Page 67 of Wolfsbane Hall
And yes, the Phantom had resurrected James and the uncles, but that was because they weren’t supposed to die. That was because Margot had ruined the show.
But this?
Lorraine’s translucent ghost body hovered over her. That was not possible.
But…
Lorraine wasn’t back. Was she? Just another of Phantom’s tricks?
“Phantom?” Celestine croaked, her throat too dry from the lack of air in the room. “Help.”
A vicious smile crossed Lorraine’s pale, sharp cheekbones. She looked like a sculpture of Hera coming to kill one of Zeus’s poor, unwilling lovers.
“He can’t help you now, girl.” Her voice was a weapon. A scythe.
Lorraine rushed forward, and Celestine tried to dodge and scurry past her would-be murderer. But Lorraine was both too fast and too magical. Celestine’s sanctuary rotted into a nightmare. Her sheets became manacles holding her down, her floor became a black pit, and her perfect books became a cage she couldn’t escape.
Celestine was fucked.
She was a young woman in a serial killer’s lair. It was like glaring at Death, except Lorraine was far worse than Death. She was the Devil, or something close.
“No,” Celestine and Margot screamed in unison as Lorraine’s sticklike, witchlike hand circled her throat.
She lifted her like she weighed nothing and slammed her onto the bed, causing Celestine’s remaining books to fall into the black pit.
Lorraine tightened her fingers. “You will not ruin my boys.”
The air squeezed from Celestine’s lungs as she reached behind her head; she tried to grab a pillow, book, or anything she could use to hit Lorraine over the head. But there was nothing to hold on to. The wicked woman had made sure of it.
“They are mine and only mine, forever.”
What an overbearing, fucked-up mother. Men were supposed to cleave from their mothers at some point. It was a natural part of life. That was probably not the most appropriate time to have such thoughts, but Celestine had never died knowing it would stick before.
As darkness consumed her, she wished she had kissed Dean just once.
An utterly useless thought.
Death’s claws raked down her spine, and her head lolled to the side, her limbs growing limp.
She was dying, and it wasn’t even because of her feeble heart. Or maybe that was precisely the reason—she was being murdered because of a man. Men.
How awful.
22
Saturday, November 11, 1939
Celestine’s Bedroom
Blackness was a snake coiling around her neck, a straitjacket locking her down forever in a trap of her own making. She should have listened to Dean last week, run away and left San Francisco and Wolfsbane forever.
She didn’t want to die like this.
Dying was inevitable, but maybe she could have lasted a couple more years and become a world-famous actress that all the women would admire and all the men would want to fuck.
It wasn’t until the light left her that Celestine realized she hadn’t been weaponless. She could have asked the house for help. She, too, had elixir in her veins. She could have used the Phantom’s magic.
Then fight, Celestine. Fight.
