11. Evangeline
11
EVANGELINE
MADAME LAVEAU’S INVENTORY NOTES Private Collection—Herbs & Roots
Customer request: Old family recipe ingredients
Night-blooming jasmine
Swamp lily
Angel’s trumpet
Note: Purchaser resembles the Deveraux girl. Grandmother’s warnings about that family ring true. Some ghosts refuse to stay buried.
The bourbon burns going down, but not enough to wash away the memory of Perkins’ face as he recognized Sarah—not Celeste, but Sarah—in my mannerisms. I sit in Grandmother’s kitchen, watching ice melt in my third—or is it fourth?—glass. Dried herbs hang from the rafters, their shadows dancing in the candlelight. Each bundle holds a memory: afternoons learning their properties, evenings calculating chemical compositions, dreams of combining traditional knowledge with modern science.
My burner phone buzzes.
Lucas : “Need to meet. Urgent. Morgue. 1 hour.”
My stomach clenches. Lucas has been handling Perkins’ autopsy. Has he found something? The perfectly-delivered poison should have mimicked a heart attack, but Lucas isn’t your average medical examiner. His brilliance is what drew me to him, and now it might be my undoing.
I move to the old bathroom mirror, studying my reflection in the clouded glass. The woman staring back looks dangerous—dark circles under haunted eyes, tensed muscles ready for flight or fight. Behind me, I can see the height marks on the doorframe where Grandmother measured me and Celeste each birthday. The last mark for Sarah stops at sixteen.
My regular phone rings. Jazz. I almost let it go to voicemail, but his ringtone—”Midnight in New Orleans,” his latest composition—pulls at something in my chest. Through the kitchen window, I can see him sleeping on the porch swing, having refused to leave me alone after our escape here.
“Hey, sugar,” his voice flows through the speaker, smooth as aged whiskey. “You ain’t been answering my texts.”
“I’m fine, Jazz.” The lie tastes bitter, especially here in this kitchen where Grandmother taught us never to waste words on untruths. “Just thinking.”
“Melody...” He only uses that nickname when he’s worried. Through the window, I can see him shift on the porch swing, moonlight catching his profile. “I know you better than that. Your voice has that edge to it, like when you’re carrying something too heavy.”
A laugh escapes me, harsh and broken. My eyes drift to Grandmother’s workbench, where my old notebooks still sit—pages of molecular diagrams and botanical sketches yellowing with age. “Maybe I am.”
“Let me help. Whatever it is?—”
“You can’t help with this.” I cut him off, gentler than I mean to. “Some burdens aren’t meant to be shared.” Like how I killed not just my sister’s murderers, but also the girl who used to sit at that workbench, dreaming of healing instead of hurting.
“That’s bull and you know it.” His voice hardens with rare anger. “We all got shadows, sugar. Question is, do you trust me enough to show me yours?”
Before I can answer, my laptop pings with a breaking news alert. My breath catches as I read the headline: “Prominent Financial Advisor Found Dead at Exclusive Club.”
“I’ve got to go,” I tell Jazz, my voice steady despite my racing heart. “Get some sleep.”
“Eva—”
I end the call, my hands shaking as I scroll through the article. No mention of foul play yet, but it’s only a matter of time. I need to be ready.
Moving to my old room, I pull out fresh clothes. As I reach for my jacket, a familiar voice freezes me in place.
“Sloppy work, little shadow.”
I whirl around. Alex leans against my childhood desk, exactly as I remember him—sharp suit, calculating eyes, cruel smile. But he can’t be here. He’s not real.
“Getting emotional over the target?” His voice drips with disappointment. “Look at you, hiding in your grandmother’s house like the scared little girl I found all those years ago.”
“You’re not here.” I grip the edge of my old dresser, where pressed flowers still sit under glass—preserved by Sarah’s careful hands. “You’re just in my head.”
“Of course I am.” He pushes off the desk, moving closer. “I’m always in your head. I made you what you are. Turned all that wasted potential into something useful.”
“No.” My voice cracks. “I’m not what you made me. I’m doing this for justice, not revenge.”
“Are you?” His laugh echoes in my skull. “Then why are you surrounded by relics of who you used to be? Face it, shadow—you’re becoming exactly what I trained you to be. And you’re losing yourself in the process.”
