Midnight at the Magnolia (Venom and Virtue #1)

18. Celeste

18

CELESTE

NEW ORLEANS TIMES

Special Report: The Viper’s Garden of Justice. Complete timeline of kills reveals methodical dismantling of corruption network. Public support for vigilante grows despite police warnings.

My feet pound the uneven cobblestones of the French Quarter, each step a prayer Grandma taught me—survive, adapt, endure. The cool night air burns in my lungs as I run, the thick, cloying scent of jasmine and decay filling my nostrils. New Orleans at night—beautiful and deadly as belladonna in bloom.

“The city protects its own,” Grandma’s voice whispers as I dart from shadow to shadow. “Let her darkness be your shield, child.”

The shadows seem to writhe and dance in the flickering gaslight, welcoming me like old friends. Behind me, sirens wail their haunting song, a sound that should mean danger but instead reminds me of Ethan. Everything reminds me of Ethan now—another poison I’ve chosen to swallow.

His face flashes in my mind, the look of betrayal in those warm brown eyes as I’d slipped away. The memory burns worse than any herb Grandma ever taught me to handle. I can almost feel the phantom touch of his hand on my cheek, smell the familiar scent of his cologne—sandalwood and citrus, a combination that used to mean safety but now marks everything I’ve lost.

“Love’s the deadliest root in any garden,” Grandma would say. “It grows deep before you notice its thorns.”

As I turn a corner, jazz spills from a nearby club, the brassy notes tangling with the pounding of blood in my ears. Then a voice cuts through the music like a knife through morning glory, “NOPD! Freeze!”

“Some flowers bloom best under pressure,” Grandma’s wisdom echoes as I push harder, faster.

The crack of a gunshot splits the air, and suddenly my left shoulder explodes in white-hot pain. Like drinking fire flower tea, but a thousand times worse. I stumble, my hand instinctively going to the wound. When I pull it away, my fingers are slick with blood, warm and sticky against my skin.

“Even poison can be medicine if you survive it,” Grandma’s voice soothes as I grit my teeth against the pain. I can’t go to a hospital—they’ll be watching for that. There’s only one person I can turn to now, but first, I need to lose this cop.

The alley looms ahead, a gaping maw of darkness that promises either sanctuary or doom. Like nightshade berries—salvation or poison depending on how you use them. These streets are etched into my memory like the patterns of Grandma’s herb garden, every shadowy nook and hidden passage a different bloom to tend.

“Trust the path you’ve cultivated,” Grandma’s voice whispers as I dive deeper into the maze of back alleys. “The seeds you’ve planted will bloom when needed.”

My lungs burn with each breath, the wound in my shoulder throbbing in time with my racing heart. Hot blood seeps through my fingers as I press against it, the coppery scent making my head spin. Grandma taught me about blood—how it can be used in rituals, in healing, in marking endings and beginnings. Tonight, mine marks both.

I hear the cop’s heavy footfalls behind me, getting closer. His ragged breathing echoes off the narrow walls, but desperation lends me speed. I round a corner, shoes skidding on slick cobblestones, and duck into a passage barely wider than my shoulders.

“The smallest flower can split the strongest stone,” Grandma’s wisdom guides me as I squeeze through the tight space. The walls press in, cool brick scraping against my arms. Darkness wraps around me like a burial shroud, forcing me to rely on touch and memory.

“NOPD! Stop or I’ll shoot!”

I bite back a hysterical laugh.

“Some warnings come too late,” Grandma would say, “like telling kudzu not to grow.”

The tunnel entrance waits ahead, hidden behind a dumpster that reeks of rotting fish and sour beer. The smell burns my nostrils, but Grandma always said the sweetest medicines often taste the worst. With a grunt of effort, I shove the dumpster aside just enough to slip behind it.

My fingers, slick with blood, scrabble against grimy brick until they find the loose stone. The keypad beneath glows faintly in the darkness like foxfire in the bayou. I punch in the code, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought fails.

“Trust your hands to remember what your mind tries to forget,” Grandma’s voice steadies me as I wait, heart pounding, for the mechanism to engage.

For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happens. Then, with a soft hiss like a snake’s warning, a section of the wall slides open. I don’t hesitate—hesitation is death, another of Grandma’s lessons that’s served me well. I plunge into the darkness, the door sliding shut behind me with a sound like earth covering a grave.

The tunnel wraps around me, pitch black and smelling of damp earth and decay. Like Grandma’s root cellar, where she kept her most powerful medicines. I fumble for my flashlight with trembling fingers, its beam cutting through darkness thick as burial soil.

