Page 85 of Claimed By the Mothman

The rest of the page was blank.

Mr. Lyle rubbed his temples. Glared at his cold coffee, whose saucer had begun bleeding.

In the past week alone, he had contained a floorfold in the stairwell by convincing it it wasn’t wanted, rescheduled three hauntings to accommodate an ice machine repair, mediated a tenant complaint about a temporal neighbor who kept stealing last Tuesday’s mail, and extinguished a spontaneous hallway rebellion involving animated parking citations and an extremely rude door.

And now, this.

Sighing, Lyle picked up his pen and neatly scrawled on a Post-it: CHECK STAIRWELL 3B FOR RED DOOR MOOD.

He closed the ledger, pinched the bridge of his nose, and waited for the next disaster to arrive.

The bond had sealed. But the Lustrum had not yet decided what it would do.

Chapter 18

Nell awoke to the soft ping of a text message.

The light in the room was gold and low, just past dawn. She lay still, letting herself breathe in the newness. Sheets tangled loosely around her bare legs. The air was thick with the scent of sleep, sex, and something older.

She reached out instinctively, only to find the space beside her empty. Her breath caught.

She remembered waking in the dark as his claspers released from around her waist. Steady and carefully, he’d risen and carried her to her bed with a gentleness that made her want to cry. She’d curled into his chest, fingers fisting gently in the fuzz along his sternum. He had whispered something soft and pulsing, in a language she didn’t understand but her body did. She had kissed the curve of his jaw in answer, and he had laid down beside her, one wing folding over their entwined bodies. They had slept like that, cocooned in pulse and promise.

Now, she reached for her phone with one hand and swiped it on.

A single message from Mrs. Kephra:

Last night I dreamed of wings and two heartbeats pulsing as one.

Take the rest of the week.

Return to us when your ring aligns.

Be cautious.

I am happy for you.

Nell read it twice and smiled faintly. Her thumb overed over the keyboard and she almost sent a text to Goldie—but what would she say?

Hi. It’s official—I claimed the Harbinger. The sex was wild. I think I glowed when I came the first four times?

She tossed the sheets back and sat up, her body warm and loose and sore in the best possible way. She grabbed her robe from the floor, shrugged it on, and then made her way into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing one eye.

There at the counter was Sig, bare-chested with loose, flowing pants slung low on his hips. The morning light slanted across his body in golden strips, catching at the seam where velvet-fuzz met chitin. His wings were folded neatly behind him, the faintest ripple of iridescence pulsing where they tucked close to his spine.

He poured hot water into two ceramic mugs. Beside him on the counter was a plate of pastries. Beautiful ones, laminated and flaky and golden and the kind of thing she never would splurge on for herself.He must’ve gone back to his apartment, gotten dressed, and collected these.

Nell stood there, caught in the moment, a breath between wonder and disbelief. He looked up, and their eyes met across the quiet space of her kitchen.

The opal on her finger gave a gentle squeeze.

She glanced at the plate. “Did you make those?” The words came out awkward—too loud, too human.

“No,” he said simply. “I did not make them. I purchased them. From a human bakery. I thought you would appreciate that more.”

He made a softclick-click-huff,almost like…a laugh?

“Wait—did you just try to be funny?”