Page 17 of Wolfsbane Hall #1

And it mattered far too much that he decided to show up.

Darkness leaked out of the walls and curled around her legs. She physically felt them, like a sexual caress. Her breath hitched, and she clutched the wall to steady herself. She couldn’t fall apart like this in public.

“She’s mine,” the shadows hissed at the other disembodied voice.

Mine .

“So she is.” The Phantom chuckled. “To business, then?”

“Yes, after all this, sticking to business would be the best course of action.” Celestine’s shadow, lingering on the wall, spoke with the Specter’s velvet voice.

A teardrop of sweat dripped down her back, and she swallowed. These enchanters were causing a storm within her body, and she needed to get control of herself.

Focus. Use them. Find answers.

Instinctively, Celestine squinted, searching the room to see what the men were doing.

The light caught Dean’s raven hair as he tried to calm down his cousin, Vivian.

He had traveled to the commotion to rescue his brother.

Despite nearly always having a scowl written on his perfect face, Dean had a far more stable energy than his twin.

None of them seemed remotely distracted; instead, they were all aligned in their resistance to Vivian. None of them felt like they were talking to Celestine, seducing her.

“It’s past time to open your character card, Celestine.” It was the Phantom’s cold voice at the nape of her neck. “This show is rolling forward, whether you choose to accept it or not.”

How did he know that was why she didn’t open it?

“Your character will help you find the answer to your riddle.”

Celestine crossed her arms. “I don’t want your help, or my character’s.” It wasn’t true, but she felt like being obstinate. Something about him or this moment caused her to fight—if only a little. A change from her usual appeasement strategy.

“I need you to play.” A shadow in the mirror beside her echoed with sound. It was another way to tell them apart. The Phantom didn’t use multiple ways to speak. He was only a floating voice, and that was it. No flash or pageantry. “I need you, Cellie.”

Celestine pinched her eyes shut and rested her head against the wall. These wicked spirits were breaking her. It might not have been their intention, but it was the result.

“Play the game, Celestia.” Rocks crackled, the sound like stones shifting in a vase.

Celestine opened her eyes to see the Specter animating a statue. His narcissistic presence knew no bounds; he had to use various mediums to communicate. To titillate a crowd. But it wasn’t a statue. It was the marble of the floor shifting. The Specter was in everything.

Comforting and terrifying all at once.

“I promise the game will lead you to the truth,” the Phantom said.

Celestine gulped. “What are your promises worth?”

Neither of them answered. Instead, a guttural and empty silence writhed through the room—the silence of a casket inside a tomb. One that had been abandoned for thousands of years, the wood disintegrating and exposing the human remains to the harsh, unforgiving elements.

Celestine was all alone.

The last thing she wanted to do was trust the Phantom.

But what other choice was there? So she gave in and opened the letter, letting the character flow into her skin, brain, and heart.

Let it become a part of her for the night.

But this time, the process was…different.

Aggressive. It felt like being kicked in the gut. It felt like an assault.

Celestine flinched and hit the wall, knocking two paintings together. They swung back and forth as she steadied herself, catching her knees. The sound of the frames sliding against drywall slid through her ears.

Slide, scratch, slide .

Her heart hammered in her ears and at the base of her skull.

Each beat sent a stroke of fear down her spine.

Celestine tried to suck in a breath to regain her composure, but it was an impossible task.

The magic was steeped in her skin and her head, and it burned like midnight rain during a firestorm.

But the weirdest part about all of it was that a character’s history and script did not enter her mind. She didn’t have any dialogue, no goals. There was no script.

Celestine’s whole body shuddered.

Her red silk dress, which had been clinging to her curves, morphed, sizzling and transforming into a maid’s outfit.

It was a costume fitting the current period.

Sometimes Wolfsbane’s stories were set in the past, in the age of glorious crinoline skirts and over-the-top wigs.

But not tonight. Instead, Celestine wore an A-Line cotton poplin dress with a scalloped white collar, cuffs, and a white cap.

Not alluring, glamorous, or tempting in any way.

Perhaps Babette would be happy…finally. Seeing Celestine’s character brought so low.

Doubtful, though. Babette was never happy.

Celestine’s hands squeezed her knees, and she slowly stood, rolling her spine one vertebra at a time, but she had to lean against the wall for balance.

