Page 24 of Wolfsbane Hall #1

The Grand Ballroom

This time.

What did it mean?

Oh, you’re going to find out , Margot said inside her mind.

Celestine shuddered. The sinister voice scratched at her corpus callosum like nails on a crooked chalkboard.

This character’s presence was radiating toxic energy, and it only seemed to be getting worse.

She stared at the victim and smiled with sickening jubilation.

Celestine scratched her head.

There wasn’t a world in which she was responsible for Lorraine’s death, right?

Celestine remembered hiding underneath the table, cowering…

Right? Shit. She didn’t know. Not for sure.

Her mind was barely her own. It was possible that she lost time and forgot things she’d done, like becoming the murderer.

On a previous night, Celestine had been the murderer but not known it until the end of the show.

Her character’s delusions kept her from figuring it out until the very end.

Those types of characters were never fun to play.

Usually, it was Wolfsbane that would erase her memory after she had killed. It wasn’t like this. She’d never been possessed before.

One thing was abundantly clear: Margot was a spirit of vengeance, and she wouldn’t rest until she got what she wanted. Unfortunately, it was utterly unclear what she actually wanted.

Celestine raked her hands through her hair, massaging her scalp.

Swallowing, she crawled out from under the table, wiping off her knees as she stood. Stepping up next to Everett, she cocked her head, staring down at the murder scene.

It was time to investigate. One thing Celestine was an expert at.

Blood spread along the floor in a pool like lava slowly sliding down a mountain.

It was everywhere: on the corpse, the floor, the ceiling, the tables, the walls, and even the people now lingering around the body.

Crimson soaked into Lorraine’s white furs, burrowing in between the hairs.

Red and white. Celestine’s favorite color combination.

It might have been an inappropriate thought, but there was no right way to act around so much death and stress. Celestine found that if she added levity or fascination to the gore, she was able to stomach it better.

She bit her lip. Lorraine’s coat was ruined.

It looked like a rabbit that had gotten caught in the jowls of a wolf.

Destroyed, limp, yet still beautiful in its own way.

Macabre really. This was probably another inappropriate thought.

Celestine rubbed her head again, this time paying more attention to her temples.

As she did it, her eyes tracked across the room, taking in the details.

No one was missing. The entire family and cast meandered across the room like figurines staged in a dollhouse.

Walter and Jon were lounging at a dining table.

Jon with a fork frozen halfway to his mouth while Walter, in the most ungentlemanly fashion, had his elbows on the table, his hands smashing against his face.

Everett and Archibald hovered over the body.

Babette clicked open her briefcase for the first time all night, her eyes sparking with covetous interest. Completely unconcerned, Frances and Vivian continued their poker game without even glancing up to see who was murdered.

And, in pure Dean fashion, he was positioned against the wall, watching over everyone.

Either it was Celestine’s brain-warping reality, or everyone else had barely moved. Truly posed like dolls. And like dolls, their expressions were waxen—almost indifferent, as if pleased by the turn of circumstances.

Celestine didn’t blame them. Relief sank into her stomach, too. The only word to describe Lorraine being gone for the rest of the night was pleasant. She was a nasty piece of work.

Yes, she is , Margot said.

James strolled up behind Celestine and placed a hand on her back, a red stain lacing his shirt cuff. Blood. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Celestine whispered back, her eyes finding Dean.

Something was off about him…or maybe that was simply her excuse to look.

But she noted everything from his pristine—bloodless—hunter-green suit to his recently polished shoes, to the expression spreading along his lips, the side of his mouth quirking up into a sinful smirk.

The smirk that said, Don’t worry, darling.

Devour me with your eyes until you’re full.

She swallowed, averting her gaze. She hated getting caught, especially by him.

Ghost violinists popped up on stage and played a somber, haunting song. Wolfsbane loved to underscore a dramatic moment like an epic movie in the theaters.

“Oh, it’s wonderfully gruesome.” Irene’s voice cut through the silence, and she clapped her hands. “An arrow and knives. I wonder if they felt different killing her.”

Archibald walked over to his lover and placed a hand on her back. “Lorraine is going to hate this.”

Irene’s lips grew into an inappropriately wide smile. “Oh, yes, she is. Isn’t it lovely?”

