Page 3 of Wolfsbane Hall #1

Red Parlor

The room tasted like iron and misery. A flavor that matched Celestine’s mood.

She stumbled backward and caught herself on the couch, leaving a bloody handprint in her wake as she slid—nearly fell—to the floor. Rivulets of blood dripped down her face and streaked her skin, blossoming across her silk dress. Blood was everywhere, dusting the room in her shame.

She sucked in a rattling breath as the knife slipped through her fingers and clinked against the hardwood.

Clink, clink, clink.

The sound haunted her soul and clung to the back regions of her mind.

Celestine broke into full-body shakes as her eyes latched onto James’s glassy, lifeless stare. The shakes were accompanied by quick, shallow, panicked breaths and a burning esophagus, which caused a coughing fit.

She didn’t have a handkerchief, so she clumsily clutched for anything to stifle them, but all she found was a white throw blanket.

It would have to do, because thick red mucus escaped her lips as she hacked.

Celestine’s body didn’t respond well to murder or the lull as adrenaline slid out of her system .

Regulars and cast members at Wolfsbane Hall never reacted like this; they didn’t break down mid-show.

Probably because they were psychopaths. They basked in the excitement and torture, but she always cracked—because she was weak.

She couldn’t forgive herself for being a murderer, despite the resurrections.

Every night, if the game was solved—and she always ensured it was, confessing if need be—her victims would return to life.

But none of that mattered to Celestine. She was still a monster.

A pathetic girl who would do anything for the one she loved.

And, unfortunately, the one she loved was far more monstrous than she.

“You have to get moving, Celine.” A gentle voice floated on a manufactured breeze, humming through the red curtains coating the walls. The voice moved like physical matter, knocking things over and caressing her face like a concerned paramour. It was the Specter being kind. “You have to get up.”

He was rarely empathetic during a show, reserving that for later.

“You need to stash the knife, wash, and change.” This time, he puppeteered the bust adorning an end table. “You only have ten minutes,” he said, adding the vibrating shadows gripping the walls.

The Specter was a showboat, always talking with as much flair as his personality. Or, at least, as much as his feigned stage persona.

Grab the knife, you fool , the magic character card whispered in Celestine’s head. It was less of a whisper and more of a dialogue line floating inside her mind. A cue card telling her what to do.

The magic was getting restless. It wanted a show. Seeing that it was an extension of the Specter, this wasn’t a surprise. He always wanted a show .

A crashing sound pierced into Celestine’s consciousness, and her head cocked toward the hallway.

Footsteps and debauchery. The club was in full swing. Drinking and gambling governed the place, but soon, people would fancy the real entertainment, and they would go in search of a dead body.

Celestine rubbed her thigh to settle herself, and she repeated the Specter’s words in her head. Stash the knife, wash, and change. Half of it, the Specter’s magic would aid with, but the other half she must do alone. Creating a “good” show took effort.

“Move, Cellie,” the Specter demanded as the shadows. “You only have—”

The door handle rattled. “It’s locked.”

The patrons had found her.

Locked? Celestine hadn’t done that. So it was either the Specter or Wolfsbane helping her out. Or, possibly, James had locked it before he’d died.

“It must mean this is the room we need to enter,” an excited person called out, and the whole door shook like someone had thrown themselves into it.

Celestine’s pulse hammered. The percussion was that of an angry war drum, and every muscle in her back grew taut.

This was a disaster.

She pinched her eyes closed and dug the bases of her palms into them. If she got caught, the show would end immediately, and the Specter would be furious.

She couldn’t let that happen.

All she wanted was to be chosen by him, seen by him, his attention like a purifying fire. It made her feel whole, like everything would be fine. He was her safety net and confidant, and the sad truth was that Celestine would do anything for a moment of praise and affection from him .

The alternative was horrifying. Celestine never wanted to let him down.

A loud bang echoed again through the Red Parlor, and the door shook, the hinges sounding like they’d crack at any moment.

Shit. Move, Celine. Move. Celestine sucked in a hoarse breath and pulled herself to her knees.

“Distract them?” Celestine asked in a voice lower than a whisper.

