Page 22 of Claimed By the Mothman
Slate-gray canvas. A single smudge of dirt on the hem. The ties wrapped around his narrow waist with precision, cinching the look somewhere between domestic menace and Victorian fever dream.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t see you—uh—there.”
Sig tilted his head slightly in an insectile motion. His red eyes blinked, and she suddenly feltseen,in a way that peeled her open like a fruit, making her remember all the things she’d tried to bury under thrift store sweaters and new routines.
“Sorry.” Nell took a step back like she’d been burned.
Sig remained still, the trowel in his hand gleaming in the sun like a talisman.
Nell turned and fled, running down the stairs like she was fleeing the scene of a crime.
Her apartment door shut behind her with a satisfyingthunk.
Shakily, Nell peeled herself out of her garden clothes, strode to the bathroom, and turned the shower to the hottest setting she could achieve. She showered in silence, standing there her fingers went pruney. By the time she pulled herself out, toweled dry, threw on a nightgown and crawled under the covers, the sky outside had gone dark.
That night, she dreamed of red doors opening onto endless corridors. In the dream, she wasn’t afraid. She wasgoing home. She woke with the taste of copper in her mouth— and the certainty that something had been calling her name.
—
She had fled, and the garden didn’t breathe again until she was gone.
One clawed hand still wrapped loosely around the trowel. The other hung at his side, fingers twitching where they’d touched her.
He had touched many humans. Anchored them. Steadied them. Witnessed the end written into their thread. But this—this had not been tethered to The Doom.
The moment he had touched her, something shifted. Like a compass needle finally swinging toward its mark.
Belatedly, he realized his wings had flared open, and he quickly forced them to fold before anyone noticed.
He turned quickly and strode toward his plot in the northeast corner. Gardening gave him peace. There was rhythm in it, a structure he could trust. He pressed his fingers into the loam and closed his eyes.
Yes. There. The roots were singing. A chorus of green voices—hushed, upward-reaching, full of ancient yearning. He had always loved the way seedlings sounded when they broke open their casings, their tiny sighs of hope.
He let the rhythm of the garden settle into him. The soft, faithful labor of care. The blessed ordinariness of life unfurling in silence.
A soft, deliberate footstep caught his ears as dusk began to settle.
Mr. Lyle stood at the edge of the path, hands folded neatly behind his back, gaze as calm and unsettling as ever. His silhouette was framed by trellised green and shadow. There was a faint crease between his brows that hadn’t been there yesterday.
“Eventful evening?” Mr. Lyle asked mildly, as though commenting on the weather.
Sig didn’t answer.
Mr. Lyle walked forward slowly, his shoes making no sound on the brick path. “She is more attuned than we expected,” he said. “It is unusual, even for Greymarket.”
“She hums,” Sig murmured. The words came from somewhere behind his sternum, low and raw. “She walked into the building, and the walls sang.”
“Ah.” Mr. Lyle inclined his head. “They did. And now the resonance is persistent.”
Sig curled his claws into the soil.
“She touched the threshold,” Mr. Lyle added after a moment. “A few days ago. Briefly.”
“The Lustrum called to her?” Sig’s voice came out too sharp. Something in his chest yanked as if a thread had been pulled taut without warning.Why did that hurt?
“Unsuccessfully. Theo intervened.”
Sig’s mouth twitched. The youngling was made of mischief and fierce loyalty in equal measure. “Of course he did.”
