Page 33 of Blood Moon

The moonlight conspired for us to be together.

Article VII, Lost Letters from Aadan the First

A bouquet of flowers sat in a vase outside my dorm room, blooming with pink and coral petals. An envelope was secured between two of them.

Stevie and Em gasped simultaneously. We’d all just come from dinner. “Flowers,” Stevie said, a hand to her chest. “From whom?” She plucked the envelope from the bouquet, finding my name printed on it.

“For me? ” I said, my brows squishing in the middle of my face.

Em picked up the bouquet while I opened the door. “It’s probably from one of your boyfriends.”

I sighed. “Not a thing.”

“Mira, we all saw the way Seven looked at you at the party the other day. And then Julian carried you in his arms— like, in his arms, ” she motioned after we were inside.

“Why else would he do that? We could have carried you out fine,” she said, and she flexed.

She was right; I’m sure they had it under control.

“God, I don’t know,” I said, pulling my hair out of the ponytail it’d been in all day.

Em set the flowers on the table and stared at the paper in my hands. “The anticipation is killing me.”

“Yeah, open it,” Stevie agreed.

I slid my finger between the fold, pulling it out quickly to break the seal. A dark red met me upon release, blood splattering onto the paper and the petals below. “ Oh ,” I muttered, dropping the envelope.

Stevie rushed for a tissue, and Em scurried backward, face blanching before she covered her mouth. Stevie and I shared a look of bewilderment.

“Are you okay?” Stevie asked.

Em looked away. “I’m super squeamish around blood.”

“Do you want to sit?” I asked.

Em considered it for a moment, brows knitting together. As we awaited a response, Stevie hurried to grab our trash can, placed it close to where Em stood.

“I better go,” Em finally said. “The smell is horrendous.” She was gone without a second thought, and Stevie and I shrugged once she fled.

With my finger wrapped, I pulled the paper from the envelope. Inside, written in stark black ink was a small note:

Sorry about earlier

—Seven

“Whatever he did, he messed up severely, huh?”

“Exactly that.”

“Well, there are precisely seven flowers. Guess we should have known.”

I collapsed onto the couch, holding my finger to my chest. “Seven and Julian had a bit of a scuffle earlier …”

Her eyes widened. “Come again?” she said, crossing her legs as she sat next to me. “Are they fighting over you? Should I get out my herbs?”

I giggled. “Will you stop trying to find a reason to burn something? And I don’t think so—not initially, anyway. I guess they have history?” Whatever stood between them was more than me.

“Gotcha, so they used to be lovers?”

“Girl, what? ”

She shrugged, and we found ourselves in a laughing fit, folding forward. After some time, we found ourselves staring at the flowers, the blood staining the petals.

“I don’t know.” I smirked. “Maybe burning those herbs isn’t such a bad idea,” I whispered, and we both snickered.

On the walk to Faulkner Library, the clouds loomed against the fiery sky, creating an illusion that the edge of the earth had gone up in flames. Perhaps a reflection of the state of my life.

Along the way, I mulled over the exchange between Seven and Julian, trying to find the threads that tied them together.

It’s a neutral zone, that guy had said. What did Seven’s friend mean by that, and why had he promised they’d have an opportunity to have it out later?

The air whisked around me; colorful leaves stirred in piles.

Ahead, the tall stone buildings cast long shadows against the ground, drawing my eyes toward the Sutton Art Museum.

Through the windows, I caught a clear glimpse of Abba.

She towered over the glass case while she wiped it down, her body language covetous, almost. Locked in a drawer beneath her was that book.

A cough came as I choked on a swell of air. It was no ordinary book. It was the one that detailed the origin of the legends. Though, Abba wouldn’t let me touch the thing, wouldn’t even let me read the pages. What else could be depicted there?

I pulled out my phone and called Naomi.

She answered on the first ring. “Ew. Why are you calling me?”

“Change of plans. Will you meet me at the Sutton Art Museum? I need help with something.”

“No,” she retorted.

I waited, tapped my foot on the pavement as I checked the time.

“Fine.” I heard her groan. “Be there in five.”

“Thanks. Love y—” The line clicked.

Precisely five minutes later, Naomi and I were entering the museum.

“What should I say?” she whispered, tugging at my arm.

“Make something up. Ask her about that statue over in the corner,” I suggested, pointing to an area off the right side of the entrance. “Just keep her away from the folklore section.”

“Mira, I want you to know that I absolutely detest you for including me in this very illegal, very bad plan of yours. Also, your hair smells really good.”

