Page 2 of Wolfsbane Hall #1

Celestine sputtered as her lipstick streaked down her chin.

How dare she? Someone fire this wretched girl! Lines of the script screeched inside her mind. The magic was adaptive. If another character altered the story, the Specter’s magic would modify the script in real-time. It was like reading off cue cards, but the cards existed inside her head.

But Celestine didn’t say her lines; she just swallowed and squared her shoulders, holding her head high like a regal queen as confusion struck her stomach.

The person who had accosted her was Babette Fontaine, a fellow Wolfsbane Hall cast member who frequently played the French maid or mistress roles.

But Babette and Celestine’s roles were not supposed to overlap much tonight.

They didn’t even share the same storyline.

Celestine barely had any dialogue with her character, meaning Babette was going rogue.

It was unsurprising; the girl was like a rose in full bloom, with thorns dipped in vinegar and laced with poison. Babette was a tiny thing that seemed entirely harmless, but her bite was deadly.

“What was that?” Celestine whispered, her eyes darting to the crowd now forming around them. “That wasn’t a part of the show.”

“No, but it felt good,” Babette said in a low voice as she placed the empty wine glass on the bar and leaned closer. “I am sick of you stealing my parts. I was the ingénue long before you, and I will be again long after you’re gone.”

Celestine shivered at the threat, but also because the liquid now varnishing her dress had mixed with the cold air, causing goosebumps on her flesh. “I’m not stealing anything.” Nor did she even want this role. Babette could have it; she could bask in its cruelty.

Babette grunted, unconvinced, but she pulled away, and her face changed, the mask of her role sliding over her features.

Thick, wavy chestnut locks bounced around her powdered porcelain face.

“I am so, so, so sorry,” she said with a thick French accent.

An accent that was as fake as the beauty mark painted beneath her left eye.

“I didn’t mean to, mistress.” Turning her head so only Celestine could hear, the brunette breathed, “I hope you choke on poison tonight.”

All around them, patrons stretched their necks to listen and get a better view, for the show had officially commenced. Technically, the show started when a single patron entered the building. There was no big announcement; the mystery was a part of the spectacle.

But the audience’s attention was a clear sign. Celestine needed to take on her role and become Dorothy fully.

“Oh no, my dress is destroyed,” Celestine whined in an over-the-top, rich, spoiled lilt, keeping with the persona.

The true Celestine wanted to say nothing.

She’d rather grin and bear it, but the character would never do that.

So Celestine gritted her teeth and fanned herself dramatically while speaking her lines. “Oh, my night is ruined—ruined, I say!”

Celestine patted her soaked dress with a napkin she’d grabbed from the bartop and sighed hyperbolically, the hysterics on full display.

Babette rolled her eyes and sauntered away smugly like the wildcat she was.

“Sometimes I want to throw my wine on you, too,” James Ashbrook said as he approached, his eyes sparking with mischief.

Excited shivers danced in Celestine’s stomach at the sound of his rich baritone, and she sucked in a breath, taking him in.

His presence had a visceral effect. Some men were too handsome for their own good, like all the Ashbrooks.

The three men, fellow cast members, were rich, too.

James was the tallest and most refined. To Celestine’s utter dismay, he was exceedingly charming and, oh, so good at tempting her into mistakes.

It didn’t help that he was blunt as a lead figurine, speaking in precise, concise, and sometimes cruel phrases.

Unfortunately, she was drawn to bad boys who showed no emotion.

An added benefit was that they tended to have massive cocks and be great in the sack.

“No, you don’t,” Celestine finally responded.

He raised a midnight eyebrow as he chewed a piece of gum—the man loved chewing gum. It was like a tic. “Don’t I?” When the sides of his lips drew up, she finally grasped his meaning. “It could be fun to lick off your smooth…folds.”

Her center pulsed, wanting him to make good on that offer.

“James,” she whispered and hit him with her fur scarf. “Don’t be so vulgar.”

He shrugged. “I can’t help it.”

“You very well could help it.”

“Ah, but I don’t want to.” James stepped closer, and her back hit the bartop. “Nor would you want me to.” With one more step, he pinned her, his arms snaking around her waist. “It seems like it’s my lucky night. I get you all to myself, and my meddlesome cousins are nowhere in sight.”

