Midnight at the Magnolia (Venom and Virtue #1)

8. Celeste

8

CELESTE

CRIME WATCH NOLA

Witness describes Viper as “moving like a ghost.” Security footage shows figure with professional training. FBI profiler suggests military or law enforcement background.

The Magnolia Diner hums with its usual morning bustle, but something feels off. My protection sachet seems to burn against my hip—rue for warding and yarrow for courage warning of danger, just like Grandma taught me. Every clatter of plates, every scrape of cutlery sets my nerves on edge. I move on autopilot, pouring coffee and taking orders while cataloging exits and threats out of habit.

Just another day in paradise.

Or purgatory? Hard to tell when you’re caught between worlds.

The herbs sewn into my uniform feel heavy today, each one chosen carefully for protection and clarity. Grandma’s voice whispers from memory: “The plants know, child. They feel the weight of anniversaries same as we do.”

As the early birds clear out, the TV in the corner catches my attention, and suddenly the herbs at my throat feel like they’re choking me:

“...anniversary of the infamous Bayou Butcher case. Ten years ago today, the city was rocked by the discovery of multiple bodies in the swamps outside New Orleans. The case remains unsolved...”

Just like that, I’m not in the diner anymore. I’m sixteen again, mud sucking at my shoes, mosquitos whining in my ears, the stench of decay choking me as I search for Sarah. The protective herbs Grandma had sewn into my jacket that night had failed us both. Some evils are too strong for even the oldest magic.

My sister.

My everything.

Happy anniversary, you bastards. Hope you’re ready for one hell of a reunion.

“Celeste? You okay, honey?”

I blink, reality slamming back into place. Mrs. Thibodeaux peers up at me, concern etched on her weathered face. I’ve been standing there like an idiot, coffeepot hovering over her empty cup. The rosemary in my pocket—for remembrance and clarity—seems to pulse with accusation.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I manage, forcing a smile as I pour. “Just... you know how memories sneak up and sucker punch you sometimes?” My fingers brush the sachet at my hip, drawing strength from generations of bayou wisdom.

But I’m not good.

Not even close.

As I move through the diner, resetting tables for the lunch rush, my hands shake. Cheap plates clatter, a physical manifestation of my inner chaos. I touch each protective herb sewn into my apron like a rosary—angelica root for protection, thistle for strength, rue to ward off those who’d harm me. But even Grandma’s strongest charms can’t keep memories at bay.

The day wears on, the diner’s rhythm shifting. Suits replace pajamas, the smell of coffee giving way to the spicy aroma of jambalaya. I’m starting to think I might make it through my double without completely losing it when the bell above the door chimes. My hand automatically brushes the clarity herbs at my collar as I assess the new arrival.

Ethan walks in, and my heart does that stupid little flip it always does.

Dangerous territory, I remind myself. But damn if he doesn’t look good, all rumpled suit and concerned eyes. I catalog his appearance automatically—tension in his shoulders, shadows under his eyes, the slight bulge of his shoulder holster hidden beneath his jacket.

“Celeste?” he calls softly, approaching the counter. “You alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

More than one, sugar. And they all want their pound of flesh.

For a crazy second, I consider spilling everything. The weight of my secrets feels heavier than all the herbs and charms I carry. Instead, I jerk my head towards an empty booth. “Coffee break?”

Ethan slides in across from me, the vinyl squeaking in protest. I signal to Jimmy I’m taking five, then face Ethan, the sticky tabletop a flimsy barrier between us. I note his position automatically—clear view of both exits, back to the wall. Just like me. Just like every predator in this city.

“What’s going on?” Ethan’s voice is gentle, his eyes searching mine. In the diner’s harsh fluorescents, they look almost golden, warm with worry and something deeper, more dangerous. The vervain in my bracelet seems to pulse a warning: Careful, Celeste. Those puppy dog eyes are a trap.

I take a shaky breath, the smell of grease and coffee mixing with the protective herbs I wear. “Just... remembering stuff I’ve tried real hard to forget.” My fingers trace the embroidered protection sigils hidden in my uniform’s hem, seeking comfort in their familiar patterns.

Ethan reaches across the table, his hand covering mine. The warmth of his touch sends electricity racing up my arm, making the protection herbs at my wrist seem to burn. “I’ve seen that look before,” he says softly. “In victims, witnesses... people carrying more weight than anyone should bear alone. Let me help, Celeste. Please.”

Christ, I think, my heart racing against the sachet of calming herbs near my heart. Lavender and chamomile, chosen to steady nerves, now useless against the storm of emotions he stirs. I want to tell him everything. To finally share this burden that’s been crushing me for years.

But I can’t.

I won’t risk it all, not even for him.

“What about you, Ethan?” I deflect, falling back on old habits like Grandma taught me. When cornered, redirect. When threatened, distract. “What ghosts are you running from?”

He’s quiet so long I think he won’t answer. My fingers find the rosemary sewn into my collar—for remembrance, for truth.

