Page 33 of Wolfsbane Hall #1

Celestine’s Bedroom

It was too late. There was no way Celestine’s feeble body could outrun anyone.

The force in front of Celestine solidified, forming into the one person she never imagined it could be. Shock nestled into her bones, because once someone was murdered in the show, they never came back to life until the mystery was solved.

Murder victims never resurrected early.

And yes, the Phantom had resurrected James and the uncles, but that was because they weren’t supposed to die. That was because Margot had ruined the show.

But this?

Lorraine’s translucent ghost body hovered over her. That was not possible.

But…

Lorraine wasn’t back. Was she? Just another of Phantom’s tricks?

“Phantom?” Celestine croaked, her throat too dry from the lack of air in the room. “Help. ”

A vicious smile crossed Lorraine’s pale, sharp cheekbones. She looked like a sculpture of Hera coming to kill one of Zeus’s poor, unwilling lovers.

“He can’t help you now, girl.” Her voice was a weapon. A scythe.

Lorraine rushed forward, and Celestine tried to dodge and scurry past her would-be murderer.

But Lorraine was both too fast and too magical.

Celestine’s sanctuary rotted into a nightmare.

Her sheets became manacles holding her down, her floor became a black pit, and her perfect books became a cage she couldn’t escape.

Celestine was fucked.

She was a young woman in a serial killer’s lair. It was like glaring at Death, except Lorraine was far worse than Death. She was the Devil, or something close.

“No,” Celestine and Margot screamed in unison as Lorraine’s sticklike, witchlike hand circled her throat.

She lifted her like she weighed nothing and slammed her onto the bed, causing Celestine’s remaining books to fall into the black pit.

Lorraine tightened her fingers. “You will not ruin my boys.”

The air squeezed from Celestine’s lungs as she reached behind her head; she tried to grab a pillow, book, or anything she could use to hit Lorraine over the head. But there was nothing to hold on to. The wicked woman had made sure of it.

“They are mine and only mine, forever.”

What an overbearing, fucked-up mother. Men were supposed to cleave from their mothers at some point. It was a natural part of life. That was probably not the most appropriate time to have such thoughts, but Celestine had never died knowing it would stick before.

As darkness consumed her, she wished she had kissed Dean just once .

An utterly useless thought.

Death’s claws raked down her spine, and her head lolled to the side, her limbs growing limp.

She was dying, and it wasn’t even because of her feeble heart. Or maybe that was precisely the reason—she was being murdered because of a man. Men.

How awful.