Rendezvous Under the Moonshadow

Chapter 5: The Bookstore in the Moonlight

The balm Seraphina had sent was miraculously effective.

The next morning, when Anya checked the wound on her calf, the three once-vicious claw marks had faded to nothing more than three faint, almost invisible pink lines. Not only that, but the bruising and swelling from her twisted ankle had also mostly vanished after applying the balm. She tested it, walking a few steps, and felt no pain at all.

This wasn't medicine; it was some kind of magic.

Anya carefully put the small white jar away, tucking it into the back of her nightstand drawer as if it were a priceless treasure. After doing so, she realized an uncontrollable smile was spreading across her face.

She immediately schooled her features, annoyed with herself for being so pathetic. It’s just a balm. The woman probably just didn't want the "only witness" drawing any more trouble because of an injury, so she’d sent it to get her off her back. Yes, that had to be it.

She tried hard to convince herself with this logic, but the persistent, warm feeling blooming in her chest just wouldn't go away.

The next two days in Veridian City were surprisingly quiet. The news about the St. Jude's homicide, after a brief moment in the headlines, was quickly replaced by celebrity gossip and political scandals. The police seemed to have announced no new developments, and the whole affair was on the verge of fading into obscurity.

Anya's life returned to a semblance of normalcy. She went to the studio to turn in her overdue work, fielded a few half-hearted complaints from her manager, and then, as usual, slung her camera over her shoulder and wandered the city's streets and alleys.

But only she knew that everything was different.

She no longer sought out abandoned, lonely corners. Her lens began to unconsciously chase the hidden, untold stories in the city's shadows. She would spend an entire afternoon observing an old woman feeding stray cats on a street corner; she would stay out late at night to document the sanitation workers, their faces etched with exhaustion after a long shift but their steps still hurried.

Her world, having glimpsed a horrifying corner of the "other side," had developed a deeper respect and curiosity for the resilient, real lives of the "surface world."

And Detective Chen Yu never came looking for her again. This should have been a relief, but a thread of unease constantly lingered in Anya's mind. She had a feeling that the sharp-eyed young detective hadn't really given up on his suspicions. He was just waiting—waiting for her to slip up.

As for Seraphina, it was as if she had vanished from the face of the earth. No phone calls, no more packages. Anya checked her phone dozens of times a day, but the nameless number remained silent in her contacts.

The longer the silence stretched, the more agitated Anya became. She didn't believe Seraphina would simply ignore the matter, but this feeling of being kept completely in the dark, of being forced to passively wait, was torture.

On the evening of the fourth day, Anya saw a news report on TV stating that the St. Jude's case was about to be closed, officially attributed to a "large feline straying into the urban area" due to a lack of evidence. At that moment, the tightly wound string in her mind finally snapped.

Closed?

Just like that?!

A living person, brutally murdered by a monster, and the official conclusion was a ridiculous "animal attack"?

A surge of fury shot through Anya. She couldn't accept it. She couldn't accept that the innocent homeless man would be so easily forgotten by the world. And she couldn't accept that the murderous monster and its creator were still out there, lurking in the shadows of the city, ready to find their next target.

What was Seraphina doing? Didn't she say she would handle it? Was this her idea of "handling it"?

Anya couldn't sit still any longer.

Waiting had never been her style. If she couldn't rely on others, she would have to rely on herself.

A bold, even reckless, idea formed in her mind.

She was going back to the bookstore.

But this time, she couldn't go empty-handed. She needed new leverage, a new reason that would force that ice-queen of a woman to take her seriously.

She turned off the TV and changed into dark, practical clothing. The night was her best camouflage. She checked her camera bag: spare batteries, a fast lens, extra memory cards… everything was there. Finally, she slid the silver dagger into her boot once more.

As she was about to leave, on a strange impulse, she went back to her bedroom, opened the drawer, and took out the small white jar. After a moment's hesitation, she tucked it into an inside pocket, close to her body.

She didn't know why she did it. Maybe the faint, cool scent of Seraphina that clung to it could give her a sliver of false courage.

