Page 99 of Wolfsbane Hall
She didn’t have time to investigate that.
She didn’t have time for much else, certainly not enough time to see if Babette and Frances would return to life. She’d just have to go on faith.
Celestine was finally going to value herself above everyone else. She was finally going to do what she wanted, and she wanted to leave and never see another Ashbrook again for the rest of her life. There was no energy left in her body, but she managed to get it to do what she wanted. Without stopping to grab anything, Celestine moved to leave.
She paused in front of James’s open wound, pressed her finger into it, and placed the blood into her mouth. She wanted one final confirmation.
It tasted of champagne and raspberries.
Then she left, walking into the Grand Hall and opening the massive double doors at the main entrance. She placed her forehead on the door and rested for a moment.
“Goodbye, Wolfsbane.”
Then she squared her shoulders and walked out the door.
Her dress was splattered with blood, and her hair was in disarray. But she was leaving.
For good.
It was the last choice she would make in her short life.
INTERLUDE
Sunday, August 17, 1930
Civic Auditorium - The Opera House
San Francisco, California
Failure tasted like heartbreak, raw and rotten.
Celestine hadn’t lost everything after her family’s massacre. She had a trust fund and a lecherous male guardian, who had fortunately never managed to touch her thanks to his godsend of a wife. She was gorgeous, glamorous, and protective of young, broken things—probably because she was twenty years younger than her husband. But unfortunately, the wretched husband had lost all their money and Celestine’s entire trust on Black Tuesday during the Wall Street crash. Everything was gone in a moment. One small moment changed the fate of their lives and forced them out of their Pacific Heights mansion and onto the treacherous streets of San Francisco. Celestine’s guardian lasted a day before blowing his brains out. He couldn’t handle being poor.
His wife fared far better, but Celestine lost track of her after three months.
And Celestine…managed. Mostly stealing and hiding. Big mansions had a lot of empty rooms, and some even had attics that hadn’t been opened in years.
But Celestine was sick of hiding, sick of suffering, and worst of all, she was sick of begging. The Opera was supposed to be her ticket out—her way of making money with so few talents.
“Try again next year,” the Director said. “You have many of the basics there.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was soft and hollow. There likely wouldn’t be a next year.
Celestine stepped down the stairs, leaving the light, and the darkness slid over her porcelain face, cloaking it and her tears. Slowly, step by step, she moved up the aisle, the next soprano’s hopeful song underscoring the devastation coating the chambers of Celestine’s heart.
Too consumed by her plight, she completely missed the tall stranger in the top hat who now stood at the end of the aisle, blocking her path.
Her eyes tracked up seconds before crashing into him, and she jolted to a halt, her ankle slightly twisting. Shit. It hurt.
The man reached out, and his firm hands landed on her shoulders, steadying her. A shiver laced through her spine as her eyes tracked his face.
It was veiled in shadows. Entirely in shadows, and Celestine was unsure if she was hallucinating them or if her tears were so consuming she could no longer see straight.
“The Opera directors are fools.” The color of his voice was dark, like his shadows. The tone was deep and rich, like a bass singer. “No one should ever let a girl like you slip through their fingers.”
“I… What?” Celestine was too dumbfounded to respond.
He cocked his head like a bird of prey. “I have uses for a girl like you. An opportunity far rarer than the Opera.”
