Page 47 of Wolfsbane Hall #1

The Grand Ballroom

The vision cleared, and intense pain shot up Celestine’s jaw and radiated out through her arm. She clutched her chest, knowing the pain was coming from her heart. Her time was up .

But she needed to fight through the pain and the weakness. She had one last riddle to solve, and now she understood it all. She knew the answer but wanted to see their faces as she solved it and left them.

Groggily, the family started to wake, their movements stiff and slow. Death still clung to their bones.

The Murder Mystery Game was officially solved, but it was not over. Everett, James, and Dean had murdered their mother together, almost as if they were one person. Although they weren’t, they were still three cruel men with their dramas and schemes.

The game tonight was like multiple Agatha Christie novels, both Murder on the Orient Express and And Then There Were None .

But the show wasn’t over. There was still the dénouement.

Still, eleven minutes left of the show and to give the final answer. Babette and Celestine had to unmask the Specter. Eleven minutes left to live and solve the final riddle.

That didn’t seem as easy as it appeared.

She thought the answer to the Murder Show would be the same as the identity of the Specter.

But Celestine thought there was only one Specter.

So, was she wrong? All three brothers worked together to murder Lorraine, but Dean was the Phantom, and James wasn’t the correct answer. Right?

Celestine thought that was right, but then everything in the show was so fucked up and cursed that she didn’t even know what was real anymore. She’d thought she’d had the answer many times before, but then she’d been wrong. There was a reason no one had unmasked the Specter before.

One Specter.

One name.

One answer.

Right?

It seemed so obvious. Dean and James had helped Everett with his revenge in the past. They had helped him murder his family and make them pay. They had always been his accomplices. They were now, too, but Everett was the Specter.

It was the only thing that made sense.

There had always been a Phantom and a Specter during the whole time that Celestine lived in Wolfsbane Hall.

All the inconsistencies between them made sense.

The game Specter and post-game versions were vastly different creatures because they were.

The version of the Specter after the show was calm, caring, and stable.

Because he wasn’t the Specter at all, he was the Phantom.

So the Specter was Everett, but there was only one way to know for sure.

Shakily, Celestine placed her palms on the floor and tried to lift herself up. She managed to do it slowly and with a lot of effort, but she needed to do this.

Celestine leaned down and grabbed the knife from the evidence pile, and with unsteady steps, she walked over Everett, painful step by painful step, each footfall sending a jolt of pain through her body.

Once she finally made it there, she reached out and pricked his arm with the knife and dipped her finger into his blood, placing it on her tongue.

“Ouch, why the hostility, doll?” Everett flashed her a withering glare.

Celestine stepped back as if slapped. His blood tasted like cherry wine and chocolate, the main taste of the Specter’s elixir, especially on the nights when the shows were the flashiest.

The Specter’s elixir.

Everett was the Specter.

Babette must also have reached a conclusion, because she whispered, with alarm lacing her soft alto voice, “It’s you.”

A tear ran down her face, and she wiped it away quickly with the back of her hand. Apparently, she didn’t love the fact that she was in love with the Specter. But she was in love with the Specter, and Celestine was in love with the Phantom…

They really had chosen the wrong men.

And, of course, it had to be twins.

So stereotypical.

Babette glowered at Everett, a kaleidoscope of emotions playing across her face. She worked her hands in the skirts of her dress as she just stared at him. “How could it be you?” But she hesitated for a moment before saying it out loud and finishing the game.

Celestine let the other woman have this moment, because she hadn’t needed to be the winner. She didn’t care about being the one to solve the puzzles. She never had; she just happened to be the cast member who solved most of the Specter mysteries during her tenure.

As Babette opened her mouth, Celestine clutched her chest once more, and she realized something was terribly off—a dark feeling churned in her stomach.

“Wait,” Celestine started, “Don’t say—”

But she was too late because, to the entire room, Babette announced with extreme confidence, “Mr. Phantom, my answer to your riddle is: The Specter is Everett. ”

Pain gnawed at Celestine’s bones, and the answer to why something felt wrong hit her.

It was the elixir.

When Celestine murdered James, the elixir tasted of champagne and raspberries. Not cherry wine. Every time James was the murder victim, the elixir tasted of champagne.

Babette was wrong.

Celestine gasped.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Babette clutched her head and let out a guttural scream. Blood dripped from her mouth, eyes, and ears. She stared at Everett, her eyes wide and glazed with confusion.

“No,” Everett said in a low baritone, and he stepped forward, catching her falling body, cradling her in his arms. He fell to his knees and held her, stroking her hair as she choked on her blood.

“Shhh, you’re going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.

” He pulled her body into his chest, and tears cut down his face.

Celestine watched on in shock, the large grandfather clock ticking the time away, haunting her with the last minutes of her life.

There were only seven minutes left.

But Celestine didn’t even care about that, because the scene was horrific. There was no right answer as to who the Specter was. It had been a trick question the entire time.

There was never one answer.

There were three .

Three fucking Specters. But Celestine wanted to confirm it before she said it out loud. Pivoting around, Celestine sucked in a breath and called upon all her remaining energy. She picked up James’s gun off the floor and slowly trudged to her room.

The pain of each step caused pained tears to skate down her face. In the corner of her room was her nightstand, which held her stockpile of elixirs. She swung open the glass cabinet and sifted through the elixirs. She brought several up to her lips.

Her body gave out, and she fell to her knees, her broken heart pounding monstrously in her ears. Her fingers shook as she grasped the vial from November fifth and took a sip.

Champagne and raspberries.

Fuck.

That was one.