Where would she find a new lead? The answer was obvious.

St. Jude's Church.

When Anya stood before the iron fence of the abandoned church again, it was already midnight. It seemed even more dilapidated and sinister than a few days ago. The yellow police tape had snapped in several places, drooping limply like pathetic strands of straw.

Anya vaulted the fence with practiced ease and slipped through the shattered stained-glass window.

The interior of the church was much the same, except now the air of decay and dust was tinged with the faint, chemical smell of disinfectant.

Anya switched on a small, low-powered LED light attached to her camera. It wasn't bright, but it was enough to illuminate the area directly in front of her.

She headed straight for the apse, where the man had been killed.

On the floor, she could still see the white chalk outline from the police investigation, tracing a human form. Around the outline, the stone floor was stained a darker, dried brownish-red. Bloodstains, which even the police cleaning couldn't completely erase.

Anya crouched down, examining the scene intently.

Her senses were heightened to their absolute peak.

Her eyes, like a hawk's, missed no detail. The cracks in the stone slabs, the legs of the pews, the cobwebs in the corners…

Her ears captured the faintest sounds in the church. The mournful whistle of the wind through the hole in the ceiling, the distant drip-drip of water from the bell tower…

And her sense of smell became her most powerful detector.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Amidst the scents of dust, disinfectant, and the metallic tang of dried blood, she searched for it—the specific scent of the Imp she remembered from that night.

That cloying, sweetish odor of rot and chemicals.

It was faint, almost completely dispersed by time and wind. But with her superior sense of smell, Anya still managed to catch a residual trace.

The scent… it didn't seem to be evenly distributed. It seemed to have a source.

Like a hound on the trail, she moved slowly through the apse, following that faint odor. Her nose twitched, discerning the direction from which the scent was strongest.

Finally, she stopped at the side of the main altar.

The residual smell was thickest here.

This area was deep in the altar's shadow, the darkest part of the church. The stone base of the altar was carved with intricate religious reliefs. Anya shone her LED light on it and noticed a fresh, unnatural scratch mark just below the wing of a carved angel.

The scratch was deep, as if made by something extremely sharp and metallic.

Anya reached out and gently touched the mark. It felt cold and rough. She brought her finger to her nose. The rotten stench of the Imp was emanating from here.

This was where the monster had been hiding before it attacked.

It had left a mark with its sharp claws.

Anya's heart began to race. She had a feeling she was about to find something. Focusing the beam of her light on the scratch, she began to examine it, inch by inch.

Deep inside the scratch, she spotted something tiny, glinting dully.

It was wedged in the stone, almost impossible to see. It would have been completely missed without her near-obsessive search.

She took a small pair of tweezers, used for cleaning her lenses, from her camera bag and carefully extracted the object.

She placed it in the palm of her hand.

It was an irregular black metal fragment, no bigger than a pinky nail. It was pitch black, with a strange texture that seemed to absorb light. Its edges were incredibly sharp, as if it had been violently broken off a larger object.

Could this be… a piece of the Imp's claw?

She brought it closer to her eye, examining it under the light. She saw that the surface of the black fragment was etched with even tinier markings, almost invisible to the naked eye.

She immediately took a high-magnification macro lens from her bag and used it like a magnifying glass, aiming it at the fragment in her palm.

Through the lens, the markings were magnified dozens of times.

Anya’s breath caught in her throat.

They weren't natural textures.

They were patterns of straight lines and sharp angles, forming some kind of bizarre, ancient-looking runes. Combined, they formed a complex sigil she had never seen before.

A storm erupted in Anya’s mind.

This discovery overturned one of her previous assumptions. If this fragment was part of the Imp's claw, then this sigil proved that the monster wasn't just a "failed creation." It was more like a… deliberately crafted and marked "weapon"!

This was hard evidence.

This was proof that there was an organization, a conspiracy, behind this case!

Anya's hands were trembling with excitement. She carefully wrapped the precious fragment in a lens cloth and tucked it into her innermost pocket, next to the small white jar.

She had her leverage.

