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

7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

C helsea

Thunder rumbles overhead. I look out the front window as a massive golden creature lands on my porch, his wingspan threatening to block out the sun. Lightning crackles between his feathers, and his voice carries the bass of an approaching storm.

“The gun really isn’t necessary.” He sounds almost amused, which only makes him more terrifying. “Though your grip is excellent. Military training?”

“YouTube tutorials.” Despite hours of prep and practice, my hand shakes as I aim at his broad chest. “What are you?”

“Thunderbird, obviously.” He shifts the burden in his arms, and I realize he’s carrying the Mothman from last night. Who looks… awful. His wings hang limp, their golden sheen dulled to a sickly bronze. “But we can do proper introductions later. Right now, we need to talk about your mate-bond.”

“My what?” In the morning sun, I see every disturbing feature of the Mothman that I couldn’t see in the dark. The way that leonine hair frames unnaturally citrine eyes. The thick, insectoid antennae that twitch with each breath. The coarse hair that runs down his chest like some bizarre—and disgusting—evolutionary mistake.

“May we come in?” The Thunderbird—because apparently that’s a thing now—takes a step forward.

“Stop!” But he moves with liquid grace, plucking the gun from my trembling fingers and tossing it gently into the grass.

“You’ll want that later.” His voice is soft, kind. “But right now, we need to focus on keeping this idiot alive.”

“I’m fine,” the Mothman mumbles unconvincingly as his antennae flutter, then wilt against his head.

“You’re about as fine as a Windows update.” The enormous creature rumbles, sounding like thunder despite the clear sky. “Now, Miss Nocturna—”

“Chelsea.”

“Chelsea. What my friend here failed to mention last night, before you understandably threatened to shoot him, is that he’s now bound to you. Physically bound. As in, if he stays away too long—” Weak as he is, the Mothman elbows him so hard the Thunderbird doesn’t finish his sentence.

A hysterical laugh bubbles up. “Mothmen… Thunderbirds… being bound to someone… All completely normal.” I need a seat, or a stiff drink, or to teleport somewhere—anywhere—else. Perhaps all three at once. “Anything else? Does he need to drink my blood, too? Maybe harvest my dreams? Or my organs?” Other, baser, more disgusting ideas flit through my mind, but I don’t voice them.

“Just… proximity.” The Mothman’s voice comes out strained. “And eventually… touch.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not like that!” His antennae twitch in what might be embarrassment. “Just contact. Physical contact. I’ve read—”

“You’ve read?” My hysteria edges closer to fury. “In what, The Mothman’s Guide to Harassing Women ?”

The Thunderbird sighs, electricity arcing between his feathers. “Riven, you’re not helping. Chelsea, I understand this is a lot, but—”

“A lot? This is insane! You expect me to believe that this… this…” I wave my hand at the Mothman’s—Riven’s—slumped form. “That he’s ill because he needs my touch? That physical proximity cures his weakness?”

“Would you like a demonstration?” Something dangerous edges into Thunderbird’s voice. He sets the Mothman on his feet and says, “Riven, walk away.”

“Volt—”

“Do it.”

Riven’s knees sag as he struggles to maintain his footing, wings dragging. He manages three steps before his knees buckle and he crumples to the wood-planked floor.

“Still think we’re joking?” The Thunderbird’s—he’s called Volt evidently—expression softens at whatever he sees on my face. “Look, we’re not asking you to marry him. Just… let him stay close enough to remain vertical while we figure this out.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll respect your choice.” Riven’s raspy voice is barely audible. “And accept the consequences.” He stills and takes a deep breath as though he needed a pause just to say the next sentence. “I apologize. I told him not to bring me here.”

The saintly martyr routine shouldn’t work on me. But the way his wings tremble, the obvious pain in his voice…

“Fine.” The word tastes like surrender. “But we’re setting ground rules. And as soon as you’re better, we’ll test these supposed boundaries.”

Relief floods Riven’s too-alien face. It makes him almost… no. Still disturbing.

“There’s an old car behind the cabin,” I continue. “You can stay there. And get a phone.”

“I have one.” He pulls a smartphone from a pocket I hadn’t noticed in what I now realize are actual pants. Small mercies.

“Good. Use it. Call before you come anywhere near my line of sight. And this is temporary. Just until we figure out how to get out from under this curse.” Yes. Curse. That’s certainly what this feels like.

“Thank you.” His genuine gratitude makes this somehow worse.

Volt helps him toward the car, then turns back. “The gun’s in the grass. Keep it handy. And Chelsea?” His expression turns grave. “Watch for the maze symbol. There are worse things than cryptids in these mountains.”

Then he’s airborne, massive wings stirring up dust devils as he rises. The display of power feels like a warning, though I’m not sure for whom.

Retrieving my gun, I watch Riven stumble around the side of the house toward the car. His wings really do look like a giant moth’s, beautiful in an unsettling way that makes my skin crawl.

My life has become a cryptozoologist’s fever dream.

And the worst part? Some tiny, traitorous part of me wants to know what made his wings glow last night.