Midnight at the Magnolia (Venom and Virtue #1)

6. Celeste

6

CELESTE

FRENCH QUARTER TIMES

Editorial: Vigilante Justice in the Big Easy? As Viper’s body count rises, all victims linked to corruption cases. Public debate over morality of street justice grows.

The pre-dawn light slithers through my apartment windows like poison through veins, casting long shadows across the kitchen table where I meticulously arrange my tools.

Grandma’s voice whispers in my memory: “Every weapon has its purpose, child. Even the prettiest flowers can kill if you know their secrets.”

Each item has its place in this macabre ritual—lockpicks that gleam with deadly promise, a compact flashlight that can pierce the darkest secrets, and my crown jewels—vials of clear liquid, each labeled in Grandma’s precise hand. Angel’s trumpet for confusion, nightshade for silence, oleander for forever sleep. Nature’s justice, delivered with clinical precision.

A sachet of protective herbs hangs at my hip—rue for warding, yarrow for courage, thistle for strength. Old magic mixed with modern methods, just like Grandma taught me. The familiar scent grounds me, even as my mind races with contingency plans.

I run my fingers over each instrument, the cool metal a stark contrast to the feverish heat of my skin. These are the weapons of my crusade against the corrupt underbelly of New Orleans, each one an extension of my will, my vengeance. The dried herbs sewn into my jacket lining rustle softly—black cohosh for power, angelica root for protection.

Lessons written in blood and botany.

Unbidden thoughts of the previous night flood my mind—Ethan’s warm brown eyes, deep enough to drown in; the feeling of his strong hands on my waist as we danced, igniting a fire I thought long extinguished. The memory of his touch sends a shiver down my spine, a dangerous distraction I can’t afford.

“Focus, Celeste,” I hiss, crushing a sprig of rosemary between my fingers. The sharp, clarifying scent cuts through the fog of emotion.

Grandma’s voice echoes in my head: “Rosemary for remembrance, child. Remember who you are, remember why you fight.”

The news of James Morrow’s death spreads like kudzu through the city—fast, invasive, impossible to control. Just like the poison I’d chosen for him, extracted from the same vine that chokes the bayou’s cypress trees.

Poetic justice, Grandma would say.

Soon, Ethan will start connecting the dots. I need to move quickly, to stay one step ahead of the game.

With practiced efficiency, I pack my tools into a nondescript backpack, each vial nestled in specially padded compartments. My fingers trace the embroidered symbols Grandma sewed into the lining—protection sigils hidden in plain sight, just like me.

In the bathroom mirror, I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. Gone is the flirtatious waitress from last night, with her easy smile and come-hither eyes. In her place stands a hardened vigilante, eyes cold and flinty with determination. I touch the sachet at my hip, drawing strength from generations of bayou wisdom running through my veins.

“This is who you really are,” I tell my reflection, breathing in the mixed scents of herbs and gunpowder that define my double life. “Never forget that.”

For a moment, I allow myself to remember the girl I once was. The innocent child who believed in justice, who learned herbs for healing instead of harm. The girl who lost everything in one blood-soaked night. I see her in the mirror, a ghost of my past, her eyes wide with fear and confusion.

“This is for you,” I whisper to that long-lost version of myself. “For Sarah. For all of us who were failed by those sworn to protect us.” I touch the dried flowers braided into my hair—foxglove and belladonna, beautiful and deadly. Just like me.

The journey to the Magnolia Diner is a blur of pre-dawn streets and hollow-eyed commuters. I let the persona of Celeste the waitress settle over me like a well-worn glamour, the way Grandma taught me to disguise poisonous herbs in sweet-smelling bouquets. New Orleans is just beginning to stir, the air thick with the mingled scents of fresh beignets and last night’s sins.

My fingers brush against the sachets sewn into my uniform—protection herbs hidden in the hem, clarity herbs near my heart. The weight of the vials in my apron pocket is comforting, each one a little glass promise of retribution. Just in case.

The cheerful chime of the diner’s bell feels like mockery as I push through the doors. I scan the room automatically—two exits clear, security camera still broken, morning regulars in their usual spots. No immediate threats, but in this city, that can change in a heartbeat.

“Morning, Celeste,” calls out Jimmy, the short-order cook. The sizzle and pop of the grill provide a steady backbeat to the diner’s morning symphony. “You’re looking chipper this morning. Hot date last night?”