Celestine’s eyes snaked through the room, not seeing the twins either, but they had to be somewhere. Despite being as rich as Croesus, they were in the cast, and the cast never missed a show.

James leaned in and placed a chaste kiss on Celestine’s lips.

The gesture wasn’t new. Outside of the shows, they were sometimes lovers.

Mostly when he was bored, or she was desperate for a human touch.

James Ashbrook wasn’t capable of true love or connection, and she would never ask it of him—or at least, that was the lie she always told herself.

Because if she ever truly cared for him, he would break her.

James was a psychopath. He reveled in the murder—enjoyed both killing and dying. It was why he worked at the club. Only those who were truly desperate or fucked up worked here. James was no exception. He bathed in the carnage.

But he was good to her, and even more importantly, what they did together gave her a chance to numb herself. To fall entirely into pleasure and forget everything else.

A moment of respite.

Celestine pulled away from the kiss. “The show, James.”

“Tonight, our little kisses fit into the show.”

“Perhaps, but save some room for imagination.”

He wasn’t wrong. Dorothy had many lovers, and James’s character was one of them.

But the story required that piece of information to come out a bit later.

Or, at the very least, be more obscured.

So Celestine stopped him from making a spectacle by placing a hand on his well-manicured suit.

Everything about James Ashbrook—including his clothing—was clear and measured.

Studied like a scientist. And he always played characters like himself.

The Specter was far more accommodating to him than he ever was to her.

James’s eyes examined her. “Fine,” he sighed. “Perhaps not before the murder.”

Celestine flinched at the reminder, and her eyes tracked to the clock. Seven twenty-five.

Shit. Celestine had only minutes to complete her task. So she leaned close to James and whispered into the shell of his ear, “Meet me in the Red Parlor in ten minutes, and then you can do whatever you want to me. ”

His lips curved further up. “I’ll take you up on that.” His eyes twinkled with domination and the promise of the depraved things he’d do to her later.

“Sorry, love, I must leave you,” she said loud enough for the room to hear. “I need to change.”

James leaned in and caught her hand before she could run off. “I have a beautiful dress in my room if you need it.”

All three Ashbrooks had rooms in the East Wing. The Specter only allowed cast members to stay the night at Wolfsbane.

“Oh, thank you, but I have my own.”

With that, she dashed out of the ballroom and stopped in her dressing room to prepare for her task.

Rifling through her bag, she searched for the lipstick, the tool she needed.

But as she grasped them, she braced her makeup table with her hand tightly, and she sucked in a pained breath.

All the excitement and running had overexerted her, and she needed a minute to breathe.

Celestine’s heart shuddered in her chest, beating asynchronously.

No…not now.

Get yourself together. She didn’t have time for her body to melt down. She needed to get changed and prepare. So she slid her fingers along the grooves in the wall, grounding herself and communing with Wolfsbane, sending it her intentions.

Wolfsbane, please fix my makeup and enchant my lips. Help me to complete this killing.

Every night, Celestine drank the Specter’s elixir, a potion that allowed her to use his magic to further the show.

It allowed her to interact with the house and ask it to do her bidding—create a musical ambiance, manipulate the audience’s emotions, or even morph the setting and her clothing.

The only way to use the magic was to physically connect with the house; the walls and floors were the most accessible connection points.

Sometimes, the house listened; sometimes, it didn’t. Other times, it twisted the request so much, Celestine wished she’d never asked to begin with.

So tonight, Celestine asked for help with the murder…

and to fix her makeup. She didn’t bother asking to change her dress because it would get stained soon enough anyway; Babette didn’t realize the gift she’d given with the wine-throwing stunt.

It gave Celestine an excuse to announce she’d changed her clothing publicly.

An alibi.

The house complied. A rush of wind circled through the dressing room, and magic poured over her face, tingling. The enchantment the house placed there burned her lips.

Thank you. She patted the wall, but her face soured as she remembered what came next.

“You look like the wind’s gone out of your sails and took all the sunshine with it, my sweet dame,” came the Specter’s voice from a shadow in the mirror. The Specter and his idioms. “Cheer up. It’s going to be fun.”

