Await The Moon

The text beneath the illustration felt like a heavy stone dropping into her stomach. "The Mark cannot be paid away. It is a vow of possession, tying the Marked to the one who receives the coin... an eternal bond secured by the blood of the Moon." Clara's hand flew to her own chest, where the lingering heat of Moonsly's touch still burned. She looked at the Silver Mark coin in her palm, suddenly terrified of the object. Possession? Bond? She was just a bookshop girl, not some sacrifice in a Lycan ritual. She threw the coin onto the counter as if it were burning her skin. It landed with a dull, resonant thud. The sharp sound was immediately answered. Not by the wind, but by a precise, heavy knock at the shop's back door-the one leading directly into the shadowed alley. Clara froze, her breath catching in her throat. Her mind screamed Moonsly, but the knock was too controlled, too deliberate, unlike his primal grace. She crept toward the back, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. "Clara. I know you're in there." The voice was sharp, low, and utterly devoid of warmth. It held the cadence of a military command. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the deadbolt. "Who is it?" "We are friends of the one who visited you tonight. We're here for the Mark." Friends? The word felt like a lie. She peeked through the dusty peephole. A tall woman stood on the fire escape landing, dressed in severe black leather, carrying a long, slender silver rifle. Her eyes were hard and predatory, unlike Moonsly's desperate gaze. She was a Hunter. "Give us the coin, and this ends now, little sun." The woman's voice dropped to a sinister, quiet hiss. "The Lunar Clan is dangerous. But its Hunters are far worse."