Page 27 of Wolfsbane Hall #1

The Balcony

Margot glared down at two more dead bodies, their blood painting a mural across the floor.

Beautiful.

Maybe James was right and she was also a psychopath like him. But she wasn’t born one. She was made—made to crave the blood. Luckily, the self-righteous vessel was sleeping in her mind. She’d passed out when Margot killed again.

Dispatching the Ashbrook uncles took barely any effort at all. She simply ran into them in the hallway and used James’s gun to put two bullets through their skulls. There was no need for a big show with Jon and Walter. They were useless when Margot was still alive, and now they were useless dead.

Ah, it was sweet how the lovers held hands as they died. Every Ashbrook had a secret, but their secret was wholesome. At another time, it wouldn’t need to be a secret at all. Their sin? Loving the same sex when it was illegal.

To hide from the world, Walter married his lover’s sister and moved them both into his house.

Margot was pretty certain that marriage had never been consummated.

Irene didn’t mind the arrangement, because she’d been in love with Archibald since she was a child, but he married another.

It turned out he preferred his lover to his wife.

To be fair, anyone was better than Lorraine. A vampire, a beast, or even a gruesome reanimated corpse would have been better than Lorraine. So, while Walter and Irene never consummated their marriage, they still had heirs and children.

Margot shivered. What a disgusting thought. It was like imagining her own parents rutting in the sheets. Margot shook out her borrowed body but stumbled and had to steady herself against the wall. The vessel was sickly. It was something she’d fix once she had total control.

Her gaze latched once more on the dead bodies.

The blood tracked toward her heels, the thick crimson crawling in a beautiful pattern—a Rorschach painting spidering out on the floor.

It looked like a dove taking flight. She shuffled to the right so it wouldn’t get on her shoes.

They were horrific Mary Janes with scuff marks covering all sides.

The Phantom had made her dress like a maid again.

Margot didn’t know which one of the Ashbrook boys was the Phantom, but it certainly wasn’t Everett. He’d never force her to wear something so heinous.

Turning her back on the dead bodies, Margot made her way further into the house. She had bigger targets now.

She’d killed Jon and Walter because they’d done nothing. They didn’t watch with glee like James, but they didn’t intervene either. A pattern with the Ashbrooks. A pattern she’d make them pay for.

Margot had two purposes in death: to find a way back to life and to get her revenge.

And while it was almost a certainty that the Ashbrooks would come back to life—they were parasites like that—she’d still take the opportunity she was given.

She would have her revenge. Perhaps it was foolish to murder the people who held the answers to the riddle she needed to solve to keep this body, but then Margot had always been a little too impulsive of a creature.

Becoming…whatever she was, didn’t change that fact.

If anything, it intensified her darker, baser instincts.

She shrugged. She’d find a way to have both. Maybe she could torture the name of the Specter out of them before they died.

Warmth spread in Margot’s chest as she scratched her head with the barrel of the gun she was still holding.

That was the answer.

Three murders down. Six to go. Perhaps five—she hadn’t decided yet if she would also kill Everett. He’d deserve it, but then he was her one weakness. The one place where her revenge would falter.

Where to start?

Vivian maybe?

She’d be fun to cut open—perhaps pull out an eyeball or two—and Margot would force her to tell her everything she knew.

A twisted smile snaked across her lips. It didn’t matter which Ashbrook Margot killed next. Any would do.

The vessel clawed against the edges of her mind, trying to stop Margot’s tirade, but she didn’t pay her any attention.

Ah, I see you’re awake again. It doesn’t matter.

The girl would never overpower her. Weak minds were easy targets, and this gorgeous, broken thing was one of the most pitiful she’d ever possessed.

All the girl cared about was making the men in her life proud and being a good girl for her Specter.

She pretended not to care what the Ashbrook men thought, but their approval was all she cared about. It was revolting.

Margot would never stoop so low.

A voice floated from inside the grand ballroom.

“Well, this is too dreary, and I am bored. Who cares that we all have motives, means, and opportunity?” Irene said.

“That’s the point, isn’t it? In most murder mysteries, everyone has a motive.

That’s why the Phantom chose Lorraine in the first place. I say we liven up this party.”

Margot walked to the entrance so she could see the exchange.

