Rendezvous Under the Moonshadow

Chapter 3: Unfamiliar Claw Marks

Three in the morning in Veridian City was a slumbering beast. The roaring traffic of the day had dwindled to a few scattered lights gliding silently along the empty streets. Only the 24-hour convenience stores and sleepless billboards stubbornly pumped a faint, artificial light into the city.

Anya pulled the brim of her baseball cap lower, hiding half her face in shadow. She moved through the junctions of light and dark like a phantom merging with the night. The wound on her calf still throbbed, an ominous metronome reminding her of everything she had just experienced. But the pain, paradoxically, made her mind clearer, her senses sharper than ever before.

She could hear the snores of a drunkard collapsed by a trash can two blocks away. She could smell the lingering mix of butter and rosemary from a high-end restaurant's back alley. She could even feel the faint disturbance in the air caused by a nighthawk taking flight from a skyscraper's rooftop.

Laurel Street was in the city's old town, a place free from the oppressive presence of skyscrapers, filled instead with well-preserved, century-old Victorian buildings. They stood silent in the night, their walls draped in ivy, as if recounting tales forgotten by time.

Following her phone’s map, Anya soon found the end of the street mentioned in the post by "Night Owl."

There were no streetlights here. The only illumination came from a waning moon veiled by thin clouds. At the very end of the street stood an unremarkable storefront. It had no sign, no neon lights, not even a window to let light escape. A dark wooden door was shut tight, adorned with an antique bronze knocker shaped like an owl clutching a key.

If you didn't know what you were looking for, you would assume it was just a long-abandoned shop.

Anya stood in the shadows across the street for a long time, observing the mysterious bookstore. There was no movement, no sound. It was as still as a tomb embedded in the city's fabric, its silence unsettling.

She took a deep breath. A faint scent of old paper and dry wood drifted on the night breeze, reminding her of her grandfather's study and bringing an inexplicable sense of calm.

She hesitated no longer. Crossing the cobblestone street, she stood before the door. She didn't touch the owl knocker. Instead, she raised her hand and, with her knuckles, knocked three times, neither too hard nor too soft.

Knock, knock, knock.

The sound was unnervingly clear in the dead-silent street.

One second.

Five seconds.

Ten seconds.

No response from within.

Anya frowned. Was "Night Owl" just spouting nonsense? Or was the shop truly abandoned?

Unwilling to give up, she was about to knock again when a voice suddenly came from inside the door.

It was a woman's voice, as cold as ice struck in winter, with a quality that seemed to drift from a distant time, devoid of any emotion.

"We're closed."

The voice wasn't loud, yet it pierced the heavy door with perfect clarity, delivered precisely to Anya's ears.

Anya's heart leaped. Someone was there!

She cleared her throat, trying to keep her voice steady and polite. "I'm sorry to bother you. I'm not here to buy anything. I... I have some 'trouble,' and I was told you might be able to help."

She deliberately mimicked the phrasing from the forum post.

Silence fell once more from within the door. This time, it lasted longer. So long that Anya almost believed she wouldn't be answered, that she had imagined the voice.

Just as her patience was wearing thin and she was about to turn away, a faint, metallic click sounded from behind the door.

The door opened a c***k.

A sliver of dim, warm light leaked out, cutting through the darkness in front of her like a sharp blade. With it came a richer scent—a mix of old books, leather, and some unidentifiable spice. It was a very… ancient and tranquil smell.

Anya instinctively peered into the c***k but could see nothing beyond a patch of floor covered by a deep red carpet, illuminated by the light.

"Come in."

It was the same cold, female voice, without a hint of emotional inflection.

Anya tightened her grip on her backpack's strap, the dagger in her boot giving her a final surge of courage. She pushed open the wooden door, which was much heavier than she'd expected, and stepped inside.

As she entered, the door swung shut behind her automatically and silently. With another soft click of the lock, she was completely cut off from the world outside.

The interior of the bookstore was much larger than she had imagined. Towering shelves reached the ceiling, densely packed with all manner of books. Most had dark, hardcover bindings, many gleaming with the unique patina that only time could bestow. Motes of dust floated leisurely in the air, illuminated by a few vintage table lamps strategically placed among the shelves, casting a warm glow. It felt less like a shop and more like a private library, a sanctuary of knowledge.

And the master of this sanctuary was standing behind a massive oak desk not far away.

The moment Anya’s eyes fell upon the woman, her gaze involuntarily froze.

It was a beauty that transcended gender and age.

She had long, silver hair that flowed with a soft yet cool luster in the warm light, like liquid moonlight. Part of it was loosely pinned up with an antique hairpin of unidentifiable material, while the rest cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall. Her skin was a near-translucent white, as if carved from the finest alabaster, without a single flaw.

But what truly captured one’s attention were her eyes.

They were a pair of ice-blue eyes, like unthawed arctic glaciers or the purest sapphires—deep, serene, yet possessing a sharpness that could see through everything. When her gaze fell upon you, you felt as if you were being seen through, all your secrets laid bare.

