1. Evangeline
1
EVANGELINE
PERSONAL NOTES—Madame Adeline Deveraux
Date: [16 years ago]
The girls take to the old ways differently. Sarah studies the herbs like a scientist, always wanting to know the why. Celeste feels them in her bones, pure instinct. Together they balance each other.
I pray they never need the darker lessons I could teach them. But in this family, shadows have a way of finding us all.
The New Orleans night wraps around me, humid and full of promise. From my perch near the wrought-iron balcony of the Old Ursuline Convent, I watch tourists stumble past, their Hurricane-induced laughter echoing off centuries-old brick. A street performer dressed as Marie Laveau catches my eye, and for a moment, I see Celeste—my sister, my ghost, my stolen identity—in the woman’s knowing smile.
I push the memory away, focusing on the pulsing rhythm of jazz from Preservation Hall, letting it sync with my heartbeat. Evangeline, Sarah—the names swirl in my mind like Spanish moss in a bayou breeze. But Celeste... that name sits differently. A constant ache, a reminder of promises made in blood and whispered in the dark.
The midnight air carries traces of pralines and bitter chicory, mingling with something darker—secrets as old as the city itself. My domain now, this twilight world between justice and vengeance. A familiar prickle dances along my spine, disrupting my surveillance of the antiquities shop across the street.
Someone’s watching. Following. Amateur.
I slide deeper into the shadows cast by gas lamps, my hand instinctively finding the vial hidden in my boot—a lethal cocktail of local flora, courtesy of my grandmother’s lessons.
A girl’s got to have her insurance policy, after all. Especially one wearing a dead woman’s name like armor.
“Whoever you are,” I drawl, not bothering to turn around, letting my voice carry just enough edge to warn, “I hope you’re better at hiding than you are at stalking. Otherwise, this might get embarrassingly fatal.”
“You know,” a familiar voice responds, rich with the same manic enthusiasm he usually reserves for his most fascinating autopsies, “for someone trying to stay under the radar, you’re practically screaming for attention. Might as well hang a neon sign: Here I am, come kill me. ”
I spin around, my heart performing an unwanted acrobatic routine as Lucas steps into view. The streetlight catches his eyes—brilliant, fevered, almost phosphorescent in their intensity. He’s still wearing his lab coat, spattered with... something I probably don’t want to identify. His hair is wild, like he’s been running his hands through it while pursuing some obsessive train of thought.
“Says the man lurking in alleyways looking like a rejected mad scientist,” I retort, arching an eyebrow. “What’s the matter, Lucas? Run out of dead bodies to talk to?”
He laughs—that unsettling sound that makes his junior staff members avoid eye contact in the hallways. “Oh, my dear,” he practically purrs, closing the distance between us with predatory grace, “the dead are terribly boring tonight. All their secrets laid bare, quite literally in most cases.” His fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s imagining wielding a scalpel. “But you... you’re a walking symphony of mysteries. Layer upon layer of lies, each one more beautifully constructed than the last.”
“Careful,” I warn, my voice low and husky even as I fight the urge to step back. “Your obsession is showing, Doctor.”
“Obsession?” He cocks his head, reminding me eerily of a crow examining something shiny and potentially deadly. “Such an inadequate word. I prefer... scientific curiosity.” He moves closer, and I catch the mingled scents of sandalwood, formaldehyde, and something metallic. “For instance, I’m desperately curious about how many hearts stop beating in this city under such fascinating circumstances. Did you know that certain toxins can mimic natural causes almost perfectly? Almost.” His eyes gleam. “But there are always tells, little whispers in the tissue that speak to those who know how to listen.”
The air between us crackles with dangerous possibility. This is what makes Lucas both valuable and terrifying—his brilliant mind dancing on the knife’s edge between genius and madness, his moral compass spinning like a broken weather-vane in a hurricane.
“Sounds like quite the research project,” I say carefully. “Though I imagine that kind of curiosity could get a person killed.”
His smile widens, showing too many teeth. “That’s the exquisite beauty of it, isn’t it? The danger. The dance.” He reaches out, trailing one long finger down my arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Besides, I’ve found that the most fascinating specimens are often very much alive.”
I fight back a shiver. “Lucas...”
“Things are changing, Evangeline. Or should I say, Sarah?” His voice drops to a whisper, fevered and intense. “Or perhaps... Celeste? So many names, so many deaths, each one a perfect little puzzle box waiting to be dissected.”
The name hits me like a physical blow, but before I can respond, Lucas is already moving again, circling me like an excited shark that’s scented blood in the water. His lab coat swishes with the movement, and I catch a glimpse of what looks suspiciously like autopsy notes scribbled on the inside.
“But that’s what makes you so deliciously complex,” he continues, his words tumbling out in that rapid-fire way that suggests he’s running on coffee and scientific obsession. “Most killers, they’re tediously predictable. Blunt force trauma, gunshots, the occasional creative poisoning.” He waves his hand dismissively. “But you... you’re an artist. The way you manipulate local flora into such elegant solutions. Did you know your last client had the most fascinating cellular degradation patterns I’ve ever seen?”