“Remember I told you about that case in Chicago? The one that went sideways?”

I nod, recalling our late-night conversation. The pain in his voice had been raw, real. Like fresh yarrow, bitter and sharp.

“What I didn’t say,” Ethan continues, barely above a whisper, “was that the victim... she was my fiancée.”

The words hit me like a sucker punch to the gut, making all my protective herbs feel suddenly worthless. “Oh, Ethan...”

“Lauren,” he says, his eyes distant, grip tightening on my hand. “She was... everything. And I couldn’t save her.”

In that moment, I see myself reflected in Ethan’s pain. The same guilt, the same helplessness I’d felt all those years ago, holding Sarah’s cold body while Grandma’s protection charms hung useless around us. It’s like looking in a funhouse mirror, my own anguish warped and magnified on his face.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I whisper, squeezing his hand. His skin is warm against mine, an anchor in a sea of shared grief. But oh, honey, if it wasn’t your fault, then whose was it? And how far would you go to make it right?

Ethan’s eyes refocus on me, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “I know that, in my head. But knowing doesn’t make the guilt go away.”

“No,” I agree. “It sure as hell doesn’t.”

We sit in silence, the weight of our shared pain hanging between us. The diner’s chaos fades to white noise. Then, almost against my will, I start talking.

“I had a sister,” I say, so quietly I can barely hear myself over the hum of the ancient refrigerator. “Sarah. She... she disappeared when I was sixteen.”

Ethan’s grip on my hand tightens, his thumb tracing soothing circles on my skin. The gentle motion is at odds with the tension radiating from him.

“We found her in the swamp. She’d been...” I swallow hard, the words sticking in my throat like tar. The memory of that day rises up, vivid and suffocating. The thick, cloying air. The deafening buzz of insects. The sickly-sweet stench of decay that clung to everything. “The cops, they didn’t do jack. Said there wasn’t enough evidence. But everyone knew. Everyone knew who was behind it.”

“The Bayou Butcher case,” Ethan breathes, realization dawning in his eyes. His hand tightens on mine, almost painfully.

I nod, tears burning behind my eyes. “That’s why I’m here, Ethan. That’s why I can’t... why I have to...”

Careful, girl. You’re treading dangerous waters here.

I clamp my mouth shut, horrified at how close I’ve come to spilling it all. Years of caution slam back into place, and I yank my hand away from Ethan’s. The sudden loss of his warmth leaves me feeling adrift.

“Sorry,” I mutter, swiping at my eyes. “Didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”

Get it together, Celeste. You’re not some damsel in distress.

Ethan leans in, his gaze intense. His cologne, a mix of sandalwood and something uniquely him, wraps around me. “Celeste, you can trust me. Whatever you’re holding back, whatever you’re scared of... I can help. Let me in.”

For a heartbeat, I waver. The urge to confess, to share the weight I’ve been carrying alone for so long, is almost overwhelming. It presses against my chest, making it hard to breathe.

Oh, Ethan. If only you knew what you were asking for.

But then Sarah’s face flashes in my mind. And all the others who’ve suffered at the hands of the rich and powerful at their lies and their disgusting games. The mission I’ve sworn my life to complete. The weight of it settles over me like a lead blanket.

“Thanks, Ethan,” I say, plastering on a smile that feels like it might crack my face. “But really, I’m okay. It’s ancient history now.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Ethan doesn’t buy it, I can tell. But he doesn’t push. Instead, he reaches out, gently wiping a tear from my cheek. His touch is feather-light, but it sears my skin like a brand.

For a moment, we just look at each other, the air between us crackling with unspoken truths and dangerous desire. I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears, feel the heat radiating off his body.

Dangerous waters, Celeste. Best start swimming before you drown.

The spell shatters with the chime of the bell, the afternoon crowd pouring in. Reality comes crashing back, and I stand, the vinyl squeaking in protest.

“Gotta get back to it,” I say, not meeting Ethan’s eyes.

The rest of my shift passes in a haze of coffee refills and greasy plates, but my mind is elsewhere. The conversation with Ethan has stirred up more than memories; it’s awakened something dangerous—doubt. Even the grounding herbs in my pocket feel unreliable now, their usual comfort tainted by new questions.

As I move through the diner, I find myself cataloging faces with practiced precision, making mental notes of whispered conversations. Each detail filtered through years of training and Grandma’s wisdom. The corrupt officials, the bought cops, the businessmen with blood on their hands—they’re all connected in a web as complex as any spell.

I am the venomous thread in this tapestry, each herb and poison in my arsenal chosen to slowly unravel it all. Time to spin your web, little spider. And catch some very big flies.

When my shift finally ends, I hang up my apron with shaking hands. The diner feels suffocating, my various sachets and charms seeming to pulse with warning. I catch my reflection in the window as I’m leaving, and for a second, I see Sarah’s face superimposed over mine, her eyes pleading for the justice she’d been denied. The image is so real I can almost smell her strawberry shampoo mixing with the protective herbs Grandma had given her that last day.

