Page 22 of Claimed By the Mothman (Greymarket Towers #1)

N ell had tried to bow out of the dinner party. She really had. She’d called Jem that morning with a voice full of apologies and invented fatigue, citing everything from a headache to family disasters to “just needing a quiet night in.” But Jem hadn’t heard a word of it.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she’d said, chipper and immovable. “No one cancels a handwritten invitation. Besides, if you aren’t there, we won’t have even numbers and the whole vibe will be off. Seven o'clock sharp! Wear something glamorous.”

And that had been that.

Goldie had shown up an hour before go-time, descending upon her in a one-woman makeover montage.

There were contour sticks. There was perfume.

There was a shimmering shawl that Goldie draped around Nell’s shoulders and tied into a beautiful knot that almost covered the healing teeth marks on her neck.

“I texted Jem this morning,” Goldie announced, dabbing one last swipe of gloss on Nell’s lips, “and she definitely invited the sexy mothman.”

Nell groaned. “We don’t even know if he’ll show.”

“We don’t know he won’t ,” Goldie singsonged, spinning her toward the full-length mirror. “Now shut up and behold yourself.”

Nell scowled at her reflection. “Why this dress? Why not the cute wrap one? Or the two-piece thing that says I am a competent, non-threatening grown-up? ”

Goldie stepped back, arms crossed in satisfaction. “Because this one says, come and get me, cryptid .”

The dress was black, tight, and uncomfortably revealing. One of those numbers Nell had bought once during a hopeful phase and never worn because it screamed look at me in a register she’d spent most of her life avoiding.

Her hair was curled. Her lips were lined. The opal on her finger pulsed like it had something to say and was just waiting for her to shut up long enough to say it. She looked unquestionably hot.

And she hated it.

By the time they reached Hollis’ and Jem’s apartment—a fifteen-second walk that felt like an eternity—Nell’s palms were sweating against her best attempt at rosemary focaccia, wrapped in a slightly singed tea towel.

Goldie, resplendent in a metallic jumpsuit that merged vintage disco with holy armor, knocked on the apartment door like a woman about to deliver a prophecy. “We’re heeere!” she trilled, voice too bright, too loud, and too impossible to ignore.

The door swung open to reveal Jem, glowing in green velvet, beaming like she’d just unwrapped a gift.

“Ohhhhhh, you beautiful girls ,” she sighed, ushering them in with flapping sleeves and a kiss to each cheek. “You look edible.” She took Nell’s bread and Goldie’s salad from their hands and winked cheekily. “Don’t worry, you’re not on the menu tonight!”

Nell winced as the almost-healed teeth marks on her shoulder throbbed.

Hollis and Jem’s apartment was amazingly, unfairly gorgeous.

Warm wood floors stretched out beneath their feet, gleaming with a soft, honeyed glow.

The entryway opened into a high-ceilinged living room where jewel-toned pillows lounged artfully across antique settees.

A fire crackled in a hearth. One of the paintings blinked.

Nell peered through an arched doorway into the dining room where an elegant table was set for eight.

Real linen napkins. Little name cards written in curling, metallic ink.

Hand-poured candles flickering in mismatched brass holders.

The chandelier overhead cast slightly too many shadows.

Classical music fluttered in the background, and she realized belatedly it was playing backwards.

Carol and Dev were already there, sipping wine from tall crystal goblets.

Carol was radiant in a deep violet pantsuit with sharp lapels and satin cuffs that gleamed when she moved.

Her short, silver-streaked hair was sculpted into an elegant sweep, and a string of matte black pearls rested at the hollow of her throat.

Dev stood beside his wife with an arm casually wrapped around her waist, more relaxed in pressed slacks and a slate-blue polo that clung to shoulders that did not come from skipping arm day.

His beard was neat, salt-and-pepper, and his smile crooked gently to one side, like he found the whole world a little absurd and endlessly worth loving.

They both greeted Goldie and Nell with warm hugs and knowing smiles. Too knowing. The kind of smiles that said we heard what happened we’re absolutely dying to pretend we don’t want all the details.

“Welcome,” said Dev, slyly. “You look absolutely radiant, Nell.”

Nell wanted the perfect floor to open its perfect self up and perfectly swallow her whole.

Before she could open her mouth in retort, Hollis appeared from the kitchen, bearing glasses of wine in his hands and a dish towel over his shoulder. He wore a sharp button-down shirt under a faded apron that read Kiss the Cook (Only if You Mean It) .

