Page 17 of Claimed By the Mothman

“The building is stirring,” Sig murmured.

“Building’salwaysstirring. Question is why you’re feeling it more than usual.” The ancient cryptid tilted his head. “Is it the new girl?”

Sig didn’t respond.

“Yeah,” Caracas nodded slowly. “Figured. I can smell it on you.”

Sig’s gaze flicked toward him.

“Not her. You.” Caracas took another bite. “You smell like you're hoping again. That’s not like you, neighbor.”

Sig closed his eyes for a moment. A tremor passed through his wings. “She’s not like the others,” he said finally.

“None of them are, until they are.” Caracas grunted. “When will you learn? Humans come and go. They’re mayflies with bank accounts.” He paused. “Don’t you ever get tired of being the bad omen?”

Sig didn’t flinch. “It is not a choice.”

Caracas huffed, a cross between a laugh and a wheeze. “Nothing here ever is.” He smacked his tusks together with finality and turned the TV volume up.

Sig let it happen and closed his eyes. He wasn’t supposed to interfere.

But still.

Still.

—

Midsomer Murders’closing credits faded into the opening fanfare ofAntiques Roadshow, and Sig caught the beginnings of a rant about over-restored sideboards as the door eased shut behind him.

The old cryptid’s grumbling companionship had become a surprisingly enjoyable part of Sig’s routine. He used to need less of this, but the longer he lived in Greymarket, the more these little human patterns crept into him.

The elevator waited for him. It quivered like a dog barely resisting the urge to wag its tail.

Sig stepped in. The brass paneling reflected his shape in warped halos, with too many limbs if you looked too quickly. He pressed the button for his floor. The lights flickered in seeming defiance.

Sig sighed. “Please.”

The elevator gave a low, mechanical groan and began to ascend.

Once, it had refused to take him anywhere at all. When he first arrived at Greymarket, the elevator had locked its doors and sat idle for more than an hour, ignoring every button he pressed. Only when he had folded his hands and letitdecide, the car had creaked into motion.

The doors eventually opened with a soft sigh. Floor fourteen was quiet, as always. Too high for traffic noise, too far from the trash chute to pick up the gossip of pipes.

Sig walked the hallway, trailing his fingers along the wallpaper. Close enough to feel the vibrations tucked in the fibers. The faint memory of old tenants. The echo of something that had once laughed here.

He unlocked his apartment door and stepped inside. A faint breeze moved within, drawn from the window that always cracked open an inch when he returned, even if he had closed it before leaving.

The walls curved subtly, bent like the inner surface of a cocoon. Every surface was soft-edged and warm-hued: dark wood, shadowed stone, textured fabric stretching across the ceiling in subtle arcs.

One corner of the room sloped into a cushioned alcove lined with textured moss-green fabric, pillowed in layers, designed for rest without pressure. It was something the Broodhaven had taught him, long ago, when his wings were still soft and his instincts hadn’t yet calcified. That sleep was a pause in the song; a moment of silence that made the rest of the melody matter.

A shelf in the corner held a sparse collection of items: a hollowed bone flute, a carved wooden flower, three stones that sang at different frequencies, and one book with a cracked spine and water-warped pages.

He passed through the space with familiar ease and moved to the balcony. The door opened and the wind met him like an old friend. He stepped out into the open air and closed his eyes. The city exhaled beneath him.

Slowly, Sig opened his wings and stretched them wide, letting the wind catch in the fine hairs and stiff vanes. His antennae lifted, curled forward to taste the air, and the scents and feel of the city poured in.

Curry and asphalt. The hum of microwave dinners and the sticky-sweet echo of childhood giggles. Dogs barking. Lovers fighting. A violin, off-key, practicing somewhere.