Page 1 of Wolfsbane Hall #1

Grand Ballroom

San Francisco, California

Celestine Sinclair hated being a murderer.

She hated blood dripping through her fingertips and clumping in her hair. She hated watching poison devour a body, and the feeling of her hands stretching around a slender throat.

Everything about murder was ghastly.

But if Celestine had to choose, her favorite way to kill was suffocation. A pillow over the face while a person was drugged and unconscious. It was two and a half minutes of hell—hell she deserved—but at least it was quiet and didn’t leave a mess.

Celestine loathed messes.

Unfortunately, the very nature of her profession required more… theatrical deaths. The audience didn’t come to Wolfsbane Hall to watch, as they put it, “dull and tedious deaths.” No, like vultures, the rich, pompous pricks wanted carnage.

They wanted a show.

So, Celestine Sinclair would give them one. That was her one objective as an actress at the infamous nightclub: show above all else.

Show above one’s own sanity.

“You’re wasting time,” said a voice forged from darkness, twisting from the room’s shadows. Smoky sweet, like honeyed whiskey. Sugary, yet potent.

The Specter—the magical and mysterious owner of Wolfsbane Hall, the glittering palace at the edge of San Francisco, filled with as much mystery as magnificence.

It was a place where patrons became a part of a murder mystery show.

Glitter, grandeur, and witchcraft were laced through every inch of the manor, interwoven into a tapestry of entertainment.

“You must prepare for your next murder,” the Specter whispered in her ear, darkness twirling and cloaking her from the patrons meandering into the Grand Ballroom—the club’s showroom.

“I know, Specter,” Celestine breathed. She wanted to call him something else, but she didn’t know his true identity—no one did.

People saw glimpses of him in the shadows and smoke, or as an animated, talking painting.

He appeared silhouetted like a ghost in the reflections of the house’s grand mirrors.

But no one ever saw his face. He was a beautiful voice, singing grand arias and speaking through the walls and the calls of mockingbirds.

The Specter was everywhere in the house, and yet nowhere to be found.

Impossible to truly know. Impossible to hold. Impossible to keep.

“Open your character card, sweet Cellie,” he said, the darkness vibrating around her.

Celestine flinched at the words. Opening the card would only confirm her as the night’s killer, and she absolutely didn’t want to do that.

There would never be a day or a lifetime or even an eternity in which Celestine would get used to killing someone.

And she’d certainly never enjoy it like some of the sick patrons of Wolfsbane Hall.

People came here to play out their fantasies of either murdering or dying, and to Celestine, both options were equally disturbing.

At least the Specter had given her a heads-up this time. She was tonight’s murderer, and that fact made her both furious and sad. She wanted to curse his name or punch him…but then, she didn’t know his name.

Besides, she wouldn’t harm him anyway. She couldn’t.

He’d saved her life, and she’d given him her soul in return. Not literally, but he would forever own her and could forever have his way with her. And oh, she often wished he would take physical form to do just that. Fuck her. Hold her. Whisper dirty things into her ear.

Nine years of unbroken tension were far too much.

Her core grew wet. That’s all it took, the mere thought of touching him.

“You have thirty minutes to open your card and perform the deed.” His voice snapped her out of the fantasy.

“I know,” she repeated with a huff as she nervously ran her willowy fingers through platinum-blonde curls.

Celestine detested this role, but she would do anything for the Specter.

He was her family, her home, her everything, and all she ever wanted was to make him proud.

So, even though Celestine despised it, she would kill for him.

Always.

“Timeliness is next to godliness.” The Specter spoke through the mouth of a Victorian painting, using the fanciful duchess’s lips to form the words.

Celestine bit her lip, slightly smudging her bloodred lipstick. “Right.”

With her crimson fingernails, she lifted the corner of the envelope housing her character card and sucked in a deep breath as she prepared for the onslaught.

Pinching her eyes tight, she tore open the envelope as if ripping off a bandage.

The impact was immediate. Thoughts, feelings, a script, and a character background poured into Celestine’s mind.

She felt it like a physical blow, even needing to steady herself against the wall for a moment.

