Page 26 of Moth to a Flame

We went out onto the porch, and I shrugged on my jacket. Mugen came with us, flapping along at shoulder height and purring as Lucia scratched his chin. He landed on the porch rail and puffed himself up.

Three ravens sat on a fencepost by the drive, black and glossy, watching us with beady eyes. Mugen let out a screech that was pure territorial menace and launched off the rail like a small, furry cannonball. The ravens scattered, croaking in outrage, and Mugen chased them halfway down the drive, snapping his wings and yowling threats before wheeling around and coming back with a smug look in his violet eyes.

“Good boy,” Lucia said absently, and I was not jealous of a familiar. I was not.

I walked down the porch stairs and threw a leg over my bike, hitting the kickstand with my heel. Lucia stood on the gravel for a second, looking at it. I held out a hand.

“Come on, I’ve got you.”

She took it. Her fingers were warm. She swung up behind me gracefully, and I passed her the spare helmet. Once she had it on, I felt her breathe out slowly and settle her hands on my ribs like she was touching a hot stove, sitting as far back on the seat as she could.

I grabbed her hand and pulled it tighter around me.

“I don’t want to crush your wings,” she lied.

“If you want to be safe, you have to move closer. Otherwise, the balance will be off.”

Her arms slid down and locked around my middle. Her chest pressed flush to my back, and the bond hummed like a struck tuning fork.

“Ready?”

“No.”

“Great.”

The engine roared, and her arms tightened around my waist, which I did not hate.

We pulled out of the drive. Cold October air came up around us as I tugged down my goggles, carrying the scents of woodsmoke, turned leaves, and the faint apple-rot sweetness of a town that had been hoarding pumpkins for a month. The sun was already low, and golden light cut through the trees along the county road. Every building we passed had jack-o’-lanterns grinning from stoops and windows. She was warm at my back. She hadn’t loosened her grip.

At the first curve, she flinched. Then, when she realized I’d taken it fine, she giggled—a small, startled sound right against my shoulder blade. A spark of joy flashed through the bond before she could stop it, bright and surprised.

I opened the throttle a little on the straight stretch just to hear her do it again.

She did.

CHAPTER NINE

Research

Gertrude sent us off at sunset with a stack of half-translated pages and a look that lingered a beat too long on Hawk.

“Bring him back tomorrow in one piece, darling,” she said to me, patting my cheek. “I like this one.”

I scowled and, for once, thought my real words might have been meaner than what the curse twisted them into. She chuckled and shooed me out the door.

Hawk was already on his bike, sticking a lasagna Gertrude had made him into the saddlebag. He glanced over his shoulder as I came down the porch steps and smiled, his red goggles flashing in the dying light.

“Ready, boss?”

“Just drive, Mothman.”

I climbed on behind him, and he pulled out onto the empty road. The sun was nearly gone behind the trees, and I held on to his waist and thought about nothing for the entire ride home. Nothing except the warmth of him beneath my hands and the small buzz of his wings trapped under his jacket.

We reached home, and he killed the engine. Neither of us moved or said anything as the stars started to blink to life in the sky above us.

No, we had work to do. No time to linger on soft moments.

“Okay, let’s head inside and get to work.”