Page 28 of Claimed By the Mothman (Greymarket Towers #1)

T he potluck had begun as most Greymarket events did: ten minutes late and already strange.

In the community room, long folding tables buckled under the weight of dishes that may or may not have originated in this dimension. Something gelatinous glared from a bowl near the punch. The fairy lights overhead flickered faintly with magic and maybe gossip.

A cassette tape of The Eagles Greatest Hits blasted from the stereo.

Thess had spiked the punch. Someone—probably also Thess—had hung a banner reading “COMMUNITY IS FAMILY” in floral glitter letters.

It was too early for wine and too late for coffee, which meant lemonade. Theo had already had three cups.

Nell wasn’t sure if he was vibrating from sugar or just…being Theo. His parents, a pair of tall, lean bogeyfolk who somehow always looked half-in-shadow even under direct light, were trailing after him with that expression she recognized from every parent she’d ever known: patient despair.

“No more interrupting people who are having conversations,” the taller one murmured as he tugged Theo gently away from a tray of suspicious-looking deviled eggs. “We talked about this.”

“But Mr. Lyle said it was sharing time!” Theo chirped. “And I drew a picture of the elevator on fire! I just want everyone to see it!”

Nell adjusted the hem of her sundress and glanced around.

A note had appeared that morning beside her tea kettle. No signature—there was none needed. It simply stated:

You passed me in the hallway on the third floor. You did not see me.

That is all right. I still saw you.

Thank you for the magnet.

Nell had read it five times before hurling it into a drawer, her cheeks burning with something that was definitely not anger.

Mr. Lyle stepped forward with a rustling of papers and a throat-clearing cough.

“If I could just have your attention—yes, thank you. Yes. You too, Thess. We all saw the banner.”

Thess grinned and raised their cup.

“I would like to thank everyone for attending tonight’s Greymarket Towers Community Potluck,” Lyle said. “I am especially grateful for those of you who deigned to RSVP this time.”

A collective groan rippled through the crowd.

Lyle waved a hand. “Now. A few quick announcements. The dimensional leak on floor eleven has been patched, but please continue to avoid the trash chute. The infernal jelly molds have been moved to their own table. Please report any malfunctioning light fixtures directly to maintenance, as we have been re-wiring floors for stability. A reminder that packages delivered to the north stairwell must be claimed within 48 hours or they will begin to multiply. Finally, new recycling bins have been added on every even-numbered floor, and there will be information in next week’s Greymarket Gazette as to what items they do and do not take.

And now, eat, mingle, and remember: no blood sigils indoors this time. ”

Nell retreated to a corner near the balcony, clutching her cup of suspicious punch and watching the room.

Goldie was charming Ezra out of his metaphorical pants near the baked goods. Mr. Caracas was batting away a trio of pixies with a grumble so theatrical she almost applauded. One of the dimensional pockets in the northeast corner was burping gently, having swallowed a folding chair.

She took a sip. The punch bit back. The cassette tape stuttered suddenly, and she turned, feeling the flicker of air shift subtly on her skin.

Sig stood framed in the community room doorway. No suit today. Just a dark shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled, and slacks that somehow made his legs look longer.

Her pulse stuttered.

He walked in slowly, deliberately, like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome but had decided to come anyway.

She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until he reached her.

“Hello,” he said simply.

“Hi,” she replied, cheeks warming. “You came.”

“I was invited,” he said. Then, after a pause, “You look breezy.”

She flushed. “Is that a compliment?”

“I believe so.”

She laughed. The small bubble of sound surprised her.

He smiled. Faintly, but real.

“I love the comb,” she said, and meant it.

His ruby-red eyes softened, and Nell buried her face in her cup, taking a too-big swig of the spiked punch.

Slow down, girl. Don’t get drunk again. If you do, you’re going to actually climb him like a tree this time, and gods help you if he offers—

“Would you,” Sig asked, offering his hand with deliberate grace, interrupting her spiraling thoughts. “like to dance?”

She stared at him. “Here?”

“There is music.”

“I mean… yeah, but it’s not exactly a dance floor ,” she said, glancing at the buffet table, the jello molds, the gaggle of goblins masticating paper cups and growling at each other. “It’s more like a swaying space.”