She turned to September seventeenth. It had been a special show that was more subdued and mental, more like a chess game than all the pomp and circumstance of the usual shows. She took a swig.

Orange liqueur and coconut.

Two.

Then she randomly selected four more. All tasted like cherry wine, figs, and chocolate.

Three.

Three fucking Specters.

And she even knew which was which. It was so evident to her now.

Everett was the Specter responsible for designing the cherry wine shows. They were always flashy and over the top—a large production. The nights when James played the murder victim, he was in charge of the show, and while Dean so rarely put on the show, he still sometimes did.

But they didn’t take days off. It wasn’t like Everett was the Specter one night, Dean the next, then James.

No, they were all the Specter, every night.

But they just showed up differently. She saw it all now.

She’d known them so well and always found it funny how the Specter communicated so differently in different situations and moments.

It was so obvious now.

James was the shadow and smoke Specter, which fit his methodical and careful personality. Everett was the Specter in mirrors, the one puppeting paintings and objects. He was the flashiest and had the biggest personality.

And Dean?

Dean was the floating voice. He was simple and understated, and he only showed up when people were at their greatest need. He was the helper, and they were the puppet masters, yet he was also the mastermind behind it all. He was the storyteller of the three.

Well, fuck.

An anger like no other burst through Celestine’s chest, and she threw the vials against the wall. The glass shattered, painting the room with the liquid. She didn’t stop until she had destroyed every single one. She didn’t stop until she had eradicated them from her life.

She was fury made manifest.

And in that fury, she devised a plan. She would finally live her life on her terms, outside of the manipulation of Wolfsbane Hall and its wretched inhabitants.

She inhaled sharply and pooled all her energy. Then she stormed back into the ballroom, James’s gun in her hand, checking the bullets. Five.

Perfect.

She kicked her shoes off so that her skin would have direct contact with the floor. She wasn’t sure if the house would answer her call because it was a manifestation of the Specters’ magic, but she wanted to try.

Trap them.

From the floor, three wooden pillars and snake-like ropes sprang and flew through the room, circling their bodies and tying each of the Specters to their pillar.

Did one of them allow it? Or did the house have its own personality sometimes?

The rest of the Ashbrooks watched on in utter fascination. If they wanted a show, she would give them one.

It didn’t matter. Celestine didn’t have time to find out.

“Save her.” She motioned with the gun at Babette. “You’re immortals. Bring her back to life.”

“If you answer the riddle correctly, you can save her,” Everett said.

But Celestine didn’t want to answer the riddle. This was her one act of rebellion. She wouldn’t let them win their bets—their death pools. She wouldn’t let them get away with their vile games.

The riddle would go unsolved forever, but she would save her friends and family—Babette and Frances.

Celestine cocked her pistol. “I said, save her.”

“Cellie, my love, just answer the riddle.” James’s voice was as soft and to the point.

Celestine shook her head. She pointed the gun at James and pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through his chest.

“We can’t die, Celine.” Dean’s eyebrows drew together, and he looked at her like he wanted to hold her close and protect her, which she hated.

“No, but I bet that hurt.”

“It does,” James wheezed, blood dripping from his mouth.

“Save her.” Celestine motioned with the gun to Babette once more. “And save Frances, too.”

Everett’s lips fell into a hard line. “Cece, that’s not how this game works.”

“Do I look like I care?” She shifted the gun to Everett and pulled the trigger. “This is how my game works.” Her violent gaze shifted to Dean. “Do you want to get shot, too?”

“No.” He sighed, his eyes sparking with sorrow. “If we do this, they will not thank you for it. She will probably hate you for all eternity.”

Celestine’s nostrils flared. “So be it.”

“You’ll have to release me.”

Celestine swallowed and tilted her head in acknowledgment. “Promise, you’ll only save them.”

“I promise.”

Celestine curled her toes into the floor. “Wolfsbane, release Dean.”

Dean got up and moved to Babette. With his eyes locked on Celestine, he asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Dean cut open his wrist and forced his blood—his undiluted elixir—into Babette’s mouth, but when he was finished, the brunette didn’t wake up.

Her body still had no sign of life or movement.

Dean cupped Babette’s face and whispered an incantation that Celestine didn’t recognize. But Babette still didn’t wake.

“What’s wrong?” Celestine asked, holding the gun up, readying to shoot Dean, too .

“Nothing.” Everett coughed up blood. “It takes time to work. “Death takes time to shift.”

Dean left the room and presumably did the same thing to Frances. While Dean was out of the room, she watched as the other two brothers’ wounds knit back together in front of her eyes within minutes. It was good to know that she could affect them and cause them pain, but only for minutes.

If she shot them in the head, would it take longer to heal?

She didn’t have time to investigate that.

She didn’t have time for much else, certainly not enough time to see if Babette and Frances would return to life. She’d just have to go on faith.

Celestine was finally going to value herself above everyone else.

She was finally going to do what she wanted, and she wanted to leave and never see another Ashbrook again for the rest of her life.

There was no energy left in her body, but she managed to get it to do what she wanted.

Without stopping to grab anything, Celestine moved to leave.

She paused in front of James’s open wound, pressed her finger into it, and placed the blood into her mouth. She wanted one final confirmation.

It tasted of champagne and raspberries.

Then she left, walking into the Grand Hall and opening the massive double doors at the main entrance. She placed her forehead on the door and rested for a moment.

“Goodbye, Wolfsbane.”

Then she squared her shoulders and walked out the door.

Her dress was splattered with blood, and her hair was in disarray. But she was leaving.

For good.

It was the last choice she would make in her short life.