Page 8 of Wolfsbane Hall #1

Celestine’s Bedroom

After painfully extracting herself from James, she returned to her rooms.

Unfortunately, as soon as she made it under her sheets, the weight of the night hit her, and her body reacted.

Horrifically.

Celestine trembled uncontrollably, curling up into her covers, the sheets pulled up to her chin.

Her eyes were pinched shut. If she ran away from the reality of what she had done, if she pretended it didn’t exist, she would be okay…

right? But despite all her efforts, the darkness still seeped into her soul.

This reaction wasn’t nearly as severe as the moment right after she’d killed James, but it wasn’t much better either.

Anytime she killed, it required days for her to recover.

But if Celestine closed her eyes, tucked into a ball, breathed through her nose, and begged the world to disappear, she’d usually manage to get through it faster.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Celestine’s door rattled as her head popped out of the covers, and her eyes met those of a drunken Everett Ashbrook—who had just forced said door open. He poured into her room like a waterfall down a canyon. Loud, destructive, and beautiful.

She let out a loud sigh. Well, there went her recovery.

Everett was highly inebriated, with four ladies dripping off his arms like diamonds. Two on each side. One of whom was Babette, who seemed to be equally as intoxicated as him.

That bred disaster.

The two had what could only be described as an interesting, if volatile, relationship.

“Come party with us, Celestial,” Everett said, a lilting slur to his voice. When she didn’t respond, he added, “Come on, Cece, let the good times roll!”

Everett ran a hand through the hair of one of his ladies as he stared Celestine down, tempting her into his debauchery. He was a playboy made manifest, fabricated from pure passion. Sometimes, Celestine enjoyed the distractions and pleasures he could bring. But not right now.

She didn’t want to be around anyone except the Specter.

“Drink away all your cares, Teetee.” Everett hiccupped as he said the nickname he knew she hated, trying to provoke her.

Celestine fought the urge to roll her eyes. He typically called her Teetee when he was being excessively irritating or dramatic. He was the most hyperbolic person she’d ever met. And he enjoyed provoking emotions—any emotion, which was why he loved Wolfsbane Hall.

While James enjoyed the physical pain of dying over and over again, Everett enjoyed the drama of the shows. He worked for the Specter because he loved plucking people’s strings. He liked seeing what they would do when they were cornered.

Which was precisely why he enjoyed tempting Celestine into anger—or at least trying. He wanted her to yell at him. He wanted his words to wound her, for passion to spill from her like blood .

But it wouldn’t work.

This was the side of Everett she didn’t particularly enjoy. At least it only came out on rare occasions.

“Cece, come play with us.”

“I truly shouldn’t.” She tried to smile brightly, but she was slightly off-kilter and struggled to hide her emotions.

Celestine sucked in a breath and grasped the blankets tight, her knuckles growing white.

She needed to ground herself enough to conceal her panic from the man. But it wasn’t working. “I must wait.”

“Ah, yes.” Everett made a theatrical motion with his arms. “It’s your private time with the Specter. Time to debrief?” He suggestively pinched his nose, his eyebrows raising with the gesture.

Everett knew there’d never been a physical relationship between her and the Specter—especially since he never took physical form—but he still teased her relentlessly about it.

Besides, Celestine’s only sexual relationship outside the show was with James.

Precisely why he had wanted her to join him in his festivities .

He wanted to fuck her hard until she screamed his name.

But as much as she enjoyed that particular activity—as much as she tried to forget about everything—her body wasn’t up for it.

Her heart was too weak. It could give out at any minute.

“Leave her alone,” Dean said, cutting a path through his twin and ladies.

“Ah, I forgot you were her bodyguard.” Everett slurred his words and stumbled a little as Babette held him up.

“I make sure the cast is safe and comfortable after the show, brother.” Dean flashed a false smile—all teeth. “Perhaps I wouldn’t have to, if people like yourself didn’t bother them so much. ”

The twins couldn’t be more different. While Everett was fashioned from energy and charisma, Dean was forged from mystery, dark temptation, and pure protectiveness—or possessiveness. He was also heartbreak in human form. One was light, and one was dark, but both were equally fucked up.

“She’s my friend, Dean. Lighten up.” Everett rolled his eyes.

