Bound by:moonlight

The road into Moonridge hadn’t changed. Same narrow turns, same looming trees, same potholes that made her car groan in protest. Seraphina Blake had forgotten how tiny the town looked compared to the city she’d lived in the past five years. Everything here was slower, older, and somehow always watching.

“Last chance to turn around,” she muttered, adjusting the radio for the fifth time. Nothing but static. “Okay, creepy soundtrack. Cool.”

When she finally pulled into the gravel driveway of her grandmother’s house, she sat in the car for a full minute. The house was exactly as she remembered—charming in a witchy, overgrown kind of way. Vines curled around the porch railings like they were clinging to the past. The paint had peeled a little more, and the front gate still hung at a slant, as if no one dared fix it.

“Home sweet… weird home.”

She popped the trunk, grabbed her duffel bag, and headed up the porch. The key, still hidden under the gnome statue by the steps, slid into the lock with a satisfying click. The door creaked open like it had been waiting just for her.

The scent of dried lavender hit her first. That, and something earthy, like rain-drenched soil and tea leaves. It smelled exactly like Elira Blake—mystical, timeless, and just a bit dramatic.

The furniture hadn’t moved an inch. The same burgundy couch with scratch marks on the armrest. The fireplace lined with dusty photographs. Her own five-year-old face smiled up from a frame on the mantel, missing a tooth and holding a cat that had clawed her arm the same day.

She dropped her bag, looked around, and let out a long breath.

“Okay. We’re doing this.”

She wandered into the kitchen. Still spotless. Elira might’ve been a “forest-dwelling moon priestess,” but she was also terrifyingly neat. Seraphina opened the fridge—mostly empty except for a jar of honey and a note taped inside: Don’t forget to salt the windows. It wasn’t signed, but it didn’t have to be.

She rolled her eyes. “You could’ve just said ‘hello from the afterlife,’ Gran.”

The back door creaked suddenly. She whipped around, heart jumping, but no one was there. Just the wind. Hopefully.

She moved back to the living room and flopped onto the couch. It groaned under her weight. This whole house sounded like it could talk if it wanted to—and honestly, she wasn’t sure it couldn’t.

She was halfway to dozing off when a loud knock jolted her upright.

She frowned. “Who the hell…?”

She opened the door and was greeted by a very tall, very serious-looking man with broad shoulders, dark hair, and a kind of silent intensity that would’ve been sexy if it weren’t also intimidating.

“You’re Seraphina,” he said.

“Um… yeah?” She looked him over. “Who are you?”

“I’m Lucien Thorne. I live down the road.”

He said it like that should explain everything.

“Cool. I just got here, so—”

“Your grandmother told me to check in when you arrived. Said you’d probably forget to ward the doors.”

Seraphina blinked. “…She said what now?”

Lucien tilted his head. “Salt. Iron. Bell by the window. You know. Basic stuff.”

“I was raised in Chicago. Our basic stuff is locking the doors and not trusting anyone with no eyebrows.”

He didn’t smile. Just nodded slowly. “You’ll need help adjusting.”

“To what? Creepy neighbors showing up with unsolicited advice?”

“She didn’t tell you anything, did she?” he asked, half to himself.

“Not really. Just left me the house and a bunch of cryptic notes. Like this is some kind of scavenger hunt for haunted people.”

“She was preparing you.”

“For what?”

Lucien hesitated, like he was about to say something really important—but then shook his head.

“You’ll figure it out,” he said. “Soon.”

“Wow. That’s not ominous at all.”

He gave a nod that felt more like a warning than a goodbye and turned to leave. Seraphina stared after him as he walked away, long legs carrying him easily down the gravel path and into the woods.

“Weirdest welcome wagon ever.”

She closed the door, locked it, and for good measure, shoved a chair under the knob. Not because she believed in all that supernatural stuff. But just in case.

Later that night, she wandered into her grandmother’s old study. The walls were lined with books—some with titles like Herbalism of the Moonkind and The Howling Lineage. A thick leather journal lay on the desk, its cover cracked and soft with age. She opened it.

The first page read:

To my darling girl. If you’re reading this, I’m dead. Sorry about that. There are things you need to know. Things that only come out when the moon is right and the blood remembers.

Seraphina frowned. “Well, that’s not creepy at all.”

She flipped through a few pages—strange drawings, family trees with claw marks through names, and symbols she didn’t recognize. Her grandmother had always been a little… offbeat. But this was something else.

The last page had a single sentence.

He’s watching you already.

She slammed the book shut.

“Nope. Nope nope nope.”

Just then, a howl echoed through the woods.

Long. Low. Close.

She froze. Every hair on her arms stood up.

Probably just a coyote.

She laughed nervously to herself and locked the window, then pulled the curtains shut.

Outside, Lucien stood beneath the trees, eyes glowing faintly gold in the moonlight.

“She really doesn’t remember anything,” he murmured.

Another figure stepped out of the shadows beside him.

“Should we tell her?” asked Callen, Lucien’s second-in-command.

Lucien shook his head.

“No. Not yet.”

He turned back toward the house, his expression unreadable.

“Let her dream while she can.”