Page 9 of Claws for Celebration
Moira blinked hard, certain she was imagining things, but the elegant script continued flowing across the page as if guided by an invisible hand. The ink shimmered silver-black in the morning light, forming letters in the same ancient language that filled the rest of the grimoire.
"What the hell?" she whispered, lowering her camera with trembling hands.
The writing paused, as if responding to her voice, then resumed with renewed purpose. Fear and fascination warred in her chest as she watched words form in real time, her rationalmind screaming that this was impossible while some deeper part of her soul recognized the magic as utterly natural.
The script was beautiful, flowing like water across the ancient parchment, and despite never having seen the language before, Moira found herself understanding each word as it appeared.
The bloodline wakens. The daughter returns to claim her inheritance.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as more words materialized, spelling out truths she wasn't ready to face.
Elara's kin bears the gift. Power runs deep in Shadowheart veins. The old ways call to the young heart.
"No," Moira breathed, pushing back from the table so quickly that her chair scraped against the hardwood floor. "This isn't real. This can't be real."
But the grimoire continued writing, indifferent to her denial.
Moira Celeste Marsh. Born of two worlds, belonging to both. The time of choosing approaches.
Seeing her own name appear in flowing calligraphy made her stomach lurch with a mixture of terror and impossible recognition. How could an ancient book know her middle name? How could ink move without a hand to guide it?
The brass bell above the front door chimed, and Moira heard Lucien's voice calling out a greeting to someone entering the shop. Panic flared through her as she realized she'd been making enough noise to attract attention. She couldn't let him see this, couldn't let anyone witness what was clearly either a psychotic break or actual magic.
With shaking hands, she slammed the grimoire shut, cutting off the supernatural writing mid-sentence. The book felt warm against her palms, almost pulsing with disappointed energy, but at least the impossible script had stopped flowing.
"Deep breaths," she told herself, fighting to regain composure. "Maybe you're more tired than you thought. Maybethe mountain air is affecting your brain chemistry. There has to be a logical explanation."
But even as she tried to rationalize what she'd witnessed, the words continued echoing in her mind.The bloodline wakens. The chosen daughter returns.
Footsteps approached the rare books section, and Moira looked up to see Lucien carrying a tea service on a silver tray. He moved with that same predatory grace she'd noticed from the beginning, silent and controlled, but today something in his expression seemed more alert, as if he sensed the magical disturbance that had just occurred.
"Afternoon tea," he said with a gentle smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Twyla sent over some of her famous honey scones. She claims they're good for settling frayed nerves."
"Frayed nerves?" Moira tried to keep her voice level, though she suspected she was failing miserably. "What makes you think my nerves are frayed?"
"Lucky guess." Lucien set the tray on a side table and began arranging delicate china cups with practiced ease. "You've been working intensively for three days straight, dealing with some pretty overwhelming family revelations. It would be strange if you weren't feeling a bit unsettled."
The care in his voice made something warm unfurl in her chest, temporarily pushing aside the fear that had gripped her while watching the grimoire write itself. He genuinely seemed concerned about her wellbeing, and the simple act of bringing her tea felt more intimate than it should have.
"Thank you," she said softly, accepting the cup he offered. Their fingers brushed during the exchange, and she felt that same electric tingle that had been occurring whenever they touched. "That's very thoughtful."
"How's the research going today?" Lucien asked, his dark green eyes swept over her workspace, lingering on the closed grimoire. "Making progress with the Shadowheart genealogies?"
Moira's grip tightened on her teacup. Did he know what had just happened? Was he testing her reaction to see if she'd admit to witnessing something supernatural?
"It's been... enlightening," she said carefully. "Though some of these older texts are harder to interpret than I expected."
"Ancient languages can be tricky," Lucien agreed, his tone casual but his gaze intent. "Sometimes the meaning isn't in the words themselves but in the context surrounding them."
"Context," Moira repeated, wondering if they were still talking about translation or something much more significant. "Right."
She bit into one of Twyla's scones, buying herself time to think. The pastry was incredible, flavored with honey and herbs that seemed to calm her racing pulse, but she felt that this entire conversation was loaded with subtext she didn't understand.
"Lucien," she said finally, setting down her cup with deliberate care. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Have you ever experienced anything in this town that you couldn't explain? Anything that seemed... impossible?"
