Page 105 of Fool Moon First Aid

“Not touching,” I assure him, my hands raised. The scent of urine intensifies as I crouch, taking a deep breath. The familiar scent is strongest here, undeniable.

I know this scent.

“What exactly do you smell?” Tyler’s voice is laced with concern, a crackling undertone of worry breaking through.

“It’s… I wish I could pinpoint it. It smells like…a hug. Like someone who once hugged me.” Each inhalation brings a mixture of comfort and heartache. My heart clenches, a tight pinch in my chest.

“Ava,” Tyler hisses, urgency coloring his whisper.

“It’s my mama,” I declare, the realization striking me hard. Abandoning caution, I grab a nearby blanket, press it to my face, and inhale deeply. “Tyler, it’s my mama’s scent.” Tears sting my eyes as I greedily breathe in the familiar aroma, a scent I feared was lost to time.

I always believed I would remember her scent forever, that nothing could ever overshadow it or erase it from my memory, but reality, cruel and unyielding, proves otherwise. Memories, once vivid and tangible, fade into mere echoes of their former selves, as if covered by layers of dust.

“Ava,” Tyler calls out again, his voice sounding far away. He doesn’t follow me farther into the cage, but that’s all right.

I search through the blankets for any trace of her, but I find nothing beyond the cold, unwelcoming concrete and worn fabric, frayed and decayed with time. “She was here. She lived here,” I whisper, the truth of it settling heavily in my heart.

“Ava,” Tyler repeats, his tone pulling me back to the present. I turn to find his eyes filled with sorrow. “Butterfly, she wasn’t the only one. I can scent at least a dozen other shifters in here.” He pauses, his gaze drifting to the corner. “Is there a camera?”

Panic grips me as I spin, spotting the camera just beyond the bars, overlooking the door. “I didn’t notice it before.”

“Is it recording? Do you see a red blinking light?” His voice is calm, attempting to quell the rising storm of fear.

I shake my head. “No, it’s not blinking.”

“Come on, we need to leave,” he urges, reaching out for me. Dropping the blanket, I take his hand, allowing him to guide me out of that haunting space. Once free, Tyler takes a deep breath, a visible weight lifting from his shoulders. “Let’s go.”

“No, not yet,” I protest, breaking from his grasp and heading for the steps. “I need to understand why she was here.”

“Ava, isn’t it obvious?” His voice is gentle, attempting to cushion the blow. “Your mom was a shifter.”

Despite my father eluding to the same, my knee-jerk reaction is to deny it. “Impossible,” I say, but I know it isn’t. He said it himself—Dad broke her spirit.

“Is it?” Tyler steps closer, his presence grounding me. “Butterfly, you’ve shifted yourself.”

“That’s because Ethan nicked me,” I counter, desperation tinting my words.

“No, love, that alone couldn’t cause it. It’s in your genetics.” His features soften, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.

His words hang between us, a heavy truth I’m not ready to face. I turn toward the steps, dismissing the conversation with forced determination. “Let’s go. This place seems abandoned. There has to be proof here that my dad is a part of Puritas.” I can’t leave yet. Not until I have more proof—undeniable proof.

“Five minutes, Ava,” Tyler insists, a sense of urgency in his voice that I can’t quite decipher. “Then we’re leaving, and I’m calling the others.”

I don’t respond, the urgency in his voice igniting a spark of curiosity and unease within me. It’s as if he knows something about this place that I don’t—a thought that irks me deeply.

Climbing the steep steps, I carefully open the door into an old kitchen, frozen in time. The quiet is punctuated only by the low hum of the refrigerator. With no signs of life, I push forward.

“It looks abandoned,” I whisper, noting the thick layer of dust covering everything.

“The place feels abandoned as well,” Tyler says, breaking the eerie silence that cloaks the atmosphere. “But that doesn’t mean it is. The guys are on their way.”

I nod, acknowledging it’s the practical decision. The row home is long and narrow, spanning three rooms on the first floor—a kitchen, a dining room, and a living room. Each space barely appears to be touched by life. I step out of the kitchen, and an abandoned card game on the dining room table catches my eye, surrounded by nothing but four lonely chairs. The living room fares no better, hosting only a solitary television and a couch.

Tyler and I creep up the creaky stairs, and we are greeted by a landing that branches off into a bathroom and three rooms. A quick inspection reveals all rooms but one are empty. The exception is an office, cluttered and cramped. Inside is a desk smothered in papers, concealing the wood beneath. I push the chair aside, scouring the papers for names or dates, any clue to the past that haunts this place.

“I’ll check the filing cabinet,” Tyler offers, entering behind me.

It’s then I notice the craftsmanship of the desk. “This looks like something my grandfather would have made,” I whisper, a memory surfacing. “Mama told me how he made furniture for their community.”

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