Page 12 of Wolfsbane Hall #1
He ignored her completely, and continued. “If someone reveals the source of the magic—reveals the identity of the Specter—then the magic stops working for the person receiving the information,” the Phantom said. “These precious men would never ruin that for you.”
Celestine watched the faces of the men in question while the Phantom spoke, measuring them and trying to find micro-expressions. Nothing. They were granite. Hard and sharp.
Maybe none of them were the Phantom, but Celestine had a feeling, a deep, instinctual feeling, that he was in the room.
Because of what they had said earlier.
You broke her.
No, we broke her.
An admission.
Probably.
Oh, it was so convoluted and messed up. She didn’t know what to fucking think or believe.
“Magic is fickle,” the Phantom repeated.
“What does that mean?”
“If any of us gave away the answer, you’d no longer be able to see the illusions or interact with the house. But most importantly, you would never be able to be resurrected.”
Wasn’t that the threat he’d already made? Why would he care? The Phantom didn’t want her resurrected. If he did, he wouldn’t have given her an impossible puzzle.
“The only way you can learn our identities is to discover them yourself.” The Phantom’s voice touched the back of her neck.
Celestine bit her lip. There had to be a loophole, some other way to get information. If no one could tell her the identity outright, she might be able to gather it by asking questions .
If the men and the Phantom played along.
“I can ask about how the magic works?”
“Yes.”
“Fine, can you project your voice through your mind?”
“Meaning?”
Celestine grounded herself by rubbing her fingers through a tassel on the throw pillow next to her. “Could you be standing next to me right now?”
He chuckled. “Perhaps.”
Her skin grew taut, from the flesh of her stomach to her tingling scalp.
And as if the Phantom were mocking her, the shadows currently burrowed into the walls, and the hollows of the fireplace and beneath the chairs froze, petrified like ice sculptures formed from dripping ink.
The room was now filled with a maze of them.
“Stop playing with her.” James slid onto the couch and pulled her into his lap like a weightless doll.
The Phantom scoffed—if a floating voice could scoff. “But is that not what you do?”
What did that mean? As the Specter? Or did the Phantom mean James’s stolen kisses?
“Hilarious,” James said, his lips on Celestine’s hair. “Why don’t you go and bother someone else? I’m sure my family will be starting to show up soon.”
As if on cue, the sinister sounds of a theremin scratched at the door. The music was a beast that desperately wanted in. “Perhaps I shall leave for now.” He disappeared, and Celestine’s entire countenance turned gray with sorrow.
These men had betrayed her in one way or another. “If you didn’t drink the elixir, how will you interact with the house tonight?”
“It would seem that the Phantom wants us only to observe,” Dean said. “Perhaps that’s how he plans to play with us tonight.”
Celestine scoffed and turned her head into James’s chest. Dean said it like their fate was worse than poison. “You’re letting this happen,” she cursed into James’s shirt. “All three of you. You’re allowing the Phantom to torture and possibly kill me.”
James kissed the top of her head, trying to be comforting. “You’re not going to die. I know you’ll figure it out—”
“Your faith in me is supposed to make me feel better?” she interrupted.
“Yes,” Everett said. “You’ve never met a riddle you couldn’t solve. I mean, you help me every time I play the detective. I love the part, but we all know I’m shit at it.”
“This isn’t a game, Everett. This is my life.”
Everett shuffled his feet. “It is a game. This is Wolfsbane Hall. It’s always a game.”
“Even my life?” Her voice shook, and her chin quivered with anger or fear. Maybe both. “Are you hearing yourselves?”
James and Everett shared a concerned look, but Dean smiled. Amused by her pain, as usual. “Finally, a genuine reaction.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Celestine snapped.
“I’ve never seen you get angry with anyone.” Dean slid his fingers into his pockets. “You simply accept the way people treat you. Which is terrible, in case you were wondering.”
Celestine inhaled sharply and ignored the comment. “Twenty-nine.”
“What?”
“Words.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “In case you were counting.”
“ Celestine …” Dean pulled her name out like he was trying to sa vor a delicious chocolate while at the same time reprimanding her.
“Your sweetness is a problem, love.” James stroked his fingers along her waist, and she batted them away.
For the first time in possibly all her life, she didn’t want to appease people. Fury was stoked in her stomach. At that moment, she hated every one of them and their manipulative ways, but she still wasn’t brave enough to speak it aloud. There was too much at risk.
Her life philosophy was: suck it up and move on. It had worked, thus far.
So instead, she excavated herself from James’s lap—as painful as it was, because she did want the oblivion of a good fuck right about now.
He tried to grasp her wrists as she went, but she quickly pulled out of his grip and ran out of the room.