Midnight at the Magnolia (Venom and Virtue #1)

10. Celeste

10

CELESTE

NOLA DAILY

Another prominent figure falls to ‘The Viper’. Authorities confirm death of former judge matches pattern of previous victims. “The precision of these kills suggests someone with extensive knowledge of botanical toxins,” says Dr. Lucas Gautier, forensic consultant. “We’re dealing with a highly educated killer.”

The night wraps around me like silk sheets, promising pleasure but concealing danger. I adjust the sachet of protective herbs at my hip—yarrow for courage, rue for clarity, angelica root to ward off those who’d harm me. New Orleans at midnight is when even the saints turn their eyes away from what happens in the shadows.

Perfect time for judgment.

I watch Marcus Delacroix stumble out of the Blue Room Bar, cataloging details with practiced precision. His gait suggests he’s had at least five drinks—cheap whiskey based on the bar’s standard pour.

Grandma’s voice whispers in memory: “Even poison has its preferences, child. The cheaper the drink, the easier the mark.”

He’s one of Gregory’s trusted lieutenants, though trusted might be too generous a word for our circles. The neon signs paint him in alternating shades of red and blue, while I finger the vial in my pocket. My own special brew—nightshade and oleander, mixed according to traditions older than this city’s sins.

My lips still tingle from Ethan’s kiss earlier, a distraction I can’t afford. The memory makes the protection herbs seem to burn against my skin, a warning I should heed but won’t. Some prices are worth paying, even if they cost you everything.

Sarah’s face flashes in my mind—not the broken body I found in the bayou, but her smile, bright and alive and forever frozen in time. The memory ignites something deeper than vengeance in my veins. This isn’t just murder, it’s justice. Another piece in the puzzle that will bring down the men who took her from me.

Marcus weaves down Bourbon Street, making rookie mistakes that would have Grandma clicking her tongue in disapproval. No awareness of his surroundings, no protection against the city’s darker elements. In a place where even the cockroaches have learned to watch their backs, his carelessness is practically begging for intervention.

I trail him with the patience Grandma taught me, letting the night swallow me whole.

Her lessons echo in my head: “Move like water, child. Silent but unstoppable.”

Years of practice have taught me how to become just another ghost in a city full of them. Each step calculated, each movement precise.

Sometimes I wonder if Sarah would recognize the creature I’ve become—part avenging angel, part poisoner, all sharp edges where there used to be light. The herbs against my skin pulse with ancient power, reminding me that some transformations can’t be undone.

When Marcus stumbles past the perfect alley—dark, secluded, practically gift-wrapped for what comes next—I breathe in the scent of my protective herbs and make my move. The cloth in my hand is soaked with a special blend Grandma taught me, but never meant for this.

Some lessons we twist to serve our own purposes.

His body bucks against mine like we’re dancing some twisted waltz, but I’ve done this dance before. Three steps forward, two steps back, until the chemicals take hold and he goes limp in my arms. The power of it all rushes through me, not intoxicating anymore but necessary, like breathing.

Some nights, the weight of what I’ve become sits heavier than others. Tonight, with Ethan’s kiss still haunting me and Sarah’s memory burning bright, each movement feels like a choice between salvation and damnation.

But I made my choice long ago, in a bayou stained with my sister’s blood.

I prop him against the dumpster with practiced efficiency, taking care to arrange him just so. Marcus Delacroix—money launderer, human trafficker, one of the men who helped cover up Sarah’s murder. The herbs in my pocket seem to hum with anticipation, knowing what comes next.

“You shouldn’t have gotten greedy,” I whisper, though he’s far past hearing. “Laundering money for Davis wasn’t enough? Had to start moving girls too?” The words taste like bile.

Young girls, just like Sarah.

Just like I was.

Some sins cry out for judgment.

The syringe feels cool against my skin as I pull it from its hiding place, moonlight catching on the glass like diamonds. This particular blend took weeks to perfect—a mixture of traditional herbs and modern chemistry that would make Grandma proud, even if the application would break her heart.

“Knowledge is neutral,” she always said. “It’s what we do with it that matters.”

