Moonlight Claimed

Akari asked Mircea to let her out in the central square.

The taxi slowed, tires crunching over cobblestone, and pulled to the side without question. Mircea met her eyes in the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable now, the practiced cheer stripped away.

"Be careful," he said quietly.

She nodded, slung her bag over her shoulder, and stepped out.

The square was small but meticulously kept. A stone church stood at its center, weathered and solid, its bell tower rising like a watchful finger against the sky. A few shops ringed the space-a butcher, a grocer, a narrow storefront with faded postcards in the window. Across from the church sat a low, timbered pub with a painted sign swinging gently in the breeze.

La Luna Plină.

The Full Moon.

Late afternoon light slanted across the square, catching on stone and glass. It should have been picturesque. It should have felt welcoming.

Instead, it felt held.

No one spoke. No children ran. The only sound was the wind moving through the narrow streets, carrying the scent of pine and cold earth.

Akari became aware of eyes.

Faces appeared at windows as she took her first steps into the square. Curtains shifted. A door cracked open and then shut again. She felt the collective attention like a physical pressure against her skin, as if the town itself were leaning in to examine her.

Her shoulders tightened.

She headed for the pub.

The moment she opened the door, warmth spilled over her-thick, heavy with the smell of stew, bread, and beer. Human scent layered over it all, close and intimate, pressing into her senses.

The noise inside died instantly.

Conversations cut off mid-word. A chair scraped softly against the floor and then stilled. Akari stood just inside the doorway, her hand still on the handle, as a dozen pairs of eyes turned toward her.

Not curious.

Assessing.

She forced herself to breathe and crossed to the bar.

The bartender was a large man with a thick beard and arms like carved stone. He wiped a glass with a rag, his movements slow and deliberate. He did not smile.

"Da?" he said.

"Coffee, please," Akari replied, her voice sounding too loud in the silence. "And... the stew, if it's available."

He nodded once, set the glass down, and turned toward the coffee machine.

Relief flickered.

Akari reached into her bag, pulling out her passport as she tried to remember the name of the solicitor's office, the address she'd copied down. The blue cover caught the light.

The bartender saw it.

His gaze dropped to the name printed there.

Tanaka.

The color drained from his face.

He straightened slowly, his hands gripping the edge of the bar as if for balance. When he spoke again, his voice was tight.

"No coffee. No stew."

Akari frowned. "You just-"

"We are... out," he finished.

The lie hung between them, thin and obvious.

She glanced around. The patrons had gone very still. No one met her eyes now. A man at a nearby table muttered something under his breath, fingers curling around his glass.

Akari's chest tightened. "I can pay-"

"It is not about money."

The bartender turned away, dismissing her with his back.

At the far corner of the pub, an ancient woman sat alone. She was wrapped in a black shawl, her face a map of deep lines, her eyes pale and sharp.

She had not looked away.

Slowly, deliberately, the woman raised her hand.

She extended her index and pinkie fingers while folding the others down, the gesture unmistakable-a ward against the evil eye.

Her lips moved.

"Vârcolac."

The word slid into Akari's bones like ice.

Werewolf.

Specter.

Something not human.

Heat flooded Akari's face-humiliation, fear, anger tangling together until she couldn't tell them apart. She took a step back, then another, until her shoulders hit the door.

She pushed it open and stumbled into the square.

The door swung shut behind her with a final thud.

Inside, the murmur of conversation resumed, low and urgent now, threaded with fear.

Akari stood there for a moment, heart pounding, the cold air burning her lungs. She pressed her lips together until the sting of tears subsided.

Get a grip.

She adjusted her bag and walked away from the pub, keeping her head high as the square seemed to watch her retreat.

She found the solicitor's address scribbled on her phone and followed it past the church, past shuttered windows and narrow alleys. The town felt smaller now, tighter, as if the space around her were contracting.

The butcher shop came next.

The window display was stark-whole carcasses hung from metal hooks, skinned and clean, pale flesh marbled with dark veins. The sight should have turned her stomach.

Instead, a wave of scent hit her.

Raw. Fresh. Metallic.

Blood.

Her mouth filled with saliva. Her stomach clenched-not in revulsion, but in sharp, sudden hunger.

Akari staggered back, a hand flying to her mouth.

What is wrong with me?

The smell was intoxicating, alive in a way cooked food had never been. It made her pulse quicken, her senses narrow and sharpen. For a terrifying heartbeat, she imagined pressing her palm against the glass, felt the phantom weight of meat in her hands.

Her stomach growled, loud in the empty street.

She turned away abruptly, breathing hard, horrified by the response of her own body.

The town had rejected her.

And something inside her was answering in kind.