Page 5 of Wolfsbane Hall
The Specter’s true magic was in resurrection—although he could cast illusions and play with emotions, too.
The one rule of Wolfsbane Hall was:every murder must be solved; then, and only then, would the body resurrect.
Celestine stood in the Red Parlor, waiting for her prey. One minute until he was supposed to arrive, and James Ashbrook was always on time, even as his characters. He believed it was never appropriate to keep someone waiting.
As her character, Celestine raised her lips with feline delight and leaned against the side of a lounge like a seductress draped in silk and jewels, waiting for a midnight assignation.
James stormed into the room like a cowboy in a Western film about to rescue his damsel in distress. He walked with purpose, and, without hesitation, he cupped the back of Celestine’s neck and kissed her fiercely.
The kiss was beastly and consumed by unfiltered vigor. Almost as if they didn’t do this every week. But that was the nature of their relationship. They were a wildfire that burned until it would eventually flame out and die.
James was not for keeping.
No rich man was. A lesson she’d learned long ago. Poor girls don’t end up with “the man,” even if they desperately want to.
James was for fucking and, tonight, killing.
Celestine’s back slammed against the wall as their mouths devoured each other, his hands stroking up her legs andbunching the fabric of her dress up to her core with their movement.
“You taste of champagne,” he whispered, his lips on her neck and his fingers digging into the curves of her thighs, their rhythm like magic. “And is that a hint of raspberry?”
The elixir. It tasted like champagne and raspberries tonight. But Celestine didn’t mention it. She had a murder to complete, and too much conversation wouldn’t do, so she pulled James’s lips to hers again.
Kisses made such useful distractions, so she deepened their passion until he jerked, his hands stilling.
James pulled away, his eyes widening with betrayal.
“I’m sorry,” Celestine breathed into his hair as his limbs went limp. “You’re the Specter’s victim tonight.”
Celestine had poisoned her lips with a tranquilizer strong enough to sedate a horse. Only a thin layer of plastic and Specter’s magic kept the lipstick from incapacitating her.
“How are you going to do it?” James croaked as his head lolled to the side.
“Stabbing.” She caught him as his body slid to the floor.
“Ah…I’ve never been stabbed before.” James smiled, lopsided and bright. A sick part of him enjoyed dying over and over again. He once said it made him feel alive every time he died in Wolfsbane Hall. He enjoyed it so much that he often volunteered as a victim, choosing to die every other week.
Although he enjoyed it, killing still made Celestine’s stomach churn and her arms quiver.
“I’ll see you after.” And while he was still conscious, she gripped an ornamental knife from above her head, rolled her hand into the stabbing position, and thrust down.
“Thank you,” he said, blood bubbling from his mouth as he stared gleefully down at his wound. She knew he thanked herfor starting while he was still awake to experience it. He wanted to see and feel the knife as it slid in.
James had a terrible trauma in his past, which he refused to speak about. It caused him to enjoy pain and victimhood—to feast on it. But who was she to judge? She had her own crooked, scarred history.
Celestine pulled out the knife, then slammed it in again and again and again. It was a crime of passion, after all. Her character was overcome by rage and vengeful lust. But all of it made vomit snake up Celestine’s esophagus. She continued her job regardless. Celestine Sinclair was loyal—the perfect employee for her Specter.
Loyal to a fault and to the detriment of her sanity.
2
Friday, November 3, 1939
Red Parlor
The room tasted like iron and misery. A flavor that matched Celestine’s mood.
She stumbled backward and caught herself on the couch, leaving a bloody handprint in her wake as she slid—nearly fell—to the floor. Rivulets of blood dripped down her face and streaked her skin, blossoming across her silk dress. Blood was everywhere, dusting the room in her shame.