Stepping out into the sultry New Orleans night, the air hangs heavy with the scent of magnolias and impending rain. I adjust the vials hidden beneath my clothes, each one a promise of retribution.

Grandma’s voice whispers in memory: “Every poison has its purpose, child. Choose wisely.”

As I round the corner to my apartment, my fingers brush the warning herbs at my throat just as a figure melts out of the shadows. My hand moves to my weapon, muscles coiling for a fight. Then I recognize Jazz’s lanky form, and some of the tension bleeds out of me—but not all. Even friends can be enemies in this game.

He’s leaning against the brick wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips, the ember glowing like a malevolent eye in the darkness. The scent of tobacco mingles with my protective herbs, creating an oddly fitting perfume for such dark business.

“Took you long enough,” he drawls, pushing off the wall. “Thought I was gonna have to smoke the whole pack waiting for you.”

“Some of us have to maintain a cover,” I say, the weight of my various poisons a reminder of exactly what that cover costs. “Can’t all be mysterious informants lurking in alleyways.”

“The shipment we’ve been waiting for?” Jazz takes another long drag of his cigarette, the ember flaring bright in the darkness. “It’s coming in tomorrow night, not next week like we thought. And Councilman Davis is personally overseeing it.”

My heart races at the news, making the protective herbs at my throat pulse with warning. This is it—the break we’ve been waiting for. If we can catch Davis red-handed, we’ll have the leverage we need to bring down the entire corrupt network.

“Alright, so what’s the plan? When do we move?” My fingers brush against the vials hidden in my clothes, each one chosen specifically for this moment.

Jazz’s expression hardens, smoke curling around him like a shroud. “We don’t. I’m here as a courtesy, Celeste. The team... we think it’s best if you sit this one out.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, making all my protective charms feel suddenly useless. “What? Why?” The herbs against my skin seem to burn with shared indignation.

“You’re getting sloppy,” Jazz says, his voice low and intense. “Getting too close to the case, too close to that FBI agent. It’s dangerous, Celeste. For you and for the operation.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the words die on my tongue. Deep down, beneath all the herbs and charms and careful planning, I know he’s right. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Or listen to it.

“What’s in the shipment?” I ask instead, trying to keep my voice steady even as my hand closes around the most lethal of my vials.

Jazz shakes his head, flicking his cigarette into the darkness. “Heavy artillery. Military-grade stuff. And a new synthetic drug that’s been tearing up the streets. Word is, it’s got some nasty side effects. Makes people stronger, faster... and a whole lot crazier.”

The implications send a chill down my spine, making me grip the poison vials hidden in my clothes tighter. Weapons and a dangerous new drug... the damage this could do to the city is unimaginable.

“Jazz, please,” I say, hating the pleading note in my voice. The yarrow for courage in my pocket seems to mock me now. “I need to be there. This is what I’ve been working towards for years.”

He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes unreadable in the dim light. The silence stretches between us, heavy with all the things we’re not saying.

“You mean what happened in the bayou.” It’s not a question. “With your sister.”

My fingers find the sachet at my throat, seeking comfort in its familiar weight. “You know what they did to her. What they covered up.” My voice catches. “What they’re still covering up.”

“And you think getting yourself killed will fix that?” Jazz’s voice is gentle but firm. “Or worse, getting caught? Getting exposed?”

“Better than standing by while they bring in more weapons, more drugs.” The protection herbs seem to burn against my skin, urging caution, but I push on. “You know what that stuff will do to the streets. To the kids in this neighborhood.”

“I’m sorry, Celeste.” Jazz steps closer, his cologne mixing with the scent of tobacco and my protective herbs. “It’s not my call. Just... stay out of it, okay? For your own good.” He hesitates, then adds, “And maybe consider what getting caught would do to that FBI agent of yours.”

The mention of Ethan feels like a knife to the gut. “Leave him out of this.”

“Can’t. He’s already in it. Question is, how deep are you gonna let him get?” Jazz’s eyes bore into mine. “Every person you let close is another weakness they can exploit. You taught me that, remember?”

As I watch him walk away, disappearing into the shadows like a ghost, a familiar rage burns in my chest, hotter than any herb Grandma ever showed me. They think they can sideline me? After everything I’ve sacrificed?

I cast one last look at my apartment, thinking of the photo of Sarah, of the dried flowers I’ve kept from her funeral. The ones that still smell faintly of her favorite perfume, preserved with the same care as my deadly herbs.

“I’m close, Sarah,” I whisper into the night, feeling the weight of every poison, every charm, every choice that’s led me here. “So close to making them pay for what they did to you. And I’m not stopping now.”

Not even for Jazz.

Not even for Ethan.

Not even if every protection charm and warning herb screams at me to walk away.

Some prices are worth paying, even if they cost you everything. And baby, I’ve got a lot of bills coming due.