Heat creeps up my neck, memories of Ethan’s intense gaze flashing through my mind. The rosemary in my pocket seems to burn, a reminder to stay focused.

“Just the usual, Jimmy,” I deflect, my voice carefully light as I tie on my apron. The familiar weight of hidden vials settles against my hip. “You know me.”

I catch sight of Ally, one of the other waitresses, laughing with a regular. For a moment, a pang of longing shoots through me. In another life, we could have been friends. I could have shared Grandma’s recipes for healing teas instead of deadly tinctures.

The thought burns like foxglove in my veins. Friends are a luxury I can’t afford. Not with the blood on my hands, the mission that consumes my every waking moment. Ally’s innocence, her easy laughter, are reminders of everything I’ve sacrificed.

Before I can sink deeper into that particular pit of regret, I catch a snippet of conversation from a nearby booth. Two men, hunched over steaming coffee cups, speak in low, urgent tones. My hand brushes the clarity herbs at my collar as I strain to hear.

“...Morrow’s death changes everything. The boss wants to move up the timeline.”

“But what about Gregory? He’s a loose cannon. If he screws this up...”

“Then we’ll deal with him. Permanently if necessary.”

Ice floods my veins, even as my mind catalogs details. One man’s hands show calluses from regular gun use. The other’s jacket bulges slightly—armed, right-handed, amateur hour based on how he keeps adjusting the weapon.

The bell chimes again, cutting through my assessment. Ethan walks in, and my traitorous heart performs its usual acrobatics. He looks haunted, dark circles shadowing his eyes. The urge to reach for him, to offer comfort, wars with the instinct to maintain distance.

“Morning, Agent Blake,” I call out, injecting false cheer into my voice even as I note his tactical awareness—eyes scanning exits, hand unconsciously near his weapon. Just like me. “Rough night?”

“You could say that.” He slumps onto a stool, the weight of the world pressing down on his broad shoulders. “Coffee, please. Strong as you can make it.”

As I pour his coffee, I study him carefully. The sharp lines of his face are etched with exhaustion and something else—frustration, perhaps? Or is it suspicion? My fingers brush the protection herbs in my pocket. Just in case.

“The Morrow case?” I ask, keeping my tone casual even as my pulse quickens. The dried vervain in my bracelet seems to pulse against my skin, a warning to tread carefully.

Ethan nods, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Among other things. This whole investigation... it’s like trying to catch smoke. Every time I think I’m getting close, the trail goes cold.”

Guilt twists in my gut like Spanish needles. How much of his frustration stems from my careful planning? From the untraceable poisons Grandma taught me to brew? From the ways of moving through shadows she showed me in the bayou?

“Maybe you just need a fresh perspective,” I suggest, leaning on the counter, close enough to catch the faint scent of his aftershave mixing with the protective herbs I wear. “Want to bounce some ideas off me? I’ve got a pretty good ear for gossip.”

Our eyes meet, and for a heartbeat, I see a flicker of suspicion that makes my clarity herbs feel like they’re burning against my skin. But then it’s gone, replaced by warmth that makes my carefully constructed walls tremble.

“I appreciate the offer, Celeste, but I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.” Ethan’s phone buzzes, the harsh sound cutting through the diner’s morning chatter. His expression darkens like storm clouds gathering over the bayou. “Damn.”

“Everything okay?” I ask, genuine concern coloring my voice even as my fingers trace the protective sigils sewn into my apron. Something’s wrong—I can feel it in my bones, the way Grandma taught me to feel storms coming.

“They need me back at the Morrow crime scene. Apparently, they’ve found something new.”

My mind races even as I maintain my carefully crafted mask. What could they have found? Did I miss something? The yarrow in my pocket seems to burn—a warning. Time to adapt or die, just like the plants Grandma showed me in the swamp.

“Be careful out there,” I call after him, the words carrying more weight than he could possibly know. The protection herbs at my throat pulse with each heartbeat, a reminder of what’s at stake.

After he leaves, I begin gathering pastries, packing them carefully into a box. A trick as old as time—hiding danger behind sweetness. Like the poisonous flowers Grandma would arrange so beautifully in her garden.

“What’s all this?” Jimmy’s voice startles me. I force my hands not to reach for the vials hidden in my clothes.

“Just thought I’d bring some treats to those poor cops working the Morrow case.” I wink, playing up the flirtatious angle while my mind calculates risks and exits. “A little sugar goes a long way in loosening lips.”

