Page 16 of Moth to Her Flame

“My cat is Elvis.” The woman’s voice is forceful with conviction. “Not just any Elvis.TheElvis.”

Movement catches my eye as Riven slips into the room. It’s been over a week since Volt carried him to my porch. He’s no longer banished to the trees to watch my broadcast through the windows. He settles into what’s become his usual spot—close enough to pass notes, far enough to maintain our careful dance of almost-normalcy. Something’s off about his posture tonight. His wings are duller than usual and his antennae are droopy, but he manages a tired smile.

“Fascinating.” Focusing back on the caller. “What makes you sure your cat is the King?”

“Well, first there’s the peanut butter and banana thing. Can’t keep them in the house. And last night? Caught him doing hip thrusts at his reflection!”

A note slides across my desk in Riven’s elegant handwriting:Ask if the cat’s been spotted at any suspicious wedding chapels.

Fighting back a grin, I lean into my Nocturna persona. “Have you considered that perhaps your cat is merely an Elvis tribute artist? The feline scene is quite competitive these days.”

“No, no—he’s the real deal! Yesterday he meowed ‘Love Me Tender’ perfectly in tune!”

Another note appears:Does he do private purr-formances?

The pun is so terrible I almost break character and laugh out loud. “Thank you for sharing your… unique situation. Perhaps your cat would consider calling in himself next time?”

“Oh, he’s shy about phone interviews. Says they don’t capture his true essence.”

“Of course. Feel free to put a video in the chat comments if you can catch him in action.”

Riven’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, but there’s strain around his eyes.

“Line two, you’re live with Nocturna.”

“Yeah, so like, I’ve got this theory about Bigfoot.” The caller’s voice has that particular late-night conspiracy edge. “What if—hear me out—what if Bigfoot is actually an alien wearing a Sasquatch suit?”

Riven’s note appears almost instantly:Cliff—resident Sasquatch— will be devastated. He pays good money for his fur care products. He’ll be indignant at some cheesy alien impersonator in a fake fur suit.

Biting back laughter, I put on my serious radio voice. “Interesting theory. What led you to this conclusion?”

“Well, I’ve been tracking UFO sightings, right? And they perfectly match up with Bigfoot encounters if you just flip the map upside down and hold it under a black light!”

“Remarkable methodology.”

Riven’s actually wheezing silently now, wings quivering with suppressed mirth. Although aspects of his face are still gross, if I zero in on that mouth, it’s—. I stop myself before the word “kissable” invades my thoughts. “Have you considered publishing your findings?”

“Can’t. The alien-Sasquatch alliance would suppress it. They control the academic journals, you know.”

“Such a shame. It sounds like truly groundbreaking research.”

I glance at Riven just as he slides another note:I hear the Journal of Cryptid Sciences has a strict ‘no yeti peer reviewers’ policy. Discrimination if you ask me.

The next caller starts describing the coded messages he’s receiving from the Centauri system when I notice Riven’s laughter has stopped. His wings droop more than usual and his antennae lie flat against his hair. Something’s definitely wrong.

“Line four, you’re live.”

“Long-time listener.” The man’s voice carries an edge that instantly shifts the mood. “Been seeing some strange activity up near Starfire Peak in Colorado. Men in suits, equipment I’ve never seen before. They’ve got this symbol everywhere—like a maze inside a circle?”

Riven straightens, all humor vanishing. He moves closer, as if to write something, but his hand trembles visibly. Without thinking, I gesture him closer to my mic.

For a moment, all thought escapes me as his breath ghosts over my cheek. Our gazes lock and something arcs between us. It’s so powerful, it’s almost as electric as that first moment I touched him when I tried to push him off the porch. It’s so remarkable I have to suppress a gasp.

“Actually,” my voice stays steady only by force of will, “we have a radio frequency engineer here tonight who might have some questions about that equipment. Could you describe it in more detail?”

Riven eases even closer, his warmth immediate and distracting. His wings curl forward slightly, as though he’s trying hard not to touch me without permission in this cramped space.

“Looks military grade,” the caller continues, “but unmarked. They’re taking readings or something. And get this—they’ve got your show playing in their van. Overheard them talking about tracking signal patterns…”

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