She didn't spend another second in the church. She left the ominous place as quickly as she could and melted back into the Veridian City night.

This time, her destination was clear—the end of Laurel Street, and the antique bookstore that only opened its doors to special visitors at midnight.

When Anya stood before the dark wooden door with the owl knocker again, her mood was completely different. If last time she was a terrified and confused supplicant, this time she was more like a collaborator, bringing key intelligence to the negotiating table.

She raised her hand and knocked three times, still with that measured weight.

This time, she didn't have to wait long.

Almost as soon as her knuckles fell silent, the same cold female voice came from within.

"State your name."

Anya blinked. The opening was different this time.

"Anya Petrova," she answered.

There was a brief pause, then, with the familiar click, the door unlocked.

Anya pushed it open and stepped inside.

Everything in the bookstore was exactly as she remembered. The towering shelves, the warm lamps, the comforting scent of old paper and spices in the air.

And Seraphina was still standing behind the massive oak desk.

Today she was wearing a black silk gown, this one embroidered with fine gold thread in patterns that looked to Anya like star charts. Her silver hair was still loosely pinned, revealing the long, elegant column of her swan-like neck.

She wasn't looking at a computer. She was reading a book—a heavy, thick tome with no cover. Her fingertips were gently tracing the yellowed, handwritten text on the page. The lamplight cast a soft halo around her, making her look like a quiet, mysterious classical painting.

Anya felt her breath hitch again, the traitor.

She was discovering she had a critical weakness for this woman in a silk robe. The soft, body-skimming fabric accentuated her inhuman, ascetic beauty to an almost unbearable degree. Every fold, every play of light and shadow, felt like a silent seduction.

"You're back," Seraphina said without looking up, her gaze fixed on the page. Her voice was as flat as if she were commenting on the weather. "I recall telling you to forget this place."

"And I recall you saying you would handle it," Anya retorted, gathering her composure and walking forward. "But now the news is saying the case is about to be closed as an 'animal attack.' Is this your idea of 'handling it'?"

Seraphina slowly closed the book. She looked up, her ice-blue eyes meeting Anya's.

"Human police, using human methods, to give humans an explanation they can understand and accept. It's perfectly logical," she said. "As for the real culprit, I will deal with them in my own way. The two are not mutually exclusive."

Her logic was flawless, leaving Anya momentarily speechless.

"And how long will 'your way' take?" Anya pressed, unwilling to back down. "A month? A year? Or are you going to wait until that monster has killed half the city's homeless population?"

"That is not your concern," Seraphina's tone held a barely concealed warning.

"I can't help but be concerned!" Anya placed the small, cloth-wrapped object on the desk and pushed it towards her. "Because I found something new."

Seraphina's gaze fell to the small bundle. She didn't open it immediately, just looked at Anya with an appraising, searching expression.

"You went back to the church," she stated, not as a question.

"I did," Anya met her gaze without flinching. "Since you big shots in the 'other world' are so slow to act, I guess it's up to an 'outsider' like me to get things done."

The corner of Seraphina's mouth seemed to twitch upwards, an infinitesimal movement. It was so small it was almost negligible, but Anya swore she saw it. It wasn't a smile, more like… an expression mixing derision with a faint trace of amusement.

"It seems the balm I sent you was a little too effective," she commented, her voice unreadable.

Anya's cheeks flushed. She knew she shouldn't have brought the jar with her. The woman's senses were monstrously sharp.

Seraphina's attention returned to the bundle. She reached out with a pale, slender hand and picked it up. She elegantly unwrapped the lens cloth, layer by layer, revealing the irregular, pitch-black metal fragment inside.

The moment her eyes fell on the fragment, her eternally glacial gaze finally, truly, fractured.

It was a look of shock, revulsion, and… a deeply buried, ancient hatred.

The emotion lasted less than a second before it was masked again by her icy composure, but Anya had seen it, clear as day.

She knew she had made the right bet.

This fragment meant something significant to Seraphina.

"Where did you find this?" Seraphina's voice was colder than ever before, now laced with a hint of… killing intent.

