Page 50 of Wolfsbane Hall
Walter patted Jon’s leg but continued anyway. “I doubt there are any true secrets in this family.”
The vein in Lorraine’s forehead bulged, and she motioned at the cast members next to her brother-in-law. “These servant people didn’t know.”
“I mightily disagree, sister. All of Christendom knows.”
Celestine’s eyebrows scrunched together, and she tilted her head. “Besides, the Phantom isn’t going to let us make it through the night without revealing our worst moments anyways.” Walter picked up his fork and returned to his exceedingly expensive Wagyu beef and truffle fries. “Precisely why darling Celestine here is playing Marguerite, Frances is Angela, and Babette is Cauncy. All our dirty little secrets are on full display.”
It was a striking statement, mostly because he bothered to learn the names of the cast. Almost no rich people did that. The three female cast members were merely the help, or objects for them to play with.
“Well, I, for one, am not playing this foolish game then—” As if in response to Lorraine’s declaration, the lights went out, and darkness attacked the room.
A scream carved through the unease as suspenseful music—strings and harsh brass—crackled through the now frigid air. A reverberating drum pounded in Celestine’s ears, her heart working too hard.
Another scream poured out.
“Oh, so delightful! This will be fun.” Irene’s voice came from Celestine’s right.
Chaos lit the night with its sinister shadows, and Celestine felt something brush against her back. She shivered, her entire body going on edge, tight as a harp string. The squeaking of shoes, followed by the sound of a scuffle, came from her left, and indistinguishable male words mixed with gargling and another scream.
Then came a slap and a whooshing air hitting Celestine’s face as if something had gone flying by. Her immediate reaction was to find cover. Rolling out of her seat, she ducked under her table. She really did not feel like becoming the murder victim tonight. Especially since, if she died in the show, she would be unable to name the Specter, and the poison would kill her.
Permanently.
Although, from the combination of events that had just transpired, it didn’t seem like she was the target.
Sweat dripped down Celestine’s temple, and she drew her knees into her chest. An eternity passed, or what felt like it, as she trembled beneath the table. One never got used to murder. They might be able to block it out and harden their hearts, but it wasn’t an act a person could normalize—unless they were inhuman.
A popping sound cut through her thoughts, and Celestine clasped her hands over her ears.
Death lingered in the air, and she recognized the gurgling sounds of drowning in one’s blood from a stab wound or a gunshot. Despite knowing the victim would most certainly resurrect, it was still terrible. However, this was the Phantom’s show. Maybe nobody came back tonight.
The lights finally sparked back on, and the music died out. Everything returned to its previous state—everything except the dead body. Celestine poked her head out, the tablecloth resting over her head like a veil.
The smell of death clawed at the air—the scent of iron and unfulfilled dreams.
Lorraine’s glassy, dead eyes stared up at the ceiling. Blood dripped from multiple wounds in her chest. An arrow protruded from her stomach, and a red tie dangled between her fingers.
“Let the investigations begin!” The Phantom’s voice sauntered through the room as if he were present and enjoying his play unfolding.
A group of raven-haired heads—and Vivian’s fake blonde—flashed toward Everett. He stood mere feet away from his mother’s dead body. He stared down with a smile on his face.
Responding to the negative attention, he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I didn’t do it…this time.”
15
Saturday, November 11, 1939
The Grand Ballroom
This time.
What did it mean?
Oh, you’re going to find out, Margot said inside her mind. Celestine shuddered. The sinister voice scratched at her corpus callosum like nails on a crooked chalkboard. This character’s presence was radiating toxic energy, and it only seemed to be getting worse. She stared at the victim and smiled with sickening jubilation.
Celestine scratched her head.
There wasn’t a world in which she was responsible for Lorraine’s death, right?
