Page 11 of Moonlit Desires

A murmur runs through the crowd, growing louder as information and speculation pass from table to table. Lyra feels the weight of suspicious glances, the unspoken accusations. They remember the strangers from yesterday—their unnatural grace, their interest in her. It doesn't take much to connect the dots.

"Those Court folk were asking about you," says the gray-haired dock worker who'd spoken to Kael. "Right before everything started going strange."

A woman from the seamstress collective rises from her booth. "My sister's boy saw lights in the abandoned train yard last night. Silver lights, moving too fast to be human. Said they were hunting something."

"Or someone," another patron adds, eyes fixed on Lyra.

She grips the edge of the bar to steady herself. "I don't know anything about disappearances. Maya is my friend—I would never—"

The door opens again, this time admitting two members of the city watch. Their uniforms are crisp, their expressions grim as they survey the room. The taller one steps forward, hand resting casually on his nightstick.

"Lyra Ashwind?" he asks, though it's clear he already knows who she is.

She nods, throat suddenly dry.

"We need to ask you some questions about Maya Thornton's disappearance. And about the individuals you were seen conversing with yesterday."

The patrons' murmurs grow louder. Lyra can feel their fear and suspicion like a physical weight pressing against her skin. The mark on her back throbs painfully, as if responding to the rising tension.

"I don't know where Maya is," she says, fighting to keep her voice steady. "And I barely know those people from yesterday. They were just... passing through."

The watchman's eyes narrow. "Interesting company you keep for 'barely knowing' them. Silver-haired woman. Man with eyes 'too blue to be natural,' according to witnesses. Another fellow who 'moved like an animal.'" He consults a small notebook. "Sound familiar?"

Before Lyra can respond, the tavern door opens a third time. Four men in dark suits enter, their movements too synchronized, too precise. They wear the badges of city officials, but Lyra immediately recognizes the predatory grace in their steps—the same unnatural fluidity she saw in Kael and the others.

Only these men don't look at her with protection in their eyes. Their gazes are cold, calculating, assessing her as one might a particularly valuable piece of livestock.

The leader steps forward. His face is handsome in a forgettable way, but his eyes shift like storm clouds, gray to black and back again.

"Officer," he addresses the watchman, "we'll take it from here. Federal jurisdiction." He flashes a badge too quickly to read.

The watchman frowns. "This is a local matter—"

"Not anymore." The storm-eyed man smiles, the expression never reaching his eyes. "There's been a series of similar incidents across three counties. We have reason to believe they're connected to a trafficking operation. Ms. Ashwind may have information vital to our investigation."

His gaze slides to Lyra, and the pendant against her skin turns ice cold. She knows, with instinctive certainty, that these are not federal agents. These are Caelum's people—Storm Court. Hunters.

The watchman hesitates, clearly uncomfortable but unwilling to challenge federal authority. "Fine. But I want to be kept in the loop."

"Of course," the leader says smoothly. He turns to Lyra. "Ms. Ashwind, if you'll come with us, we have some questions."

The patrons watch in uneasy silence. Some look relieved that the authorities are taking over; others seem troubled by the sudden change in jurisdiction. Maya's neighbor bites her lip,clearly torn between concern for her friend and suspicion of Lyra.

"I have work to do," Lyra says, stalling. "The bar—"

"Can manage without you for a few hours," the storm-eyed man interrupts. His smile tightens. "Unless you have something to hide?"

One of his companions moves to block the back exit. Another positions himself near the front door. The third watches the patrons, ensuring no one interferes. The trap is closing.

"Where's Maya?" Lyra demands, abandoning pretense. "What have you done with her?"

A flicker of surprise crosses the leader's face, quickly replaced by calculation. "So you do know something." He steps closer, lowering his voice. "Your friend is alive. For now. How long she stays that way depends entirely on your cooperation."

The pendant pulses against Lyra's skin, a warning. The mark on her back flares hot enough to make her gasp, drawing stares from the nearest patrons.

"You're making a scene, Your Highness," the storm-eyed man murmurs, mockery in the title. "Come quietly, and perhaps Lord Stormborn will be merciful to your friend. Resist, and these good people might discover exactly what happens when fae magic is unleashed in a confined space."

He gestures subtly, and Lyra sees small sparks dancing between his fingers—the promise of a storm building in his palm.

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