Page 39 of Wolfsbane Hall #1

Grand Ballroom

Celestine’s insides felt like quicksand. Cracks formed in her heart like fault lines spidering out. “You’re all in on this?” Her eyes grazed over all of them and landed on Vivian. “Even you?”

Vivian averted her eyes and pretended to pluck lint off her dress, and an anchor dropped in Celestine’s heart. How could she have believed that at least one of the Ashbrooks was on her side? She should have known.

She was so foolish.

They were all villains—all monsters. But Vivian’s betrayal somehow felt so much sharper than the men’s.

With the Phantom’s presence, Celestine knew one of the twins or James had betrayed her.

She’d somehow gotten used to that fact, but she never imagined Vivian would be in on it.

And not only that, but she was enjoying it.

She said the family came to watch the cast desperately try to discover the Specter’s identity but fail.

They came to watch them die like animals in a cage.

They came to bathe in her blood.

Yes, all Wolfsbane Hall patrons came for a horror show—that was the point. But never had they come to watch the cast be tortured. They came to watch their friends, family, or lovers in horrible situations, but there had always been resurrections—an out.

There was always hope.

Not anymore.

But worst of all, the men, including Vivian, knew it was a hopeless night, and they came anyway—for entertainment.

They were gladiators in ancient Rome.

Celestine fell back in her chair and rubbed her temples. If they were betting on the cast’s deaths, did that mean the riddle was even more impossible than Celestine first imagined? Did the riddle even have a correct answer?

Celestine played with a sequin on her dress.

After James had destroyed her earlier outfit, she’d asked Wolfsbane to provide her with another.

It had, except what it chose was forged from passion.

It clung to her curves and fell down her waist like liquid silver, dripping like mercury from a broken thermometer.

The waist was gathered into a tightly knitted corset that split at the middle, showcasing her considerable assets.

Bile rose in her tight throat, and she turned to Vivian. “Have you placed bets, too?”

Irene clapped her hands. “Oh, yes, it’s been immensely fun. I have you dying next. I also have you being the first one to guess the Specter’s name wrong.”

Dean, under his breath, said, “And you will be wrong.”

“Probably why you wanted to kill her, Mother.” James’s voice was pure wildfire, ripping through a forest and coming for rich houses.

“It doesn’t count if you kill her.” Jon pulled a notepad out of his suit jacket pocket. “She has to guess the Specter’s name wrong.”

“But if she dies, then she won’t be able to guess, and I will win anyway,” Irene said, petting one of her over-the-top furs. “I only bet she would die first.”

“Well, you are going to lose, Mother.” Vivian tapped her fingers on the table nonchalantly. “Celestine will win this absurd game.”

“True,” Everett said, leaning against the piano and still very drunk.

The sentiment didn’t make her feel any better. They set her up and watched her like a little pathetic mouse in a maze. They were all sick. Who cared if they thought she’d win it?

The only people she could trust in this house were Frances and Babette. Fucking Babette. What had the world come to? Everything was so fucking rotten.

The valves in Celestine’s heart clenched.

“Was Lorraine’s death just a charade?” Celestine swallowed, the burning sensation her only comfort. It fucking hurt, but at least it meant she was alive. “And all your secrets being exposed… Has it all been fake?”

A soft wind skated through the room, and her voice carried on it like a haunted requiem.

Her song was met with the thrumming dark harmony of the Phantoms as he said, “Oh, no, Sweet Celine, they’re playing a game as well.

They just always enjoy the suffering of others, but trust me, lovely, their deepest, darkest secrets have been plaguing them all night long.

Everyone is playing a slightly different game tonight. ”

“Which has been quite horrific,” Irene called at the ceiling. “We would all appreciate it if you would stop it.”

A rotten laugh coated the room. “You all wanted to come here and play a game.” Lightning struck, followed by thunder that shook the ground. The candlewax sconces all swayed at once and then burned brighter. “This is the one we all deserve.”

Celestine’s skin prickled. A cascade of things hit her at once, but the strongest thought—the one that raged inside her like a tidal wave ripping apart everything it touched—was that she’d truly had enough.

It was all too much, and there was only so far a person could be pushed until they pushed back.

