Page 37 of Wolfsbane Hall #1

James didn’t stop his fingers or his tongue until she stopped trembling, and once he did, he stood back up and caught her mouth with his. Celestine tasted herself on him, and pure fire consumed her as he placed two fingers back into her core.

“Thank you,” she whispered into his mouth. As she curled her fingers into his hair, something horrible happened. Liquid began to drop from her nose.

Celestine’s nose was bleeding. She pulled away, but not quickly enough; blood got all over James’s lips and tongue.

“I’m sorry.” A sense of terror gripped her stomach, and she clutched her nose, but she didn’t have anything to stop the bleeding. James handed her his pocket square, and instead of cleaning off himself, he licked up the blood with a smile.

Horror struck through her.

“Don’t look so disturbed, sweet Cellie,” he said. “You drink blood every night.”

Her eyebrows knit together. “What? I do not.”

“What do you think is in the elixir?” he asked.

Celestine bit her lip, and confusion slithered up her arms like snakes. “It doesn’t taste like blood. It usually tastes like cherry wine and chocolate.” A confused expression carved itself into her face.

“Does all blood taste like metal?”

“Human blood, yes.”

“Ah, and therein lies your answer. ”

Celestine gasped, and her scalp tightened. Everything tightened. “The Specter, and you? You’re really not human?”

James shrugged, but eventually said, “What did you think the Specter was?”

“A magician, or magic itself…” she trailed off, unsure what to say.

“Not immortal?”

Shock had stolen her speech, even after everything she had witnessed that night. This was too much.

“Yes.” He cupped her head. “We’re immortal. But you already knew that.”

“How did you become immortal? What even are you?”

“Ah, now, those are the right questions.”

He grinned and stepped away from her, turning on his heel. “You’ll probably want to ask the house for another dress.” Over his shoulder, he said, “You need to get back to the game, because it looks like the poison is digging its claws in deeper.”

Then James stepped out of the room as if all of this—the kiss, the orgasms, everything—was just one of his experiments. Like he was the Specter, and tonight was his show. Or he was the Phantom. But most of all, she was hurt because it was incredibly insensitive.

He was so confusing. He could be warm, possessive, and her rock, and then a moment later, he turned into a glacier—so cold she couldn’t ever build a home on it.

After Celestine asked the house for a new dress—this time with undergarments—she made her way back to the Grand Ballroom. She needed to find Frances and Babette and share information. They were in this together, and they would find the solution together—even if Babette didn’t want to.

Unfortunately, Babette was nowhere to be found, but luckily, Frances had found Celestine as soon as she’d entered the room.

Enchantment was on full display in the ballroom again.

A nightingale’s song drifted through the room, and starlight filled the space with a warm glow, creating an illusion of the night sky playing out on the ceiling.

Ghostly dancers swayed to a country dance, and fake translucent patrons gambled all over, mainly at Irene’s behest.

Everett was drunkenly “playing” the piano, hitting the wrong notes every so often, but Celestine narrowed her eyes, wondering if he was doing it on purpose. He was probably forced to play by his overbearing aunt.

On her way to the room, Celestine had grabbed a pen and paper to write down all the clues and everything she had learned from the night. She sat at a table on the edge of the room and began to write, Frances sitting next to her silently, allowing Celestine to do her investigative thing.

Lorraine was holding Archibald’s tie. Gum was on the crossbow. The Ashbrook twins and James had access to the crossbow before the murder…

But so could have anyone, because Celestine had left the ballroom to kiss Everett in the closet.

The twins changed their shirts, and Dean’s was covered in blood. Everyone had motives. They were all Archibald’s children. The Ashbrooks are immortal. Lorraine and Irene killed Margot. Everett married her. Vivian loved her. But what about Dean?

Celestine never really knew anything about Dean. Except…

Dean was the Marquess of Winterly, and all his fiancées either died or ran away.

But what did any of this have to do with tonight’s show?

Was Margot the motive? But for which man?

Or was it like Murder on the Orient Express , and there were multiple murderers?

But most importantly, how did it all lead to the Specter?

Because the show was supposed to reveal his identity.

So, was the night’s murderer also the Specter?

Celestine sighed.

Her eyes locked on Vivian, who was sitting at the bar drinking a martini. When Vivian noticed her stare, she raised her martini, a wicked smile on her face.

