Page 85 of Wolfsbane Hall
Dammit. The Specter—no, the Phantom—had been her sanctuary, but now he was her prison—her tormentor. He’d tricked her, poisoned her, and played with her like a marionette doll with all its strings cut off.
She hit herself again. She was so fucking stupid. “You’re the Phantom.” She opened her eyes to see the betrayal. He was a man formed by decaying trust and broken hearts; he was her devastation.
His expression was one of surprise, but he quickly locked it up and slid a hard mask over his features. In his blue eyes, she saw the recognition—the truth.
She didn’t give him a chance to speak. She couldn’t hear one more lie out of his mouth, but honestly, she didn’t want to hear the truth either. Not right now. She’d get it from the true Specter.
“Don’t follow me.” She held her arm straight out, blocking him.
Fury coiled in her stomach like a king cobra, and she no longer had any tears left. Her eyes had dried up, and they would never water for him again. Apathy was her new friend.Celestine ran and ran and ran down twisting halls and up the grand stairs, heading back to the Library, where the largest mirror in the house rested.
It was a mess as she walked into the room, possibly from the earlier search during the Phantom’s game. But books had been thrown open on coffee tables and the floor. Some had cracked spines, and others had their pages bent, scattered across the marble floor or on intricate throw carpets, their paper mangled. It was horrible, but she couldn’t focus on it.
Celestine could always count on the Specter to appear in a mirror. He loved using mirrors to toy with people, appearing in them, haunting them, and morphing them into something far more tantalizing.
Mirrors were one of histhings.
Celestine steeled her spine and glowered up at the silver glass. “Specter.”
It only took a moment for him to appear to her, almost like he was waiting for her to call out to him.
A blue, glittering silhouette appeared in the mirror, its surface rippling like the water of a lily pond. “Yes, my sweet Celestia?” His voice was too bright, like the sound of a hospital hallway. The tone was white—sterile—not warm or charming in any way.
Celestine shivered and didn’t say anything. She had no idea what to say or how to start. He must have realized the staggering nature of her discomfort, because smoke poured out of the edges of the bookshelves and through the cracks in the wall, forming a solid figure. A man. The smoke stepped behind her and wrapped his hands around her, cradling her into his chest. She felt his presence all at once, crooked and toxic, yet warm and lifegiving.
She didn’t want to get comfort from it, but she couldn’t help it.
The Specter could be awful, but then there were moments like these when he was so loving and tender, making her the center of his world. It made every pore in her body light up, and it made her feel like she could forgive anything—and she had.
Whenever he hurt her, he’d always do this, always pull her back in, apologizing and loving her like no one had before, and she would always forgive him.
Every time.
This time, the smoke felt like being wrapped up in James’s arms, and she leaned her head into its chest, taking a big breath of him. He smelled like he had just eaten a handful of raspberries and drank a whiskey. And maybe she was manifesting what she wanted, but James usually smelled of ash and raspberries.
And foolishly, she leaned into him, accepting the comfort even though she knew he’d betrayed her too.
“What is it?” the smoke whispered into her hair.
She snuggled into him, seeking his comfort for her following words. “Do you talk to me in my bedroom after the games?”
“No…” His voice was anguished. “My magic is blocked from there.”
“By whom?” Celestine’s voice cracked, but she didn’t need him to tell her the answer. She already knew. She’d confirmed as much with Dean, but she still had to hear it out loud to make it feel real.
The smoke twisted around her, snaking up her legs as if trying to touch her everywhere, yet he still said nothing. Time stilled, and the moment dragged on like molasses dripping from a jar. He knew the answer but was measuring how to say it.
The silhouette in the mirror shifted uncomfortably. Andthe busts on the bookshelves came to life, all their eyes staring at her as if trying to look into her soul and see what would happen if they told her the truth.
The pages in the books surrounding her flew open, turning on their own accord, yet in a rhythm. It was musical, all the movements taken together.
All the statues, the mirror, and the smoke spoke as one, like a thousand voices. “The Phantom.”
Her heart stumbled, and the snake in her stomach coiled in on itself as if seeking shelter from a storm.
Dean was the Phantom, but he was also the person who played chess with her and spoke to her about everything as she drifted off to sleep.
How could he be both her comfort and her pain all at once? It wasn’t fair. It was torment.