I step back, but he follows, his eyes fever-bright. “Lucas, this isn’t?—”
“The organization is making moves,” he interrupts, suddenly laser-focused. “Big ones. Beautiful ones. The kind that make my morgue positively sing with new data.” He lets out a small, unsettling giggle. “Three prominent families, all dead in the past month. Natural causes, officially. But oh, the stories their tissues tell! The whispers of alkaloids dancing through their bloodstreams. Poetry written in cellular death.”
My mind races. “What kind of moves?” I ask, careful to keep my voice steady even as my pulse quickens.
Lucas’s grin turns feral. “The kind that reshape empires!” He’s practically bouncing now, nervous energy radiating off him in waves. “Someone’s playing a long game, darling. Someone who knows their biochemistry almost as well as you do.” He leans in, conspiratorially. “They’re looking for a ghost named Celeste. Quite determined about it, really. Offering the kind of incentives that make even the most ethical medical professionals consider... creative interpretations of their Hippocratic oath.”
I force myself not to react to my sister’s name, my stolen identity. “And why are you telling me this? Last I checked, you were supposed to be investigating these deaths, not warning their potential cause.”
“Oh, but don’t you see?” He catches my wrist, his fingers automatically finding my pulse point. “This is the most fascinating investigation of my career! The perfect synthesis of chemistry, biology, and human nature.” His other hand reaches up to brush my cheek, the gesture startlingly gentle for someone who’d been gleefully discussing cellular degradation moments before. “Besides, maybe I find myself preferring the mystery to the solution. Scientific heresy, I know, but there it is.”
The admission hangs in the air between us, charged with possibility and danger. For a moment, I’m tempted to lean into his touch, to trust this brilliant, broken man who sees the artistry in what I do.
But trust is a luxury I can’t afford. Not with wolves circling closer.
“Lucas,” I say softly, allowing genuine regret to color my voice, “whatever you think you know about me, about Celeste—you’re only scratching the surface. Some mysteries are better left unsolved.”
“No mystery is better left unsolved,” he counters, a hint of his professional obsession bleeding through. “Every puzzle demands resolution. Every death tells a story. Every chemical reaction reaches its inevitable conclusion.” His grip on my wrist tightens fractionally. “I could help you, you know. My lab, my resources, my... flexible interpretation of medical ethics.”
I meet his gaze, unflinching. “The truth is a dangerous thing,” I whisper. “It has teeth.”
His eyes light up at that. “Teeth! Yes, exactly! Speaking of which, I have this fascinating specimen in my lab from a John Doe who—” He catches himself, visibly reining in his enthusiasm. “But that’s not the point, is it? The point is, I’m already involved. Already compromised. Already...” he pauses, searching for the right word, “...invested.”
“Invested,” I repeat dryly. “Is that what we’re calling your obsessive collection of toxicology reports on my... alleged activities?”
His face lights up like a child on Christmas morning. “You know about those? Brilliant! Then you must have seen my theories about your use of native Louisiana flora. The way you combine traditional hoodoo knowledge with modern biochemistry is absolutely revolutionary! I have this whole wall in my private lab dedicated to—” He stops, catching my expression. “Too much?”
“Just a bit,” I say, but can’t quite fight back a smile. There’s something almost endearing about his maniacal enthusiasm. Almost.
He runs a hand through his already chaotic hair, making it stand up even more wildly. “Right, yes, focus. Boundaries. Social cues.” He takes a deep breath, visibly trying to collect himself. “The point is, I’ve been analyzing the organization’s recent victims. The compound they’re using? It’s derivative of your work, but cruder. More rushed. Like someone’s trying to replicate your methods without truly understanding the artistry behind them.”
That gets my attention. “Show me.”
Lucas practically vibrates with excitement, fishing a folded paper from his lab coat pocket. As he unfolds it, I notice his hands are stained with ink and what might be iodine. The paper is covered in his cramped handwriting, chemical formulas and molecular diagrams scrawled in multiple colors, with arrows and exclamation points everywhere.
“See?” He points to a particularly complex diagram. “They’re using native wetland botanicals, like you do, but the extraction method is all wrong. It’s leaving traces. Molecular fingerprints.” He giggles. “Amateur hour, really. Though I have to admit, the resulting tissue necrosis patterns are fascinating. I have photos if you’d like to?—”
“I’ll pass,” I interrupt quickly. “Lucas, this is...” I pause, studying the formula. He’s right – it’s similar to my work, but wrong in crucial ways. Ways that make my blood run cold. “How many victims?”
His expression turns serious, or as serious as he ever gets. “Seven in the past month. All made to look like natural causes—heart attacks, strokes, aneurysms. But the toxin signature is consistent.” He leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “And here’s the really interesting part—they all had connections to councilman Davis’ old business partners.”
Davis. Of course. He’s cleaning house, eliminating loose ends.
And looking for me—for Celeste—in the process.
“You should walk away from this,” I tell Lucas, though I know it’s futile. “Forget what you’ve found. Go back to your regular autopsies and tissue samples.”
