Page 23 of Wolfsbane Hall #1

The Grand Ballroom

The grandfather clock chimed. Eight o’clock. One hour down. One hour less to live.

A stroke of panic crawled up Celestine’s throat.

It was one thing to know death was imminent.

It was an altogether different experience to be confronted with it.

The jazz music and ghostly entertainment continued, clashing with the fermented atmosphere and Celestine’s panic.

The cast might be the only one’s poisoned, but the family’s issues were their own toxin.

Dean, Everett, and their mother were seated for dinner at one of the tables.

Lorraine had ambushed Everett as he entered, and Dean had run interference.

Everett sat with his arms crossed while Dean smirked and their mother lectured, unaware that neither man was genuinely listening.

It was in the lines of their backs and the tension in their forms. Heated voices twisted through the empty space, slightly muffled by the entertainment, but they clung to the glass surfaces while the words themselves were muffled.

Curiosity was a beast in Celestine’s chest. “Wolfsbane,” she said, running a finger along her wine glass, “I would like to hear that conversation. ”

Celestine didn’t often use the Specter’s magic—or, in this case, the Phantom’s—but sometimes it was necessary.

Sometimes, asking Wolfsbane for help was the most prudent thing to do.

Because with the chiming of the clock came a reminder that there were multiple games afoot, and Celestine needed to uncover the Specter’s identity to live—and the Phantom’s, to punch him in the face.

A mockingbird call whistled across the air, the house giving its answer. Yes, Miss Sinclair.

The house was the vessel through which the magic worked, and Celestine still didn’t know how.

She could ask the place to do something for her, and then it would decide if it wanted to listen.

But she had no connection or ability to communicate with the house without the elixir.

The elixir was like a telephone that connected them.

From the wine glass, like an echo, the voices played as if they were coming from a speaker. James lifted his eyebrows but said nothing, chewing on a new stick of spearmint gum.

“Must we truly go over all this again?” Lorraine growled at her son. “Get over it.”

“It doesn’t matter how many times you say that. It won’t change anything.” Everett took a large gulp from his bottle of bourbon. “I will never get over it.”

Lorraine’s head snapped to Dean. “And you’re just fine with rehashing all this?”

Dean’s smirk crawled further up his face like a spider. “Of course, I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Perhaps you should worry more about where your husband ran off to,” Everett said with another large swig.

“I know exactly where he is.” Lorraine’s words came out in both a scream and a whisper. “Off making some more illegitimate children, I presume. You would think two bastards would be enough, but— ”

“Do not speak of my siblings that way,” Dean snapped back. “I put up with a lot of your bullshit, Mother, but I will not allow that.”

Lorraine’s lips fell into a hard line. “Of course not. He’s probably your favorite brother.”

James placed his hand over the glass and cut off the rest of the conversation.

“Oh, you didn’t want to hear if you are Dean’s favorite.” Vivian slurred her words as a ghost waiter picked up another empty wine glass and replaced it with a new one. “This service is convenient.”

“You’re drunk.” James leaned back in his chair. “And I already know I am Dean’s favorite. He prefers less…emotionality, and Everett is an active volcano.”

James wasn’t wrong. Emotions poured from Everett like lava, continuously flowing. Although, Dean was emotional too—but the type of emotion that was hidden under a mountain of barriers.

Vivian clicked her tongue. “You’re a blunt asshole.”

“Ah, that I am.” James confiscated Vivian’s glass.

“And absolutely no fun.” Vivian crossed her arms. “You’re wrong about Dean. He doesn’t mind emotion. You’re the one who can’t tolerate it.”

Perhaps the truest statement Vivian had ever uttered.

A loud giggle sounded from the main hallway, and the jazz music cut out.

The ghost dancers froze in their tracks, becoming statues.

The ghosts, or whatever they were, always sent a shiver down Celestine’s spine.

She didn’t know if they were real or just incredibly convincing puppets.

Sometimes, when she conversed with them, they responded, but in other moments, they were like vacant old-time Gilded Age photos.

Soulless and lacking any ability to understand.

Celestine often wondered if the most realistic moments were actually the Specter.

The laughter was absorbed into the room—sucked in, as if by magic—and it died out as Irene and Archibald entered, disheveled.