She wore a well-tailored, deep blue silk dressing gown, the collar and cuffs adorned with intricate silver embroidery. Her figure was long and slender; Anya estimated her height to be around 170cm, a little shorter than herself. But the powerful, unquestionable aura she exuded made her seem taller than anyone.

In her twenty-three years, Anya had seen her fair share of beautiful people, but none could compare to the woman before her. This was an inhuman, almost divine beauty, one that made you feel inadequate, one that made you instinctively hold your breath.

"Your 'trouble'."

The woman spoke, breaking the silence. Her voice was the same as before, cold and devoid of warmth, but up close, Anya detected a strange… rhythmic quality to it, like the first, low note of a cello played at midnight.

Anya finally snapped back to reality, realizing she had been staring, and a blush crept up her cheeks. She cleared her throat awkwardly, took a few steps forward, and slung her backpack off her shoulder.

"I… I ran into something," she said, taking the USB drive from her bag. "I don't think this is something the regular police can handle."

She placed the USB drive on the vast oak desk and pushed it gently across.

The woman's gaze slowly shifted from Anya's face to the small device. She didn't immediately reach for it, merely watching it, her ice-blue eyes betraying no emotion.

The silence was more oppressive than any interrogation.

Anya felt her palms begin to sweat. She forced herself to meet the other woman’s gaze and added, "There's a photo on it, and some related case files I've compiled."

The woman finally moved. Her hand emerged from the wide sleeve. It was just as pale and bloodless, with long, slender fingers and well-defined knuckles. Her nails were neatly and immaculately trimmed. As her fingertips touched the USB drive, the absurd thought that "this cold piece of technology is unworthy of being touched by such a hand" crossed Anya's mind.

She inserted the drive into a laptop on the desk, which looked equally ancient with its brass casing. The light from the screen illuminated her flawless face.

Anya’s gaze was uncontrollably drawn to her.

She saw the woman's long, silver eyelashes flutter in the screen's glow, like butterfly wings resting on snow. She saw the straight, classical line of her nose. She saw her beautifully shaped, pale lips, now pressed together slightly in concentration.

Anya suddenly felt the air grow thin, her heart skipping a beat. She didn't understand why she was having this… almost bewitched reaction to a stranger she’d just met, a woman no less. She'd always thought she was into men.

This was too weird. She looked away, flustered, and began examining the surrounding bookshelves, trying to distract herself.

The minutes ticked by. The only sound in the bookstore was the crisp tap-tap of the woman's fingers on the keyboard.

Anya's anxiety grew with each passing moment. She didn't know what the woman was seeing, nor how she would react. She felt like a prisoner awaiting final judgment.

Finally, the tapping stopped.

"Imp."

The woman spoke again, uttering a word Anya had never heard before.

Anya immediately turned her head. "What?"

"The thing in the photo," the woman said, her voice still flat, as if stating a simple fact. "We call it an 'Imp.' A low-level supernatural creature that feeds on life energy and blood. They are usually… failed creations."

Failed creations?

Anya seized on the phrase. Did that mean this monster wasn't natural, but had been "made"?

"They fear the light, have low intelligence, and are driven only by a primitive hunting instinct," the woman continued, her eyes still on the screen. "Normally, they are kept under strict control within their creator's territory. To appear in human society and cause so many casualties… this breaks the rules."

Rules? Whose rules?

Anya's mind was buzzing with questions, but she knew this wasn't the time to ask. She was more concerned with something else. "Do you know who did this?"

The woman finally looked up, her ice-blue eyes meeting Anya’s once more. This time, there seemed to be a hint of scrutiny in her gaze.

"Your leg is injured," she said suddenly, the change of topic abrupt.

Anya was taken aback and instinctively glanced down at her calf.

"The Imp's claws," the woman said, and for the first time, a subtle ripple disturbed her calm voice, like a small stone tossed into a frozen lake. "Its claws and fangs carry a weak, corrosive toxin. For a normal human, if not treated promptly, the wound would fester, eventually leading to amputation."

Anya's heart sank. No wonder it hurt so much.

"However…" The woman's gaze lingered on Anya for a moment, as if it could see past her clothes to the rushing blood and powerful life force within her. "You don't seem to fall into the category of a 'normal human.' Your bloodline is purging the toxin on its own. The process will be painful, but you'll be fully healed in three days at most."

Anya's pupils contracted sharply.

She… she could tell?

How did she know her constitution was special? She even used the term "bloodline"!

At that moment, Anya was certain she had come to the right place. This mysterious woman was definitely an important figure in the "other world."

"Who… who are you?" Anya couldn't help but ask, a note of caution in her voice.

The woman didn't answer her question. Instead, she rose from her chair. As she stood, Anya realized her silk gown was extremely long, nearly sweeping the floor and completely concealing her feet. She moved without a sound, as if gliding.

She walked around the desk and approached Anya.