“Friend, right…” Dean glanced at him, completely unconvinced. “Yet she asked you to leave.”

She hadn’t. Not in those words, but Celestine wouldn’t correct him because she did want all of them gone.

The Specter didn’t appear when guests were near, and he was the only person who could calm her down after a murder night.

And although she was angry with the Specter, she wanted his comfort more.

She wanted the after-show version of him—the warm, almost loving one.

“Alright, fine,” Everett said. “But join us if you get bored with this brooding flat tire.” He motioned to his twin as he fell out of the doorway, Babette and his other girls trying to keep him upright as they walked—stumbled—away.

A stilted silence swarmed the room. All the jubilant energy was sucked out by their exit, leaving only the king of brooding behind, radiating a sweetly-toxic energy like belladonna. The berries were heavenly in their poison. A kiss of death, and so was Dean.

He held a single red rose in his gloved hands.

A gift.

This was his routine. Nightly, he visited her and silently placed a rose on the bedside table, their eyes meeting in the mirror on her wall, the tension crackling between them like embers escaping a fireplace. Hot but dangerous, if they landed in the wrong spot. Tonight was no different.

Celestine sucked in a breath. It was utterly unfortunate that she always wanted men who would never want her back. Dean was only the messenger. The rose was the Specter’s gift, but sometimes Celestine liked to pretend Dean-the-Brooding-Bad-Boy wanted to give it himself.

But that would never happen.

Celestine’s eyes traced the rose petals as she tried to maintain her composure. Her one goal with men was never to show them how much they affected her. It gave them too much power. And Dean always conjured unwanted feelings within her—a mixture of excitement, fear, and utter frustration.

“You know, one of these days, you’ll speak to me when you check in on me.” Celestine clutched her hands in her lap with a sugar-bright smile dusting her face.

Dean lifted an eyebrow, which said, Now, where would the fun be in that?

Every night, they played this game. He refused to speak, and she tried to coax him into breaking—to give her at least one word.

“You don’t have to look so pained when you visit me.” She motioned with her head to the flower and was met with another irritating brow lift, which seemed to say yes and no .

Right.

Dean always won this game.

Every muscle in her body tensed as he patted the comforter inches from her knee, his hands still gloved. It was unclear whether the gesture was intended to be comforting or just a means of saying goodnight. Either way, Dean exited without another word.

Celestine cupped her head in her hands, hating the feelings stirring in her belly. Poor, broken girls did not get rich, powerful men, and she needed to remind herself of that.

Yet, as she lifted her eyes to the rose, her core tightened, and stillness stroked through the empty room.

She bit her lip, and it took her a moment to realize she was no longer shaking.

Despite his silence, Dean was also part of her cure.

Anxiety no longer clung to her back, at least not now.

The man’s mere irritating presence was the boon she needed.

Strange…

Celestine released a staggering breath, thinking about those implications, and her eyes locked on the book that lay next to the rose. Murder on the Orient Express . Her favorite.

She liked the twist—that everyone was responsible. What did that say about her?

Surrounding Celestine’s bed was a trove of books. Her entire room was more of a small library than a bedroom. The walls were covered with tomes. Even her armchair and bed frame formed bookshelves.

Above all else, Celestine loved reading.

She enjoyed getting lost in stories and daydreaming about different worlds and lives.

While she cherished all books, mysteries were her favorites.

She owned Agatha Christie’s complete collection—all first editions, all leather-bound.

The Specter spared no expense for her hobby; if she desired a book, it would appear bound in brown paper on her bed.

“Are you here?” Celestine asked the emptiness.

“Yes.” His voice was soft and smooth like liquid fire, and it came from a spot at the end of her bed as if a ghost lingered there.

After the show, the Specter dispensed with all his theatrics, almost as if he wanted to be a true genuine person. No facade or masks.

Just him.

Celestine’s gaze narrowed on the small table between her wall and the bed. On it rested a half-played chess game—the pieces formed from blue sapphires. The Specter took every opportunity to impress.

Even when no one else would see.

“Knight to F5,” she said without hesitation. The move had been planned for days. Every night after a show, they each took a move, but only one.

“Bishop to F1.” His words were nearly a whisper in her ear.

The pieces moved on the winds of magic, settling into their new positions.