Page 1 of Wolfsbane Hall
1
Friday, November 3, 1939
Grand Ballroom
San Francisco, California
Celestine Sinclair hated being a murderer.
She hated blood dripping through her fingertips and clumping in her hair. She hated watching poison devour a body, and the feeling of her hands stretching around a slender throat.
Everything about murder was ghastly.
But if Celestine had to choose, her favorite way to kill was suffocation. A pillow over the face while a person was drugged and unconscious. It was two and a half minutes of hell—hell she deserved—but at least it was quiet and didn’t leave a mess.
Celestine loathed messes.
Unfortunately, the very nature of her profession required more…theatricaldeaths. The audience didn’t come to Wolfsbane Hall to watch, as they put it, “dull and tedious deaths.” No, like vultures, the rich, pompous pricks wanted carnage.
They wanted a show.
So, Celestine Sinclair would give them one. That was her one objective as an actress at the infamous nightclub:show above all else.
Show above one’s own sanity.
“You’re wasting time,” said a voice forged from darkness,twisting from the room’s shadows. Smoky sweet, like honeyed whiskey. Sugary, yet potent.
The Specter—the magical and mysterious owner of Wolfsbane Hall, the glittering palace at the edge of San Francisco, filled with as much mystery as magnificence. It was a place where patrons became a part of a murder mystery show. Glitter, grandeur, and witchcraft were laced through every inch of the manor, interwoven into a tapestry of entertainment.
“You must prepare for your next murder,” the Specter whispered in her ear, darkness twirling and cloaking her from the patrons meandering into the Grand Ballroom—the club’s showroom.
“I know, Specter,” Celestine breathed. She wanted to call him something else, but she didn’t know his true identity—no one did. People saw glimpses of him in the shadows and smoke, or as an animated, talking painting. He appeared silhouetted like a ghost in the reflections of the house’s grand mirrors. But no one ever saw his face. He was a beautiful voice, singing grand arias and speaking through the walls and the calls of mockingbirds.
The Specter was everywhere in the house, and yet nowhere to be found.
Impossible to truly know. Impossible to hold. Impossible to keep.
“Open your character card, sweet Cellie,” he said, the darkness vibrating around her.
Celestine flinched at the words. Opening the card would only confirm her as the night’s killer, and she absolutely didn’t want to do that. There would never be a day or a lifetime or even an eternity in which Celestine would get used to killing someone. And she’d certainly never enjoy it like some of the sick patrons of Wolfsbane Hall.
People came here to play out their fantasies of eithermurdering or dying, and to Celestine, both options were equally disturbing.
At least the Specter had given her a heads-up this time. She was tonight’s murderer, and that fact made her both furious and sad. She wanted to curse his name or punch him…but then, she didn’t know his name.
Besides, she wouldn’t harm him anyway. She couldn’t.
He’d saved her life, and she’d given him her soul in return. Not literally, but he would forever own her and could forever have his way with her. And oh, she often wished he would take physical form to do just that. Fuck her. Hold her. Whisper dirty things into her ear.
Nine years of unbroken tension were far too much.
Her core grew wet. That’s all it took, the mere thought of touching him.
“You have thirty minutes to open your card and perform the deed.” His voice snapped her out of the fantasy.
“I know,” she repeated with a huff as she nervously ran her willowy fingers through platinum-blonde curls. Celestine detested this role, but she would do anything for the Specter. He was her family, her home, her everything, and all she ever wanted was to make him proud. So, even though Celestine despised it, she would kill for him.
Always.
