Page 40 of Claimed By the Mothman
Nell swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. She pointed to the final sentence with a finger that trembled slightly. “It says that if the bond isn’t accepted, death can result.” She looked up at Goldie, a rising panic growing in her chest. “So—does this mean—oh shit—”
“Nope.” Goldie’s voice snapped into urgency. “Deep breath, hon. You know how these things are. You read one bad outcome and suddenly everyone’s doomed. We don’t have enough data.”
She strode towards the shelves, fingers fluttering out along the spines as if she was willing a counterexample into existence. “Academic writing loves worst-case scenarios. Give me five minutes and we’ll find five alternate scenarios without breaking a sweat.”
Nell stared down at the page before her. Her eyes couldn’t stop landing on the worddeath, no matter how many times she tried to move on. Her stomach dropped, a sickening lurch like stepping off a curb in the dark.
Within the stacks, Goldie let out a low whistle. But not her usual theatrical one—this was quieter; surprise laced with caution.
“Honey,” she said softly, “I know this isn’t the counterexample I promised, but…I think you need to see this.”
Nell looked up, pushing her rising fury to the back of her mind and looking over at Goldie, who was staring down at a heavy, leather-bound volume. Her fingers curled just above the page like she wasn’t sure if touching it again was a good idea. By the time Nell crossed the room and leaned in beside her, she could already smell the thing.
The book—Structures That Should Not Exist—reeked of old ash and cedar.
Goldie didn’t look away from the page. “It snapped at me when I tried to pull it off the shelf. I thought it was being dramatic, but then I opened it and…” She tapped the page with a single, deliberate finger. “Just read.”
The pages were uneven, with cramped, narrow columns of text. The margins were riddled with cryptic notations, many of them scratched out or overwritten in a second hand. One section bore a jagged tear through its center, as if a reader before them had panicked and tried to erase what they'd seen.
The Lustrum is not a place. It is a threshold. A mirror. A hunger. It reflects what you fear to know and amplifies what already sings inside you. What answers the call may not be what was called, and not all returns are refusals. Some simply remain.
Nell’s stomach dropped.
Goldie frowned, a sharp crease forming between her brows as she glowered at the book like it had personally offended her. Without a word, and marched back to the table, dropping it with a solidthudthat made nearby chairs flinch.
Nell followed, the sick feeling in her gut coiling tighter. She looked down at the folder Mr. Lyle had given her, still closed, still heavy. Slowly, she flipped it open. The note was still there—plain paper, typed words, no signature.
Some are born to survive the Lustrum.
Some are born to become it.
If you are reading this, you already know which you are.
Goldie grabbed a legal pad, scribbling furiously as she flipped through the pages like they might rearrange themselves into meaning if she moved fast enough.
“Nell, go take a walk,” she muttered, her pen slashing down another line. “I’m going to crack this. I’m excellent at puzzles and super caffeinated. Go get some tea. Or whiskey. Or both..”
“Goldie—”
Goldie looked up, eyes clear and unflinching. “I mean it, Nell. I don’t want you spiraling, hon—” She held up a hand before Nell could protest. “—and youarespiraling. It’s fine. Let your bestie Goldie, who currently has both feet on the floor and the full use of her executive function, do what she does best.”
She pointed the pen at Nell like a wand. “Go,come back when you’re buzzed on anything other than dread, and we’ll debrief like professionals.”
Nell’s instinct to argue curled up under the weight of her own exhaustion. Goldie was right. Without another word, she turned and walked out, leaving her friend muttering at the table, already rifling through three books at once like the pages owed her answers.
–
Nell wandered without aim, the hush of the stacks wrapping around her like gauze. Every corridor looked slightly unfamiliar, like the building had shifted half a breath to the left. She passed a shelf that had definitely not been there before—Cryptogastronomy and Edible Portals—and didn’t bother questioning it.
Her fingers trailed across spines absently, grounding herself in texture and title. Anchoring herself, she thought, but the word only summoned an image she wasn’t ready for: Sig’s clawed hands, ruthless yet careful as he crushed her against him like he wanted to map her from the inside out.
And beneath all of it, that moment in the Lustrum. That split-second eternity when she had felt herself go and begin drifting away, like surrender, like goodbye. Like part of her had always been waiting for that opportunity.
That she hadn’t fought—that she’d been ready to let go—terrified her far more than the claiming.
She turned a corner and nearly ran into a small, hunched man holding a stack of books that reached his chin. “Excuse me,” he said, peering up at her through thick bifocals. “Do you know ifResonant Thresholds and Ritual Maintenanceis shelved under Interplanar or Personal Metaphysics?”
Nell blinked. “Um…maybe both?”