Anya felt the temperature in the bookstore drop several more degrees.

"On the base of the altar, inside a scratch," Anya answered. "It has some kind of… runes carved on it."

Seraphina didn't speak. She simply picked up the fragment between two fingers and held it up to the light. Her gaze became incredibly focused and sharp, her blue eyes like two high-precision scanners analyzing every detail of the fragment.

Anya watched her, captivated by her concentration, by the faint shadow her silver eyelashes cast in the lamplight, by the clear, defined line of her lips pressed together. That strange, bewitched feeling rose up in her again.

She was discovering that this woman, whether she was being aloof or focused, possessed a fatal allure. Even her bone-chilling coldness was like a unique poison, one prepared only for the strong, one you couldn't help but want to get closer to, to taste.

"...It's the mark of the 'Bloodthorn'."

After a long moment, Seraphina finally spoke, her voice a low murmur, almost to herself.

"'Bloodthorn'?" Anya pressed. "What's that?"

Seraphina put the fragment down and looked at Anya again. This time, her eyes held no dismissal, no condescension. Instead, they held a complex, reappraising look.

"An ancient order of fanatics. Vampire hunters," she said slowly, as if uncovering a long-buried, dirty secret. "They belong to no side, follow no rules. Their sole purpose is to hunt and 'purify' all non-human creatures. That includes vampires… and werewolves."

Anya's heart skipped a beat.

"They use forbidden, profane methods to create… 'hounds'," Seraphina's gaze fell back to the fragment, her disgust unconcealed. "For example, they take low-level creatures and modify them with their marks and techniques, turning them into mindless killing machines. The thing we call an Imp is one of them."

Everything clicked into place.

The monster was created by vampire hunters to hunt supernatural beings. And the homeless man was likely just… an appetizer. A test subject to gauge its performance.

"Why are they in Veridian?" Anya asked the most crucial question.

"That," Seraphina said, "is what I would like to know."

She was silent for a moment, seemingly making an important decision. Then she said to Anya:

"Tomorrow night. Nine o'clock. Be here."

Anya was stunned. "Come here for what?"

"You wanted to get involved, didn't you?" Seraphina looked at her, her ice-blue eyes reflecting Anya's own shocked face. "I'm giving you the chance. Tomorrow, I will take you somewhere. A place… where we might find more clues about the Bloodthorn."

Was this… an invitation?

Anya could hardly believe her ears. This proud, dismissive woman who had been trying to push her out of the picture was now actively inviting her to join an operation?

"Why?" she asked instinctively. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

Seraphina looked at her, her gaze deep and unreadable.

"Because," she said, enunciating each word, "while you are reckless, impulsive, and hopelessly foolish…"

Anya's face darkened.

"...your luck appears to be absurdly good. And your canine-like, overly sensitive nose might, on occasion, be more useful than my intelligence network."

The assessment, though brutally blunt, was a backhanded acknowledgment of her abilities.

A wave of elation washed over Anya. She had done it! She had earned her ticket to the game!

"Okay! I'll be here!" she replied immediately, afraid she might change her mind.

"Don't be late," Seraphina said, then picked up her ancient book again, adopting an air that clearly said, "conversation over, you may now leave."

Anya knew her cue. This time, she felt no dissatisfaction. Instead, she happily slung on her backpack and turned towards the door.

"Oh, and one more thing," Seraphina's voice came from behind her just as she was about to leave.

Anya turned back.

"That balm," Seraphina said, her eyes still on her book, her tone as casual as if discussing the weather. "Throw it away when you're done. Don't let anyone, especially the police, see the jar."

"...Okay," Anya nodded, a little dazed.

She stepped out of the bookstore. The cold midnight wind hit her face, cooling her feverish excitement slightly.

She looked back at the once-again closed wooden door, and a wide, irrepressible grin spread across her face.

Tomorrow night, nine o'clock.

She and the mysterious vampire would, for the first time, be working together as true "partners."

At the thought, Anya felt her blood begin to sing with excitement. She was looking forward to more than just uncovering the truth. Much more.

(End of Chapter)