“Sometimes we have to go underground to grow,” Grandma’s wisdom follows me into the depths. “Like bulbs waiting for spring.”

I allow myself a moment, just one, leaning against the cool stone while my breath comes in ragged gasps. The adrenaline is starting to fade, making the pain in my shoulder sharper, more insistent. Like poison ivy’s slow burn becoming a wildfire.

I push off from the wall, each step echoing in the oppressive darkness. The tunnels branch and twist like veins beneath the city’s skin, a maze that would trap anyone who didn’t know its secrets. But Grandma taught me well—sometimes the most dangerous path is the safest, if you know how to walk it.

“Underground is where the real work happens,” her voice whispers as I navigate the darkness. “Where roots grow strong and secrets keep.”

The wound in my shoulder throbs with every heartbeat, hot blood still seeping between my fingers. The flashlight beam wavers as my hand shakes, casting dancing shadows on the damp stone walls. Each step takes me further from my past—from Ethan, from the lies, from everything I’ve built.

“Some gardens need to be burned,” Grandma’s wisdom echoes, “so new seeds can grow.”

Finally, after what feels like hours but must only be minutes, I reach the exit I need. A rusted metal door that groans like a dying thing when I push it open. The sound reverberates through the tunnel, making me wince.

The night air hits my face as I emerge, sweet as honeysuckle after the musty darkness below. I’m near Jazz’s place now, in a part of town where the music never really stops and secrets are currency everyone trades in.

“Choose your soil carefully,” Grandma would say. “Not everything that looks like sanctuary is safe to grow in.”

As I make my way through shadow-draped streets toward Jazz’s apartment, the sky begins to lighten imperceptibly. Dawn approaches like a slow-acting poison, inevitable and transforming. By the time I reach his door, my vision is swimming and my shirt is soaked through with blood.

I pound on the weathered wood, each impact sending fresh pain through my shoulder. The peeling paint feels rough under my palm, real in a way nothing else has since I fled the precinct. The rich, earthy scent of someone’s gumbo mingles with night jasmine, reminding me that even now, even here, life in New Orleans goes on.

“The strongest blooms,” Grandma’s voice reminds me as I wait, “are the ones that survive the storm.”

The door opens with a protesting creak, and there stands Jazz, sleep-rumpled but alert. His eyes widen as he takes in my appearance, concern replacing drowsiness in an instant.

“Celeste? What the hell happened to you?”

His voice wraps around me like a warm blanket, familiar and safe. But I can’t be Celeste anymore. That flower has withered on the vine, and something new must grow in its place.

“Long story,” I gasp, pushing past him into the apartment. The familiar scent of patchouli incense and old vinyl wraps around me, a different kind of sanctuary than Grandma’s garden, but sanctuary nonetheless. Miles Davis plays softly in the background, his trumpet weeping for all the things I’ve lost tonight. “I need your help, Jazz.”

Jazz closes the door with a soft click, concern etched in the lines around his expressive dark eyes. “You’re bleeding,” he says, and beneath the worry in his voice, there’s that warmth he’s always had for me, the one I’ve never let myself fully accept. “Sit down before you fall down, cher.”

“Some flowers reach for every bit of sunlight,” Grandma’s voice whispers, “even when they know it might burn them.”

As Jazz moves to fetch his first aid kit, his movements have that natural rhythm he carries everywhere—part musician, part street-smart survivor. The worn leather couch embraces me as I sink into it, the coolness a balm against my feverish skin. Miles Davis continues his soulful lament in the background, and I catch Jazz humming along, a habit I’ve always found endearingly human.

He returns, kneeling beside me with a grace that speaks of more than just musical training. “It’s just a graze,” he says, examining the wound with gentle fingers. His touch lingers longer than necessary, warm against my skin. “But ma belle, you’re gonna tell me why you’re running from the cops, yeah?”

The endearment slips out naturally, like all his little signs of affection that I’ve been dodging for months. His cologne—spicy and warm like New Orleans nights—mingles with the metallic tang of blood.

“It’s... complicated,” I manage, watching his face as he works. The way his brow furrows in concentration, how his lips move slightly as he focuses—all details I’ve cataloged but tried not to think about too deeply. “Remember that corrupt official I told you about? The one connected to Sarah’s death? It goes deeper than we thought.”

“Celeste...” The way he says my false name carries years of unspoken feelings. “What did you do?”

