Midnight at the Magnolia (Venom and Virtue #1)

16. Celeste

16

CELESTE

BAYOU HERALD

Anonymous tip leads to massive document leak exposing corruption. Sources suggest possible connection to Viper killings. City officials scramble to contain scandal.

The sound of Ethan’s body hitting the floor echoes in my mind like the death rattle of nightshade berries dropping in Grandma’s garden. I stand over him, his gun heavy in my hand, the metal still warm from his grip. For a moment, I’m frozen, cataloging details like Grandma taught me to study poisonous plants:

The vulnerable curve of his neck.

How peaceful his face looks in unconsciousness.

The steady rise and fall of his chest.

The trust I’ve just shattered, as delicate as moonflower petals.

“Some cuts go too deep to heal, child,” Grandma’s voice whispers in my memory. “Like pruning too close to the root.”

“We need to go. Now.” Alex’s voice cuts through my shock, urgent and low. The sound makes my skin crawl—a cottonmouth’s warning before it strikes.

I look up at him, then back at Ethan’s unconscious form. His face, usually so full of warmth and trust, is slack and vulnerable. Like morning glory exposed to frost, something beautiful destroyed by necessity. It breaks something inside me, something I didn’t know could still break.

“We can’t just leave him here.” The words taste bitter on my tongue, like unripe elderberries.

Alex’s eyes narrow, cold and calculating. Snake eyes, Grandma would say. The kind that see prey, not people. “What are you suggesting? We don’t have time for this, Celeste.”

“Even the deadliest bloom needs tending,” Grandma’s voice echoes. “Choose your poisons carefully, child. Some kill quick, some kill slow, but they all take something from the gardener.”

In that split second, I make a decision that will change everything. The weight of it settles on my shoulders, heavy as August air before a storm. “Help me with him. We’re taking him with us.”

Alex curses, but moves to grab Ethan’s legs. Together, we awkwardly maneuver him through the back door of the diner and into Alex’s waiting car. The cool night air hits my face as we step outside, carrying the scent of rain and jasmine—nature’s own warnings about storms to come.

Every breath feels like a step deeper into Grandma’s poison garden, where beauty and danger grow tangled together, impossible to separate.

The city lights blur past us as we drive, a kaleidoscope of neon and shadow, much like the twisting, turning path that’s led me to this moment.

Each streetlight illuminates Ethan’s still form in the backseat like camera flashes, capturing evidence of my betrayal. “Love’s the most dangerous poison,” Grandma always said. “It kills slow, but it kills sure.”

I’m starting to understand what she meant.

The New Orleans Museum of Art looms before us, its grand facade a stark silhouette against the night sky. Like a venus flytrap waiting with open jaws, beautiful and deadly. Alex parks a block away, hidden in the shadows of ancient oak trees. Their branches reach out like gnarled fingers dripping with Spanish moss, as if trying to warn us away from what we’re about to do.

“What now?” he asks, his voice carrying that edge of excitement that reminds me of oleander—sweet on the surface, poison underneath.

I take a deep breath, tasting copper where I’ve bitten my lip raw. Grandma’s voice whispers in my memory: “Blood’s the price we pay for justice, child. Make sure the cost is worth the victory.”

“We stick to the plan,” I tell him, even as my eyes drift to Ethan’s unconscious form. “You know what to do.”

“You should tie him up.” Alex’s warning carries the weight of experience, but I’m already shaking my head no.

Some lines, once crossed, can never be uncrossed. Like drinking from a poisoned well—there’s no taking back that first sip.

With a final glance at Ethan, we exit the car, leaving him behind. The guilt gnaws at me like kudzu strangling a tree, but I push it aside. I have a job to finish.

For Sarah. For justice. For redemption.

The night air crackles with tension as I crouch in the shadows outside the museum. Magnolias and damp earth fill my lungs, grounding me in this moment, in this choice. Each breath feels like drinking one of Grandma’s bitter teas - necessary medicine for what’s to come.

As the clock tower in the distance chimes ten, a sound like death bells in the bayou, I know it’s time. Tonight, everything will change. Tonight, I’ll either save my soul or damn it completely.

Either way, there’s no going back. Not anymore.

Gregory’s van pulls up right on schedule, the soft purr of its engine a predator’s growl in the quiet night. I watch his crew unload their equipment, playing maintenance workers in their stolen uniforms. They don’t know they’re walking into a garden of thorns. My garden.