“For Sarah,” I whisper, the words a ritual I can’t abandon. But tonight they taste different, heavier with the weight of Ethan’s kiss and Marcus’s sins. The needle slides home, smooth as silk, when a cat’s yowl shatters the silence.

Well, isn’t this just perfect?

The syringe slips through my fingers like a broken promise, clattering against the ground. My heart jumps into my throat as I dive after it, cursing every spirit and saint in this godless city.

Grandma’s first rule of poisoning: never lose control of your tools.

Footsteps approach—because naturally, the universe isn’t done playing games. I press deeper into the shadows, the protection herbs at my throat pulsing with warning. A couple staggers past, lost in each other, drunk on love or booze or both. They have no idea they’re walking past a killer, past a man who traded in young lives like commodities.

Once they’re gone, I finish what I came to do. A quick shot of poison, carefully arranged to look like an overdose. By morning, he’ll be another statistic—just another casualty of the drug trade he helped build. Poetic justice, served with a side of irony.

I slip the empty syringe into a specially lined pocket—Grandma’s design, meant for carrying healing herbs, now repurposed for darker work. The weight of it reminds me of all the evidence I’ve collected about Marcus’s operation. The ledgers, the photos, the proof of every girl he helped disappear. All of it waiting in a safe place, ready to be delivered to the right hands once he’s found.

The satisfaction mingles with guilt in my stomach, a cocktail I’ve grown used to drinking. Another piece of Gregory’s empire dismantled, another step closer to the men who murdered Sarah. But as I straighten my clothes and check for any traces left behind, Ethan’s face flashes in my mind.

What would he think if he could see me now? Would he understand that sometimes justice wears a darker face? That sometimes the law isn’t enough to protect the innocent?

The questions haunt me as I head for the Magnolia Diner, my sanctuary in this storm of secrets. Need to establish my alibi, wash away the night’s sins with industrial soap and endless coffee. The streets quiet as I walk, like the city itself is holding its breath, waiting to see what I’ll do next.

Or maybe it’s just waiting to see how long I can keep dancing between vengeance and love before one of them destroys me.

The diner’s dark when I let myself in through the back door, each familiar creak a welcome home. The smells of grease and coffee wrap around me, masking the herbal scent of death that clings to my clothes.

I’m elbow-deep in scalding water, scrubbing evidence from my hands with the same herbs Grandma once used to clean ceremonial bowls, when I hear it—the bell above the door chiming like a warning.

“Celeste? You here?”

Ethan’s voice sends electricity dancing down my spine, making the protective sachets at my hip burn with warning. Every instinct Grandma drilled into me screams to run, but there’s nowhere to go. I scramble to wrap the evidence in a dishrag, my heart doing a frantic dance against my ribs.

The disposal growls to life, eating my secrets like a hungry beast. Each herb and tool disappearing into darkness, like so many pieces of myself. The sound feels too loud, too obvious—like every sin I’ve committed is screaming for attention.

His footsteps approach—confident, steady, everything I’m not right now. I touch the dried rue at my throat, seeking clarity, and turn just as he appears in the doorway. The emergency lights paint him in shades of danger and desire, all sharp angles and concerned eyes. The kind of man Grandma warned me about—the ones who see too much.

“In here!” I call out, touching each protection charm sewn into my apron like a rosary. “Just doing some late-night prep work.” The lie sits heavy on my tongue, mixing with the lingering taste of tonight’s justice.

Ethan fills the kitchen with his presence, making the air thick with unspoken questions. His eyes sweep the room with cop-like precision, and I feel exposed, raw. Like all my carefully placed herbs and charms can’t hide the darkness underneath.

“At this hour?” he asks, and there’s something in his voice that makes my stomach flip. Not quite suspicion, but getting there. The herbs at my wrist pulse with warning—he’s dangerous not just because he’s FBI, but because he makes me want to trust him.

I force my lips into a playful smile, praying the dim light hides the guilt in my eyes. “All good here, Agent Blake. Sometimes inspiration strikes at odd hours.” I throw in a wink, falling back on the flirtatious waitress act like a shield. “Unless you count my secret midnight quest for the perfect pancake batter.”