I meet his gaze, seeing the mix of concern and understanding in his dark eyes. A bead of sweat trickles down my temple, and I can taste the salt on my lips when I lick them nervously. “I... I did what I thought I had to do. But now... God, Jazz, I’m in way over my head.” The words come out in a rush, tinged with desperation and a hint of regret. “I need a new identity, Jazz. A way to disappear.”

He sighs, shaking his head. The beads in his dreadlocks clink softly with the movement. “You’re playing a dangerous game, cher. And this ain’t no blues you can improvise your way out of.” His voice is low, tinged with a mixture of worry and resignation. “But I’ve got a friend who might be able to help. Both with your wound and your... other problem.”

“Who?”

“New guy in town. Doctor. Name’s Lucas Gautier. He’s discreet, and he owes me a favor.”

I hesitate, the taste of copper filling my mouth as I bite my lip in uncertainty. A stranger is a risk, but I’m running out of options. “Alright. Call him.”

As Jazz makes the call, his low voice a soothing murmur in the background, I let my mind wander to Ethan. The way his face had lit up when he laughed, crinkling the corners of his eyes. The warmth of his arms around me, strong and safe. The roughness of his stubble against my cheek when he kissed me. Now, those same arms would be trying to arrest me. The irony isn’t lost on me, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

My heart clenches painfully in my chest, a physical ache that rivals the throbbing in my shoulder. I’d known from the start that falling for Ethan was dangerous, but I’d done it anyway. And now, the price of that love is higher than I could have imagined. I close my eyes, fighting back the sting of tears. There’s no room for weakness now, no matter how much my heart yearns for what I’ve lost.

“He’ll be here in twenty,” Jazz says, pulling me from my thoughts. He sits beside me, the couch dipping slightly under his weight. His eyes search my face, and I can feel the intensity of his gaze like a physical touch. “You want to tell me the whole story now?”

As I recount the events of the night, the room gradually fills with the soft golden light of dawn. The shadows retreat, revealing the cluttered but cozy interior of Jazz’s apartment. Empty coffee mugs and dog-eared books litter every surface, and the walls are covered in concert posters and vinyl records.

I take a deep breath, wincing at the pain that lances through my shoulder. The coppery scent of blood still lingers in the air, mixing with the incense in a dizzying combination. “It started with Gregory’s heist at the museum. But that was just the tip of the iceberg. There’s a whole network of corruption in this city, Jazz. And I think... I think it might be connected to Sarah’s death.”

Jazz’s eyes widen, and I can hear the sharp intake of his breath. “Merde. No wonder you’re in trouble. But Celeste, this is bigger than you. Why not let the police handle it?”

I laugh bitterly, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “The police? Jazz, they’re part of it. The cop who shot me? He wasn’t trying to arrest me. He was trying to silence me.”

As the words leave my mouth, the full weight of what I’ve done hits me. I’ve crossed a line, and there’s no going back. But will Jazz understand, or will I lose him too? The thought sends a wave of panic through me, and I find myself reaching out, grasping his hand tightly.

“I didn’t know who else to turn to,” I whisper, hating the tremor in my voice.

Jazz squeezes my hand, his touch warm and reassuring. “You did the right thing coming here, cher. We’ll figure this out together.” The fierce loyalty in his eyes makes my throat tighten with emotion.

Before I can say anything more, a sharp knock cuts through the tension. Jazz opens the door to reveal a man who changes the entire energy of the room. Dr. Lucas Gautier stands in the doorway like some dark angel of science, his presence electric and slightly unhinged.

“Fascinating,” he says by way of greeting, those piercing blue eyes already cataloging my injury with clinical precision. “The wound pattern suggests a .38 caliber round, fired from approximately thirty feet, accounting for velocity degradation and impact angle.” He moves toward me with controlled energy, like a thunderstorm barely contained in human form. “The blood loss is consistent with peripheral arterial damage, though not severe enough to indicate major vessel compromise.”

“Lucas,” Jazz interrupts, amusement coloring his tone. “Maybe introduce yourself before diving into the forensics?”

Lucas blinks, as if suddenly remembering social niceties exist. “Ah, yes. Dr. Lucas Gautier. And you, my dear, are a delightfully complex puzzle of trauma patterns and biological responses to acute stress.”

I find myself caught between Jazz’s warm concern and Lucas’s intense scientific fascination. Two very different kinds of energy, both powerful in their own ways.

