Page 8 of Claws for Celebration (Hollow Oak Mates #3)

MOIRA

T he Shadowheart Codex had become both Moira's obsession and her torment.

For the past two days, the ancient grimoire had responded to her touch in ways that defied every rational explanation she could construct.

Pages turned themselves to specific passages when she approached, revealing sections about blood magic rituals and ancestral binding spells that seemed written specifically for her education.

This morning was no different. As soon as her fingers brushed the leather binding, the book fell open to a chapter titled "The Calling of Dormant Blood," complete with detailed illustrations of magical symbols that looked hauntingly familiar.

She'd been unconsciously tracing those same patterns in the air while thinking, a realization that made her stomach churn with anxiety.

"Focus on the facts," she muttered, adjusting her camera to photograph the latest impossible revelation. "Document everything. Find logical explanations later."

But her logical mind was losing the war against mounting evidence that magic was not only real but intimately connected to her family's bloodline.

The grimoire's responses were too specific, too targeted to dismiss as coincidence or environmental factors.

When she needed information about the Shadowheart family's disappearance from Hollow Oak, the book revealed pages about magical exile and protective concealment.

When she wondered about her grandmother's extended lifespan, passages about longevity enchantments and bloodline preservation appeared before her eyes.

It was as if the ancient tome was teaching her, preparing her for something she couldn't yet comprehend.

"Still wrestling with the old family records?" Lucien's voice made her jump, and she looked up to find him approaching with his usual silent grace. Even startled, she felt her pulse settle at his presence, as if his proximity alone could calm the chaos in her mind.

"Wrestling is putting it mildly," she admitted, gesturing to the open grimoire. "Sometimes I think these books know more about my family than I do."

"Old texts can be surprisingly informative," Lucien agreed, settling into his customary chair across from her. "Especially when they've been well-maintained by people who understood their significance."

"Speaking of which," Moira said, closing the grimoire carefully and reaching for her jacket, "I promised myself a coffee break before I disappear completely down the research rabbit hole. Care to join me? I could use some normal human interaction."

Something flickered across Lucien's expression too quickly to interpret, but his smile was warm as he stood. "The Griddle & Grind makes excellent coffee. And Twyla's always good for interesting conversation."

The walk to the café took them through Hollow Oak's heart, past shop windows displaying everything from hand-forged jewelry to mysterious bottles filled with colorful liquids.

The morning mist still clung to the cobblestones, giving the entire scene a dreamlike quality that Moira was beginning to recognize as simply part of the town's atmospheric charm.

"Good morning, you two," Twyla called out as they entered the café, her wheat-colored hair catching the light from the large windows that overlooked the main street. "Perfect timing. I just finished a fresh batch of my grandmother's cinnamon rolls, and the coffee's at its peak."

The Griddle & Grind was everything a small-town café should be: mismatched vintage furniture, local artwork covering the walls, and the kind of warm, welcoming atmosphere that made customers want to linger over their drinks and share their daily stories.

The scent of baking bread and roasted coffee beans filled the air, creating an olfactory embrace that felt like coming home.

"Your usual table?" Twyla asked, already moving toward a corner spot near the window where morning sunlight created a natural spotlight.

"Perfect," Moira said, grateful for the familiar routine.

Over the past week, this had become her preferred spot for processing the overwhelming discoveries that filled her days.

Something about watching Hollow Oak's residents go about their morning business helped ground her when the supernatural elements of her research became too intense.

"Two coffees, two cinnamon rolls, and maybe some of that special honey you keep for researchers who need their nerves settled," Lucien requested with the easy familiarity of a longtime customer.

"Oh, I have just the thing," Twyla said, her eyes twinkling with what looked suspiciously like mischief. "My newest blend. Perfect for folks who are rediscovering their roots."

As Twyla bustled away to prepare their order, Moira found herself studying the other café patrons.

An elderly man in the corner was reading what appeared to be a leather-bound journal written in symbols rather than letters.

Two women at the counter were discussing herb gardens with the kind of technical precision usually reserved for scientific research.

Even the background conversations carried an undertone of topics that seemed just slightly left of ordinary.

"Lucien," she said quietly, "is everyone in this town a little... eccentric?"

"Depends on your definition of eccentric," he replied with that subtle smile she was learning meant he was choosing his words carefully. "What makes you ask?"

"It's nothing specific. Just a feeling that I'm missing some crucial context about this place. Like everyone's speaking a language I only partially understand."

Twyla returned before he answered with their order, setting down ceramic mugs and plates with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd been serving coffee for decades.

The cinnamon rolls were still warm, their icing creating artistic swirls across golden pastry, and the coffee smelled like heaven mixed with mountain air.

"Here you go, sweethearts," Twyla said, settling into the third chair at their table without invitation. "Mind if I join you for a minute? Slow morning, and I've been wanting to check on how our visiting researcher is settling in."

"Please do," Moira said, though something in Twyla's manner suggested this wasn't entirely a social visit.

"How are you finding our little community?" Twyla asked, her warm brown eyes studying Moira with surprising intensity. "Sometimes it takes a while for newcomers to adjust to our mountain ways."

