeps replaying the events of the night, searching for clues I might have missed. Celeste’s reactions, her knowledge of the city’s secrets, her connection to Morrow... it all adds up to something, but what?

I fall into an uneasy sleep, my dreams a chaotic mix of dancing shadows, haunting jazz, and Celeste’s enigmatic smile. In the distance, a clock tower chimes, marking the hours until dawn. Until the next move in this dangerous game we’re playing.

Just as I’m drifting off, my phone buzzes with a text. Bleary-eyed, I reach for it, my blood running cold as I read the message:

Unknown : Tread carefully, Agent Blake.

Sleep flees as I sit up, fully alert now.

As the first light of day begins to creep across the sky, I can’t shake the feeling that in New Orleans, the line between hunter and hunted is as blurred as the boundary between love and obsession. I’m drowning in a sea of contradictions, and my badge is the anchor pulling me under.

And Celeste Deveraux is at the center of it all.