Page 67 of Claimed By the Mothman

The item was round, glittering, and ridiculous. A cheap magnet, emblazoned with a stylized moth stretching against an insulting approximation of a crescent moon. The wings sparkled with glitter.

Sig stared at it, then turned it to the back. A sticky note was plastered there, with messy, veryhumanhandwriting.

It made me think of you. That’s all.

You can throw it away if you want.

Oh, and here’s my number, in case you ever want to reach me in some way besides offerings. 555-354-2776.

—Nell Townsend

(the human)

He sank slowly onto his heels. She had written to him. She had offered something. A spark of shared absurdity tucked inside careful words.

He pressed the magnet to his heart, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, Sig Samora truly smiled, like something beautiful and wonderful had broken open inside him to let the light shine in.

Chapter 12

The 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 wasdefinitely 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’sGreymarket Gazetteas to what items they do and do not take. And now, eat, mingle, and remember: no blood sigils indoors this time.”