Celestine swallowed. “Death is never fun.”

“Perhaps…” the Specter trailed off as a grandfather clock chimed.

Celestine cursed under her breath. She needed to get moving.

She had a murder to complete. At least tonight’s victim was a regular to this type of debauchery.

He’d been murdered and done the murdering before.

He wasn’t new, which was a significant relief.

Sometimes, the attendees didn’t know what they were coming to.

They were blissfully ignorant of Wolfsbane Hall’s true nature.

A monster house .

The Specter loved to play with newcomers and render a horror show where everything felt real until the end.

Because everything was real until the end.

The killer physically murdered their victims, and every moment of the show was, in fact, not an illusion. But new guests assumed it was all fake, that Specter fashioned expansive fantasies to make the bodies feel and look deceased.

The Specter’s true magic was in resurrection—although he could cast illusions and play with emotions, too.

The one rule of Wolfsbane Hall was: every murder must be solved; then, and only then, would the body resurrect.

Celestine stood in the Red Parlor, waiting for her prey. One minute until he was supposed to arrive, and James Ashbrook was always on time, even as his characters. He believed it was never appropriate to keep someone waiting.

As her character, Celestine raised her lips with feline delight and leaned against the side of a lounge like a seductress draped in silk and jewels, waiting for a midnight assignation.

James stormed into the room like a cowboy in a Western film about to rescue his damsel in distress. He walked with purpose, and, without hesitation, he cupped the back of Celestine’s neck and kissed her fiercely.

The kiss was beastly and consumed by unfiltered vigor. Almost as if they didn’t do this every week. But that was the nature of their relationship. They were a wildfire that burned until it would eventually flame out and die.

James was not for keeping.

No rich man was. A lesson she’d learned long ago. Poor girls don’t end up with “the man,” even if they desperately want to.

James was for fucking and, tonight, killing.

Celestine’s back slammed against the wall as their mouths devoured each other, his hands stroking up her legs and bunching the fabric of her dress up to her core with their movement.

“You taste of champagne,” he whispered, his lips on her neck and his fingers digging into the curves of her thighs, their rhythm like magic. “And is that a hint of raspberry?”

The elixir. It tasted like champagne and raspberries tonight. But Celestine didn’t mention it. She had a murder to complete, and too much conversation wouldn’t do, so she pulled James’s lips to hers again.

Kisses made such useful distractions, so she deepened their passion until he jerked, his hands stilling.

James pulled away, his eyes widening with betrayal.

“I’m sorry,” Celestine breathed into his hair as his limbs went limp. “You’re the Specter’s victim tonight.”

Celestine had poisoned her lips with a tranquilizer strong enough to sedate a horse. Only a thin layer of plastic and Specter’s magic kept the lipstick from incapacitating her.

“How are you going to do it?” James croaked as his head lolled to the side.

“Stabbing.” She caught him as his body slid to the floor.

“Ah…I’ve never been stabbed before.” James smiled, lopsided and bright. A sick part of him enjoyed dying over and over again. He once said it made him feel alive every time he died in Wolfsbane Hall. He enjoyed it so much that he often volunteered as a victim, choosing to die every other week.

Although he enjoyed it, killing still made Celestine’s stomach churn and her arms quiver.

“I’ll see you after.” And while he was still conscious, she gripped an ornamental knife from above her head, rolled her hand into the stabbing position, and thrust down.

“Thank you,” he said, blood bubbling from his mouth as he stared gleefully down at his wound. She knew he thanked her for starting while he was still awake to experience it. He wanted to see and feel the knife as it slid in.

James had a terrible trauma in his past, which he refused to speak about. It caused him to enjoy pain and victimhood—to feast on it. But who was she to judge? She had her own crooked, scarred history.

Celestine pulled out the knife, then slammed it in again and again and again.

It was a crime of passion, after all. Her character was overcome by rage and vengeful lust. But all of it made vomit snake up Celestine’s esophagus.

She continued her job regardless. Celestine Sinclair was loyal—the perfect employee for her Specter.

Loyal to a fault and to the detriment of her sanity.