Page 14 of Wolfsbane Hall #1

“That’s going well.” Dean chuckled, and she jerked back, goosebumps rising on her skin.

Where the hell had he come from? He leaned against the wall behind her, his arms crossed and a lethal smile gracing his too-perfect lips. The man moved like smoke and secrets. And it was just as discomposing as the Phantom’s dolls.

“You could assist.” She grunted, kicking the door and immediately regretting it because her feet were already swollen; she didn’t need to add more pain.

“Does the kicking help?”

She flashed a glare. “It seems as helpful as you are.”

His smile widened, and the act should’ve been illegal, because when Dean Ashbrook smiled, he glowed like he was Apollo in human form.

It was utterly unfair.

“What makes you think I would know how to open that door?” He arched one eyebrow as if it were a competition. “That magical door…”

“Because apparently you either are related to the Specter, or you are the Specter.”

Dean wiggled a brow at this as if saying, Am I?

She turned her back on him. His disgusting perfection was too much to look at. “And that was fifteen.”

“Fifteen? What do you keep counting?”

“It’s the number of words you manage to say to me at once.” She returned to ignoring him, biting the inside of her cheek, and examined the door again. Specifically, the hinges. She cocked her head sideways. With enough upward force, she might be able to get the door off its hinges.

But she wasn’t strong enough for that.

“Well, here are eighteen more: You should try asking the Phantom for help breaking down the door. He seems to hate the Specter.”

“Twenty-two words,” she corrected. “Or you, as the Specter’s relation, can open it for me.”

He slid his hands into his pockets in direct defiance. “So demanding, Celine. You’re never like this with anyone else.”

Don’t use that name. Only the Specter called her that, and now both the Phantom and Dean had. It wasn’t a name for them. It was for her Specter.

Celestine scrunched her nose. But she had to admit, Dean was right. She wasn’t demanding. Dean did something to her, causing fire to lick the inside of her veins and allowing the carefully hidden frustration to float to the surface. It was so…irritating.

“Why are you talking to me? Aren’t you breaking your number one rule: Never speak to Celestine?”

He loosed a half-grunt, half-chuckle—a grunkle? Heavens, Celine, never think something so foolish again. “Do you truly think the Specter would leave something lying around in his rooms for anyone to find?”

No, she didn’t. But Celestine knew the Specter better than anyone. Something might help.

“Dean Ashbrook”—she waved at the door—“show me your magic.”

She asked because she wanted to trick him into showing her the truth.

“I don’t have magic. Not without the elixir.”

Liar. All Ashbrooks were such liars .

Celestine had lived in Wolfsbane long enough to notice when things were off, and there was always something off with those men.

If the Specter was related to Dean, then didn’t it stand to reason that Dean would have magic, too?

Even without the elixir. And if he did, did it mean he was the Specter… or the Phantom?

“I know you have magic,” she said. “So show it to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I asked you to.”

“And why would I ever do anything for you?”

Celestine shook her head. He wouldn’t, because he hated her. It was the one true thing standing between them.

She huffed. This was a useless task. Even if Celestine managed to get the door off its hinges, the Specter would put up barrier, after barrier, after barrier. Plus, there was only so much of Dean she could stand. So she pivoted on her toes and walked off.

“Wait.”

Celestine paused her footfalls and twirled on her heel, her arms crossed.

“I’ll help,” he said, touching the door. “But only because I am fascinated.”

By what?

As she stepped back up to him, the door clicked and swung open, the creak of the aged wood rattling through her ears.

Celestine’s jaw slackened, and she physically recoiled from Dean and the Specter’s quarters. The temperature in the hall dropped, and the sound of rain pounded against the house’s windowpanes, banging like her heart inside her chest.

“You are magic.” It came out as a breath.

She wrapped her arms around her center as if she could protect herself, because this meant one of three things.

One, he was the Specter; two, he was the Phantom; or three, all the Ashbrooks possessed magic.

And Celestine didn’t know which scenario was scarier.

It made sense for Dean to be the Phantom because he’d always hated her, but if he were the Specter…

She wouldn’t know what to do.

A teardrop of sweat rolled down her temple. If Dean was the Specter, then it meant nothing between her and him was real. Nothing. And that was the worst feeling imaginable.

“But the elixir.” She finally got her tongue to form more words.

