Page 38 of Claimed By the Mothman
Nell’s gaze flicked toward the kitchen, where Mr. Lyle’s black folder still sat. The air around it felt a little too still, like it was waiting.
“…and, hey,” she said slowly, voice sharpening, “it’s technically our day off, but what better place to have an existential breakdown than at our employer?”
Goldie stood and extended a hand to Nell. “Let’s go to work.”
–
Bellwether shimmered that morning in the kind of way that made you question whether the city was real—buildings too tall, light too golden, shadows that held their breath a second too long.
Nell stood outside the Bellwether Center for Alternative Literacy and adjusted the knot on her scarf—the one Goldie had unearthed from her pocket and tied properly after making a tragic noise at Nell’s attempt with the red paisley Girl Scout one.
Nell had dressed with a kind of fragile defiance: high-waisted black slacks, a soft cotton blouse, and the cardigan she’d almost donated last fall but couldn’t quite let go of. It was herI am a personoutfit. Casual-cute without being flashy. Nothing that screamedmy soul is currently duct-taped together.
Goldie stood beside her in a purple jumpsuit and a faux-fur vest that looked like a skinned Muppet, sipping iced coffee so serenely that you’d never know she’d spent the speed-walk from the apartment ruminating whether cryptids needed caffeine as much as humans, or if they just liked the ritual of it all.
Now, as they stood in front of the building, Nell took a long, steadying breath, clutched Mr. Lyle’s folder to her chest, and tried not to think about wings. pulsing rings, or how her thighs still ached in the most existentially upsetting way.
“Ready?” Goldie asked.
“No.”
“Excellent.”
They pushed through the glass doors.
The Center smelled like ink, old paper, and something faintly herbal, like chamomile and clove had been ground into the stone when the building was built and had been seeping upward ever since. Light filtered through stained glass skylights high above, casting abstract runes across the white tile floors that shifted and recalibrated themselves throughout the day.
At the entrance was a display case that held cryptid-authored cookbooks under thick, rune-inscribed glass. Each tome was covered in hand-scripted warning labels:
Caution: Volume shifts tone when wet.
This book is not edible.
Do not attempt pie recipe on page 86 unless fully braced in a salt circle.
At the front desk wasMrs. Kephra. Tall and elegant, she had the kind of posture that made you wonder if she had an extra vertebrae or two. Today, she was wrapped in a pale cream sari and carried a gravity that instantly made you speak in hushed tones—not a bad trait for a head librarian.
She looked up as they entered, and her smoky, gray-blue eyes landed on Nell. A look of relief crossed her face.
“Oh, thank the gods,” Mrs. Kephra said, in that soft, floating way of hers. “You came back.”
Nell offered a smile, hesitant at the edges, like it might crack if pressed too hard. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
Mrs. Kephra nodded her head infinitesimally. “I had a dream. Your ring was on the floor.”
“Um,” Nell said. Awkwardly, she raised her hand with the pulsing opal. “It’s not.”
“I see that.” Mrs. Kephra nodded once and returned to the tome in her hands, as if prophecy and punctuality were part of the same administrative task.
Goldie stepped forward. “Suzahni, my darling, I know it’s not a work day, but Nell’s vibing weird and we need to do some reconnaissance research, pronto. Permission to run wild?”
Mrs. Kephra nodded gravely. “Of course.” She placed two fingers lightly to her lips, then to her temple, then extended them toward Nell in a gesture that felt both sacred and unsettling. “Be well.”
“Bless you,” Goldie said, already grabbing Nell’s hand and tugging her gently away.
—
The upper stacks of the Center were quieter than church and twice as reverent.