He steps closer, bringing with him that intoxicating scent of sandalwood and danger. Memories of our kiss flood back, making all my protective herbs feel useless against this particular threat. The urge to confess burns in my throat—to tell him about Marcus, about Sarah, about every dark deed done in the name of justice.

“Celeste,” he says my name like a prayer, like something sacred instead of cursed, “what’s really going on here?”

The weight of my secrets presses down, heavier than all the herbs and charms I carry. For one wild moment, I consider laying it all at his feet—every sin, every murder, every step on this path of vengeance. But Sarah’s ghost holds me back, and Grandma’s voice whispers warnings about men who wear badges and make promises they can’t keep.

“Nothing’s going on, Ethan,” I meet his gaze steadily, drawing strength from the protection herbs Grandma sewed into my clothes. “Couldn’t sleep, so I came to get a head start on tomorrow. That’s all.”

He studies me for what feels like eternities, while I silently recite the properties of each herb I carry—yarrow for courage, rue for protection, rosemary for clarity. His hand reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, and my carefully constructed defenses waver.

“You know you can trust me, right?” The tenderness in his voice nearly breaks me. Nearly makes me forget every lesson Grandma taught about keeping secrets.

“I do trust you, Ethan,” I whisper, and it’s not entirely a lie. I trust him to be exactly what he is—a good man, a seeker of justice. That’s precisely why I can’t tell him everything. Some truths destroy good men.

The space between us crackles with possibility and danger. His hand finds my waist, pulling me closer, and despite every warning herb burning against my skin, I go willingly. His heartbeat is steady against my chaos, a rhythm that makes me wish for simpler lives and cleaner hands.

“Then why do I feel like you’re always holding something back?” Frustration and longing war in his voice. “I want to believe that this—us—could be something real. But every time I feel like I’m getting close to you, it’s like trying to catch smoke.”

Reality crashes back, making the herbs at my throat pulse with warning. I step back, instantly missing his warmth but knowing it’s necessary.

Grandma’s voice whispers: “Some fires burn too hot, child. They’ll consume everything if you let them.”

“It’s late, Ethan. We both should get some rest.” Marcus’s death sits heavy in my mind, a reminder of why I can’t have this—can’t have him.

Determination flashes in his eyes, somehow more dangerous than suspicion. “This isn’t over, Celeste. I care about you, but I can’t shake the feeling that you’re mixed up in something dangerous.”

If he only knew. Marcus’s cooling body in that alley. The list of others who deserved their justice. Sarah’s unavenged memory.

“That’s crazy talk,” I inject indignation into my voice like I would poison into a vein. “I’m just a waitress, Ethan. Nothing more, nothing less.”

He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture making my heart ache with its humanity. “I want to believe that. God, I do. But my gut’s telling me there’s more to you than meets the eye.” His gaze pins me like a butterfly to a board. “And in my line of work, ignoring your gut can get you killed.”

The weight of my choices sits heavy on my shoulders as I watch him leave. Each step he takes echoes with possibility and regret. The herbs I carry feel like anchors now, reminding me of oaths sworn and promises made in blood.

Tonight’s events wash over me—Marcus’s death, Ethan’s growing suspicions, Sarah’s memory burning bright as ever. The helplessness I felt that night in the bayou rises up, threatening to choke me. I dig my nails into my palms, letting physical pain ground me like Grandma taught.

Dawn breaks over New Orleans, painting everything in shades of possibility and regret. I straighten my apron, tucking away the killer and becoming just another waitress starting her day. Each herb and charm I wear reminds me of who I am and what I’ve sworn to do.

The clock’s ticking, and sooner or later, something’s got to give. But as I move through the familiar morning routine, one truth remains crystal clear: there’s no going back now. Not until every man who hurt Sarah faces justice.

The path I’ve chosen is dark and dangerous, marked by herbs of protection and vials of vengeance. But I’ll walk it straight into hell if that’s what it takes.

After all, some debts can only be paid in blood.