Page 32 of Wolfsbane Hall #1

Petite Parlor

Celestine would not murder another person. She was sick of blood pooling in her hands and ripping breaths from dying, frail bodies. She did not want to watch poison devour a body or clench her hands around a slender throat.

Never again. Nine years of death was enough.

Wolfsbane may bathe in blood, Margot might as well, but Celestine no longer would. She was done, and she was done with the parasite inside her brain taking command. No, it was her turn to take command of the ship and steer it in the right direction.

And Celestine had heard enough.

She climbed off Vivian and, without another comment, she slowly, silkily strode out of the room, walking by a wide-eyed Babette as she left. The brunette had watched the exchange with a mixture of bafflement and dismay.

Celestine moved purposefully through the house. She was beginning to understand the game. The Phantom had been moving his pieces on the board all night, placing pawns, setting traps, and dancing with his queen. Every person, every moment, every minuscule detail had a purpose .

Even Margot’s rebellion.

He’d counted on it. He’d sculpted it. He needed it. Because he set up his dominos piece by piece, creating an intricate and impossible pattern before he pushed one down and watched the rest follow suit.

The Phantom wasn’t just playing one game. He was playing many, all at once, and he was winning them all.

But what did he want?

It didn’t matter. At the moment, only one thing mattered.

The name.

Vivian called Margot “Marguerite.”

Marguerite .

So had Dean…and Celestine had seen that name earlier.

She creaked open the door to her bedroom, half expecting a trap, but she was only met with her slightly messy sanctuary.

She was late to the show tonight, so while she hated messes, she hadn’t had time to clean up.

Books were strewn on every available surface.

Sheets crumpled as if someone had just awakened from a nap, and soft candlelight illuminated the space, setting a slightly gothic atmosphere.

The news articles she’d rescued from the burning North Wing were on the nightstand—right where she had left them.

But Celestine halted as she reached for them.

Beside the stack was something entirely new.

A music box. She shouldn’t have paused, and she absolutely shouldn’t have reached down and opened the box. Yet she did.

The haunting nursery rhyme wafted out. It was the same song that had been plaguing the night, but this time, it was a beautiful soprano melody, floaty and rich.

Margret, Margret hanging down. It’s cold this Winter’s mourning. Too bad and oh so sad. You caused the Marquess’s scorning.

The sound crawled under Celestine’s ribcage and nestled there like a caterpillar in its cocoon .

The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and she sensed his presence in the room. Either the Phantom or Specter. But she said nothing, not letting them know she’d felt them there.

They could wait.

The nursery rhyme bent with the presence of the ghost. The words faded away, and only a soft lullaby remained, a mixture of piano and violin notes that felt more like a bubble bath than a haunted nightmare. Although it would always be a mix of the two in Wolfsbane Hall.

Celestine ran a finger along the burned edges of her articles before reading the top one once more.

The article was dated December 26, 1760, and the headline read: Suicide or Another One of the Marquess of Winterly’s Misfortunes?

The main article gave more details, but was still full of judgment and conjecture.

Duke Breython’s maid was found dead on Christmas Eve, an apparent suicide.

The Marquess and his brother are heartbroken by Miss Marguerite’s death.

The girl was said to be rather close to the Marquess and his twin.

So close, that some sources say the brothers shared her as their mistress.

Twins are supposed to be close, but not that close.

Others say Marguerite was their mother’s lady’s maid and nothing else.

Either way, her body was found hanging in the west tower at Breython’s great house.

It is believed to be an apparent suicide, but this writer is unconvinced.

As we know, the duke’s eldest son, the Marquess of Winterly, is no stranger to heartbreak and death.

His first fiancée was found drowned in the lake at her house, his second ran off with the stable boy and eloped in Scotland, and his third was found trampled to death by her horse.

Is the Marquess simply the unluckiest young man in Britain, or is there something far more sinister happening in the north count—

The rest of the article was far too burned to finish, but Celestine had read everything she needed.

