Page 5 of Claws for Celebration
"I'm fine," she said quickly, too quickly. "Just tired from the travel yesterday. Mountain air takes some getting used to."
"It does," he agreed, though he knew fatigue wasn't what had made that book respond to her touch. "Why don't I show you some of the less... temperamental volumes? We can work up to the more delicate pieces as you get comfortable with the collection."
Relief flooded her features. "That would be perfect. I tend to get a bit obsessive once I really dive into research, so pacing myself is probably wise."
As Lucien selected safer volumes for her to examine, he found himself acutely aware of her presence. The way she tucked escaped curls behind her ear when concentrating. How she bit her lower lip when puzzling over difficult handwriting.The unconscious grace with which she moved, as if some deeper part of her recognized the magical energy that flowed through Hollow Oak's very foundations.
His panther had claimed her already, he realized with startling clarity. The beast saw past her human facade to the power that slumbered in her blood, recognizing a mate worthy of protection and devotion.
The human side of him fought that recognition, knowing how complicated her awakening magical heritage would make both their lives. But as morning stretched toward afternoon and they worked in companionable silence, broken only by her questions about local history and his careful answers, Lucien found himself hoping that whatever force had brought Moira Marsh to Hollow Oak would let her stay long enough for him to understand what she meant to his carefully ordered world.
4
MOIRA
Three hours into her work at The Hollow Oak Book Nook, Moira had to admit she'd found something close to heaven. The rare books section felt like a scholar's dream, with proper archival lighting, climate control that kept the ancient pages from deteriorating, and a workspace that somehow managed to be both functional and cozy. Afternoon sunlight slanted through tall windows, creating pools of golden warmth that made the leather-bound volumes glow like jewels.
But it wasn't just the books that held her attention.
Lucien moved through his domain with fluid grace, checking on other customers, restocking shelves, and somehow managing to be both present and unobtrusive. He reminded her of the big cats she'd studied during her undergraduate anthropology courses, all contained power and watchful stillness. When he walked, his feet made no sound on the hardwood floors, and when he turned his head to listen to a customer's question, the motion was precise and economical.
It should have been unsettling. Instead, she found it oddly comforting, as if some primal part of her recognized him as a protector rather than a threat.
"Focus, Moira," she murmured to herself, adjusting her camera angle to capture a particularly faded entry in the Thornwell genealogy. "You're here to work, not to ogle the locals."
Though 'local' seemed an inadequate description for someone like Lucien Vale. Everything about him suggested depths she couldn't fathom, from the way his dark green eyes seemed to catalog every detail of his surroundings to the careful precision with which he'd arranged her workspace. Even his voice carried layers, warm and cultured on the surface but with an underlying roughness that made her think of whiskey and midnight conversations.
"Any luck with the cross-references?" he asked, appearing beside her table with the silent approach she was beginning to recognize as characteristic.
"Actually, yes." Moira gestured to the open genealogy, trying to ignore how her pulse quickened at his proximity. He smelled like cedar and old books, with an underlying wildness that reminded her of forest hiking trails after rain. "The family connections in this region are fascinating. The same names appear in multiple bloodlines across several generations."
"Small communities tend to intermarry," Lucien observed. "Practical considerations often outweighed romantic preferences in frontier settlements."
"True, but this goes beyond practical marriages." Moira pulled up several photographs on her laptop screen. "Look at this pattern. The Shadowheart line connects to the Thornwells, the Ashfords, the Greywoods, and at least a dozen other families. Almost like they were deliberately preserving specific genetic traits."
Lucien's expression grew thoughtful, though something flickered in his eyes that might have been concern. "What kind of traits?"
"That's what's interesting. The genealogies don't just track bloodlines, they include notations about family characteristics. Intelligence, longevity, resistance to common diseases." Moira traced her finger across the laptop screen. "But also stranger things. 'Second sight,' 'plant affinity,' 'weather sensitivity.' It reads almost like they were cataloging magical abilities."
"Mountain communities often developed their own folklore to explain unusual talents," Lucien said carefully. "Herbal knowledge might be called 'plant magic,' while someone with good instincts about weather patterns could be seen as having supernatural gifts."
"Maybe." But something in his tone suggested he believed there was more to it than folklore. "Have you ever heard of the Shadowheart family specifically? They seem to be central to many of these bloodline connections."
"Old stories mention them occasionally," Lucien replied. "They disappeared from the records sometime in the late 1700s. Local legend says they moved away after some kind of family tragedy."
Moira nodded, making a note to research that gap in the records more thoroughly. As she reached for another volume, her grandmother's voice echoed in her memory: "Some stories are too dangerous to tell, little bird. Some names are better left unspoken."
The recollection made her pause, pen hovering over her notebook. Grandmother Elara had always been secretive about their family history, deflecting questions with vague references to "mountain folk" and "old troubles." But sitting here surrounded by genealogical records that stretched back centuries, Moira wondered if those deflections had hidden deeper truths.
"Are you all right?" Lucien asked, and she realized she'd been staring at her notebook for several minutes.
"Sorry, just remembering something my grandmother used to say." Moira shook off the melancholy and reached for the next volume in her stack. "She grew up in the mountains somewhere, but she never talked about her family. I always assumed there wasn't much to discuss."
The book she selected was bound in deep burgundy leather, its spine worn smooth by countless hands. The moment her fingers touched the cover, warmth spread up her arms like sunlight through her veins. She blinked, startled by the sensation, but when she looked down, the book appeared perfectly ordinary.
"Mountain air," she murmured, echoing Mrs. Caldwell's explanation from the previous evening. "Takes some getting used to."
She opened the volume carefully, revealing pages covered in elegant handwriting that documented births, deaths, and marriages spanning nearly two centuries. The ink had faded to sepia, but the records remained legible, a testament to whoever had taken such care in their preservation.
