Page 47 of Claimed By the Mothman
“Why are you sitting in a ring of vines like a teenager about to scry their future?”
“I am selecting an offering,” Sig said evenly.
“Well,” Caracas grunted, sloshing his drink slightly, “thank the gods you’re not doing anything dramatic.”
Another voice piped in, small and delighted. “Is it for Miss Nell?” Theo peeked around Mr. Caracas’ bulk, clutching a small orb of bioluminescence. Before Sig could respond, the little cryptid darted down the hall.
Caracas didn’t move. “You gonna give her something that makes sense, or something that’ll make her call the front desk for pest control?”
“I am building a resonance-appropriate bouquet,” Sig muttered, rubbing the space between his eyes. “A symbolic one. I’ve researched offerings from three caste traditions. I know what she responds to.”
“Hmm,” said Mr. Caracas. “What she responds to, or what youwanther to respond to?”
Before Sig could answer, the sound of tiny feet slapped back into the room. Theo reappeared, breathless and beaming, holding out a single soft object pinched delicately between two fingers. It was a small, curled shell, shimmering faintly with iridescent opal tones. One side had been hand-painted with a lopsided heart and a flower that might’ve once been a star.
“Give herthis!” Theo chirped, pressing it into Sig’s hand. “It’s my favorite, and I think she’ll like it too. Are you gonna marry her? Can I be your ring bearer? I already have a vest!”
Theo flung himself forward and hugged Sig around the neck and then was off like a rocket, squeaking with delight.
“…I don’t think she’s ready for weddings,” Sig said faintly, staring dumbly at the shell in his palm.
Caracas snorted. “You’re not either, mothboy.” He turned and shuffled out the door, muttering something about how the building used to be quiet before everyone started falling in love and leaking resonance all over the goddamn floor.
Then, over his shoulder: “Put something yellow in it. Human females like yellow. At least, that’s what they show onDays of Our Lives.”
“What is—”
“Look it up,” Caracas called back, disappearing down the hallway. “And don’t be stingy with the twine.”
Sig stared at the space where the old cryptid had been for a long moment, then exhaled slowly.
His claws hovered over the bundles of dried and prepared materials spread before him like sacred tarot: a tuft of silver seedpods (hope, potential), a polished loop of bone etched with spiral glyphs (returning breath, invitation), a piece of dreamvine knotted in a circle (continuity, longing), a single violet feather (comfort, transformation).
He added Theo’s iridescent shell—crooked heart, smeared star and all.
And, with a sigh, a single yellow blossom, plucked earlier from the growth in the community garden. Bright and delicate and wholly not-traditional. Caracas had a point: she wasn’t from the Broodhome.
He carefully wrapped the bouquet in a piece of soft cloth woven from reed-stem pulp, and tied it together with twine steeped in rosewater and duskleaf. He sat with it for a moment until the bundle felt settled.
Gently, he rose. She was at work. He did not have to see her. Did not have to risk the bond flaring wildly beneath his skin, dragging him into something he could not control. This was safer. Quieter. Measured. And if she threw the offering away, he would not know.
He descended to the fourth floor without incident and paused before her door. Then, with a sigh, he placed the bundle gently on the mat, the twine glinting faintly in the corridor light.
Later—just as dusk settled—he returned to the shadows of the hallway and waited.
She came home. His heart soared at the sight of her, an instinctive lurch he could not suppress. He did not move. Did not breathe.
Nell paused, her head tilting. She looked sharply towards the corner where he perched, her eyes narrowing. He shrank further into the shadow, pulse thundering in his temples.
She could not see him, but still—he would not risk it.
After a moment, she shook herself. Adjusted the strap on her shoulder. The clink of her keys filled the silence.
She stepped forward and saw the bundle.
She bent to pick it up, and the bond stirred. It hummed low in his chest, a lullaby of longing.
Confusion, then suspicion, wafted across her face. Then something gentler, more wounded, more like sorrow. Sig noticed, in the low light, freckles dusting the curve of her cheek like tiny constellations.
