Page 103 of Wolfsbane Hall
Six Days Ago
Monday, November 5, 1939
St. Mary’s Hospital
Celestine wrung her hands. She knew the news she was about to receive would be devastating. She was persistently coughing up pink mucus. She liked to pretend it was the night when she had to be a murderer that affected her so much, but it wasn’t.
She knew it was the end.
“How long?” she asked, raising her head as the doctor walked in.
“Two weeks at most.”
32
Saturday, November 11, 1939
San Francisco Streets
She hated how much dying in Dean’s arms meant to her. She hated how much it meant to her that she knew he washerSpecter—the one she loved. The one she beat at chess and read to.
She hated how much he meant to her.
Celestine nestled her head into his shoulder as he held her limp body on the steep street. She tilted her chin up to see his beautiful and awful as she fell into the depths of death.
“What’s wrong?” It was sweet how concerned his eyes were.
Her breaths were short and weak, and she found it incredibly difficult for her even to open her mouth to respond. Her surroundings were blurring together, and it was getting increasingly hard to remember where she was and what was happening.
Her eyes were drooping shut, and the process of trying to keep them open was arduous. “All I ever wanted was for the Specter to be proud of me.”
“I am proud, Celine. You’re the best player Wolfsbane Hall has ever had.”
Her eyes glazed and filled with more tears. “All I’ve everwanted was to be loved and have someone mourn me…to be with me when I die. That all seems so foolish now.”
Dean’s eyebrows lowered, and darkness pooled into the edges of his eyes. “I don’t understand. Why are you not better? You solved the riddle. You saved everyone. You shouldn’tbe dying.”
It was a plea, forged from heartbreak.
“I was always dying.” Her breaths rattled. “Will you hold me?” The request came out more as a whimper than words.
Dean pulled her closer into his chest, cradling and cuddling her like it was the last time he would ever touch her. “Celine, I have you,” he breathed into her hair. “You’re not alone. Never alone.”
He had promised her she wouldn’t die alone. He’d promised her that he would grieve her death.
She finally believed that might be true.
“At least I got one of my wishes—” Celestine’s body went limp, and darkness stole her consciousness.
And her heart played its last beat, never to start up again.
“No, you’re not supposed to die. The curse wasn’t supposed to affect you, too.” The words were only formed from torment. He rocked back and forth with her in his arms.
His voice was far away, like at the end of a long tunnel, and she didn’t understand if she was experiencing this moment as a ghost or still in her body.
“No!” It was a wail. “I won’t let you die.”
He sobbed, distraught, pulling her into his arms and walking her back into the house.