“Patience,” Grandma’s voice whispers. “The deadliest flowers take their time to bloom.”

I slip into the museum behind them, my footsteps whisper-quiet on polished marble. The musty scent of preservation mingles with sharp cleaning chemicals, creating an atmosphere that reminds me of Grandma’s workroom—a place where beautiful things are kept, studied, sometimes destroyed.

My focus narrows to the mission until a soft click from a side entrance sends ice through my veins. The silhouette is unmistakable.

Ethan.

“Even the best-laid trap can catch the wrong prey, child,” Grandma’s wisdom echoes as panic threatens to choke me. This isn’t part of the plan. Ethan isn’t supposed to be here, conscious and armed, moving with that careful precision I’ve come to love.

I should have tied him up.

I force myself to breathe, to think past the thunder of my heart. “Sometimes the cure and the poison grow from the same root,” Grandma would say. I can still salvage this. I have to.

Moving like nightshade spreading in darkness, I intercept him just before he reaches the main gallery. The familiar warmth of his body against mine as I pull him into an alcove sends electricity through my veins. His stubble scratches my palm as I cover his mouth, each point of contact a reminder of softer moments, gentler touches.

“Don’t move,” I whisper against his ear. “It’s me.”

The tension in his body shifts from professional alertness to something more personal, more dangerous. When I remove my hand, the loss of contact feels like withdrawal.

“Celeste?” My name on his lips carries confusion and anger in equal measure. “What the hell are you doing? I followed you in here?”

Before I can answer, Gregory’s voice drifts down the hallway, thorny with impatience. “Hurry up with that painting. We’ve got ten minutes before the real security patrol comes through.”

I watch realization dawn in Ethan’s eyes, beautiful and terrible as sunrise over a poisoned garden. The muscles in his jaw clench as he opens his mouth, but I press a finger to his lips. One word from him now could destroy everything I’ve cultivated.

For a moment, we’re frozen together in that small space, our shared breaths carrying the weight of secrets and betrayal. The heat of him, the familiar scent of his cologne, threatens to undo all my carefully laid plans.

“Even love can be poison,” Grandma’s voice reminds me. “If you’re not careful about how you brew it.”

I’m starting to think I was never careful enough at all.

The crash of breaking glass shatters the moment. Gregory’s angry voice echoes through the halls like thunder before a storm. “Someone tripped the alarm! It’s a setup!”

Chaos erupts, and in that split second, I know I have to choose. Grandma’s voice whispers: “Every garden needs pruning, child. The trick is knowing which blooms to sacrifice.”

“Stay here,” I tell Ethan, my hand against his chest. His heart pounds under my palm, strong and steady, everything I’m not. “I’ll handle this.”

“Don’t go, Celeste.” The raw emotion in his voice nearly breaks me. “God help me, I should arrest you right now, but I can’t... I need to understand why.”

“The sweetest poisons are the ones we choose to swallow,” Grandma would say. Looking at Ethan now, I understand exactly what she meant.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, then slip away before love can make me weak. His curse follows me down the hallway, but I don’t look back. Can’t look back.

The main gallery spreads before me like Grandma’s garden at midnight—full of beauty and danger in equal measure. Gregory stands in the center, barking orders at his fleeing men. When he turns and sees me, recognition crawls across his face like kudzu.

“You,” he snarls, voice dripping venom. “I should have known. You think you can stop me? I’ve got half the city in my pocket, sweetheart.”

His arrogance fuels something dark inside me, something that’s been growing since Sarah died, fed by rage and watered with tears. I hear Ethan enter behind me, but this moment isn’t about him. This is about justice. About vengeance. About becoming the monster needed to fight monsters.

Gregory raises his gun. Time slows like sap in winter. I move as Grandma taught me, fluid as water hemlock spreading through a stream. His bullet whispers past my ear as I close the distance between us. I drop into a roll, coming up inside his guard. A quick strike to his wrist sends the gun clattering to the floor.

But Gregory isn’t going down without a fight. He lashes out, his fist catching me in the ribs. Pain explodes in my side, stealing my breath. I grunt but don’t let it slow me down. We grapple, trading blows, each of us fighting for dominance. The world narrows to this moment, this dance of violence and retribution.