A character was transferred into her mind, teaching Celestine how to speak and behave during the game, while providing her with lines to say throughout the night. The role instructed her on whom to talk to, flirt with, and insult, as well as whom to avoid.

Every person at Wolfsbane Hall, from the patrons to the six cast members, received a card and played a part during the show, each becoming a new person.

The only difference between the cast and a patron was that the cast helped the Specter progress the story along its desired path.

Patrons tended to lose focus and meander, so they needed a push in the correct direction—sometimes physically.

There was only one rule at Wolfsbane Hall: every murder must be solved.

So, the cast became the Specter’s hands during the show, ensuring it reached its conclusion. If a patron refused to be the murderer on any given night, the cast would step in for that, too—although typically, Everett or Babette preferred to take on that role.

Never Celestine.

She opened her eyes and officially became Dorothy Wolf, a movie star who had just signed a seven-year contract with a massive Hollywood studio.

A beautiful ingénue.

An object to be desired and a typical role for Celestine.

She always played either the tempting seductress or the innocent ingénue.

Beautiful, sweet, and all one’s desires wrapped up in a tiny, busty package.

It was a part designed for Celestine because she was the Specter’s muse, and because she had considerable assets.

Tits and ass, as the vulgar might put it.

“On with it,” the Specter said as her shadow on the wall. “How do you plan to do it? And please, give me the short version. You can tell the longer story tonight in your rooms.”

During the show, the Specter was often impatient and blunt, demanding that she be succinct.

He disliked long, repetitive stories. Celestine put up with it because late at night, after the games, the Specter was kinder and warmer—even a friend.

But show Specter was driven, consumed by the story and his genius.

“So?” the Specter asked when she waited too long to respond.

Knives , the character, Dorothy, whispered in Celestine’s mind.

While the characters Celestine played sometimes felt real, they never were.

It wasn’t like being possessed. The magic gave her a script to follow and a history to portray.

Still, because Celestine proscribed to Stanislavski’s and Strasberg’s method acting techniques, her characters often felt real. She became her role for one night only.

However, there wasn’t much to imagine at Wolfsbane Hall.

Much of it was far too real .

“Stabbing,” Celestine finally said. Short and straightforward, just how he liked it.

The character, Dorothy Wolf, planned to kill her lover and director because he wouldn’t cast her in his newest film. A film worthy of Oscar consideration.

A slight that caused a murderous rage.

The script gave many options for completing the murder, but the character favored knives and intimacy.

“Wonderfully horrific,” the painting said as the shadows followed up with, “Knives will be intriguing.” The Specter loved using multiple communication mediums, like a hovering voice, darkness, and animating objects. All at once. It was often disorienting for Celestine. “Now go.”

The darkness receded, and Celestine was left alone in the nightclub of dreams—or, more accurately, the nightclub of nightmares. However, some people reveled in nightmares. Celestine only reveled in the stage. At least she could do that well.

Every detail of the grand mansion was unique and dripping with money.

Even the wall sconces were formed from electrum, because gold or silver alone wasn’t special enough for the Specter.

The ballroom was no exception. It sparkled as she stepped onto the floor, with ten crystal-carved felt tables and two ruby-sculpted bars on either side.

Friday nights were casino nights. Anyone wealthy enough to pay the extravagant admittance fee could gamble and take part in the murder mystery, which meant all the usual patrons were here—the usual suspects.

Trying to avoid them and focus on her work, Celestine made a beeline for the bar.

Liquid courage never hurt anyone. She ordered a rum cocktail and swiveled to survey the room for her target.

He was nowhere to be found, and she was getting antsy.

The script forced Celestine to be excited to murder one of her lovers.

The character was a real Bonnie Parker, this one.

Ruthless, devious, and exceedingly foolish.

Because Celestine truly became her character, she, too, took on that excitement, but it merged with Celestine’s own feelings of dread. The result caused heart palpitations and a bead of sweat to roll down her back.

She just wanted to get on with the show. But no one was around to act with.

“The ingénue again. How very typical.” The words jerked Celestine out of her pondering, and she looked up seconds before a cocktail waitress threw a glass of red wine in her face and down her emerald silk dress. “Ah, now you’re a soggy mess. At least it’ll match your personality.”