The shadows wrapped around her arm in answer, trying to pull her into the fireplace, but she couldn’t let it yet.

“No,” she breathed before dipping her hand into the blood pooling under James’s body. She smeared the blood over her handprint on the couch to obscure the true size of her hand. It was possible that she still left fingerprints, but no matter.

It wasn’t like most patrons knew how to pull prints or check them.

Once she had effectively covered her tracks, to the best of her ability, with no time, she allowed the Specter’s shadows to guide her into the fireplace, and with his push, she knew what to do. She placed both palms on the bricks and connected to the house.

Please, please work . She held her breath, waiting, hoping.

As the door to the Red Parlor opened, a barrier like a two-way mirror slid up in front of her, blocking the intruders’ sight but allowing her to see them.

Her toes curled in relief, and her head fell against the bricks as she let out a low sigh.

But she only had a moment.

A scream tore through the night like a tidal wave, drowning everything in its path. A crowd collected in the room, their faces lit with horror, but their eyes were bright with excitement. It was all the sign she needed to get moving .

Wolfsbane ? She ran her fingers along the cracks between the bricks. Please, help!

It took what felt like an eternity for the house to respond. But it eventually did.

The bricks crackled, sliding apart and opening to a secret passageway.

Without hesitation—there was no time to waste—Celestine ducked into the tunnel and crawled until she reached the end: the floor-length mirror inside her dressing room.

Celestine tested it to see if it was solid.

The mirrors in the house were enchanted, bending and moving under the command of the Specter.

Sometimes they were solid, but just as often, they were portals or doorways.

Her fingers grazed the silver surface and sank through into rippling liquid metal.

Strange. Wolfsbane was utterly compliant tonight. An unsettling fact. The house never did exactly what she wanted.

Swallowing, Celestine pushed forward. The manor wouldn’t hurt her.

Probably .

Celestine held her breath and stepped through the mirror portal.

It was cold but not uncomfortable. It was like a bath after months lost in the wilderness, cleansing and rejuvenating.

The liquid slid over her body like milk water, and her face tingled, her skin blazing, but it wasn’t painful; rather, it was pleasant, like a moonlit stroll on a beach.

Celestine released her breath and stepped onto her carpeted floor, allowing herself to get her bearings. As she did, she noticed an absence of blood.

Completely gone.

The mirror had rigorously cleansed and reclothed her, including changing her lipstick. She now wore a dress spun from deep red spider silk and hand-stitched embroidery with an elaborate peacock design. Wolfsbane had removed most traces of the murder, but not everything .

The tips of her hair were wet, indicating that she’d taken a shower recently, and her blood-stained emerald dress was rolled into a ball at her feet, because the show needed evidence.

She needed to give the patrons a way to uncover the truth.

She had to stash the dress somewhere hard to find, yet not impossible.

The goal was to get caught, but not too soon. An elaborate display to make the Specter proud. He loved to see what she would do as the murderer—how she would hide her tracks. He was a puppet master, pulling her strings, but often held her with a loose grip to see how she would respond.

So if she were forced to play the murderer, she would do it well; despite her foolish emotions getting in the way of her job.

Celestine needed a rock-solid alibi, not just Babette ruining her clothing. She needed to do what she did best. Seduce someone and make them believe she was with them the whole time. But that wouldn’t be enough; she would then steal something from them and plant the evidence near James’s body.

Her job was to get an alibi, plant evidence, frame someone else…

but don’t do too good of a job. The murder needed to be solved.

That last bit was the hardest, because Celestine had become a brilliant killer.

Okay, fine, not brilliant—she didn’t have the temperament for that—but she had become quite accomplished at the cover up.

It was a great plan, but she first needed to stash the evidence.

Celestine combed through her options. The Library, Conservatory, Billiard Room, and even the bedroom suites in the East Wing were contenders.

Still, if she was going to be a suspect from the beginning—and she would be, by the very nature of her relationship with the victim—those options were too easy.

So she settled on the Smoking Room, because women were forbidden from entering it and it would take longer to get discovered. But unfortunately, she didn’t have much time to stash the dress and find her next victim.

At least it was the best time to sneak into the room. Everyone was busy with the body.