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“You’re thinking awfully loudly for someone who hasn’t said anything for thirty seconds,” I observe, trying to ignore how good her gentle touch feels against my sensitive membrane.

“Toxin propagation patterns suggest targeted design rather than environmental exposure.” Her eyes meet mine with unsettling directness. “This wasn’t a random injury, was it?”

My skin shifts to obsidian so quickly it surprises even me. “I never said it was.”

“No, you said ‘patrol incident’ and let everyone assume.” Her fingers pause in their work, but don’t withdraw. “The injury pattern indicates a weaponized delivery system with specific cryptid targeting parameters.”

“And you know this how?” The question emerges sharper than intended, defensive in ways that only confirm her suspicions.

“I’m a biochemist with extensive study in molecular biology.” Her answer comes too quickly, too practiced. “Tissue degradation patterns create recognizable signatures.”

My claws extend against the table, betraying emotions my face tries to hide. “Fascinating expertise for someone who worked at a pharmaceutical research company.”

Her fingers resume their careful application of the salve, but something shifts in her expression—a flicker of something that might be guilt before professional composure returns. “The wing needs daily treatment if you want to maintain flight capability. And don’t bother with deflection technique number twenty-six—changing the subject when uncomfortable truths arise.”

“You really do have a spreadsheet for everything, don’t you?” I keep my tone light despite the growing tension between us. “Very thorough.”

“Thoroughness improves outcomes.” She steps back, capping the salve jar with precise movements. “Something to consider when deciding how much truth to share about that wing injury.”

Our gazes meet across the space between us—scientist and Jersey Devil locked in an unspoken challenge. Both keeping secrets. Both recognizing the other’s careful evasions.

“Tomorrow, same time?”I ask, folding my wing with careful movements that betray none of the pain each motion causes.

“Unless you’d prefer your wing to become permanently unusable,” she responds, returning to her workstation with a scientific detachment that doesn’t quite mask the concern beneath.

“Such bedside manner, Doc.” My tail uncurls from the table leg as I stand. “You should consider something warmer. Might improve patient compliance.”

“Compliance metrics correlate more strongly with treatment efficacy than provider demeanor.” But there’s the faintest curve to her lips as she says it. “Though I’ll take your feedback under consideration.”

As I leave her lab, I can feel her gaze following me—analytical, concerned, and increasingly perceptive in ways that both intrigue and unsettle me. She’s cataloging my secrets alongside my deflection techniques, systematically dismantling the barriers I’ve spent decades constructing.

The most troubling part isn’t her scientific persistence or her growing suspicions about my injury. It’s how increasingly comfortable I feel under her scrutiny, as though being truly seen—even by someone who seems to know more than she should—might be worth the risk after all.

Chapter Six

Blair

“There’s something I want to show you.” Dante’s skin shifts between crimson and obsidian as he leads me down a passage I’ve never traveled before. His wing brace catches the crystal light, reminding me how much research I still need to do on his mysteriously slow-healing injury.

The carved stone corridor descends gradually, opening into what appears to be a natural cavern that’s been carefully modified. My breath catches at the sight.

Towering bookshelves line the walls, carved directly into the living rock. Crystal formations cast a warm, ambient glow that feels almost deliberately placed, creating pools of perfect reading light between the stacks. The air carries the familiar scent of old books mingled with something else—some kind of mineral tang that makes the space feel ancient and somehow sacred.

“The cryptid archive,”Dante explains, his voice dropping to that low register that definitely doesn’t affect my pulse rate. “Centuries of knowledge preserved by those who came before us.”

Ancient leather-bound tomes share space with modern research journals. Delicate scrolls rest in crystal-lined niches. A magnificent oak table dominates the center of the room, its surface etched with the same mysterious symbols I’ve seen throughout the mountain.

“This is incredible.” Moving closer to examine the nearest shelf, I find texts in languages I don’t recognize alongside technical manuals that look surprisingly recent. “How long have you been collecting these?”

“Generations of cryptids have contributed.” His tail curls gracefully as he watches me explore. “Some were rescued from private collectors. Others were donated by families seeking sanctuary.”

My fingers hover over a particularly ancient spine. “May I?” Heat floods my cheeks as our gazes meet and I notice for the first time how beautiful his eyes are, a color somewhere between garnet and ruby.

“Of course.” He moves closer, reaching past me to retrieve the volume. His proximity sends another spike in his body temperature—something I’ve been noticing more frequently but haven’t yet properly documented. “Though you might need help with the translation. It’s written in an old cryptid dialect.”

He picks up a small device and a single earbud from a nearby table. “You can use this scanner and earbud. It will translate what you scan into English. If, after you’ve listened to it, you want to keep any of the translated text on your datapad, I’ll send you the app that will do that for you.”

The book’s leather binding feels butter-soft beneath my fingers. When I open it, the scent of age and knowledge wafts up, making my scientist’s heart race. Diagrams of various cryptid species fill the pages, annotated in flowing script. For a moment, my knees actually feel weak at how special this moment feels, holding so much ancient wisdom in my hands.