Page 96 of Wolfsbane Hall
It was the only thing that made sense.
There had always been a Phantom and a Specter during the whole time that Celestine lived in Wolfsbane Hall. All the inconsistencies between them made sense. The game Specter and post-game versions were vastly different creatures because they were. The version of the Specter after the show was calm, caring, and stable. Because he wasn’t the Specter at all, he was the Phantom.
So the Specter was Everett, but there was only one way to know for sure.
Shakily, Celestine placed her palms on the floor andtried to lift herself up. She managed to do it slowly and with a lot of effort, but she needed to do this.
Celestine leaned down and grabbed the knife from the evidence pile, and with unsteady steps, she walked over Everett, painful step by painful step, each footfall sending a jolt of pain through her body.
Once she finally made it there, she reached out and pricked his arm with the knife and dipped her finger into his blood, placing it on her tongue.
“Ouch, why the hostility, doll?” Everett flashed her a withering glare.
Celestine stepped back as if slapped. His blood tasted like cherry wine and chocolate, the main taste of the Specter’s elixir, especially on the nights when the shows were the flashiest.
The Specter’s elixir.
Everett was the Specter.
Babette must also have reached a conclusion, because she whispered, with alarm lacing her soft alto voice, “It’s you.”
A tear ran down her face, and she wiped it away quickly with the back of her hand. Apparently, she didn’t love the fact that she was in love with the Specter. But she was in love with the Specter, and Celestine was in love with the Phantom…
They really had chosen the wrong men.
And, of course, it had to be twins.
So stereotypical.
Babette glowered at Everett, a kaleidoscope of emotions playing across her face. She worked her hands in the skirts of her dress as she just stared at him. “How could it be you?” But she hesitated for a moment before saying it out loud and finishing the game.
Celestine let the other woman have this moment, because she hadn’t needed to be the winner. She didn’t care aboutbeing the one to solve the puzzles. She never had; she just happened to be the cast member who solved most of the Specter mysteries during her tenure.
As Babette opened her mouth, Celestine clutched her chest once more, and she realized something was terribly off—a dark feeling churned in her stomach.
“Wait,” Celestine started, “Don’t say—”
But she was too late because, to the entire room, Babette announced with extreme confidence, “Mr. Phantom, my answer to your riddle is:The Specter is Everett.”
Pain gnawed at Celestine’s bones, and the answer to why something felt wrong hit her.
It was the elixir.
When Celestine murdered James, the elixir tasted of champagne and raspberries. Not cherry wine. Every time James was the murder victim, the elixir tasted of champagne.
Babette was wrong.
Celestine gasped.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Babette clutched her head and let out a guttural scream. Blood dripped from her mouth, eyes, and ears. She stared at Everett, her eyes wide and glazed with confusion.
“No,” Everett said in a low baritone, and he stepped forward, catching her falling body, cradling her in his arms. He fell to his knees and held her, stroking her hair as she choked on her blood. “Shhh, you’re going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.” He pulled her body into his chest, and tears cut down his face.
Celestine watched on in shock, the large grandfather clock ticking the time away, haunting her with the last minutes of her life.
There were only seven minutes left.