“You could investigate the murder, then, instead of complaining about it in here,” Everett said in an exasperated tone. “Or join me in drinking. I don’t care.”

Irene ignored her nephew and focused instead on the other twin. “Dearest Dean, play us a song on the piano.”

“That feels incredibly inappropriate, Auntie.” Dean sighed. “My mother is lying dead on the floor.”

Irene’s attention switched to Everett. “You’re not as good at the piano, but would you deign to play?”

“No.” Everett took a big swig of his whiskey.

Irene pouted like a child and placed her fingertips on the table. “House, please liven up the atmosphere.”

To Margot’s great surprise, the house listened.

The house typically only responded to the cast. The guests in attendance didn’t have elixir in their systems and, therefore, couldn’t manipulate it.

Yet the house did as she asked. The ghost musicians struck up a jaunty tune, and the ghost couples burst from the walls, dancing the jive.

Was the elixir even necessary, then? Was it all a lie? Margot wouldn’t put it past any of the Ashbrook boys to design a house of enchantments that didn’t even follow its own rules.

But it didn’t matter. Margot had her mission—her rampage—and Vivian would be her next victim. But she wasn’t in the ballroom, so her search needed to continue.

Yet as she lifted her foot to turn on her heel, her gaze touched Dean’s, who was glaring…

at her. The force of it felt strong enough to suck her soul out of the vessel.

Margot sh ivered and kept moving. The last thing she needed was to catch that particular man’s attention.

At the end of the day, he was the most dangerous Ashbrook.

Unfortunately, he followed her out of the ballroom and into one of the narrow passageways that led to a staircase. So much for avoiding his notice.

Dean slammed her into the wall, his hand tightly around her throat. “Give her back to me.”

“Oh.” Margot cackled, her stomach tingling with amusement. “She’s yours? Well, she’s not home right now.”

“Celine is not mine.”

At the nickname, Celestine’s consciousness snapped back into place, but she was still a prisoner in her mind.

“Sure thing.” Margot stroked her hands like claws down his chest. “I am sure you wouldn’t want her to touch you like this.”

The muscle in his jaw tensed.

“Or maybe like this.” Margot’s finger curled under his belt.

No. Celestine wanted to scream, cry, or do something. The last thing she wanted was to be touching Dean like this without her consent and his. It was mortifying.

“Stop.” Dean slammed Margot once more into the wall and tightened the grip on her throat.

Margot smiled, and her hands stilled, still on his belt. “I like it rough, but does she?”

I do. Celestine tensed. Shit, what the fuck, Celestine? You absolutely are not going to cosign this.

“Oh, she does.” Margot laughed.

No, I don’t. But, appallingly, she did. She liked the fact that Dean was touching her. Margot was right. She was a pathetic, desperate girl who desired men’s attention.

Celestine wanted to pinch her eyes closed and die, but she couldn’t because the demon was still in control of her body .

Dean’s gaze raked over Margot. “If that’s true, let her tell me that herself.”

“As I told you before, she’s asleep.”

“No, she’s not.” Dean stroked his thumb along her jaw, and Celestine’s cheeks heated. “I see her embarrassment on your cheeks.”

“Maybe I am blushing because I want you.”

Dean’s lip twitched. “I have no doubt that you want me, Margot.” Dean pulled her hands from his belt, and with a swift and authoritative movement, he pinned them above her head, pushing her deeper against the wall.

Margot gasped, and her breath hitched. “You always wanted both of us.” His breath kissed her ear, and she shivered.

“You always loved playing with both of us, pitting us against one another.”

Celestine’s breasts rose with her quick breaths, and her core tensed, liking his taunts just a little too much. In this, Celestine and the demon in her mind were aligned.

“You like this?” He sucked her earlobe into his mouth.

“Yes,” Margot whispered. “I have always wanted this.”

Dean moved his lips to hover over hers. “I see death hasn’t changed you.” Suddenly, he stepped away. Margot’s hands dropped to her sides, and her knees nearly buckled from the lack of pressure to keep them in place.

She let out a wanton whine.

“But I have changed,” Dean said. “I am no longer a desperate boy. I am a man, and I won’t play your foolish games anymore.” Darkness overtook his features. “You will give us Celestine back by the night’s end.”

“Oh, will I?” Margot spat back.