Celestine had spent her whole life being the good girl, being kind, fitting in, not rocking the boat, and caring for the needs of others.

Her whole life, obeying others,

But what about her needs? What about her life?

“I think…” Her chin quivered, but she rolled her shoulders back. “I’m done.”

Celestine didn’t want to hear their response. She didn’t care anymore. So she turned on her now sparkling heels and walked out of the room with purpose. Clicks measured her footfalls as she left. Click, clack, click, clack , just like her heart.

Celestine was done being the Specter’s little pet.

She was over being his marionette doll. Celestine never did anything for herself in her life, and if she was dying, now might be the best time to start living only for herself.

Unfortunately, she didn’t have much time to live, a reminder that became abundantly clear when crimson began to streak down her face.

Not again.

She grasped the closest material to her to stop her nosebleed. It happened to be a rich, velvet curtain that was used more for decoration than for its practical utility. Celestine cursed.

Fuck. My body is fucking falling apart .

Babette and Frances were not suffering nosebleeds. She’d asked earlier, and they had looked at her with wide, confused eyes. So it was only her. Figures.

Everything affected her far deeper than others. It was her curse.

When her nose stopped bleeding, she tried to move again but was hit with a strong wave of lightheadedness. Blood loss, weak limbs, and poison eating away at her were not a great combination for her dizzy spells, which started occurring at a concerning frequency three weeks ago.

Celestine pulled on the now blood-soaked curtain for support and leaned her head against the wall, begging for support from God or angels or whatever being was up there watching.

If devils existed—and were sitting in the other room—then angels could exist, too.

Celestine wasn’t particularly religious, but the closer she got to her inevitable demise, the more she wondered what would be next.

Heat grew beneath her fingertips, the curtains growing hot but not uncomfortable. It was more like a warm hug. She narrowed her eyes and stared at them. The house was morphing again, but Celestine didn’t know why. The walls turned her favorite color—dark red, closer to maroon than orange.

Wolfsbane was apologizing—or something like it.

Or maybe it was the Phantom, because moments later, he spoke, a booming voice that could be heard all over the mansion.

“Alright, my lovelies, it’s time for a game.

Everyone has gotten far too comfortable, and we cannot have that.

” His voice shifted like a snake coiling.

“Tonight is about secrets and lies and guttural betrayals, and what kind of host would I be if I didn’t follow through on that promise? So welcome to my House of Horrors.”

Everything froze for a moment, a picture in time—the time before horrors—because as soon as time slipped back, everything shifted.

The house started to decay and seethe like an evil creature.

The walls dripped black tar, the floor churned, and moss grew over it, but it was dry and empty of life, so much so that if she moved her feet, all she heard was a crunch.

“The house will stop its torture when someone finds the missing murder weapon—the knife,” the Phantom continued. “Here is your only clue: It lies beneath the silvered tree.”

If it were possible, the house would have descended further into chaos. Blood dripped from the ceiling, a drop landing on Celestine’s palm. At first, she thought it was her nose bleeding again, but when the rain began to fall, covering every inch of her body and dress, she understood.

Blood dripped down her eyelashes and covered her nostrils, and she felt as if she were drowning. But the worst part of it was the metallic scent, which was so strong it gave her a headache.

But the chaos didn’t stop there.

Window shutters smacked against the outside structure as if a tornado were pulling them out.

The sound was an eerie pounding, and to that melody came screaming.

Monsters popped out of paintings and chased down the ghosts, filling the air with tormented screams. Off-key violin strings underscored the broken song.

The Phantom was even torturing the ghosts.

The walls creaked and buckled, glass spewing onto the surface.

But it wasn’t just any glass; it was enchanted silver shards—torture mirrors.

From time to time, the house would bring them out and torment anyone who walked by them, playing either their worst fears or the memories someone tried to forget.

The secrets people needed to hide.

Things like hit and runs, affairs, real-life murders, or dark family secrets that needed to stay in the dark. The house pulled everything from someone like taffy, and like taffy, it was sticky and hard to remove once it was fashioned onto it.

Celestine hated every single time the mirrors awoke.

Because they sank deep into her, playing with the confines of her reality.

Tonight was no different.