“You have your calculating face on.” Frances finally spoke.

Celestine’s attention shifted back to Mother Hen. “Yes.”

“Eat.” Frances placed a grilled cheese sandwich in front of Celestine. “I know you, girl. You haven’t eaten a thing all night.”

Celestine tapped her fingers on the plate in a frustrated fashion, but she secretly appreciated Frances’s mothering.

“I know you’re not okay, my Celeste.”

Blood jammed in Celestine’s veins. “No, I’m not.”

Frances snatched at her fingers. “Your hands are tinted blue. The poison is affecting you worse than the rest of us.”

She hadn’t noticed that symptom yet, and she fought the urge to pull her hands away and hide them. Celestine never wanted anyone to see her sickness. But she wasn’t surprised at all that she was more susceptible.

“Well…” Celestine sighed. “I was just strangled.”

Frances gasped. “What? Tell me everything.”

So Celestine did. She told her everything from the game and her information on the Ashbrooks to her suspicions about Dean.

She had once imagined that Dean could never be the Specter.

But now she wasn’t so confident. All the clues pointed far more strongly to him being the main murderer in Lorraine’s game, and then there were the clues that led her to believe he was the Specter .

His piano playing, muddled words, and distance from Celestine made him seem to know her intimately despite never speaking to her. Sure, that could have been because his brothers told him, but she was far more convinced it was because he was the Specter.

The clues could lead to James and Everett, too, but there was something about Dean that felt right. But she didn’t even want to think about the implications of that.

It all meant Celestine was fucked. Because she loved the Specter, and she wanted to kiss Dean more than anything. But he would never want her back. He was her impossible feat—her Mount Everest. A mountain that no one in the world could possibly summit.

At the end of Celestine’s story and suspicions, Frances hugged her, comforting her. Frances shared all the information she had gathered during the night. The only new information was that she’d seen James walking up to the Balcony, where they’d found the crossbow minutes before Lorraine’s murder.

Frances was also convinced the Specter was Dean.

When they had finished in hushed whispers, Jon, James, Walter, and Vivian walked up to the table.

“How’s the game going for you? Any answers yet?” Vivian asked, sliding into the chair next to Celestine.

“No,” Celestine lied.

“Well, are you at least enjoying yourself tonight?”

“I hope you’re kidding,” Celestine said, glaring at a drunken Everett banging on the piano like it was the drums. He was far more out of it than usual. “I am enjoying myself as much as he is.” She motioned to the man with a nod of her chin.

Everett always played with vices like they were dares.

He drank too much, played with too many girls, and lived life as if every moment should be consumed by risks, but he seemed extra intoxicated tonight.

Usually, he had a sense of decency to his vices…

not tonight. However, Celestine couldn’t blame him.

The Phantom had resurrected his dead wife’s spirit and stuffed her into Celestine’s head.

She shivered at the thought. She still wasn’t over it. She hadn’t much time to think about Margot, the way she had tried to take over her and expel her from her body and then was brutally killed and forced out of Celestine once more.

“Ah, yes,” Vivian agreed. “Everett is more miserable than usual tonight. He can’t even pretend to be jubilant and have a good time. He doesn’t like reliving the worst moments of his life—who would?” She shrugged. “And he blames himself for Marguerite’s death.”

Dean appeared next to his blitzed brother. He placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered something into his ear. At the words, Everett stopped smashing the keys and glowered at his older brother. Celestine imagined Dean had threatened him to stop hurting his piano. It was a baby grand.

“Dean also blames Everett,” Vivian added, her eyes also on the twins. “They may look identical, but those boys have very different views on responsibility.”

“Dean is the heir,” Walter—their biological uncle—said. “Heirs are raised with an incredible sense of duty hanging over their heads. Everett was always the spare, and therefore way more reckless.”

“Reckless in love,” Jon agreed.

Walter shared a knowing look with his lover. “Yes, but I can understand.”

Vivian ignored her uncles, who were nearly jumping each other’s bones in front of her. “I am surprised it’s taken this long for them to tear each other apart.”

Celestine’s head whirled to Vivian. “What do you mean by that? ”

“One of them is certainly responsible for tonight.” She glowered at them and downed her wine like it was a shot. “And he is forcing all of us to confront our gravest mistakes. The Phantom is playing ten games all at once. Torturing all of us with the worst moments of our lives.”