He clicked. “You do not wish to?”

“No, I just—” She cut herself off before she could say something she would regret later. “Yes. Yes, I’d like to.”

With a confidence she didn’t feel, she set her cup down and slid her hand into his.

His claws curled carefully around her fingers. With a graceful movement, he guided her toward the open space near the buffet where a few others were already swaying in time to “Desperado.”

They began to move.

Her palm found his chest and his heartbeat thrummed beneath her touch in three-quarter time.

The music curled around them in lazy loops, and they swayed in time, the world narrowing to the circle of warmth between them.

She swore she could feel the bond stretching hesitantly between them, like a peace offering. The moment hung there, soft and golden—

“If you two are going to breed, do it off the godsdamned dance floor,” snorted Mr. Caracas.

Nell flushed crimson so fast she nearly combusted.

Sig turned his head to the grumpy old cryptid, who had turned on the TV and was watching Jeopardy! with subtitles. “We are not breeding,” he said calmly.

“Yet,” snickered Thess, sounding far too pleased with themselves.

In the corner, Ezra cackled like a banshee as Goldie slapped his shoulder.

Nell groaned and buried her face in Sig’s chest.

They danced as the laughter faded and the buffet began to draw new attention (Thess spiking the hummus, Theo trying to sneak a fifth dessert). Sig’s steps remained slow, unhurried, matching her movements perfectly.

Eventually, the cassette ended with a clunky rattle and a low hiss of silence. No one rewound it.

Nell exhaled and gently stepped back. Sig released her at once, his hand falling to his side with a kind of reverent reluctance

“I’m going to sit,” she said, brushing a loose curl behind her ear. “My feet are—”

“I will bring you a plate.”

She blinked. “You don’t have to.”

“I wish to.”

Before she could argue, he turned and strode toward the buffet. Nell stared after him a moment, heart doing a slow, stupid little roll, then made her way to a quieter table near the balcony.

A few minutes later, Sig returned, carrying a plate filled with careful sampling of dishes: fruit, couscous, a few pastries. He set it ceremoniously in front of her.

Nell stared at it. Then up at him. “You’re serious about this courtship thing, aren’t you?”

He drew a breath. “I…yes.”

She nodded, dropping her gaze to the plate. “Okay.”

Sig sat down across from her, folding his legs neatly and resting his hands on his knees like he was trying not to fidget.

Nell picked up a fork and speared a strawberry. “Thank you.”

He inclined his head without saying anything, and simply watched.Attentive, not intense. Like she was a poem he was still learning how to read.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No.”

Her brow furrowed, curious. “You didn’t eat at the dinner party, either.”

A soft, almost sheepish click rang in his throat. “I do not enjoy being watched while I eat. It feels…” His throat clicked quietly. “...too intimate.”

“Too intimate?” she echoed. “What, like, messy?”

He gave a low churr of amusement. “Not necessarily messy. My mannerisms are… ungraceful.”

“Oh.” She considered that. “That’s fair. I used to hide in the bathroom during dessert when I was younger. I hated the feeling of people noticing how much or how little I was eating.”

His antennae dipped. “You understand.”

“I do.” She nudged her plate slightly toward him. “Well. You don’t have to eat in front of me. But if you want to try the couscous later, you can have the rest of mine.”

Sig inclined his head without sarcasm. “Thank you.”

They sat quietly for a moment.

“As long as we’re sharing what we don’t enjoy…I’ve never really enjoyed parties,” Nell said quietly.

“Why is that?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know. Guess I always felt on display, especially when I was married.”

Sig’s eyes flicked to her hands, her face, her throat, like he was searching for something. “Married?” he asked in an incredibly careful tone.

“Was.” She emphasized it, quiet but firm. “Past tense.”

He relaxed visibly.

Nell shuffled the food around on her plate. “Edward—my ex—liked appearances. Big work things and fancy events where you smiled and drank too much and made small talk with people you’d never see again. I went because I thought that’s what you did when you loved someone.”

Sig didn’t speak.