As she drew closer, a wave of cold air, like that from a mountaintop, came with her. It wasn't a metaphor; it was a real, physical drop in temperature. Anya could even feel goosebumps prickling her exposed skin.

Anya instinctively took half a step back, her hand subconsciously drifting toward the dagger in her boot.

The woman stopped a step away from her. She was indeed a bit shorter than Anya, who had to look down slightly to see her face. But this height difference, far from diminishing her presence, made her ice-blue eyes seem even more commanding, more imperious, as she looked up.

"Give me your camera," she said, holding out her hand. It wasn't a request; it was a command.

Anya hesitated. The camera held all her work; it was her most prized possession.

"That photo is the only direct evidence," the woman explained coolly, reading her mind. "When an Imp dies, its body rapidly decomposes into inert dust, leaving no physical evidence. But this photo, which contains the energy of the flash, can be used to track the creator's aura."

Track an aura?

The esoteric terms were giving Anya a headache, but she understood that the woman needed the original data from the photo.

Gritting her teeth, she took the camera from around her neck and handed it over.

As the woman took the camera, her cold fingertips inevitably brushed against the back of Anya's hand.

In that instant, Anya felt as if she’d been struck by a faint electric current. It was an extreme, bone-deep cold, yet within that coldness was a strange, thrilling numbness that made her whole body tremble. Her heart, once again, began to beat erratically.

She snatched her hand back as if she’d been burned.

The woman's face remained an unreadable, icy mask. She merely glanced at Anya, seemingly indifferent to her reaction. Holding the camera, she turned back to the desk and began performing some operations that Anya couldn't understand at all.

Anya stood frozen, the cold touch still seeming to linger on the back of her hand. She ran a hand through her hair in frustration, unable to understand what was wrong with her. Why was she having such a strong physical reaction to another woman? Was it because the shock of the night had thrown her hormones out of whack?

That was the only explanation she could offer herself.

"Done," the woman said a few minutes later, handing the camera back to Anya. "I've copied the raw data. You can go now."

Anya took the camera, stunned. "Go? Just like that? You're not going to tell me who did this? You're not going to handle it? A person died!"

"I will handle it," the woman replied, her words sparse. "But it has nothing to do with you. You are an outsider who stumbled in by accident. Now that you know things you shouldn't and have your property back, the smartest choice is to forget everything that happened tonight and return to your own life."

Her tone was flat, but the dismissive message was crystal clear.

Anya's temper flared. She wasn't born to be obedient.

"On what grounds?!" she stepped forward, raising her voice. "I'm the witness! I watched that man get killed with my own eyes! Now you take my evidence and tell me to pretend nothing happened? What do you take me for? A tool to be used and discarded?"

The woman's brow furrowed, a barely perceptible motion. It seemed she hadn't expected this girl, who looked like an over-energetic puppy, to dare challenge her to her face.

"This is not something you can interfere with," her voice dropped, becoming three degrees colder. "The other party is dangerous. If you continue to involve yourself, you will only bring death upon yourself."

"That's better than being a coward!" Anya met her gaze without flinching. "I don't care what kind of damned rules you have in your 'other world.' In my world, when you see injustice, you stand up! When you see evil, you stop it! If you're not going to tell me the truth, I'll find it myself! I already know the thing is called an 'Imp,' don't I?"

She thought her threat might have some effect.

However, the woman just looked at her quietly, her ice-blue eyes holding a flicker of something that almost looked like… pity.

"Naive," was all she said.

The word was like a bucket of cold water, extinguishing all of Anya's anger and replacing it with a profound sense of powerlessness.

Yes, naive. How could she investigate? With nothing but passion and a dagger? Without even knowing who the enemy was or what they were capable of, rushing in like this was no different from suicide.

Anya's shoulders slumped. She hated this feeling of helplessness.

Just then, the woman spoke again.

"Your name."

"...Anya Petrova," Anya answered, a little resentfully.

"Anya…" the woman repeated the name softly, her voice barely a whisper. For a fleeting moment, her ice-blue eyes seemed to flash with an incredibly complex, indescribable emotion, but it was gone so fast Anya thought she might have imagined it.

"Leave your contact information," the woman said. "When this matter is resolved, I will notify you."

The unexpected turn left Anya at a loss. She stared at her, not understanding why she had suddenly changed her mind.

"What? Unwilling?" the woman's tone reverted to its impatient coldness.

"No, I'm willing!" Anya quickly fumbled for a pen and paper, wrote down her phone number, and handed it over.

The woman took the slip of paper, glanced at it, and placed it casually on the desk.

"Now, you can go," she issued her second dismissal.

This time, Anya didn't argue. She knew this was the biggest concession she was going to get. She slung her backpack on, took one last, deep look at the mysterious woman and her equally mysterious bookstore.

"I'm Anya," she said finally. "I still don't know your name."

The woman raised her eyes. In the lamplight, her ice-blue irises were like two stars forgotten in the river of time.

"Seraphina," she finally said her name. "Seraphina Valerius."

(End of Chapter)