“Goldie, Nell, so glad you made it,” he said warmly, handing them each a glass. Nell was quietly relieved to see he looked exactly the same as the last time she’d seen him. “Hope you’re hungry! I may have accidentally made enough for a coven.”

“Just as you do everything: in excess,” someone laughed from the far side of the room.

Nell turned. A man was standing near the drink cart, half in shadow, a glass of something amber catching the light like honey in a storm.

His suit was dark and perfectly cut, like he’d walked out of a magazine spread titled Things That Will Absolutely Ruin You.

His cheekbones were criminal. His dark curls fell just slightly into eyes that were the wrong shade of blue for comfort and just right for devastation.

He looked at Goldie and smiled like he’d been waiting for her all night. Nell felt her friend still mid-flutter beside her.

“Ezra Calder,” he said, stepping forward. “I’m one of Hollis’ associates. In theory.” Then his face broke into a brilliant smile that could have melted pewter as he took Goldie’s hand and gently pressed it to his lips. “But I’d very much like to be yours in practice.”

“Oh,” Goldie breathed. “Hello.”

The music swelled like it had been instructed to create a Fall In Love Instantly soundtrack. Nell rolled her eyes.

—

Dinner began beautifully.

Wine flowed. Plates clinked gently as they were passed hand to hand, filled with roast lamb, fig-and-olive couscous, and roasted roots dusted with herbs. The food smelled uncannily amazing , the kind of meal that made you wonder if the building had helped cook it.

They joked about elevator ghosts and cursed washing machines.

Jem claimed that 4B’s dryer portal had briefly led to a battlefield in an alternate dimension.

Dev swore he once lost a sock and gained a ferret.

Carol recounted a potluck from 2018 that ended with the fire department, a divination circle gone sideways, and a truly horrendous seven-layer dip.

Hollis chimed in with one-liners that made Nell laugh—actual, real, breath-stealing laughter. Goldie and Ezra were locked in a flirtation that glittered like a fencing match: precise, glancing, and full of intentional gaps that left room for tension to breathe.

“Have you always been this charming,” Goldie asked, voice syrup-smooth, “or do you just practice on guests?”

Ezra tilted his wine glass, eyes gleaming. “I never practice,” he said. “Only perform.”

Across from Nell, the place setting remained untouched. No place card. No wine poured. Just a single, too-neat napkin folded like it was waiting for someone who wasn’t coming.

We won’t have even numbers, my ass, she thought, stabbing at her couscous with her fork. I totally could’ve worn the comfy two-piece.

A small part of her unclenched at the relief of not having to make eye contact or feel the air change when he walked into the room. Not have to deal with the hum that buzzed behind her chest like a constant song. But beneath the relief was…disappointment.

Which was ridiculous. She didn’t want him here. She didn’t even know what she’d say if he had come.

Still, she found herself glancing at the door again. Then down at her dress. Then back at her plate.

Should’ve gone with the damn wrap dress, she thought, grumbling under her breath. Or a sweatshirt. Definitely a sweatshirt.

In truth, she was glad she hadn’t skipped out. The food was amazing, the company was divine, and the Goldie-Ezra flirtation was giving her enough future ribbing material to last a decade—

A knock echoed at the front door.

Hollis dropped his fork, which clanged discordantly against his plate.

Jem leapt to her feet instantly, eyes bright. “Oh! That must be—”

“Jem,” Hollis said sharply. “My love. A word.”

He rose, caught her wrist gently, and firmly guided her toward the kitchen. Their hushed argument began before the door even closed, voices rising just enough for the table to fall completely silent.

“You actually invited him?”

“Yes! I didn’t think he’d come! ”

“You never think they’ll come until they do! Jem, honestly—”

“It’s perfect! This is exactly what Nell needs. A little surprise. A little romance.”

“You also said we’d be seven! This makes eight!”

“Exactly! Nice and balanced!”

“Balanced? Darling, he’s not a dessert course! He’s a six-foot-something death omen!”

The front door creaked open. Footsteps slithered across the hardwood.

Every head turned.

Sig Samora emerged in the doorway. He wore a charcoal suit that fit him too perfectly, like it had been summoned, not tailored. His wings were cloaked, his antennae smoothed back against his forehead. He held a glazed bowl in his hands like a holy artifact.

Goldie let out a delighted wheeze, eyes going wide.

Carol didn’t say anything, but her eyebrow arched high enough to qualify as commentary. Dev glanced at Nell and then back at Sig, mouth twitching like he was suppressing a smile.

Nell couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. He looked… good . Infuriatingly good, like someone had taught him how to wear a suit just well enough to ruin her life.