A plum-colored stain grazed Archibald’s collar.

Everyone knew exactly what they had been up to.

Celestine didn’t judge. She’d just done the same thing with James, but she would never be the other woman. She couldn’t betray anyone like that.

Celestine shook her head.

The Ashbrooks’ relationships were as messed up as the Phantom’s magic.

As if on cue, Lorraine howled her disapproval.

She stormed up from her chair to confront her husband, pulling at his tie, probably hoping she could strangle him.

“Is it not enough that you cheat on me? Must I endure it before our family and these vile plebeians?” Her eyes darted first to Celestine, and then Frances and then Babette, seated with the twins’ uncles. “Have a little decency.”

“Come on, it’s not like we haven’t known for eons,” Walter said, sticking up for his brother.

Jon shook his head and sent pleading eyes to Walter, and under his breath, he said, “Let’s focus on the food.”

Walter patted Jon’s leg but continued anyway. “I doubt there are any true secrets in this family.”

The vein in Lorraine’s forehead bulged, and she motioned at the cast members next to her brother-in-law. “These servant people didn’t know.”

“I mightily disagree, sister. All of Christendom knows.”

Celestine’s eyebrows scrunched together, and she tilted her head.

“Besides, the Phantom isn’t going to let us make it through the night without revealing our worst moments anyways.

” Walter picked up his fork and returned to his exceedingly expensive Wagyu beef and truffle fries.

“ Precisely why darling Celestine here is playing Marguerite, Frances is Angela, and Babette is Cauncy. All our dirty little secrets are on full display.”

It was a striking statement, mostly because he bothered to learn the names of the cast. Almost no rich people did that. The three female cast members were merely the help, or objects for them to play with.

“Well, I, for one, am not playing this foolish game then—” As if in response to Lorraine’s declaration, the lights went out, and darkness attacked the room.

A scream carved through the unease as suspenseful music—strings and harsh brass—crackled through the now frigid air. A reverberating drum pounded in Celestine’s ears, her heart working too hard.

Another scream poured out.

“Oh, so delightful! This will be fun.” Irene’s voice came from Celestine’s right.

Chaos lit the night with its sinister shadows, and Celestine felt something brush against her back.

She shivered, her entire body going on edge, tight as a harp string.

The squeaking of shoes, followed by the sound of a scuffle, came from her left, and indistinguishable male words mixed with gargling and another scream.

Then came a slap and a whooshing air hitting Celestine’s face as if something had gone flying by.

Her immediate reaction was to find cover.

Rolling out of her seat, she ducked under her table.

She really did not feel like becoming the murder victim tonight.

Especially since, if she died in the show, she would be unable to name the Specter, and the poison would kill her.

Permanently.

Although, from the combination of events that had just transpired, it didn’t seem like she was the target .

Sweat dripped down Celestine’s temple, and she drew her knees into her chest. An eternity passed, or what felt like it, as she trembled beneath the table.

One never got used to murder. They might be able to block it out and harden their hearts, but it wasn’t an act a person could normalize—unless they were inhuman.

A popping sound cut through her thoughts, and Celestine clasped her hands over her ears.

Death lingered in the air, and she recognized the gurgling sounds of drowning in one’s blood from a stab wound or a gunshot. Despite knowing the victim would most certainly resurrect, it was still terrible. However, this was the Phantom’s show. Maybe nobody came back tonight.

The lights finally sparked back on, and the music died out. Everything returned to its previous state—everything except the dead body. Celestine poked her head out, the tablecloth resting over her head like a veil.

The smell of death clawed at the air—the scent of iron and unfulfilled dreams.

Lorraine’s glassy, dead eyes stared up at the ceiling. Blood dripped from multiple wounds in her chest. An arrow protruded from her stomach, and a red tie dangled between her fingers.

“Let the investigations begin!” The Phantom’s voice sauntered through the room as if he were present and enjoying his play unfolding.

A group of raven-haired heads—and Vivian’s fake blonde—flashed toward Everett. He stood mere feet away from his mother’s dead body. He stared down with a smile on his face.

Responding to the negative attention, he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I didn’t do it…this time.”