Margot, the demon, the ghost in her head, had been killed.

There was no way she killed herself, not when she loved Everett—and playing with Vivian and Dean.

Of course, Celestine had guessed much, and Margot had said as much.

But there was something so disturbing about confirming the fact.

It made it all the more real and reaffirmed that there was nothing ordinary about the night’s show at Wolfsbane Hall.

The song, the newspapers, and Celestine’s character all pointed back to 1760 and the suicide. But it wasn’t a suicide. It was murder.

Yes, it was , Margot said in their head.

A murder in 1760. Shit. Were the Ashbrooks immortal?

Something like that.

Something like immortal? What did that even mean? But more importantly, Margot’s death was vitally important to the show tonight. Perhaps some of the answers Celestine needed were in the past, and who would know the past better than the one who lived it?

“Who killed you, Margot?” Celestine asked aloud, but it wasn’t the ghost inside her who responded. It was him .

“So you’ve figured it out?” the deep whiskey voice whispered from behind her ear, and his breath stroked her neck.

She whirled around, trying to catch him, but her hands fell as if through smoke.

Never physical.

She knew this, yet she still tried.

“Which one are you?” she asked, her pulse thrumming in her neck.

The air around her warmed and moved as if a presence were there. “Can you guess?”

She didn’t have to guess. This was a show, and it was a floating voice that was far less flashy than the Specter. “ Hello, Phantom.”

“Very good.” An invisible hand reached out and brushed her bicep. A full-body shudder coursed through her. Just another reason it wasn’t her Specter. He never touched his toys.

Her heart hitched, and her hand fell to her bed for support. Her broken, fragile heart couldn’t take much more of this.

“Who are you torturing, Phantom?” she breathed. “Me or your family…or both?”

“I would never torture you.” His hand traveled up her arm, the force of his touch hard enough to leave indents but not hard enough to bruise. The shadow stood behind her in as physical a form as she’d ever seen it take, and he was touching her—actually touching her, as if he were genuinely present.

She gulped, unsure of what to do.

“You poisoned me.” She leaned back into his touch and was met with a physical, albeit invisible, chest. She closed her eyes and soaked into the feeling.

He rested his chin on her head. “Only a little.”

She curled her arms into her chest and pinched her eyes tighter, trying to keep her tears from falling as fury churned in her stomach. It felt like melting porcelain dolls and disintegrating phoenixes—like destroying beautiful things. A metaphor for the Ashbrooks. Men who destroyed beautiful girls.

Celestine slammed the music box lid and stepped out of the hollow man’s embrace. Nothing good would come from taking any comfort from the Phantom.

“Go away.” She twirled around and tried to look as menacing as possible, which was much like dressing a puppy up like a vampire. It was still a puppy.

A shimmer of light reflected around his tall body, and he stepped toward her, saying nothing.

Celestine’s nose flared, and her eyes stung, still holding back her tears. She was so sick of giving rich, dangerous men her tears. “I hate you.”

“I know.” His presence rattled, retreating from the room, leaving a desolate echo in its place.

Celestine crumpled onto her bed and pulled her knees into her chest.

A glittering image hovered above her as if the Phantom had returned, but the presence felt different.

“Specter?” But even as the name left her crimson lips, Celestine knew it was wrong. This was not her Specter. It was something so much worse.

The ground shook like an earthquake. Celestine clutched her bed frame for support, and the shaking increased. Was it another big one, like the 1905 earthquake that took half of the city to the ground? For a moment, Celestine believed it, but then she remembered this was Wolfsbane Hall.

As if on cue, a sickeningly white light, like at the hospital, licked through the room, and all the air burrowed into the walls like creatures trying to flee a predator.

Celestine’s feet scraped against the hardwood floor; she needed to escape and get out as fast as possible, because whatever force was in front of her was malicious. It was like Death coming to collect his soul.

Get out, Celestine! Margot screamed. Get out. She’s coming for us. Again.