Page 10 of Claimed By the Mothman (Greymarket Towers #1)

F or the third morning in a row, Nell woke before her alarm.

The light through the window was soft and warm against her cheek. She stretched under the thrifted quilt she'd unpacked on her second night—the one she hadn't used in years because Edward said it was too "college dorm," but now seemed to belong perfectly on her bed.

She rolled over, blinked at the ceiling, and waited for the familiar knot of anxiety that had become her morning companion.

It didn't come.

That realization arrived quietly, but then unfurled in her brain like a banner: no dread. No crushing weight on her chest. No restless energy that made her feel like she was crawling out of her own skin. In fact, she hadn't felt that persistent unease once since moving to Greymarket Towers.

Nell rose, shuffled barefoot into the kitchen, and made herself tea. Her pantry shelves were neatly labeled now. She’d stayed up late on Tuesday, alphabetizing the tea tins while listening to an ambient noise playlist that Goldie swore increased aptitude.

The kettle whistled. She poured the water, wrapped her hands around her mug, and moved to the window seat just as the first burst of sun broke through the fog.

Her first week at the Bellwether Center for Alternative Literacy had been impossibly perfect.

Quiet halls, respectful coworkers, and a boss who greeted her each morning with a serene nod and asked if she preferred speaking out loud or via written memos.

For the first several weeks, she’d spent hours shelving esoteric texts with hand-sewn bindings, helping elderly patrons search for that one book, you know, with the blue cover?

Or maybe green? and feeding scraps of paper to a very polite waste bin that digested its contents with a satisfied burp.

Nell sipped her tea and glanced at the small notebook sitting beside her on the window seat cushion.

She’d started writing things down again.

Feelings, mostly. Images that pressed against her brain when she wasn’t paying attention.

Fragments of things that didn’t belong to her, but settled in behind her eyes when she closed them.

She flipped the notebook open, clicked her pen, and started writing.

A hum like cello strings under water.

Wings—big ones.

A door with no handle.

A hand I know, even though I’ve never held it.

She tapped her pen absently against the paper, trying to think of how to describe the way her chest had vibrated last night when the breeze from the hallway caught her skin.

A knock interrupted her thoughts. Setting the pen down, Nell walked to the apartment door and opened it to find a floating, fog-bodied figure.

“Hello?” she asked tentatively.

“Morning,” came the whispery, melodious reply. “And welcome! We’re Thess!”

Thess the Whisp hovered slightly off the ground, their edges rimmed with a light that changed color every few seconds: plum, gold, midnight blue. They handed Nell a paper. The Greymarket Gazette Featuring: The New Girl in 4C!

“Oh!” Nell exclaimed, taking the paper delicately. Had she blacked out at any point in the past week? Because she didn’t remember giving an interview…

“We took the liberty,” Thess said, preening faintly. “We don’t name names without permission, of course. But we thought it would be rude not to acknowledge your arrival. Besides, everyone’s talking about you.”

Nell opened the paper. There, in swirling print: Mysterious new tenant moves in. Wears an opal ring. Possibly fated?

“You can correct the record in next week’s Clarifications and Corrections’ section,” Thess offered. “Oh, FYI, you’ve already had your first near-incident. The Lustrum was spotted on this floor last night just past the trash chute.

Jem’s words from her first day echoed sharply in Nell’s mind. “You mean…a pair of red doors?”

Thess nodded, mist pulsing gently with the motion. “Mhm. Don’t worry, it happens sometimes. Some people never see the Lustrum at all, but others draw its attention almost immediately. The doors have appeared three times this month already.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Not exactly,” they said. “But it’s significant. Just don’t open it unless you’re very sure. And it’s probably smart to talk to Mr. Lyle before doing anything bold. He tends to know when it's leaning hungry.”

Nell swallowed. Her ring itched faintly on her hand.

“What happens if you open the doors?”

“Depends on the day,” Thess said cheerfully. “Sometimes you meet your soulmate. Sometimes you forget your mother’s name. But it’s always interesting!” They turned in a swirl of violet mist. “Welcome again, by the way. We’d love a tenant spotlight from you next month. Deadline’s the 12th!”

Before Nell could respond, they drifted down the hall, humming something that sounded suspiciously like the theme from Friends .

Nell shut the door and stared at the Greymarket Gazette in her hand. The paper was warm, as if it had absorbed Thess’s mood. Or body heat. Or psychic residue.

