Page 39 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
It’s alright. To be honest, it was some black and white art-house thing about the sociopolitical implications of climate change, so you know, maybe
a lucky escape. See you later.
I looked up at Kit. “So, what are we doing until four p.m.?”
“I’m putting you under house arrest.”
The sad thing was, I couldn’t even blame him.
6
Theodore
S. Salazar
4 p.m., basement.
I stared at the text message. Just like that, I’d been summoned. No please, no thank you. Classic Sebastián—treating everyone like his personal chess pieces rather than actual human beings with lives of our own.
My relationship with Killigrew Street had begun three years ago, on a day I still couldn’t quite forget. When a woman who called herself White had materialised before me on a rain-slicked street, her gloved fingers brushing my wrist, her thoughts crashing into my mind like thunder:Come with me.
She’d known my father. She knew what I was. He’d confided in her before death claimed him, left her with the secret I’d spent my life guarding. When she unveiled her proposition—that I become the police link for an underground network fighting supernatural crime—I refused without hesitation.
My father’s warnings had echoed like funeral bells:Stay hidden. Stay safe.After he died, he’d left my mother clutching photographs and nightmares. How could I willingly take unnecessary risks when his absence had carved such hollow spaces in our lives? When my mother’s eyes still searched crowds for a ghost who would never return?
White left me with a blank business card, with only a phone number scrawled in elegant cursive. For weeks it haunted my desk drawer, accusingme with its presence. In quiet moments between cases, I’d trace the numbers with my fingertips, feeling possibility pulse beneath the paper.
My telepathy had always been my private crucible—a gift that isolated me, a power that demanded constant vigilance. Of course, I used it sparingly during investigations. It had to be good for something, after all. But what if I could put my skills to even more use? If I had a choice, surely the moral thing to do would be to help keep London safe from supernatural threats?
And the extra cash White had promised sweetened the deal.
It certainly came in useful. The substantial sums funded cruises for my lonely, single mother who’d always wanted to see the world. Those trips gave her something to look forward to. It was one of the few benefits that balanced out the headaches of dealing with Killigrew Street—especially Sebastián’s imperious attitude and Rory’s constant provocations. The only one who never grated on my nerves was their quiet tech nerd, Felix. The British-Korean genius had somehow hacked his way into a job there, and I often wondered how he coped with them all day.
At three o’clock, I told my boss I was leaving early to work from home. DCI Harris barely listened, just nodded while on the phone. Being a stellar member of the force came with benefits—like minimal questions about my comings and goings.
Still, I felt guilty about neglecting my actual cases. Two days ago, an ATM had been stolen—ripped from a wall with a digger—and finding “The Midnight Miner” was supposedly my priority, not chasing missing shifters and investigating shadowy medical facilities.
But priorities had a way of shifting when the supernatural was involved. That was the bargain I’d made when I’d finally called White’s number. Some days I still wondered if I’d made the right choice.
I rubbed my temple, feeling other people’s thoughts pushing against my own. The police station was always an ordeal—too many minds in too small a space.
I couldn’t face walking through the tunnels today. The thought of those cramped passageways made me shudder, so I took the Tubeinstead. Even that was pushing it—the Northern Line was its own special hell for a telepath.
The late afternoon air swept away the cobwebs of my thoughts as I walked toward Killigrew Street. Fat Cat’s was closing, Flynn and Priya’s friend Emma rhythmically wiping counters whilst nodding along to her headphones, lost in her own private symphony. I’d never quite grasped their near-religious devotion to that café, even if I had made my pilgrimage there yesterday to procure Rory’s peace-offering coffee.
Another hundred metres and there it stood—Killigrew Street Hotel, a forgotten monument to Victorian grandeur. Ivy embraced the façade like a possessive lover, climbing stone that had witnessed a century and a half of London’s secrets. Windows remained either shattered or shrouded behind wooden boards—eyes closed to the world outside. The once-proud gold lettering above the entrance had surrendered to time. I had to smile at the crooked “FOR SALE” sign—a small fiction, maintained for decades.
I paused, scanning the street for watchful eyes before slipping through the gap in the fence concealed by nature’s patient reclamation. My key turned in the side door’s lock with quiet precision—at least Salazar honoured what mattered beneath the theatre of abandonment.
The corridors were empty, and I quickly made my way into the lobby. When I reached the desk, I flinched. Dolly, that bloody porcelain monstrosity they all pretended manned the desk, now sported aviator sunglasses with one arm raised in a jaunty wave.
“Christ,” I muttered. Probably Rory’s doing.
At the basement door, I punched in the code and headed down. Even before reaching the bottom, I sensed them—multiple minds buzzing with activity, and I took a moment to reinforce my mental guards.
A loud, throaty cough cut through the room. Sebastián stood by the sofas, his tailored maroon trousers and cream shirt making him look like he’d stepped from a vintage fashion magazine rather than being the leader of a supernatural crime unit.
The room fell silent, all eyes on me. Had they all been talking about me? Rory actually recoiled, sinking deeper into the sofa as if trying to disappear.