“I don’t need it,” he admitted. “I never have.”

Celestine gulped and wrapped her arms tighter. “Why would you simply show me that?” Why now?

“Because I can.”

Thunder boomed outside her, scoring the unease that cut through her bones. Processing all the new information seemed impossible. Poison, magic, and devious men—men she thought were her friends.

But people didn’t treat their friends this way.

Celestine chose not to process any of it, because if she did, she would totally unravel. Instead, she locked it away for future inspection.

The door creaked again as Dean pushed it further open, his eyes sharp on her, examining all her flaws.

He stepped into a massive antechamber, and she followed. The room had no furniture, but it was decorative and led to three ancient red oak doors.

The room didn’t need furniture, because it was laced with sorcery, the walls looking like they had been formed from the fingertips of gods.

Every surface vibrated with life. One wall moved like a breathing, living thing, and a mural of a tranquil waterfall, surrounded by a periwinkle garden, rested on its surface.

Across from it was a wall with a glittering mirror.

It was formed from swirling silver liquid, and both walls looked like they could have been portals into another world.

On the final wall hung a massive family portrait of the Ashbrooks, but it seemed to have been painted ages ago.

All the women wore rococo dresses, and the men wore exuberant wigs.

The hairs on Celestine’s arms rose. It was either an original painting or just a mock-up designed to resemble the 1760s.

Her gaze flickered to Dean and burned through him.

Wolfsbane Hall had been in operation for 104 years, first established in New York and later relocated to San Francisco during the Gold Rush.

If the painting was original, then was Dean immortal?

Was his entire family? Or was Wolfsbane passed down from son to son like a dukedom?

“Unsettling, isn’t it?” Dean asked, his eyes catching on a doppelg?nger of himself.

Unsettling was an understatement.

Immortals weren’t real, right? Vampires and other creatures of the night didn’t exist. They were creatures of storybooks and nightmares, not reality.

The painting was just a painting, showing the Ashbrooks as if they were nearly 300 years old.

Except if all of that were true, then where had Dean’s magic come from?

If magic were real, so too could immortals be.

“And for the first time, you are speechless in my presence.” Dean slid his hands into his pockets and leaned against the wall, knocking the frame of the mirror.

It took everything within her not to ask if he was immortal. The words would sound foolish, escaping her lips. Wouldn’t they?

But the Ashbrooks couldn’t be. They were new money, like the Vanderbilts of New York City. Upstarts, clout chasers, and everyone knew they had gotten rich off their railroads.

Celestine inhaled sharply. The painting didn’t matter. There were bigger missions at play. Find evidence of the Specter’s identity in order to save Frances’s life.

So, by pure feeling, she chose one of the three doors. To her relief, it opened with a simple twist of the door handle. Inside was a bedroom suite featuring a bathroom, a small study, and a dressing area.

The study was bursting with cabinets, shelves carved into the walls, piles upon piles of papers, stacks of boxes, and all manner of elaborate decorations. Even a snow globe, which looked to be filled with rose gold glitter, adorned the desk at the center of the room.

Not wasting time, Celestine focused on the study and ransacked the drawers. All unlocked.

Dean followed close behind, sometimes accidentally blocking her rampage—and it was a rampage. All the anger building inside of her poured out onto the Specter’s belongings.

Celestine tore through useless papers discussing taxes, boring vendor deals, food for the kitchens, florals for the halls, and paint for the walls.

All normal housekeeping stuff. The only bizarre part was that Wolfsbane Hall wouldn’t even need it to begin with.

And unfortunately, all the documents were conveniently missing identifying information.

Because luck was never on her side.

Throughout most of her “inspection,” Dean stood, silently observing, occasionally sidestepping out of her way.

Lord forbid he touch her. He had been letting her have her way with the stuff.

Perhaps a positive sign. She couldn’t imagine the Specter standing by and watching as she destroyed his things.

Celestine turned violently, wanting to rip through another cabinet, but a wall of lean muscle blocked her.

She instinctively jerked away, her back hitting a filing cabinet, the sharp edge of it leaving a bruise that would blossom later.

She stepped toward Dean, figuring it was a mistake and that he would move, but he didn’t.

Instead, he’d placed himself inches from her, his chiseled chest nearly touching her.