Archibald shook his head but said, “Yes.”

“It’s more than she deserved,” Everett said, taking a large gulp of his bourbon.

No one seemed to disagree with the sentiment, giving everyone in the room motive, including Celestine.

And it looked like multiple people may have killed her, or one person set it up to make it look like there were various killers.

Knives and an arrow. Although…Celestine’s eyes tracked to the balcony overlooking the ballroom, noting the glint of metal. Interesting indeed.

But how did Lorraine’s death relate to the Specter’s identity? If it was only one murderer, which Celestine was beginning to believe was the case, then was the killer the Specter?

The mysteries were linked, and Celestine began to realize she needed to focus on the fake game to find the answers to the real game. So Lorraine’s murder now took precedence.

Celestine knelt, examining the corpse more closely, but she wasn’t alone. Everett also knelt beside her.

“Since I am usually the detective, I shall grace us with my considerable abilities tonight,” he slurred.

Celestine scoffed.

“But, brother, you don’t have your ridiculous eyebrows or mustache tonight.” Dean crossed his arms. “How will we be able to appreciate your skills?”

“It is truly devastating.” Everett’s tone carried through the hall like it was a chilly wind. “But alas, we must make do. I can still give you the accent. ”

“Please don’t,” Vivian said under her breath.

Everett wiggled his nose, ignoring his cousin’s—half-sister’s?

—comment. He said in a thick Australian accent, “Blimey, what a mess. Everyone, stand aside.” He stretched his arms out as if he were holding people off, but there was no one to hold off, because no one cared.

“We must examine the body. To my side, Celestine…I mean, Margot. Please assist.”

By assist, what he meant was to make him look good. Celestine had a feeling the Phantom didn’t give him nearly enough direction or lines, because Everett’s eyes were like a deer in headlights, and he bunched his hands into his pockets nervously.

It begged the question: Why even bother with this show today?

“I am already assisting.” Celestine motioned to the fact that she was already hovering over the body. “You may continue.”

“Right.” He knelt beside Celestine. “Umm, what do we do now?” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

“Gloves,” she whispered back.

“Righto.” Everett held up his hands and motioned for Celestine to do the same. Magic swirled around them, sticking and forming rubber surgical gloves, and a tweezer-like tool appeared in Celestine’s hand.

The visual examination came first. On the inner side of a wrist was a lipstick smudge. A different color from the color Lorraine was wearing on her lips.

Plum.

Like Irene’s.

So only Everett could hear, Celestine whispered, “A projectile arrow to the left abdomen, most likely piercing the stomach.”

Everett repeated her loudly and showily. The two of them often did this during shows, so they were used to this dance. He was like Sherlock Holmes, and she was his Watson—if Watson was the one solving the crimes.

“One stab wound to the upper chest”—Celestine grasped the tweezers between her fingers, using them to displace Lorraine’s clothing and examine the wound closer—“piercing the lung.”

Everett repeated it.

“One stab wound to the middle chest.” She rolled the body slightly over as Everett repeated the words. “And one final stab wound to the back left… Probably the fatal one, if it had pierced her abdominal aorta. But of course, we can’t be certain of anything until the autopsy.”

Everett chose not to repeat the last bit, because he wasn’t overly fond of scientific accuracy like she was—or James was.

Celestine was about to stand, having gathered as much information as she could without a proper lab, but then something caught her attention. Red discoloration at the back of Lorraine’s neck, under her ear. Celestine stroked it with her gloved finger. A tiny prick.

“No one move.” Everett’s voice boomed through the room. “We must uncover all the evidence.”

Celestine stood and rolled her gloves off. She cocked her head, once again staring up at the balcony, measuring the angle of the arrow. She started to step in that direction, but Everett cut her off.

“I said no one move.”

“The arrow.”

“We can examine that later.” He waved his arms dismissively. “Right now, we must start the interrogations. Everyone, grab a chair and sit in a row.”

Celestine shook her head. Police didn’t interview suspects together for a reason. But it was Everett’s ineptitude that made his performance charming. It didn’t matter how many times he played the role; he was always shit at it.

“I thought we weren’t supposed to move,” Dean said, raising one of his manicured eyebrows.