Page 49 of Wolfsbane Hall
A stroke of panic crawled up Celestine’s throat. It was one thing to know death was imminent. It was an altogether different experience to be confronted with it. The jazz music and ghostly entertainment continued, clashing with the fermented atmosphere and Celestine’s panic. The cast might be the only one’s poisoned, but the family’s issues were their own toxin.
Dean, Everett, and their mother were seated for dinner at one of the tables. Lorraine had ambushed Everett as he entered, and Dean had run interference. Everett sat with his arms crossed while Dean smirked and their mother lectured, unaware that neither man was genuinely listening. It was in the lines of their backs and the tension in their forms. Heated voices twisted through the empty space, slightly muffled by the entertainment, but they clung to the glass surfaces while the words themselves were muffled.
Curiosity was a beast in Celestine’s chest. “Wolfsbane,” she said, running a finger along her wine glass, “I would like to hear that conversation.”
Celestine didn’t often use the Specter’s magic—or, in this case, the Phantom’s—but sometimes it was necessary. Sometimes, asking Wolfsbane for help was the most prudent thing to do. Because with the chiming of the clock came a reminder that there were multiple games afoot, and Celestine needed to uncover the Specter’s identity to live—and the Phantom’s, to punch him in the face.
A mockingbird call whistled across the air, the house giving its answer.Yes, Miss Sinclair.
The house was the vessel through which the magic worked, and Celestine still didn’t know how. She could ask the place to do something for her, and then it would decide if it wanted to listen. But she had no connection or ability to communicate with the house without the elixir. The elixir was like a telephone that connected them.
From the wine glass, like an echo, the voices played as if they were coming from a speaker. James lifted his eyebrows but said nothing, chewing on a new stick of spearmint gum.
“Must we truly go over all this again?” Lorraine growled at her son. “Get over it.”
“It doesn’t matter how many times you say that. It won’t change anything.” Everett took a large gulp from his bottle of bourbon. “I will never get over it.”
Lorraine’s head snapped to Dean. “And you’re just fine with rehashing all this?”
Dean’s smirk crawled further up his face like a spider. “Of course, I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Perhaps you should worry more about where your husband ran off to,” Everett said with another large swig.
“I know exactly where he is.” Lorraine’s words came out in both a scream and a whisper. “Off making some more illegitimate children, I presume. You would think two bastards would be enough, but—”
“Do not speak of my siblings that way,” Dean snapped back. “I put up with a lot of your bullshit, Mother, but I will not allow that.”
Lorraine’s lips fell into a hard line. “Of course not. He’s probably your favorite brother.”
James placed his hand over the glass and cut off the rest of the conversation.
“Oh, you didn’t want to hear if you are Dean’s favorite.” Vivian slurred her words as a ghost waiter picked up another empty wine glass and replaced it with a new one. “This service is convenient.”
“You’re drunk.” James leaned back in his chair. “And I already know I am Dean’s favorite. He prefers less…emotionality, and Everett is an active volcano.”
James wasn’t wrong. Emotions poured from Everett like lava, continuously flowing. Although, Dean was emotional too—but the type of emotion that was hidden under a mountain of barriers.
Vivian clicked her tongue. “You’re a blunt asshole.”
“Ah, that I am.” James confiscated Vivian’s glass.
“And absolutely no fun.” Vivian crossed her arms. “You’re wrong about Dean. He doesn’t mind emotion. You’re the one who can’t tolerate it.”
Perhaps the truest statement Vivian had ever uttered.
A loud giggle sounded from the main hallway, and the jazz music cut out. The ghost dancers froze in their tracks, becoming statues. The ghosts, or whatever they were, always sent a shiver down Celestine’s spine. She didn’t know if they were real or just incredibly convincing puppets. Sometimes, when she conversed with them, they responded, but in other moments, they were like vacant old-time Gilded Age photos. Soulless and lacking any ability to understand. Celestine often wondered if the most realistic moments were actually theSpecter.
The laughter was absorbed into the room—sucked in, as if by magic—and it died out as Irene and Archibald entered, disheveled. A plum-colored stain grazed Archibald’s collar. Everyone knew exactly what they had been up to. Celestine didn’t judge. She’d just done the same thing with James, but she would never be the other woman. She couldn’t betray anyone like that.
Celestine shook her head.
The Ashbrooks’ relationships were as messed up as the Phantom’s magic.
As if on cue, Lorraine howled her disapproval. She stormed up from her chair to confront her husband, pulling at his tie, probably hoping she could strangle him. “Is it not enough that you cheat on me? Must I endure it before our family and these vile plebeians?” Her eyes darted first to Celestine, and then Frances and then Babette, seated with the twins’ uncles. “Have a little decency.”
“Come on, it’s not like we haven’t known for eons,” Walter said, sticking up for his brother.
Jon shook his head and sent pleading eyes to Walter, and under his breath, he said, “Let’s focus on the food.”
