Page 39 of Wolfsbane Hall
A large smile painted Everett’s face. “What high praise.”
“Oh, wonderful. At least this time, I wasn’t included in that praise.” Vivian wiggled her eyebrows and walked over to Celestine in a conspiratorial way. “Usually, I am the one she is constantly belittling. She has that in common with my mother.”
“My poor nerves.” Lorraine placed a hand on her chest. “I cannot stand your lack of forgiveness for a measly transgression from eons ago.”
“Save us the dramatics, Mother.” Everett’s typically silly countenance was colder than Antarctica’s tundra. It was the first time Celestine had seen him so serious, not his usual jovial self.
“Darling…”
She trailed off, because, at the same moment, the next guests entered the ballroom. The second branch of the Ashbrook family. Irene—James and Vivian’s mother—walked in with her brother on one arm and her husband on the other. Her eyes were wide and full of excitement, tracking through all the magical elements of the room. “Oh, sweet, isn’t this exciting? Ghost dancers!”
Walter grinned genuinely, as if he were proud of everything he saw. “Yes, dearest, it’s wonderful.”
“I can’t wait until someone is murdered!” Irene said. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for what seems like forever. Finally invited to Wolfsbane Hall.”
Her excitement radiated from her like an enchantment, reveling in the gruesome. Irene enjoyed watching things burn and often lamented that gladiator arenas were no longer in proper use. Her energy was like a current of unfiltered anxiety, like a small dog frightened of the wind.
Vivian groaned, leaned into Celestine, and, in a much too loud of a voice, said, “Don’t let her airhead excitement foolyou. She’s a cunning, vindictive bitch.” Her lips fell into a flat line. “My mother still hasn’t forgiven me for her stretch marks or hair changing. Like I had any role in it.”
“You’ve always been an ungrateful child.” Irene took out her plum lipstick and reapplied it. “You both have been.” She nodded at her son.
Celestine rubbed her temples, suddenly thankful for her family even though they were dead. Her mother had been great, and comparing the Ashbrooks to her was like comparing a dog and a wolf. Although similar, they were completely different species.
Gooseflesh rose on Celestine’s arms as the jazz music cut out. A hollow hospital sound rang through the ballroom. The Phantom tore through it all. “Welcome, wretched family and the Specter’s playthings, to our wondrous night at Wolfsbane Hall. I have invited you here for a multitude of purposes, but mostly to have fun.My fun.So revel in my revels.” The Phantom’s voice clawed into Celestine’s skin. It was extra vicious and pointed. “You have all received your character cards and, surprise, every Ashbrook will be playing a variation of yourselves tonight. And because I am truly twisted, the remaining non-Ashbrook members of the cast play people from your pasts.”
A sea of murmurs broke through the family, and Celestine’s eyes rested on Frances, who had a similar expression branded on her face—an expression like crumbling poinsettias. A symbol of joy, rotting into ruin. The night was unfolding like an advanced strategic game, but unfortunately, it was unclear which game they were all playing—or even if they were playing the same one. Perhaps the Phantom was playing Chess while Celestine played Go and the Specter Backgammon.
The announcement continued. “I thought it might be a jolly good time for the Ashbrooks to live out their past sins andschemes throughmy will.” He laughed, the timbre deep and sinful. “And when you want to curse my name and unravel this game, remember, it was you who asked for it. It should go without saying: Be careful what you wish for.”
His voice faded, replaced by music that sounded like nails on a chalkboard, filling the room with its sharp edges and delirious tones, enveloping the space. The sound waves were a physical thing breaking into Celestine’s core like knives.
The marionette dolls from earlier fell from the ceiling, dripping like candle wax on a nearly dead candle.
The same singsong rhyme as earlier floated from their mouths.
Margret, Margret hanging down. It’s cold this Winter’s mourning. Too bad and oh so sad. You caused the Marquess’s scorning.
The dolls repeated the song over and over again—a nursery rhyme from the eighteenth century.
“Stop!” Vivian called up to the ceiling. “You’re truly not going to tell us which one of you pulls the strings in this place…still?” Her eyes moved first to her brother, then to her father and uncle, and finally rested on the twins, glaring with the force of a freight train.
“What does it matter which one runs it?” Irene asked. “The boys are thick as thieves. One running it is like all of them running it.”
Celestine’s brows arched downward, noting Irene only referencing the younger gentlemen in her statement.
“If it were only that easy.” James tapped his cards against the table impatiently, as if all this was tedious.
“Could you, at the very least, stop the creepy dolls?” Vivian crossed her arms.
James shrugged. “They’re not my dolls.” A smile crept at the edges of his mouth. Unconvincing. But the dolls did stoptheir skin-crawling song, and lively party music descended as the ghostly illusions appeared again, dancing.
“I would suggest you begin your show. Ticktock, ticktock.” The Phantom’s voice cut in and swathed Celestine’s skin like a cloak.
And as if on that cue, Everett sauntered over, his usual playboy demeanor kissing his features, but it looked slightly forced tonight. “My character wants to dance with you.”
Did he have a regular character card tonight? Or did he, too, have a presence rattling inside his head?
His gaze ignited, stroking over every curve of Celestine’s body. His stare was like a caress. And rosy blossoms spread across her cheeks, heating her chest, and she sucked in a breath. Everett had never used his seduction on her before, and a crumb of his attention could feed an army. Celestine suddenly understood why all the girls fell for this man—why they would all sell their souls for a night in his presence.
