Page 16 of Claimed By the Mothman

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Moonlight Yoga, Monday Nights, Atrium, 7 p.m.

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“So You’ve Been Summoned,” a support group for newly manifested familiars

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Bake Sale for the Elevator’s Birthday—donations accepted through Theo Bolden in 6C

Two elderly residents, human or close enough, were deep in an animated discussion by the fireplace. One of them had brought a slide rule and was fiddling with it furiously. The other looked up, noticed Sig, and waved. He returned it gravely. Another child, this one made of mist, appeared and ghosted through Sig’s legs with a giggle, vanishing into the book nook.

No one reacted. After all, this was Greymarket.

In the corner, overseeing the chaos, Mr. Caracas hulked in his favorite armchair in front of the television, shell gleaming dully in the lamplight. His massive, ridged back rose and fell with every irritated breath.

“You’re late,” he grumbled, not looking away from the screen.

Sig folded himself neatly into the couch. “Am I?”

“You’ve missed the first murder,” Caracas said, claws tapping the chair arm. “A local historian, bludgeoned with a cheese press. Honestly, I expected better.”

Sig tilted his head. “That seems oddly specific.”

“That’sMidsomerfor you. I’ve no idea why anyone still lives there. You’d think the property values alone would drive them out.”

They watched in silence for a few minutes. On screen, a vicar whispered something ominous to a wide-eyed bartender while the camera panned slowly to a suspicious wheel of Stilton.

“You’ve been brooding more than usual,” Caracas said without looking up from the paper bag he was trying to open. “Haven’t seen you this agitated since that family in 7B. What was it, three years ago?”

Sig didn’t answer. The community room’s lights flickered once. A purely coincidental shiver of the building’s mood, but it made Caracas grunt.

“Don’t get snippy,” he muttered. “I’m just saying.”

“They were kind people,” Sig whispered.

“They all are,” Caracas replied. “That’s what makes it worse.”

An uncomfortable silence settled. Caracas finally got the bag open, pulled out a sandwich wrapped in two types of foil and a napkin, and took a bite, foil and napkin and all.

“You pacing again?” he asked around a bite. “I heard you on the roof last night. Heavy steps.”