“Stop it!” I slam my fist into the mirror, shattering both the glass and the hallucination. Blood drips from my knuckles onto an old college brochure, staining LSU’s pristine science labs crimson.
My phone buzzes again.
Lucas : “Time’s ticking, Chimera.”
I stare at my fractured reflection in the broken mirror, each shard showing a different version of me. Sarah, the budding scientist. Celeste, the avenging angel. Evangeline, the woman trying not to drown in the spaces between. Behind me, shadows of dried herbs sway like hanged men.
A soft knock at the door. “Melody?” Jazz’s voice, gentle but firm. “I heard breaking glass.”
“Don’t—” But he’s already entering, taking in the scene with those observant eyes of his. The broken mirror, my bleeding hand, the scattered remnants of Sarah Deveraux’s dreams across the floor.
“Oh, sugar,” he breathes, moving toward me with the same care he uses when handling his beloved trumpet. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine,” I try to pull away, but he catches my wrist with gentle insistence.
“You’re about as fine as a broken symphony.” He guides me to sit on my childhood bed, retrieving Grandmother’s first aid kit from its familiar spot under the sink. “Want to tell me who you were fighting with? Besides yourself?”
A hysterical laugh bubbles up. “Would you believe my old mentor’s ghost?”
“In this house?” Jazz glances at the herbs hanging overhead, the walls that have absorbed generations of secrets. “I’d believe just about anything.” He starts cleaning my cuts with practiced ease. “Though something tells me it ain’t just ghosts haunting you tonight.”
My burner phone buzzes again. Lucas must be getting impatient.
“The morgue,” I whisper, more to myself than Jazz. “I have to... Lucas needs...”
“Lucas can wait.” Jazz’s voice is steel wrapped in velvet. “You’re not going anywhere until we deal with this.” He gestures to my hand, but we both know he means more than just the physical wounds.
“I don’t know how,” I admit, and it feels like confessing a mortal sin. “I don’t know how to be her anymore—Sarah. And I don’t know if I can be just Celeste either. And I’m Evangeline. I’m... I’m lost, Jazz.”
He finishes wrapping my hand, but doesn’t let go. “Then let me help you find your way back. You don’t have to do this alone, Melody. You’ve got me. You’ve got Lucas, crazy as he is. We can?—”
My regular phone rings, cutting him off. Lucas again, but on my personal line. That’s never good.
“Put him on speaker,” Jazz says quietly. “Whatever’s coming, we face it together.”
I stare at him for a long moment, this man who sees all my broken pieces and still wants to help put them back together. Then I glance out the window, toward the city where Lucas waits with his brilliant madness and fierce devotion.
Maybe that’s the real reason I came back to Grandmother’s house. Not just to hide, but to remember her most important lesson: “Even the deadliest herbs can heal, child, if you know how to use them. It’s all about finding the right balance.”
With trembling fingers, I answer the phone.
“My dearest Chimera,” Lucas’s voice crackles through the speaker, manic energy barely contained. “You’ll never guess what fascinating anomalies I’ve found in our mutual friend’s toxicology report. The molecular structure is absolutely exquisite—your work, I assume? Though there’s something... different about this one.”
Jazz’s hand tightens on mine as Lucas continues, “But that’s not why I’m calling. No, no, something much more interesting has come up. You see, I’ve had a rather illuminating chat with our dear Agent Blake.”
My heart stops. “Lucas?—”
“Oh, don’t worry, my beautiful monster. Our secret garden of deadly delights remains safely hidden. In fact,” he giggles, the sound echoing through Grandmother’s kitchen, “I might have planted some interesting seeds of my own in Ethan’s mind. He’s really quite receptive when you know which buttons to push. Such delicious potential for chaos.”
Jazz raises an eyebrow at me, but I can barely breathe, let alone explain.
“Lucas,” I manage, “what did you do?”
“Only what needed to be done, darling. Though I must say, watching him wrestle with his moral compass is rather like observing a particularly fascinating chemical reaction. All those lovely ethical bonds breaking down...”
“You’re not making sense,” I interrupt, but a cold fear is creeping up my spine. “What exactly did you tell him?”
