Page 104 of Claimed By the Mothman
The bond may have claimed you. But it has not yet cleansed you.
“What do you think it means?” she asked, her voice too tight to be casual.
“I think,” Sig said quietly, “something is drawing closer.”
Outside, the wind rose sharply, rattling the windowpane.
Nell exhaled, unsteady. “Goldie says we should burn it.”
Sig’s gaze flicked up. “I would rather devour it, but I worry that would strengthen whatever sent it.”
“Gross,” Nell said. “And fair.”
She rose, leaned across the table, and kissed him. When she pulled away, he caught her hand in his.
“I will keep you safe,” he said.
She nodded. “I know.”
But she didn’t sayI believe you.
Chapter 20
The tea kettle shrieked. Steam poured from the spout in thin, whining coils.
It hadn’t been turned on a moment ago.
Sig entered the kitchen a moment later, quiet as breath. His antennae swept low, skimming the air in agitated arcs.
The kettle wailed again, a sharp, aware sound.
Nell picked it up, hand trembling only slightly. The sound cut out. The steam faded.
Her eyes drifted to the drawer by the stove where she’d stashed the note from yesterday. Even from here, she could feel its weight.
The opal ring tightened. She rubbed a thumb against it, but the ring didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened even further.
Sig moved closer and placed his hands on her shoulders. They didn’t speak. Didn’t name what they were both thinking.
There was no knock, just a sound—clean and wrong—as the apartment door clicked open.
Mr. Lyle stood in the doorway. Spine straight. Today’s three-piece ensemble was the deep green of pine needles in moonlight. His tie shimmered faintly at the edges. Gold cufflinks caught the low kitchen light and flashed like polished fangs. A clipboard was in his hand. His smile was like a paper cut.
“Ms. Townsend,” he said evenly. “Mr. Samora. I see you’ve been busy.”
There was no judgment in his tone, only record-keeping.
“I need to speak with both of you,” he said. “In my office.”
Sig’s claws curled slightly. The floor beneath Nell’s feet didn’t tremble, exactly, but the grain of the wood shifted, as if reacting to some deeper command.
She nodded wordlessly and followed the apartment manager into the hallway. Sig came after, slow and deliberate, each footfall more a choice than a step.
The hallway was wrong, like someone had replaced the original with a replica made from memory. The sconces flickered eerily. The wallpaper pattern, always odd, now slanted subtly, pulling the eye toward Mr. Lyle’s back.
The further they walked, the longer the hallway stretched. Doors that hadn’t been there before appeared as they walked past. When they reached the door at the end of the hallway—clean white wood, no number, no label—it opened beneath Mr. Lyle’s touch.
Inside, the lights were already on. Mr. Lyle gestured toward the two chairs across from his desk.