“Some gardens need both sun and storm to thrive,” Grandma’s voice whispers as I watch them interact.

“First, let’s handle that wound,” Lucas says, his movements precise as he sets up his medical kit with an efficiency that borders on obsession. “The human body is such a fascinating machine—capable of sustaining remarkable damage while maintaining consciousness. Your elevated heart rate and skin pallor suggest early stage hypovolemic shock, yet your cognitive functions appear unimpaired. Remarkable.”

“Lucas,” Jazz’s voice carries a warning note beneath its usual melody. “She’s not one of your experiments, brother.”

I watch them orbit each other—Jazz’s fluid, musical movements a counterpoint to Lucas’s controlled chaos. The doctor’s eyes gleam with barely contained excitement as he examines my wound, like a kid who just found a new toy to dissect.

“The trajectory of the bullet...” Lucas mutters, fingers probing with clinical precision. “If it had been two centimeters to the left... absolutely fascinating. The mathematics of survival are truly extraordinary.”

Jazz settles beside me on the couch, close enough that I can feel his warmth but not quite touching. Always respecting the boundaries I’ve set, even while his eyes tell a different story. “You doing okay, cher? Our boy Lucas here gets a little... intense when he’s working.”

“Intense is hardly the word,” Lucas scoffs, not looking up from his work. “I prefer to think of it as appropriately focused enthusiasm for the complexities of human anatomy and its response to trauma. Now, this is going to sting—the nerve endings in this region are particularly sensitive to...”

I bite back a gasp as he cleans the wound, and Jazz’s hand finds mine automatically. The contact sends warmth shooting up my arm, different from but just as potent as the pain. His thumb traces small circles on my skin—comforting, grounding, dangerous.

“The way he makes everything sound like a science experiment,” Jazz murmurs close to my ear, his breath warm against my neck, “you’d think he forgot there’s a beautiful woman attached to all those fascinating nerve endings.”

“I heard that,” Lucas says without looking up. “And I’ll have you know that the psychological impact of flirtation on pain tolerance is well-documented in medical literature. Though your particular method lacks scientific rigor.”

“Some things ain’t meant to be rigorous, doc.” Jazz’s low chuckle reverberates through me where our shoulders touch. “Sometimes the music’s gotta flow where it wants to.”

“Your perpetual insistence on using musical metaphors for everything is both reductive and oddly poetic,” Lucas responds, but there’s a hint of fondness in his clinical tone. “Now, about that new identity you need...”

“Go on.” I bite back a laugh.

“The molecular restructuring of identity,” Lucas muses as he ties off my stitches, “is really quite similar to cellular regeneration. Old cells die, new ones form, yet the underlying DNA remains...” He pauses, those brilliant blue eyes suddenly sharp with interest. “Speaking of DNA, the genetic markers I’m observing in your blood work are peculiarly familiar...”

“Lucas,” Jazz interrupts, his hand still warm in mine. “Maybe we save the scientific discourse until after she’s not bleeding?”

But I can see the wheels turning in Lucas’s mind, that dangerous sparkle of discovery lighting his eyes. “The vigilante cases I’ve been consulting on... the blood samples showed unique markers, particularly in the...”

“Some secrets reveal themselves,” Grandma’s voice whispers, “no matter how deep you bury them.”

I meet Lucas’s gaze steadily, feeling Jazz tense beside me. “You’re the forensics consultant on the Viper cases.”

“And you,” Lucas breathes, equal parts excitement and awe, “are the most fascinating subject I’ve ever encountered. The precision of your work, the chemical compositions, the methodical application of various toxins... absolutely brilliant!”

“She’s not a lab experiment, doc,” Jazz’s voice carries an edge I’ve never heard before, protective and fierce. His fingers tighten around mine. “She’s a woman who needs our help.”

“Of course, of course,” Lucas waves dismissively, though his eyes never leave my face. “But don’t you see? This is perfect! I’ve already been manipulating evidence, introducing conflicting DNA markers to muddy the forensic waters. Purely out of scientific curiosity, you understand. The statistical improbabilities were simply too intriguing to ignore...”

“You’ve been covering my tracks,” I say slowly, pieces falling into place. “Why?”

Lucas leans forward, his energy barely contained. “Because, my dear, you’re an evolutionary marvel. A perfect blend of scientific precision and human intuition. The way you’ve applied botanical knowledge to modern chemistry... extraordinary! The cases I’ve analyzed show an understanding of molecular structures that’s years ahead of current research.”

