Page 24 of Wolfsbane Hall
They shared a look between them. A look that meant understanding, secrecy, and unbreakable promises. They were vaults, and she wouldn’t ever get anything out of them. Butnow she knew all three of them were aware of the identities of the Specter and the Phantom. It was the only logical conclusion. One of them had warned the others not to drink the poison.
Warned them.
Yet, all three of them let her drink it.
Betrayal’s claws ripped at her spine, and she wanted to scream.
“I don’t know,” Everett finally responded. “I don’t know who the Specter or the Phantom is. It just felt like the right thing to say.”
Lies.
Celestine inhaled sharply.
So many fucking lies.
This house and the Ashbrook family were built on them. She shouldn’t have been surprised.
“Then how did you know not to drink the elixir?”
Dean answered. “We all got a note, from who I now have to assume is the Phantom, warning us not to drink it.”
“Right,” she said. It was just more lies. Lies on lies on lies. It was what rich men did. “And you couldn’t possibly know who sent it.” Sarcasm spilled from her crimson lips.
“Even if they knew, the magic wouldn’t allow them to say it.” The hairs on Celestine’s arms had rose seconds before the booming voice of the Phantom returned.
Shadows leaked down the walls, covering the sconces in darkness and setting her head ablaze. The Phantom was so liberal with his use of magic, like his very essence—his very breath—was varnished in spells. So different from the Specter.
The Specter was a showboat, but he rarely used his magic before the guests arrived or after they left. He didn’t show off to his cast. But the Phantom used magic as a tool of communication to set the tone and get under one’s skin.
“Magic is a fickle thing, little Celine—”
“Don’t call me that,” Celestine interrupted.
He ignored her completely, and continued. “If someone reveals the source of the magic—reveals the identity of the Specter—then the magic stops working for the person receiving the information,” the Phantom said. “These precious men would never ruin that for you.”
Celestine watched the faces of the men in question while the Phantom spoke, measuring them and trying to find micro-expressions. Nothing. They were granite. Hard and sharp.
Maybe none of them were the Phantom, but Celestine had a feeling, a deep, instinctual feeling, that he was in the room.
Because of what they had said earlier.
You broke her.
No,webroke her.
An admission.
Probably.
Oh, it was so convoluted and messed up. She didn’t know what to fucking think or believe.
“Magic is fickle,” the Phantom repeated.
“What does that mean?”
“If any of us gave away the answer, you’d no longer be able to see the illusions or interact with the house. But most importantly, you would never be able to be resurrected.”
Wasn’t that the threat he’d already made?Why would he care?The Phantom didn’t want her resurrected. If he did, he wouldn’t have given her an impossible puzzle.