He laughs, the sound slightly unhinged. “Walk away? From the most fascinating case of my career? From you?” He shakes his head. “Darling, I haven’t slept properly in weeks trying to decode your methods. I’ve got three journals filled with theories about your work. I’ve been conducting experiments with local plants trying to reverse engineer your formulas. I may have slightly poisoned myself twice in the process—purely accidental, wonderful learning experience though.”
“Lucas—”
“No, listen,” he grabs my shoulders, his eyes fever-bright. “We could work together. Your knowledge of toxins, my lab resources. Think of the possibilities! The research potential alone is staggering. And yes, fine, we could probably also stop whatever nefarious plot is currently unfolding, if you care about that sort of thing.”
I shouldn’t find his madness charming. I really shouldn’t.
“You do realize you’re proposing we collaborate on murder investigations while simultaneously offering to help me commit more murders?” I point out.
His grin turns wicked. “I prefer to think of it as conducting revolutionary research into the intersection of ethnobotany and human mortality. With some practical field applications.”
I can’t help but laugh. “You’re absolutely insane, you know that?”
“Insanity is just genius viewed through the lens of mediocrity,” he quips, then pauses. “Though my last psychiatric evaluation did suggest some concerning tendencies. I wrote a fifteen-page rebuttal. With citations.” He waves this away as if questionable mental health evaluations are mere trivialities. “Besides, wouldn’t you rather have my particular brand of madness working with you than against you?”
He has a point, damn him. And he’s already involved, already knows too much.
The smart thing would be to eliminate the liability he represents. Instead, I find myself saying, “If we do this—and that’s a big if—we do it my way. No unauthorized experiments, no detailed record-keeping, and for God’s sake, stop writing notes about me on your lab coat.”
Lucas glances down at his coat sleeve where I can now clearly see Subject E — possible use of water hemlock? scribbled in red ink. “Ah. Yes. Well, in my defense, I ran out of paper during yesterday’s autopsy, and I had the most fascinating theory about your extraction methods?—”
“Lucas.”
“Right, yes. Your way. Absolutely.” He makes a show of crossing his heart, though the manic gleam never leaves his eyes. “Though perhaps we could discuss your technique for handling those particularly stubborn alkaloids? I have several theories involving pressure and temperature variations that I’ve been dying to test. Not literally dying, of course, though there was that one incident last week?—”
“Goodnight, Lucas,” I cut him off, fighting back another inappropriate smile.
“Wait!” He catches my arm as I turn to leave, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone who spends his days cutting open corpses. “There’s something else. Something that’s been bothering me about the organization’s latest victim. The molecular structure of the toxin... it’s not just similar to your work. It’s identical to a formula that was stolen from my lab three months ago. My private lab.”
The implication hits me like a punch to the gut.
Someone has access to Lucas’s research on my methods.
“Be careful,” I tell him, allowing real concern to creep into my voice. “You’re already in deeper than you should be.”
His answering smile is pure madness and genius. “My dear, I passed the safe depth marker somewhere around the third journal of toxicology theories. Now I’m just enjoying the free fall.” He produces a small vial from his pocket, filled with an amber liquid. “Here. A little something I’ve been working on. Just in case. The effects are quite spectacular—causes temporary paralysis followed by the most fascinating cascade of systemic?—”
“Goodnight, Lucas,” I say again, but I take the vial. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and for a moment, I see something flicker behind the mania in his eyes—something warmer, more dangerous than his scientific obsession.
I make my way back to Madame Laveau’s, my mind churning with everything Lucas revealed. The shop is dark and quiet, the only light coming from the moon through the front windows, casting shadows through hanging bundles of herbs and gris-gris bags. The familiar scents of sage, myrrh, and dried roses wrap around me, but tonight they offer little comfort.
In the back room that serves as my apartment, I carefully place Lucas’s vial in my collection, hidden behind a loose brick in the fireplace. My fingers find the locket hidden beneath my shirt—the real Celeste’s most precious possession. Inside, a small photo of us as children, before everything went to hell.
Before I took her name, her identity, her mission.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to her memory. “I know you wanted me to stay safe, to stay away from all this. But I’m close now. Close to answers, close to justice.” I pause, thinking of Lucas’s brilliant madness, of the danger closing in from all sides. “Though your definition of safe and mine might differ slightly.”
Sleep, when it comes, is filled with dreams of chemical formulas dancing like fireflies, of Lucas’s fever-bright eyes, and of Davis’ shadows growing longer, darker, reaching for me with poisoned hands. In my dreams, I hear Celeste laughing—or maybe crying. After all this time, I sometimes can’t tell the difference.
Tomorrow search out Ethan, play another role, weave another web of half-truths. But tonight, in the quiet darkness of my room above a voodoo shop, I allow myself to feel the weight of all my names, all my lies, all my choices.
In this city of secrets and saints, I’m playing a dangerous game. And now I’ve drawn Lucas into it—brilliant, unstable, fascinating Lucas, who sees the artistry in what I do even as he catalogues all the ways it could destroy me.
The real question is: will he be my salvation or my undoing?
But then again, in New Orleans, sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.