Page 23 of Wolfsbane Hall
The Specter?Only the Specter called her Celine. Maybe it was him, but she still couldn’t get herself to care. Betrayal tore her insides apart. Her Specter was allowing this to happen. He had just let the Phantom take over this show, and so had these men. It was a betrayal—by all of them. And it was that bit that was too painful.
“You have to snap out of it and play the game.”
She blinked, but her eyes didn’t focus, and she refused to look at them. Willfully avoiding them.
“You’re the only one who can win, Celine.”
“No, go away. I will stay here and die in peace,” Celestine said, her voice cracking.
One of the men grasped her hand. Probably James. Henever could keep his hands off her. Celestine used to like it, but now his touch only felt like treachery.
“You have to fight, Celine; this isn’t how you die,” the man with the velvet voice said. “You must fight.”
No. The heartbreak would kill her anyways; the poison was simply speeding it up. The Ashbrooks didn’t understand. What the Phantom did was bad, but it was the Specter’s betrayal that truly hurt her. She had expected him to keep her safe, and now their deal was broken. She would be a victim or the murderer—playing his stupid games—as long as resurrections were in play. But now, they were completely off the table. No resurrections, and an impossible puzzle.
So what was the point of fighting? In trying? There was none, not when she barely had life left anyway.
“Fight, Celine…”
“No, I can’t,” Celestine whispered.
“If you don’t play for yourself, play for Frances. She’s like a mother to you.”
Now that was just dirty.
Whichever man said it, he knew Celestine down to her core. Because there was one thing above all else that she cared for. Her family. And the cast—even Babette—was her family.
As fucked up as that family was.
Celestine hugged her knees tightly to her chest. Frances was her greatest motivation.
“What is it that you suggest I do?” Celestine blinked a couple of times, and the world finally drew back into focus. Her eyes caught first on Dean, who was standing directly in front of her, then James, who clutched her right hand, and finally Everett, who was on the other side.
“Play the game. You’re the best at solving the shows,” James said, chewing on a piece of gum. Except when he was kissing her, he always seemed to have a piece of gum.
“The show will help you discover the answers.” Dean leaned slightly away, as if he’d just realized how close he was standing. Too close.
“And how do you know that?” Celestine once again hugged her knees, a surge of frustration stewing in her stomach.
“Because it’s the Phantom,” Dean said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Right, and you know who the Phantom is?”
Dean shrugged and brushed a piece of nonexistent lint off his suit coat.
“Then perhaps you could simply tell me who the Specter and the Phantom are so I can win this futile game and punch him in the face.” Celestine would never, even if she could, but the sentiment felt good. It felt like milk chocolate and salted caramel. Glorious and fulfilling.
“Which him are you going to punch?” Everett asked, playing with the cufflink of his disheveled shirt. “You weren’t clear on that part.”
“Everett,” Dean and James both reprimanded at once.
Everett raised his arms in a what-givesgesture. “Seemed like a fair question.”
“Both.” Celestine glared at all three men in turn. It was apparent none of them were taking her impending death seriously. She never expected seriousness out of Everett—he didn’t have a serious bone in his body—but she expected it out of the other two. But more irritating than their lack of seriousness was that they tried to dodge her questions. “Everett, you’re avoiding the question.”
“Even if we did know the answer, we couldn’t tell you.”
“Why?”