Celestine’s breath hitched. The energy surging between them was electric. Powerful, but deadly to the touch. Her heart screamed in her ears. But Dean didn’t move. Instead, he stared down at her, arms crossed and eyes sparkling with an emotion she couldn’t decipher.

A warm stroke of his breath caressed her neck, and shivers danced down her spine. Celestine swallowed hard, begging the man to move, because she absolutely wouldn’t touch him.

She wouldn’t .

He would hate it, and she would…like it?

Oh, she was in a terrible state. All she wanted was to tame the man who hated her. To be worthy of a powerful, rich, possibly immortal man’s attention. She wanted to be seen and known by him.

But she never would be. She was too poor and too garish.

“Dean.” Her voice was breathy. She swallowed and curled her nails into her palms, leaving indents. “You should get out of my way.”

He eyed her, the corner of his lip lifting, moving his hands firmly into his pockets—he loved his pockets. Or he loved the fact that he couldn’t touch her if there were a barrier between them.

Life was a series of unfair events. For as much as he longed not to touch her, she longed just as much to touch him.

“I think those might be of use to you.” He pointed to papers that had fallen from a book during her tirade, and then he stepped aside to let her reach them.

There was a series of old newspaper articles dating back over two hundred years. Obituaries and gossip sheets about a noble family and a girl’s deaths. Article after article. All rumors. All personal sources, except a few newspaper sources, were relaying big events of the day.

Celestine turned through them.

One article was dated 1760 and read, The Duke of Breython’s maid found on Christmas Eve, dead of an apparent suicide. The Marquess and his brother are heartbroken by Miss Marguerite’s death.

Celestine flipped the papers and continued reading headline after headline.

1893: Business tycoon embroiled in scandal at the railroads. Should he be charged with murder in the train crash?

1758: Another fiancée of the Beast of Winter, Marquess Winterly, mysteriously disappears.

1761: The Duke of Breython and his family were mysteriously poisoned during the annual house party on Christmas Eve.

Thought to be dead, the family made a miraculous recovery and are all in good health and spirits.

It is still unclear who might be responsible for the poisonings, but some believe Marguerite’s vengeful spirit came back to haunt the family, as it has been precisely one year since her demise.

1810: Young Lady Breython is caught scandalously with a dead man in her bed.

And so on and so forth. Piles of newspaper clippings about rich, powerful families doing bad, bad things. Then there was a pile of love letters. One started: My Dearest M, it feels like ages since we’ve been together…

Sappy, terrible stuff.

While Celestine read, Dean hovered behind her and grunted, judging the letters the same way.

“What are they supposed to mean?” Celestine asked, looking up at him.

Dean shrugged .

“They were hidden away in a book, so they must be important, right?”

He shrugged again. Frustrating. The man was utterly maddening and unhelpful, like all men, really.

Celestine sucked in a breath and decided to do something brazen. “So, Dean Ashbrook, are these your rooms? Are you the Specter?”

Dean raised a single, manicured eyebrow as if it were a sport.

“Oh, I know you won’t say.” She stood and took a step toward him, cornering him like a doe in headlights, intentionally getting close enough to make him uncomfortable.

Celestine wasn’t brazen, but she had played enough characters in her time at Wolfsbane to fake it.

“I wanted to see how you would respond.”

“And?” he asked, standing his ground.

She inched closer, her gaze raking over his form. Frustratingly, he didn’t give anything away. But he never had. The man was talented with his masks, wearing them like a crown of indifference and loathing. Always.

“You couldn’t possibly be.”

“Oh.” The corner of his lips drew up.

“You’re more likely to be the Phantom.”

“Hmm…” His eyes pinned her in place, and he closed the distance between them, daring her to retreat and calling her bluff. “An interesting conclusion.”

Every muscle in her body shook, and she gulped. “You hate me just enough to poison me.”

“Do I?” He flashed a dimple, and desire trickled down her spine.

Dimples surely should be outlawed.

Warmth spread over her body, and red painted her cheeks as the articles slipped through her fingers. Proximity to devils was always dangerous, especially this one, because he caused unwanted, terrible sensations in her body.

And she was so hot. Too hot, painfully hot. The hairs on her arms were singed, and her lungs were filling with toxic smoke.

She shook her head, coughing.

It wasn’t just runaway lust. The room was literally on fire.