Page 30 of Wolfsbane Hall
The door creaked again as Dean pushed it further open, his eyes sharp on her, examining all her flaws.
He stepped into a massive antechamber, and she followed. The room had no furniture, but it was decorative and led to three ancient red oak doors.
The room didn’t need furniture, because it was laced with sorcery, the walls looking like they had been formed from the fingertips of gods. Every surface vibrated with life. One wall moved like a breathing, living thing, and a mural of a tranquil waterfall, surrounded by a periwinkle garden, rested on its surface. Across from it was a wall with a glittering mirror. It was formed from swirling silver liquid, and both wallslooked like they could have been portals into another world. On the final wall hung a massive family portrait of the Ashbrooks, but it seemed to have been painted ages ago. All the women wore rococo dresses, and the men wore exuberant wigs.
The hairs on Celestine’s arms rose. It was either an original painting or just a mock-up designed to resemble the 1760s. Her gaze flickered to Dean and burned through him. Wolfsbane Hall had been in operation for 104 years, first established in New York and later relocated to San Francisco during the Gold Rush. If the painting was original, then was Dean immortal? Was his entire family? Or was Wolfsbane passed down from son to son like a dukedom?
“Unsettling, isn’t it?” Dean asked, his eyes catching on a doppelgänger of himself.
Unsettling was an understatement.
Immortals weren’t real, right? Vampires and other creatures of the night didn’t exist. They were creatures of storybooks and nightmares, not reality. The painting was just a painting, showing the Ashbrooks as if they were nearly 300 years old. Except if all of that were true, then where had Dean’s magic come from? If magic were real, so too could immortals be.
“And for the first time, you are speechless in my presence.” Dean slid his hands into his pockets and leaned against the wall, knocking the frame of the mirror.
It took everything within her not to ask if he was immortal. The words would sound foolish, escaping her lips. Wouldn’t they?
But the Ashbrooks couldn’t be. They were new money, like the Vanderbilts of New York City. Upstarts, clout chasers, and everyone knew they had gotten rich off their railroads.
Celestine inhaled sharply. The painting didn’t matter.There were bigger missions at play. Find evidence of the Specter’s identity in order to save Frances’s life.
So, by pure feeling, she chose one of the three doors. To her relief, it opened with a simple twist of the door handle. Inside was a bedroom suite featuring a bathroom, a small study, and a dressing area.
The study was bursting with cabinets, shelves carved into the walls, piles upon piles of papers, stacks of boxes, and all manner of elaborate decorations. Even a snow globe, which looked to be filled with rose gold glitter, adorned the desk at the center of the room.
Not wasting time, Celestine focused on the study and ransacked the drawers. All unlocked.
Dean followed close behind, sometimes accidentally blocking her rampage—and itwasa rampage. All the anger building inside of her poured out onto the Specter’s belongings.
Celestine tore through useless papers discussing taxes, boring vendor deals, food for the kitchens, florals for the halls, and paint for the walls. All normal housekeeping stuff. The only bizarre part was that Wolfsbane Hall wouldn’t even need it to begin with. And unfortunately, all the documents were conveniently missing identifying information.
Because luck was never on her side.
Throughout most of her “inspection,” Dean stood, silently observing, occasionally sidestepping out of her way. Lord forbid he touch her. He had been letting her have her way with the stuff. Perhaps a positive sign. She couldn’t imagine the Specter standing by and watching as she destroyed his things.
Celestine turned violently, wanting to rip through another cabinet, but a wall of lean muscle blocked her. She instinctively jerked away, her back hitting a filing cabinet, the sharp edge of it leaving a bruise that would blossom later. She steppedtoward Dean, figuring it was a mistake and that he would move, but he didn’t. Instead, he’d placed himself inches from her, his chiseled chest nearly touching her.
Celestine’s breath hitched. The energy surging between them was electric. Powerful, but deadly to the touch. Her heart screamed in her ears. But Dean didn’t move. Instead, he stared down at her, arms crossed and eyes sparkling with an emotion she couldn’t decipher.
A warm stroke of his breath caressed her neck, and shivers danced down her spine. Celestine swallowed hard, begging the man to move, because she absolutely wouldn’t touch him.
Shewouldn’t.
He would hate it, and she would…like it?
Oh, she was in a terrible state. All she wanted was to tame the man who hated her. To be worthy of a powerful, rich, possibly immortal man’s attention. She wanted to be seen and known by him.
But she never would be. She was too poor and too garish.
“Dean.” Her voice was breathy. She swallowed and curled her nails into her palms, leaving indents. “You should get out of my way.”
He eyed her, the corner of his lip lifting, moving his hands firmly into his pockets—he loved his pockets. Or he loved the fact that he couldn’t touch her if there were a barrier between them.
Life was a series of unfair events. For as much as he longed not to touch her, she longed just as much to touch him.
“I think those might be of use to you.” He pointed to papers that had fallen from a book during her tirade, and then he stepped aside to let her reach them.
There was a series of old newspaper articles dating back over two hundred years. Obituaries and gossip sheets about a noble family and a girl’s deaths. Article after article. Allrumors. All personal sources, except a few newspaper sources, were relaying big events of the day.