“It’s not illegal. I’m just gonna borrow the book and return it once I’m done. And thanks,” I said, flipping my tresses toward her. “I just washed it.”

“Remind me again why you can’t check the damn thing out?” she murmured sharply.

“ Does this look like a library to you? “

Naomi made a face, and I hurried off to the hall by the restrooms before she rang the bell. The plan was for me to stay out of sight while Naomi lured Abba to the opposite side of the building. Then, and only then, would I retrieve the key, unlock the drawer, and take the book.

The clicking of heels against marble signified that Abba was near.

I edged toward the end of the hall, peeking around to see Abba dabbing her mouth with a napkin as she walked toward the front desk.

There was a chipper exchange between the two.

Naomi pointed to an area away from my destination, by the entrance.

Hesitant, Abba scratched her head, but she followed anyway.

In a breath, I hurried to the front desk, trying my best not to make much sound over the jazz music that played quietly in the background. The first drawer revealed notepad paper, pens, and mints—not what I was in search of. I recalled that the skeleton key was lengthy and brass-plated.

I glanced up to see Naomi bobbing her head while she spoke, going on and on in her signature way.

Good. I still had time. In the second drawer, various items were placed neatly in containers, but folded in a velvet cloth was the key.

I undid the cloth and wrapped my fingers around it, feeling the coolness against my palm.

I was filled with glee, closing the drawer with a mischievous smile, when the phone rang.

The sound startled me, causing a stab of panic in my throat and ears as I dropped the key reflexively. I plunged to the floor, listening to the rushing sound of Abba’s footsteps as she hurried this way.

In a quick decision, I grabbed the key and scurried beneath the desk, legs pressed to my chest. I held back a gasp and tried to make myself small, unnoticeable, while Naomi begged Abba to come back.

“Just a minute,” she called out. With wide eyes, I was suddenly staring at Abba’s feet.

She wore black pumps and sheer tights. “The Sutton Art Museum. This is Abba, how may I assist you?” she said in a breath.

The sentence came out easy, rehearsed, and she took a step forward.

I scooted back as far as I could, pressing myself thin against the parameters.

A pivot and a tap. “Mmhmm,” she hummed, and she went for a drawer.

I twisted my face in horror, pleaded for mercy.

Heard her hands dig around. “Right,” she said.

“I’m taking down the request, and I can send you what I have tomorrow morning.

How does that sound?” Silence, and the sound of a clicking on the surface above me.

I released a breath. It was only paper and pen she had gone for. Another tap of her foot—a hurried one—and I observed a small tattoo located on the inside of her ankle. It was a dagger cutting through a crescent moon. I wondered what it symbolized.

“Uh huh, now. You do the same. Buh-bye.” When the call ended, a drawer opened and closed.

I expected Abba to return to what she’d been doing.

Instead, she remained in place, mumbling a few words beneath her breath as she shuffled an inch forward.

Pressed to the left of me was a burgundy leather tote; I’d missed it before.

Her knees bent, fingers reaching in space …

“Ma’am,” Naomi screeched, and Abba’s hand retracted. “I think a bird just flew into the window over here.”

“ It’s Abba ,” she said, and I could tell she’d locked her jaw, her words coming out with a hiss. “And what in heavens …?” She was gone, and I listened to the pitter of both their feet until a door opened, and their conversation subdued.

Immediately following, I crawled toward the folklore section, the glare from the overhead lights sparkling onto the floor like a treasure map.

The case was approximately four feet tall, and beneath it were two rows of locked, rectangular drawers.

Unsure which drawer contained the book, I tried both.

Flecks of dust drifted in the air upon release of the first drawer.

Exactly in the center, leather-bound and waiting: The Tragical History of the Mythical Nosferatu and Lycans of Kansas City. It smelled of the earth and was cool to the touch. Cautiously, I slipped the book into my bag, locked the drawer, and rushed toward the front desk.

Ahead, Naomi blocked the entrance she and Abba had left through, phone out as she stood in front of the double glass doors.

She gestured toward the screen on her phone, showing Abba something.

From where I stood, I could see the agitation on Abba’s face, the way the lines in her forehead folded and her nose scrunched.

She held a hand to the handle, in hopes that it would persuade Naomi to hurry with the show-and-tell.

Before anyone could catch a glimpse of me, I returned the key and sped through the museum to the back entrance that led into the Bowman Art Building and back outside into the start of the evening.