Page 5 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
Fun fact: most London apartments have standard five-pin locks. Less fun fact: none of my supposedly enhanced abilities were helping me crack this one.
On TV, they always made it look so effortless—just stick the pick in, wiggle it around a bit, and pop! Open sesame. But after twenty minutes of trying, the only thing I’d managed to do was probably void Dev’s rental deposit by scratching up his lock.
The irony wasn’t lost on me—I’d already be inside if I hadn’t lost the spare key he’d given me. The same key I’d sworn I’d return after our breakup, along with his favourite hoodie and the pieces of my broken heart. Instead, I’d shoved it into the pocket of my jeans. The jeans that went through the wash. Twice. My talent for losing things extended far beyond just losing boyfriends. But I needed answers, and they were somewhere behind this stupidly stubborn door.
A therapist would say that breaking into my ex’s flat wasn’t healthy coping behaviour. But Dev was missing, and I was apparently the only one who noticed something wrong with his absence on any social media feed.
My phone vibrated, and like any self-respecting person with ADHD, I immediately abandoned my task to look at it.
Sebby
Put down the lock pick before you hurt yourself and get back to Killigrew Street. Now.
I jumped, nearly dropping my phone. The screen’s glow painted my hands blue in the darkness. My gaze darted up and down the empty corridor, seeking the hidden CCTV that must be tucked into some shadowy corner. Felix had to be watching me—that sneaky little traitor. Why couldn’t Felix have lied to Seb and said that the CCTV was broken?
My phone buzzed again.
Now, Rory! Or we’ll start the meeting without you.
I stomped down the hallway. Dev’s building was exactly what you’d expect for a successful journalist—a converted mansion split into overpriced flats, with high ceilings and crown moulding that almost masked how much you paid for a glorifiedshoebox.
My footsteps echoed as I descended six flights to the street. London’s rush hour roared past. The setting sun cast long shadows across the pavement. I turned left, toward the hidden entrance to the tunnel network leading back to Killigrew Street.
I’d known this was a bad idea, trying to access Dev’s flat before Seb returned from Ireland to launch the investigation. But Dev hadn’t been online for seven days. Hadn’t evenopenedmy increasingly desperate messages. And yeah, maybe we’d broken up nine months ago, and I should just let it go, but Dev never went offline. Ever. The man documented his breakfast, for fuck’s sake.
His last post had been a perfectly staged photo of avocado toast at some trendy café in Shoreditch. All artful angles and perfect lighting. I’d smiled, imagining him lining up his phone in that way of his. Then I’d swiped to the next photo, to see his stupid new boyfriend shoving said avocado toast into his stupid mouth.
I ducked into an alley between a charity shop and a closed newsagent’s, checking for witnesses before pressing a specific brick.
It sank inward with a soft click. The manhole cover beneath me vibrated as machinery whirred below, shifting with a grinding sound.
I heaved up the heavy lid. Cool air wafted from the darkness. I clicked on my phone’s torch, stuck it between my teeth, and climbed down the ladder quickly, grimy metal cold under my palm.
The secret tunnel network beneath London had been my saving grace since joining Killigrew Street. No cramming onto the Northern Line with sweaty humans during rush hour for me.
When my brother plucked me off the streets of Glasgow and offered me a job fighting supernatural crime, I thought he was joking when he said our headquarters would be a haunted hotel.
The Killigrew Street Hotel, one of the Victorian era’s finest, had been frozen in time since the 1970s when the last paying guest checked out. From the outside, it looked like any other abandoned building awaiting renovation, which was exactly what the neighbours thought we were doing.
“Just contractors,” Seb would say with that charming smile of his whenever anyone asked. “Historic preservation work. Very delicate. Very slow.” The neighbours nodded, satisfied with the explanation for the occasional strange noises and odd hours. They’d even started a betting pool about when we’d finally finish—the current leader had his money on 2033.
Little did they know our “renovation” involved converting the grand ballroom into a training room, complete with mats and punchbags. The basement was our meeting room and sanctuary. And one day, Seb would surely finally let us transform the honeymoon suite into a cinema room.
Unless he selfishly decided to claim it for himself and Flynn, of course. Now they were sickeningly in love.
At the bottom of the ladder, a rat scurried across a pipe, and I nearly dropped my phone trying not to yelp. The wavering light briefly revealed wall graffiti—a crude dick drawing. Even in secret supernatural passages, humans gonna human.
I jogged through tunnels twisting beneath London like a drunk snake’s attempt at civil engineering. Finally reaching Killigrew Street Hotel’s basement steps, I took the spiral stairs two at a time, calves burning. Just before the bookcase entrance, my phone buzzed. Signal at last.
Sebby
Oh, and your favourite person is here. Kit says if you refer to him as Detective Dickface even once, you’re helping clean the guns again.
“Fuck!” The word bounced off the stone walls. Detective Theodore Maxwell. Because this day couldn’t get any better.
My hands clenched into fists, nails digging into my palms. That pompous, rule-obsessed bastard would be there with his stupid suit on, ready to judge everything I did. He’d give me that look—the one that said I was beneath him, just some feral wolf who couldn’t control himself.
The memory of cold metal handcuffs flashed through my mind. An entire night locked in a cell during a full moon, fighting every instinct in my body whilst my bones tried to break and reshape themselves. Hours of agony as my wolf clawed at my insides, desperate for release I couldn’t give it. The taste of blood in my mouth from biting my tongue to keep from screaming. Fluorescent lights that felt like needles in my skull. The humiliation of resorting to screaming, to begging, only to be ignored.