“What in all the hell was that?” Celestine uttered, breathless.

Hello, Celestine. The French voice slid into her mind like spider veins growing up her legs. To say it was unsettling would be an understatement. It wasn’t a script. It wasn’t lines or cues. It was an actual voice—a presence.

“Who are you?” What are you?

There was no response. No ticking inside her brain. No words springing to mind. No job, no history, no personality. Nothing.

This wasn’t a normal character card. Celestine was supposed to get information and instructions. But this was not that. This was an invasion. A physical force clutching at her mind like a parasite.

Was she being possessed? Was that a change with the Phantom’s magic?

“Who are you?” Celestine asked again.

Wouldn’t you like to know?

“Yes, I would, which is precisely why I asked.”

You’ll know what you need to know when I need you to know it.

What the fuck?

Irritation spiked in Celestine’s blood, mingling with a shudder that ran through her full body.

To say the words were sinister would be an understatement.

This character—or ghost—was a villain. A true villain with nefarious intentions.

Pulsations of anger ran through Celestine’s body.

The emotions felt foreign. Celestine’s anger never tasted like this, like rotting cherry pie.

Celestine’s anger was a slightly sour candy.

It was never big—never dramatic. But this anger was, and it was terrifying.

For now, simply do as you normally would.

Celestine swallowed.

I will let you know what to do when the time comes.

Wonderful, this character was as demanding as the Specter…and the Phantom. This was a night inspired by the Brothers Grimm fairy tales .

A loud commotion from the Entrance Hall pulled Celestine out of her worries.

The red curtains lining the ballroom walls shook to the beat of the stomping footsteps.

It sounded like a dragon arriving and pounding its claws against marble.

Celestine couldn’t see who it was—not yet.

But she had a strong feeling…the only person with dragon-like qualities was Lorraine Ashbrook.

The twins’ mother.

Celestine knew from reading about her in the papers and hearing about her from the men and Vivian. Lorraine was notorious.

Of course, Celestine was right. Lorraine strolled in, furs dangling from her body like diamonds. She looked as if she’d skinned a tiger and wore it as a prize. To the rich, the more furs one wore, the more prestige and money they possessed. And Lorraine only cared for prestige.

Her husband trailed behind her, carrying a bag, a traveling trunk, and a hatbox—enough clothing to last a month, not just hours.

Archibald struggled with the bags, but he refused to put one down and carry them separately, as if he would get reprimanded if he did.

Lorraine walked all over her husband, acting like a vicious, spoiled child smashing an ant beneath her boot.

She said things like, “Oh darling, fetch me the caviar,” with an exaggerated lilt, pulling out the words like they were strands of taffy.

Everything about her was hyperbole. She couldn’t just wear one pearl necklace; no, she looped eight around her neck, and they fit her like a straitjacket.

“Where is the doorman? I thought this place would be run better than this,” Lorraine said, motioning to her servant—husband—to place her bags on the nearest table. Then she saw Celestine dressed as a servant and amended, “No, you do it instead. This is below you, Archibald.”

Celestine raised her gaze to the ceiling, praying for patience and grace. “Yes, of course.” She rushed over and picked up the hatbox.

Archibald flashed an apologetic grimace. “No, it’s fine. You don’t have to.”

Celestine smiled in solidarity. “It’s all right. I am a lady’s maid tonight.”

Lorraine ignored her servants, instead turning her attention to her sons. “What, no greeting for your poor, old, weary mother?” She had to be in her mid-fifties at most. Old would never be an apt description. Nor would the word poor ever describe her.

“Good to see you, Mother.” Everett placed his feet on the table. It was a pure protest. “Don’t boss Celestine around. She’s not your servant.”

“She’s dressed as one.”

“She does make rather a compelling point there, Ev,” James said, glancing up from his hand of cards, unconcerned.

Dean leaned against the table, his arms crossed, looking like a statue of Hercules.

“Mother, always wonderful to see you.” He flashed his perfect porcelain teeth before walking over to his mother and wrapping her in an exaggerated hug, his hand lingering at his mother’s neck for a moment, pretending as if he cared.

It was merely lip service for the sake of the show.

It was clear neither twin appreciated their mother’s presence.

Then why invite her?