“Tell him? Oh no, my Chimera. I simply helped him see what he already knew—that sometimes justice needs a steadier hand than the law can provide. That perhaps the monsters he’s been chasing aren’t so monstrous after all.” Another giggle. “He’s on his way to you now, by the way. Seemed quite intent on finding you after our little chat.”
The phone slips from my numb fingers. Jazz catches it smoothly.
“Doc,” he says, his voice steady despite the tension I can feel radiating from him, “you want to translate that into something resembling sanity?”
“Ah, our musical friend! Excellent. You’re with her. Good, good. She’ll need both of us for what’s coming. You see, I’ve rather accelerated our timeline. Pushed a few dominoes that needed pushing. Now we just need to catch Ethan when he falls.”
I stand abruptly, startling both men into silence. The room spins slightly—too much bourbon, too many revelations, too many versions of myself fracturing apart.
“Melody?” Jazz rises with me, concern etched on his face.
“My Chimera?” Lucas’s voice softens, showing a rare moment of clarity. “I did what needed to be done. The game was always going to change. At least now we can control how the pieces fall.”
A hysterical laugh bubbles up from my chest. Here I am, surrounded by remnants of Sarah’s lost dreams, while Lucas pushes Ethan toward darkness and Jazz tries to keep me from falling apart. And somewhere in the city, Ethan’s racing toward us, carrying who knows what revelations or accusations.
“Sugar?” Jazz steps closer, but I wave him back.
“I need...” My voice cracks. “I need a minute. Just... just a minute to think.”
I stumble onto the back porch, into the heavy Louisiana night. The bayou stretches out before me, dark and knowing. Somewhere in those waters, Sarah Deveraux drowned along with her sister. And now, years later, I’m watching the carefully constructed walls between my worlds crumble.
Behind me, I can hear Jazz and Lucas talking quietly on the phone, probably plotting how to handle whatever storm is coming. Both trying to protect me in their own ways—Jazz with his steady love, Lucas with his brilliant madness.
But as I stare into the darkness, I wonder: who’s going to protect them from me?
I turn back to the porch, where Jazz still holds my phone. Lucas’s presence crackles through the speaker, both men waiting for my decision.
“Lucas,” I say finally, my voice steadier than I feel, “whatever seeds you’ve planted in Ethan’s mind... don’t push too hard. Some flowers need time to bloom on their own.”
A delighted laugh. “Oh, my brilliant Chimera. Always thinking in botanical metaphors. Very well—I’ll let our dear agent’s moral decay progress naturally. Though do hurry back to civilization soon. The morgue is desperately dull without you.”
“I’m staying here tonight,” I tell him, catching Jazz’s approving nod. “Handle Perkins’s autopsy however you think best. Just...”
“Yes, darling?”
“Be careful with Ethan. He’s... he’s not a lab experiment.”
“Everything’s a potential experiment, my dear. But I take your meaning. I’ll treat him with the same delicate care I use with my most volatile compounds.”
After we hang up, Jazz pulls me into his arms. I let myself lean into his strength, just for a moment. “You want to tell me what that was all about?”
“I’m not sure I know anymore.” I pull back enough to see his face. “Jazz... what if we’re making a mistake? What if we’re pulling Ethan into something he’s not ready for?”
He studies me with those perceptive eyes. “Sugar, from what I’ve seen, Ethan’s been ready for this darkness a long time. He just needed the right push.” His hand cups my cheek. “Question is, are you ready to let him in? To let anyone in?”
I glance back at Grandmother’s house, at all the remnants of Sarah’s lost potential. Then out at the bayou, where Celeste’s ghost still haunts the waters. Finally, at Jazz, solid and real before me.
“I don’t know,” I whisper honestly. “But I think... I think I need to try. I can’t keep drowning in all these versions of myself alone.”
Jazz pulls me closer as thunder rolls in the distance. “Then don’t, Melody. Let us help you swim.”
In the darkness of the bayou night, surrounded by the ghosts of who I used to be and the promise of what I might become, I make my choice. Not to go to the morgue, not to face Ethan yet, but to trust in the strange harmony forming between Jazz’s steady rhythm and Lucas’s chaotic brilliance.
And maybe, just maybe, to trust that there’s still something of Sarah left to save.