Page 4 of Wolfsbane Hall
“Perhaps, but save some room for imagination.”
He wasn’t wrong. Dorothy had many lovers, and James’s character was one of them. But the story required that piece of information to come out a bit later. Or, at the very least, be more obscured. So Celestine stopped him from making a spectacle by placing a hand on his well-manicured suit. Everything about James Ashbrook—including his clothing—was clear and measured. Studied like a scientist. And he always played characters like himself.
The Specter was far more accommodating to him than he ever was to her.
James’s eyes examined her. “Fine,” he sighed. “Perhaps not before the murder.”
Celestine flinched at the reminder, and her eyes tracked to the clock. Seven twenty-five.
Shit.Celestine had only minutes to complete her task. So she leaned close to James and whispered into the shell of his ear, “Meet me in the Red Parlor in ten minutes, and then you can do whatever you want to me.”
His lips curved further up. “I’ll take you up on that.” His eyes twinkled with domination and the promise of the depraved things he’d do to her later.
“Sorry, love, I must leave you,” she said loud enough for the room to hear. “I need to change.”
James leaned in and caught her hand before she could run off. “I have a beautiful dress in my room if you need it.”
All three Ashbrooks had rooms in the East Wing. The Specter only allowed cast members to stay the night at Wolfsbane.
“Oh, thank you, but I have my own.”
With that, she dashed out of the ballroom and stopped in her dressing room to prepare for her task. Rifling through her bag, she searched for the lipstick, the tool she needed. But as she grasped them, she braced her makeup table with her hand tightly, and she sucked in a pained breath. All the excitement and running had overexerted her, and she needed a minute to breathe.
Celestine’s heart shuddered in her chest, beating asynchronously.
No…not now.
Get yourself together.She didn’t have time for her body to melt down. She needed to get changed and prepare. So she slid her fingers along the grooves in the wall, grounding herself and communing with Wolfsbane, sending it her intentions.
Wolfsbane, please fix my makeup and enchant my lips. Help me to complete this killing.
Every night, Celestine drank the Specter’s elixir, a potion that allowed her to use his magic to further the show. It allowed her to interact with the house and ask it to do her bidding—create a musical ambiance, manipulate the audience’s emotions, or even morph the setting and her clothing. The only way to use the magic was to physically connect withthe house; the walls and floors were the most accessible connection points.
Sometimes, the house listened; sometimes, it didn’t. Other times, it twisted the request so much, Celestine wished she’d never asked to begin with.
So tonight, Celestine asked for help with the murder…and to fix her makeup. She didn’t bother asking to change her dress because it would get stained soon enough anyway; Babette didn’t realize the gift she’d given with the wine-throwing stunt. It gave Celestine an excuse to announce she’d changed her clothing publicly.
An alibi.
The house complied. A rush of wind circled through the dressing room, and magic poured over her face, tingling. The enchantment the house placed there burned her lips.
Thank you.She patted the wall, but her face soured as she remembered what came next.
“You look like the wind’s gone out of your sails and took all the sunshine with it, my sweet dame,” came the Specter’s voice from a shadow in the mirror. The Specter and his idioms. “Cheer up. It’s going to be fun.”
Celestine swallowed. “Death is never fun.”
“Perhaps…” the Specter trailed off as a grandfather clock chimed.
Celestine cursed under her breath. She needed to get moving. She had a murder to complete. At least tonight’s victim was a regular to this type of debauchery. He’d been murdered and done the murdering before. He wasn’t new, which was a significant relief. Sometimes, the attendees didn’t know what they were coming to. They were blissfully ignorant of Wolfsbane Hall’s true nature.
A monster house.
The Specter loved to play with newcomers and render a horror show where everything felt real until the end.
Because everythingwas realuntil the end.
The killer physically murdered their victims, and every moment of the show was, in fact, not an illusion. But new guests assumed it was all fake, that Specter fashioned expansive fantasies to make the bodies feel and look deceased.