“She learned from the best,” Jazz says softly, and I hear the question in his voice. The one he’s never asked but always wondered about.

“Grandma’s garden had more than just herbs,” I find myself saying. “Every plant was a lesson. Every root had a purpose.”

“Fascinating!” Lucas exclaims. “Traditional botanical knowledge combined with modern application... the implications for pharmaceutical research alone are staggering! We must discuss your methodology in detail. The chemical composition of your preferred compounds suggests...”

“Lucas,” Jazz cuts in again, but this time his voice holds amusement rather than warning. “You’re doing it again, brother.”

Lucas blinks, visibly reigning himself in. “Ah, yes. My apologies. The immediate concern is your new identity.” His eyes gleam. “Though perhaps we could combine necessity with scientific advancement? I have several experimental compounds that could temporarily alter your genetic markers...”

“Experimental compounds?” Jazz’s voice carries both concern and resignation. “Last time you had ‘experimental compounds,’ I couldn’t feel my face for three days.”

“A minor miscalculation,” Lucas waves off the complaint, already pulling vials from his bag with barely contained excitement. “The human nervous system is remarkably resilient. Besides, that particular formula led to fascinating breakthroughs in local anesthetic research.”

“Some medicines heal,” Grandma’s voice whispers, “and some just teach us what not to do next time.”

“I need something certain,” I say firmly, watching Lucas’s hands move over his collection of vials like a conductor over his orchestra. “Not experimental.”

“Everything’s experimental from a certain perspective,” Lucas argues, his eyes fever-bright. “Life itself is one grand experiment in cellular division and environmental adaptation. But I understand your concern.” He holds up a vial of clear liquid, studying it in the dim light. “This one’s been thoroughly tested. The genetic masking properties are quite remarkable...”

Jazz leans closer to me, his breath warm against my ear. “You sure about this, cher? We could find another way. I got connections, safe houses...”

The concern in his voice makes my heart ache. Always there, always offering shelter, never demanding more than I’m willing to give. I squeeze his hand gently before letting go. “I trust him. Somehow.”

“Trust is a fascinating neurochemical response,” Lucas muses, preparing a syringe with practiced precision. “The interplay of oxytocin and dopamine creates a complex feedback loop that?—”

“Lucas,” Jazz interrupts with fond exasperation. “Maybe save the neuroscience lecture for after?”

Lucas blinks, then grins—a surprisingly human expression on his intense face. “Right, yes. Practical matters first. This compound will alter your surface genetic markers enough to fool standard testing. Combined with new documentation...” He pauses, studying me with those brilliant blue eyes. “We’ll need to change your appearance as well. Hair, perhaps dental impressions...”

“I know someone,” Jazz offers, his hand finding the small of my back in silent support. “Works with performers who need to... disappear for a while. She’s discrete.”

“Excellent!” Lucas practically vibrates with enthusiasm. “A holistic approach to identity reconstruction. The biological, the physical, the sociological... all the variables working in concert. Beautiful, really.”

I watch them - these two men who hold my life in their hands. Jazz, all warmth and rhythm and unspoken devotion. Lucas, brilliant and bizarre and borderline manic. Both willing to risk everything to help me.

“The strangest gardens,” Grandma’s voice whispers, “often bear the sweetest fruit.”

“Before we begin this grand experiment in identity reconstruction,” Lucas says, drawing up the compound with meticulous care, “perhaps you should share the full scope of what we’re dealing with. The variables at play, as it were.”

Jazz’s hand remains steady at my back, his warmth seeping through my blood-stained shirt. “Only if you’re ready, cher. No pressure.”

The contrast between them strikes me again—Lucas’s barely contained energy versus Jazz’s patient stillness. Like nightshade and morning glory growing in the same garden.

“My real name is Sarah,” I say finally, feeling the weight of the truth on my tongue. “Sarah Deveraux. Celeste was my sister.” I pause, knowing that with my next breath I can never take my words back. “We were identical twins.”

Jazz’s sharp intake of breath is almost musical in its pain. His hand tenses against my back but doesn’t withdraw. “All this time...” he whispers, understanding dawning in his dark eyes. “Every time I called you Celeste...”

“Fascinating!” Lucas interrupts, leaning forward with intense focus. “A complete identity absorption following trauma. The psychological implications alone... But wait.” His eyes narrow. “The Deveraux case. That was ten years ago. The daughter killed, the sister... supposedly missing...”

“Not missing,” I correct quietly. “Hidden. Trained. Transformed.”