Jimmy’s eyes narrow, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Uh-huh. And this wouldn’t have anything to do with that FBI agent who’s been coming in, would it? The one you’ve been making eyes at?”

Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I silently curse my body’s betrayal.

Get it together, Celeste. You’re better than this.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jimmy. I’m just being neighborly. Besides, you know me. I like my men like I like my coffee - hot, strong, and nowhere near my personal life.”

“Sure, sure,” he chuckles, turning back to the grill. “Just be careful, Celeste. Falling for a Fed? That’s a dangerous game.”

If only he knew just how dangerous.

As I finish my shift and hang up my apron, I catch sight of my reflection in the diner’s chrome napkin dispenser. For a moment, I see myself as Ethan must see me—the friendly waitress with a ready smile and a sympathetic ear. A mirage of normalcy in his turbulent world.

But beneath that facade lies a darker truth, as black and fathomless as the depths of the Mississippi. I am a vigilante, a killer. I have blood on my hands, all in the name of justice. The waitress is the mask, darling. The killer is the reality.

And yet, as I think of Ethan—his warm eyes, his unwavering dedication to the truth—I feel a flicker of doubt, a crack in the foundation of my resolve. Is what I’m doing really justice? Or have I become the very thing I sought to destroy?

No time for philosophical debates, Celeste.

You made your choice long ago.

I push the thought aside, locking it away in the darkest corners of my mind. I can’t afford such doubts. Not now. Not when I’m so close to my goal. The end justifies the means, right?

The streets of New Orleans stretch before me as I leave the diner, a labyrinth of shadows and secrets. The weight of my various poisons feels heavier than usual. Each step takes me closer to a confrontation I’ve both dreaded and longed for.

The air shifts, and my instincts—honed by years of training and enhanced by Grandma’s teachings—scream a warning. There, just beyond the pool of light cast by a flickering streetlamp, stands a figure I thought I’d never see again.

My blood runs cold as recognition dawns. The vervain and rue in my pockets seem to pulse with warning. It’s him—the man who set me on this path of vengeance.

The one who took Sarah.

Memories flood back, bitter as wormwood. I’m sixteen again, hiding in the closet, clutching the protection charm Grandma made me, watching through the slats as this monster destroyed my world. The scent of blood mixing with Sarah’s favorite jasmine perfume. The sound of her final breath.

“Hello, little Celeste,” he calls out, his voice carrying easily in the still night air. “My, my, how you’ve grown.”

My hand moves to the knife hidden at my waist, even as my other hand grips the most lethal of my vials. Nightshade and oleander mixed with darker things Grandma only taught me after Sarah died. But before I can move, he melts back into the shadows, his mocking laughter lingering like poisonous mist.

I stand frozen, my heart pounding against the herbs sewn into my clothing. He’s here. In New Orleans. And he knows who I am, what I’ve become. The weight of my choices presses down like kudzu vines, threatening to choke the life from me.

The pastry box in my hands feels like a prop in a play I’m no longer sure how to perform. But sometimes the best poison comes in the sweetest package—another of Grandma’s lessons I took to heart.

I flag down a taxi, giving an address a block from the crime scene. As we wind through the streets, I check my supplies. Each vial nestled exactly where it should be, every herb and poison in its place. The tools of my trade hidden behind sugar and smiles.

When the taxi pulls up, I step out into the humid night air like I’m walking into Grandma’s garden—beautiful things that can heal or kill, depending on how you use them. The crime scene isn’t far now. I can see the flashing lights, hear the murmur of voices carried on the breeze.

I square my shoulders, gripping the pastry box like a shield while deadly herbs and poisons hide beneath my clothes. The night can throw its worst at me. I’ll meet it with poison in my veins and steel in my grip, just like Grandma taught me.

The yellow police tape flutters in the breeze—a boundary between worlds, like the line of salt Grandma used to pour across our doorway. As I duck under it, pastry box in hand and heart in my throat, I know I’m crossing more than just a physical threshold.

No turning back now, Celeste.

The herbs against my skin whisper ancient warnings, and somewhere in the darkness, a killer knows my name. But I’ve come too far to stop now. The path of vengeance is like the deadliest of Grandma’s plants—once it takes root, it grows until it chokes out everything else.

Time to see this through, no matter the cost.