Each blow exchanged carries the weight of choices made and paths chosen. His fist finds my ribs, stealing my breath. But pain is an old friend now, bitter medicine I’ve learned to swallow. Gregory is stronger than I anticipated, his desperation making him a formidable opponent. Each blow that lands feels like it might be the one to end me, but I refuse to give in. I’ve come too far, sacrificed too much, to fail now.

I’m vaguely aware of Ethan shouting, his voice hoarse with fear and anger, of Gregory’s men fleeing. But my world has narrowed to this one fight. Everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve sacrificed, it all comes down to this moment.

Gregory manages to get his hands around my throat, squeezing. His fingers are like iron bands, cutting off my air. The edges of my vision begin to darken, the world fading to a pinpoint. With the last of my strength, I reach for the small blade concealed in my boot.

“Some roots run too deep to pull,” Grandma’s voice echoes as I reach for my concealed blade. “Sometimes you have to cut them out.”

The knife slides between his ribs like it belongs there. His eyes widen with shock, with understanding, with fear. “This is for Sarah,” I whisper, the words a prayer, a curse, a promise fulfilled.

His look of shock burns in my mind.

As his body crumples to the floor, the weight of what I’ve done crashes over me like a wave. I stagger back, the bloodied knife falling from trembling fingers. The sound it makes hitting marble echoes through the gallery like a final heartbeat.

“Celeste.”

Ethan’s voice pulls me back from the abyss. I turn to face him, seeing my own reflection in his eyes—both the woman he loved and the killer I’ve become. The sirens growing louder outside are a countdown to the end of everything.

“Even the deadliest garden can bloom again,” Grandma’s wisdom whispers. “If you’re willing to let it be pruned.”

I collapse into Ethan’s arms, letting him catch me as I fall. His embrace is everything I don’t deserve but desperately need. “I’m so sorry,” I sob into his chest, breathing in his familiar scent. “I never meant for any of this to happen.”

His arms tighten around me as the room fills with police and FBI agents. I cling to him, no longer playing a part but genuinely seeking shelter in the eye of this storm. For the first time since Sarah died, I don’t want to run.

But as Grandma always said, “The most dangerous poisons are the ones we brew ourselves.” Looking up at Ethan through tear-blurred eyes, I know my next move will either save us both or destroy everything.

I’m still deciding which when I feel the cold kiss of handcuffs against my wrist.

“Agent Blake,” Detective Reeves’ gruff voice cuts through the moment like a machete through morning glory. “Step away from the suspect.”

The word suspect hits me like a physical blow. Is that all I am now? All I’ll ever be to him? Grandma’s voice whispers: “Labels are like garden markers, child. They tell you what to expect, but not what might grow.”

Ethan’s arms loosen, but don’t fully release me. I feel his hesitation in the tremor of his muscles, the stutter of his breath. Professional duty warring with personal feelings. “She acted in self-defense,” he says, voice steady despite everything. “I witnessed the whole thing.”

Self-defense. Such a pretty lie. Like calling nightshade a healing herb.

More agents pour in, their flashlight beams cutting through the darkness like search lights. Each one illuminates another piece of evidence, another nail in my coffin. The knife. The blood. The body. My carefully tended garden of lies withering under their harsh light.

“Even without her statement, we’ve got enough to hold her,” Reeves says, closer now. “The DNA evidence from previous scenes, the security footage...”

Previous scenes. Other bodies. Other gardens I’ve tended in the dark.

Ethan’s body goes rigid against mine. I feel the exact moment reality sets in, when he truly understands the scope of what I’ve done. What I am. His arms fall away completely, leaving me cold.

“The truth’s like sunrise in a poison garden,” Grandma would say. “It shows everything, pretty and ugly alike.”

I let them lead me away, my wrists bound behind my back. Each step feels like walking through quicksand, drawing me deeper into consequences I can’t escape. But as we reach the door, I hear his voice one last time.

“Wait.”

I turn, unable to help myself. Ethan stands in the middle of my chaos, beautiful and broken. The look in his eyes burns worse than any poison I’ve ever brewed.

“Was any of it real?” he asks softly. “Us?”

The truth rises in my throat like sap from a wounded tree. “That was the only real thing about me,” I whisper.

But as they lead me out into the night, I wonder if that makes it better or worse. If love can be both poison and antidote. If some gardens are worth burning to save what grows in them.

Grandma’s final lesson echoes in my mind: “Everything that grows must eventually be harvested, child. The only choice we get is how we reap what we’ve sown.”

Looking back at Ethan one last time, I know my harvest has only just begun.