“By whom?” Lucas’s question comes quick and sharp as a scalpel.

“A man named Alex. He found me after Celeste’s death, taught me everything I needed to know about... disappearing.” I pause, the memories rising like poison in my throat. “Or so I thought. Turns out he was working for them all along. The same people who killed Celeste.”

Jazz’s arm slides fully around my waist now, protective and grounding. “That’s why you’ve been hunting them, ain’t it, cher? All these deaths the papers been talking about...”

“Each one led me closer to the truth,” I confirm, leaning slightly into his embrace, too tired to maintain my usual distance. “But tonight... tonight I got too close. They know who I am now. What I’ve been doing.”

“The complexity of the conspiracy suggests high-level involvement,” Lucas muses, his fingers drumming an erratic pattern on his knee. “Political figures, law enforcement... The systemic corruption would need to be extensive to maintain such operational security for so long.”

“It goes all the way to the top,” I say softly. “To people like Councilman Davis.”

The name lands like a stone in still water. Jazz’s arm tightens around me. Lucas goes perfectly still, his manic energy suddenly focused to a laser point.

“Marcus Davis?” he asks, his voice carrying an edge I haven’t heard before. “Now that... that is interesting.”

The way he says it makes me look closer at him. “You know something about Davis?”

A smile spreads across Lucas’s face—not his usual excited grin, but something darker, more predatory. “Let’s just say our paths have crossed in certain... experimental capacities. His funding of particular research projects has been both generous and suspiciously unquestioned.”

“The threads of corruption run deep,” Lucas muses, his earlier manic energy focusing into something more calculated. “Like a particularly aggressive cancer, metastasizing through the city’s power structure. Fascinating from a systemic perspective, really...”

“Focus, doc,” Jazz says softly, but his own voice carries an edge now. His fingers trace soothing circles on my back, but I can feel the tension in his touch. “So what’s the play here? What’s our next move?”

“Our next move?” I pull away slightly, immediately missing his warmth. “There is no our in this. I won’t drag you both into?—”

“Too late, cher,” Jazz cuts me off, something fierce and determined in his eyes. “You came to us. That makes it our fight too.”

“Indeed,” Lucas agrees, holding up the syringe with an unsettling gleam in his eye. “The experiment has already begun. Besides, the potential for groundbreaking research into corruption’s effect on societal structures, combined with the practical application of identity alteration techniques... scientifically speaking, it’s an unprecedented opportunity.”

“Some gardens need more than one kind of tending,” Grandma’s voice whispers. “More than one kind of love.”

I look between them—Jazz with his steady devotion, Lucas with his brilliant madness. Both offering shelter in their own ways. Both willing to risk everything to help me.

“The compound will take approximately twelve hours to fully integrate,” Lucas explains, approaching with the syringe. “During that time, you’ll experience some... interesting side effects. Jazz’s presence will be useful for monitoring vital signs and providing emotional stability.”

“In other words,” Jazz’s lips quirk into a small smile, “I’m here to hold your hand while his crazy science does its work.”

“Emotional support is a crucial variable in any experimental procedure,” Lucas sniffs, but there’s fondness in his clinical tone.

As the needle slides into my arm, I feel the weight of my decision settling over me. There’s no going back now. Celeste, Sarah—both those women will die tonight. Someone new will rise from their ashes.

“Remember,” Grandma’s voice echoes as the compound begins to burn through my veins, “the strongest blooms are the ones that survive the fire.”

My vision starts to blur, the room spinning slightly. I feel Jazz’s arms catch me as I sway, pulling me against his chest. His heartbeat is strong and steady under my ear.

“I got you, cher,” he murmurs, his voice seeming to come from very far away. “Just rest now. Let the doc work his magic.”

The last thing I see before consciousness fades is Lucas’s intense gaze, watching me like I’m the most fascinating experiment he’s ever conducted. And maybe I am.

“The transformation has begun,” I hear him say, his voice fading in and out. “By morning, Sarah and Celeste will be gone. The question is... who will emerge in their place?”

As darkness claims me, I feel Jazz press a gentle kiss to my temple. “Whoever she becomes,” he whispers, “she’ll still be ours to protect.”

Grandma’s final wisdom follows me into the dark: “Every ending is just another beginning in disguise. The garden never truly dies — it just changes with the seasons.”

Tomorrow, I’ll be someone new. But tonight, held between Jazz’s warmth and Lucas’s fascination, I let myself be nothing at all. Nothing but possibility, waiting to bloom.