"It's been... educational," Moira replied carefully. "I'm learning more about my family history than I expected."

"Families have deep roots in these mountains," Twyla said, stirring honey into her own coffee with slow, deliberate movements. "Sometimes those roots go deeper than we realize. Blood calls to blood, especially in places where the old ways are still remembered."

The phrase made Moira's skin prickle with recognition, though she couldn't identify why. "Old ways?"

"Traditional knowledge. Herbal remedies, weather wisdom, the kind of practical magic that helped our ancestors thrive in isolated mountain communities.

" Twyla's voice carried the same careful neutrality that Moira had noticed in Lucien when they discussed local history.

"Some families carry those traditions in their very bones, even when they've forgotten the specific teachings. "

"Magic," Moira repeated, testing the word aloud. "You keep using that term."

"Do I?" Twyla's smile was innocent, but her eyes sparkled with secrets. "Maybe it's just the mountain air talking. We tend to be a bit more... colorful in our descriptions up here."

Lucien shifted slightly in his chair, and Moira caught the subtle tension in his posture. Whatever was happening in this conversation, it was more significant than casual small talk.

"Twyla," Lucien said quietly, "perhaps?—"

"Oh, I'm not saying anything that isn't already obvious," Twyla interrupted with a wave of her hand. "Anyone with eyes can see that our Moira is coming home to herself. The question is whether she's ready to accept what that homecoming means."

"Coming home to myself?" Moira's voice rose slightly, drawing glances from other patrons. "What does that even mean?"

"It means," Twyla said gently, reaching across the table to pat Moira's hand, "that some journeys take us away from our true nature, and others bring us back to it. Your grandmother's journey took her away from Hollow Oak for good reasons. Yours has brought you back for equally good ones."

The casual contact sent warmth spreading up Moira's arm, the same electric sensation she experienced when touching certain books or when Lucien's fingers brushed hers. But this felt different, more like recognition than attraction.

"How do you know about my grandmother?" Moira asked, pulling her hand back.

"Small communities have long memories," Twyla replied. "Elara Shadowheart was well-regarded here before she chose to leave. Her return, even through her granddaughter, is cause for celebration."

"Return?" Moira looked between Twyla and Lucien, noting how the latter had gone very still. "I'm not returning. I'm here temporarily for research."

"Of course, dear," Twyla said with the kind of indulgent tone usually reserved for children who insisted they weren't tired while rubbing their eyes. "Temporary can become permanent when a place calls to your soul."

"My soul is perfectly happy with my life in the city," Moira protested, though even as she said it, she realized it wasn't entirely true. The past week in Hollow Oak had felt more like home than anywhere she'd lived since her grandmother's death.

"Is it?" Twyla asked with genuine curiosity. "Or is it simply familiar? Sometimes we mistake routine for happiness, especially when we haven't discovered what true belonging feels like."

Moira became filled with an emotion she couldn't name. "You don't know anything about my life."

"I know you've been searching for something you couldn't identify," Twyla said softly.

"I know you've felt like you don't quite fit anywhere, despite your academic success.

I know you've been having dreams about this place since you were a child, even though you'd never heard of Hollow Oak before last week. "

The accuracy of those observations hit Moira like a physical blow. How could this cheerful café owner know about the recurring dreams that had haunted her sleep for years? Dreams of misty mountains and ancient books, of voices calling her name through forest shadows?

"How could you possibly know that?" she whispered.

"Because blood calls to blood," Twyla repeated, her voice holding an authority that hadn't been there moments before. "And the Shadowheart bloodline has been calling its lost daughter home for a very long time."

Lucien's hand covered hers on the table, warm and steady and somehow grounding her to reality even as everything continued to crumble around her.

His touch was her anchor in the increasingly surreal experience, the one constant that made sense when the world felt like it was shifting beneath her feet.

"Twyla," he said quietly, but with unmistakable authority, "I think you've given Moira enough to think about for one morning."

Something passed between them, a look that carried layers of meaning Moira couldn't interpret. Twyla's expression shifted from knowing confidence to sheepish understanding, as if she'd been caught overstepping invisible boundaries.

"Oh my," Twyla said with a laugh that sounded forced.

"Listen to me, going on like some old mountain mystic.

Too much time reading my grandmother's journals, I suppose.

Gets a person thinking in riddles and folklore.

" She stood quickly, gathering their empty plates.

"You finish your coffee in peace. I have pastries calling my name in the kitchen. "

As Twyla retreated with obvious reluctance, Moira stared at Lucien in confusion. "What just happened?"

"Twyla has a tendency to get carried away with local legends," he said carefully, though his eyes remained watchful. "Sometimes she forgets that not everyone shares her... enthusiasm for family stories and mountain folklore."

The explanation felt inadequate, but Moira found herself nodding anyway.

Whatever had just occurred, she sensed that pushing for more answers would only lead to more carefully constructed deflections.

The weight of unspoken truths hung between them, and she had the growing certainty that understanding would come only when she was ready to accept what it meant.