Moth to Her Flame (Mated to the Monster: Season 3)

4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

C helsea

Halfway through checking my security cameras for the night, a knock echoes through my cabin. Not a timid, uncertain knock. Three sharp raps that mean business.

My heart kicks against my ribs. No one comes up here. That’s the whole point of broadcasting from the middle of nowhere. Besides, it’s three in the damn morning.

The gun is in my hand before I consciously decide to retrieve it from my desk drawer. Two years of self-imposed exile have taught me a few things about survival. Like keeping the safety off when answering unexpected after-midnight visits.

Another knock. Even more insistent this time.

“Who’s there?” My voice carries the steel edge that’s become my trademark since the Sasquatch incident. The one that says I’m not some helpless female alone in the woods. "Last warning—show yourself or get off my property. I'm armed and my aim is excellent."

“Please.” The voice is male, unexpectedly gentle despite its strange resonance. “I need to speak with you. It’s about your safety.”

Right. Because that’s not serial killer dialogue at all.

Keeping the gun ready, I approach the door. The porch light reveals nothing through the peephole except shadows that seem to move strangely. Probably just moths drawn to the light.

Except those shadows are way too big for moths.

“Show yourself clearly or leave. Now.”

“Um. I think in the movies this is where someone tells you to sit down first.”

Does this ass think he’s funny? No one’s funny at three in the morning.

“Show yourself or get off my freaking porch!”

A figure steps into the light, and my world tilts sideways.

He’s tall—basketball player tall—with a muscled build that would be imposing enough on its own. But it’s everything else that makes my breath catch. Massive wings spread behind him like some twisted angel’s, their pattern reminiscent of a moth’s but wrong—too big, too otherworldly. They’re an impossible shade of amber-gold that seems to shift in the porch light.

His face is almost human. Almost. But the resemblance ends at the thick, tawny hair framing it like a lion’s mane, continuing down his bare chest in a way that makes my skin crawl. Worse are the antennae sprouting from his head, currently twitching like some obscene insect’s feelers. His appearance makes my gut churn with disgust so strong it overrides my terror.

“Don’t shoot.” He raises his hands slowly, and I notice they’re too large, fingers slightly too long. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“What are you?” The gun doesn’t waver, even though my voice does.

“I listen to your show.”

Like that explains everything or makes any of this normal. “You talk about creatures like me. Give them a voice. Give them dignity.”

A hysterical laugh bubbles up. “Right. Because you’re what—the Mothman ? Come to warn me about an impending bridge collapse?” Does he know how many shows I’ve done on the 1967 Silver Bridge Collapse that was attributed to a Mothman?

“Actually…” Those otherworldly antennae twitch again. “I’m here about Apex Evolution Technologies. They’re hunting us. And, from what your caller said earlier tonight, Nocturna, now they’re looking for you.”

“Us?” The word tastes bitter. “There is no us. There’s me, and although you can’t see through my door—” Shit, maybe he can. “Rest assured that I’m pointing a gun at whatever elaborate costume this is… and you, who needs to leave. Now .”

He takes a step forward, earnest despite the weapon aimed at his chest. “It’s not a costume. You know it’s not. You’ve spent years telling stories about creatures like me. Giving people hope that maybe they’re not crazy when they see something impossible.”

“Stay back!” But he’s right—no costume could move like that, with such fluid grace. No mask could capture the way those antennae respond to every shift in the air, every emotion he feels.

“Please.” Another inch forward. “Those people are dangerous. They want to find us and gods know what they want to do after that. And they must think you know something about our network if they’re looking for you, too.”

“I don’t know anything!” The words come out sharper than intended. “I run a late-night talk show for insomniacs and conspiracy theorists. That’s it.”

“You know more than you think.” His voice gentles further, like he’s trying to calm a spooked animal. “The Sasquatch story—”

“Was a mistake that cost me everything.” My finger tightens on the trigger. “Get. Out.”

He moves faster than anything that size should be able to, closing the distance between us. A wooden crack breaks the silence and somehow he’s barging through my formerly locked door.

When my startled step backward turns into a stumble, his hand shoots out to steady me, catching my arm.

Light explodes between us.

His wings—previously a muted gold—burst into brilliant luminescence, patterns flowing across them like living circuits. The glow bathes us both in amber radiance, reflecting in his shocked citrine eyes.

“That’s…” His voice sounds strangled. “That’s never happened before.”

Jerking away from his touch, I level the gun again. The light show dims but doesn’t completely fade; his wings still flicker with a faint inner glow.

“Leave.” My voice shakes but my aim doesn’t. “Don’t come back. Don’t contact me again. Just go.”

“But you don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly. I’ve finally cracked. Gone full Art Bell. Started hallucinating giant moths with warning messages.”

“You’re not hallucinating.” Those impossible wings flex, sending shadows dancing across my walls. “And you’re in danger.”

“The only danger here is how close you are to getting shot.”

For a moment, he looks like he might argue further. Then his shoulders slump, wings drooping. “Just… be careful. Please. Watch for the maze symbol. Don’t trust—”

“GO!”

He backs away, movements less graceful now, almost stumbling. At the porch steps, he spreads those massive wings. They’re still glimmering faintly, like embers refusing to die.

One powerful downstroke lifts him into the air. Another carries him past my security lights into darkness. Within seconds, he’s just another shadow against the star-strewn sky.

My legs give out. The gun clatters to the floor as I sink down beside it, staring at my hands. I can still feel where he touched me—a lingering warmth that refuses to fade.

The moths around my porch light seem mundane now, their wings dull and ordinary. Everything seems dull and ordinary compared to that impossible display of living light.

“This isn’t happening,” I tell the empty night. “This can’t be happening.”

But my arm still tingles where his fingers brushed it, and somewhere in the darkness, a pair of wings are shimmering like captured starlight.

My carefully constructed reality has just sprouted antennae and taken flight.

And I’m not sure there’s enough whiskey in Colorado to deal with that.