She set it down on the kitchen counter, gave herself a brisk little shake, and headed toward her bedroom. Another day of work awaited her, and for the first time in a long time, that felt like a good thing.

—

The lobby was quiet when Nell came home . The chandelier overhead buzzed faintly, casting soft, amber-tinted light across the floor like melted butter.

She was halfway to the elevators when a low shuff-shuff of rubber soles made her glance toward the corridor near the community room.

A figure was emerging slowly from the shadows: hunched, broad-shelled, wrapped in an olive cardigan that had seen better decades.

He moved like gravity owed him something.

His wide-brimmed glasses were fogged at the edges, and his cane made a noise like a tired cricket every time it touched the ground.

“So it’s you,” he grunted. “Hope you have a decent taste in music.”

“Wait,” Nell gasped, “What does that mean—”

But he was already shuffling past her, muttering about how The Last Breath had gone to hell since they killed off Rosalind and replaced her with a clone who couldn’t cry on cue.

From behind a potted ficus, a soft chirrup caught her ear. A long-legged cryptid with eyes like a lemur peeked out and whispered, “Don’t mind Mr. Caracas. That’s just how he says hello.”

Nell stared. The cryptid winked at her and dove back into the ficus plant.

She walked over to the elevator without another word, hoping it was the normal one today.

—

Later that night, the apartment felt too still.

Goldie had come over for Thai, wine, and gossip (she’d dramatically named it Takeout and Dish The Tea) , and from the way she kicked off her shoes and immediately claimed Nell’s floor cushions like ancestral territory, it looked like it was going to be a standing weekly occurrence.

They’d eaten pad thai out of paper containers with cheap chopsticks and debated which of the residents were secretly in a polycule. (Thess, they both decided definitely, and possibly the tall guy from 8F who smelled like petrichor and moonlight.)

Jem had stopped by with more banana bread and an invitation for a “real dinner, proper forks, no excuses.” Goldie had immediately promised to bring a watermelon-and-feta salad, and Nell weakly offered homemade cookies that would probably come from her favorite downtown bakery.

Now the takeout containers had been tossed.

Goldie had left in a flurry of scarves and kissy noises.

The balcony doors were open, letting in the quiet rustle of the city—a soft ambient susurrus broken by the occasional hiss of tires or the faint howl of a cryptid-sounding street musician doing interpretive theremin.

She sat on the window seat, notebook open and pen in hand. She’d meant to write, but instead she just stared out the glass, eyes unfocused.

Eventually, she remembered the trash bag sitting by the door.

With a sigh, she rose, barefoot and loose-limbed with wine, and stepped into the hallway.

It was quiet. Not a normal apartment building quiet, but the kind that pushes against your ears. A silence that made you feel like you were the one making too much noise, even by just breathing.

Nell walked toward the trash chute, the trash bag swinging lightly from her hand. Her bare feet pressed soft indentations into the carpet. At the end of the hall, past the last sconce where the light flickered, a pair of red doors appeared.

Nell knew this hallway. She knew it. She’d walked it three times this week doing late-night laps on the phone with her sister, pretending to be productive while pacing in pajama pants.

But now the red doors were there . Tall and too narrow, like they had been squeezed into the wall by force or wishful thinking. The paint looked wet, like it had just been painted… or like they were bleeding.

Her opal ring heated faintly against her skin. Her breath hitched. She stepped closer.

The handles of the doors gleamed.

Nell’s fingers twitched. Her hand rose slowly, almost curiously, as if her body had decided without her. The air between her and the door felt thinner now, like distance didn’t matter.

She reached and—

CLATTER.

Nell spun around, heart leaping into her throat. Theo stood in the middle of the hallway, one hand smashing a plastic sword against the wall, the other holding the remains of what looked like a toy knight’s helmet. His oversized hoodie was inside-out and covered in glitter.

“Don’t touch that,” he said solemnly. His glowing yellow eyes were very serious. “Not yet.”

Then he burped and bolted in the opposite direction, trailing glitter like fairy dust behind him.

All of a sudden, what she had just been about to do came crashing down on her. Had she actually been about to open the doors? Seriously? After Jem’s warnings, after Thess’s very clear message this morning? She’d been ready to just ... turn the handle? Like it was nothing?

“Gods,” she whispered. “I am so dumb.”

Blame the wine, blame the weird air, blame anything , but still— godsdamn, Nell.