“I don’t think he ever really saw me,” she murmured, stabbing a grape tomato and watching its juice pool across her plate. “I mean—not me me. Just the version that looked good on his arm.”

She felt a flush crawl up her cheeks again— gods, I must look like an overheated tomato by now— and shook her head. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Because I am listening,” Sig said simply.

She glanced up at him and found him looking at her like she was made of something sacred. Her heart flipped in her throat.

“I hated every party,” she whispered.

“I am sorry,” he said softly.

She shrugged again, trying to throw off the growing warmth in her chest. “At least the food’s better here.”

Deliberately, Sig reached out and plucked a berry from her plate. With a graceful movement, he brought it to his mouth and bit down without flinching.

“The lemonade here has teeth, however,” he said, solemn as poetry.

Her breath caught in her chest as he swallowed. “I like toothy beverages,” she whispered nonsensically, watching as his tongue flicked briefly over his lipless mouth to catch a stray drop of juice.

—

Someone had replaced the cassette in the player and the music spilled out again, something older with a softened crackle and horns that swayed like breath through tall grass.

Sig didn’t move. He was exactly where he desired to be.

Chaos was gently unfolding before them. The Jell-o molds were muttering.

Benji had clearly had one too many ladles of spiked punch and was regaling Linda with wild hand gestures, while she nodded dreamily like he was unveiling the secrets of the cosmos.

Thess was on the dance floor, shimmying to a rhythm only they could hear.

Theo was deep in conversation with Mr. Caracas, bouncing on his heels and waving a crayon drawing while the old cryptid scowled like it was an affront to decency.

But he didn’t move away. In fact, there was something suspiciously close to pride in the way he patted Theo’s shoulder with a gruff harrumph.

Nell was smiling. Her eyes flicked over to him.

“You’re staring again,” she said, amused.

“Yes,” he murmured.

She looked away, but he kept watching. Not because he meant to make her uncomfortable, but because he wanted to memorize every tilt of her mouth, every movement she made.

Catalina passed by, bearing a bowl of chips in one hand and guacamole in the other. “Ten more minutes and the punch is going to eat someone,” she announced. The punch trembled, perhaps with anticipation.

Nell looked up at him and cleared her throat. “Would you like to stay longer?” she asked. “Or… can I walk you home this time?”

His throat worked around something too large and too soft. The words took shape only because they were the simplest, barest truth.

“I would be honored,” he said.

She smiled shyly. “Okay. Let’s walk.”

He did not reach for her as they walked from the community room to the elevator. Instead, he merely let her presence fill the air between him, warm and comforting and real.

Nell was beside him because she chose to be. For Sig Samora, that was enough. More than enough.

The elevator creaked gently around them. Neither of them spoke. She stood beside him, arms folded, head tilted slightly like she was listening for something beneath the hush.

When the doors opened on the fourteenth floor, she hesitated briefly, then followed him out.

He slowed as they reached his door. He was not quite ready to cross the threshold and to let go of the moment.

“So. This is your stop.”

He nodded, eyes flicking to her mouth. “Are you going back down?”

“Maybe for a minute.” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Just to say goodnight to everyone. Maybe make sure Theo hasn’t been carried off by the pixies.”

“Wise.”

She grinned. “And… probably best to leave before I drink more punch and find myself on your doorstep again.” A pause. “Possibly asking to climb you like a tree.”

A beat of stunned silence.

“I—wow, I said that again.”

“Would you like me to pretend you did not speak?” Sig asked, voice soft and sincere.

She looked up at him. Their eyes met. Something flared, sweet and sharp.

“No,” she whispered, a little breathless. “Just…don’t bring it up unless I do it again?”

His smile was slow. “Understood.”

They stood there, suspended. The space between them crackled, filled with everything unsaid. But instead of closing the gap, he instead reached for his door handle.

“Goodnight, Nell Townsend,” he said.

She lingered a second longer. “Goodnight, Sig Samora.”

He watched her go. Every step. Every swing of her dress. Every pulse of her presence as it faded down the hall.

And only then—only when she was truly gone—did he slip inside and shut the door behind him, holding his breath like a secret he wasn’t quite ready to let go.