Wolfsbane Hall
Hazel St. Lewis
Publication date: August 13th 2025
Genres: Adult, Fantasy, Romance, Thriller
Phantom meets Clue:
Sheâs forced to murder to surviveâuntil itâs her turn to die.
At Wolfsbane Hall, a secretive 1930s San Francisco murder mystery club, actress Celestine Sinclair plays a deadly role: executing victims who can only return to life once their murders are solved. Haunted by guilt yet bound by unwavering loyalty, she obeys the orders of the Specterâthe clubâs unseen mastermind and source of its magic.
But when his nemesis seizes control and poisons her, the game changes. The only way to survive? Solve the nightâs mystery and unmask the Specterâan identity that has remained hidden for centuries. Even worse, the three prime suspects are the men closest to her: her lover, her enemy, and her best friend. One of them has betrayed her, and she has only hours left to uncover the truth.
The clock is ticking, the stakes are fatal, and this time, death will last forever.
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EXCERPT:
Celestine stood in the Red Parlor, waiting for her prey. One minute until he was supposed to arrive, and James Ashbrook was always on time, even as his characters. He believed it was never appropriate to keep someone waiting.
As her character, Celestine raised her lips with feline delight, and she leaned against the side of a lounge like a seductress draped in silk and jewels, waiting for a midnight assignation.
James stormed into the room like a cowboy in a Western film about to rescue his damsel in distress. He walked with purpose, and, without hesitation, he cupped the back of Celestineâs neck and kissed her fiercely.
The kiss was beastly and consumed by unfiltered vigor. Almost as if they didnât do this every week. But that was the nature of their relationship. They were a wildfire that burned until it would eventually flame out and die.
James was not for keeping.
No rich man was. A lesson sheâd learned long ago. Poor girls donât end up with âthe manâ, even if they desperately wanted to.
Yet James was for fucking and, tonight, killing.
Celestineâs back slammed against the wall as their mouths devoured each other, his hands stroking up her legs and bunching the fabric of her dress up to her core with their movement.
James pulled away, his eyes widening with betrayal. âIâm sorry,â Celestine breathed into his hair as his limbs went limp. âYouâre the Specterâs victim tonight.â
Celestine had poisoned her lips with a tranquilizer strong enough to sedate a horse. Only a thin layer of plastic and Specterâs magic kept the lipstick from incapacitating her.
âHow are you going to do it?â James croaked as his head lolled to the side.
âStabbing.â
She caught him as his body slid to the floor.
âAhâŚIâve never been stabbed before.â James smiled, lopsided and bright. A sick part of him enjoyed dying over and over again. He once said it made him feel alive every time he died in Wolfsbane Hall. He enjoyed it so much that he volunteered as a victim, choosing to die every other week.
Although he wanted it and enjoyed it, killing still made Celestineâs stomach churn and her arms quiver.
While he was still conscious, she gripped an ornamental knife from above her head, rolled her hand into the stabbing position, and thrust down.
âThank you,â he said, blood bubbling from his mouth as he stared gleefully down at his wound. She knew he thanked her for starting while he was still awake to experience it. He wanted to see and feel the knife as it slid in.
Celestine pulled the knife out and slammed it in again and again and again. It was a crime of passion, after all. Her character was overcome by rage and vengeful lust. But all of it made vomit snake up Celestineâs esophagus. She continued her job regardless. Celestine Sinclair was loyalâthe perfect employee for her Specter.
Author Bio:
Hazel St. Lewis is a Northern California-based Romantasy author. Diagnosed with dyslexia at a young age, she struggled to read and write, but fantasy stories inspired her to start storytelling. Unfortunately, now, she is a little too obsessed with morally gray characters. When she isnât writing, she can be found playing with her hoard of cats (too many to countâŚitâs a problem), singing songs to said cats, or painting.
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