The Van Helsing Paradox

By Evelyn Chartres

(Nom de plume)

Copyright 2018

Ottawa, Ontario

Halifax, Nova Scotia

ABOUT

Clara Grey’s parents once said that the world was a dark and dangerous place. There was more truth than fiction to those words. There were things that lurked in the shadows which defied the laws of nature: perversions that fed on the dead, terrorised the living, or escaped the chill touch of the grave.

Clara is a member of The Tower, a religious order of hunters who work outside the confines of the Church. As keepers of the arcane, her order takes an active role to counter these threats. The life of a hunter can be short, and many go missing before completing their training. So, what does it take to succeed against all odds?

Explore Clara’s origin, a child born before the dawn of the twentieth century. Witness her rigorous training, how she faces adversity, and fights in the Great War to become the derringer wielding flapper she is.

Throughout her tale, keep in mind that no matter the threat, a gal has to look out for herself after all.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

FRONT PAGE

ABOUT

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

THE VAN HELSING PARADOX

CHAPTER 1 – BRING OUT THE DEAD

CHAPTER 2 – FIRST BLOOD

CHAPTER 3 – HALL OF HIGHER LEARNING

CHAPTER 4 – HERE BE MONSTERS

CHAPTER 5 – A SAUCERFUL OF SECRETS

CHAPTER 6 – TWO SHIPS PASSING IN THE NIGHT

CHAPTER 7 – LES FILLES DE JEANNE D’ARC

CHAPTER 8 – CHEMICAL ROMANCE

CHAPTER 9 – SALT THE EARTH

CHAPTER 10 – IN FLANDERS FIELDS THE POPPIES BLOW

CHAPTER 11 – SAINT BARBARA’S WRATH

CHAPTER 12 – RAIDERS AND TOMBS

CHAPTER 13 – DINNER WITH THE DEVIL

CHAPTER 14 – THE PRELUDE TO ACTION

CHAPTER 15 – THE VAN HELSING PARADOX

CHAPTER 16 – FREYJA’S SHIELDMAIDEN

EPILOGUE - NULL AND VOID

LEXICON

ABOUT EVELYN CHARTRES

ALSO FROM EVELYN CHARTRES

LICENCE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish to thank those who helped make this novel a reality, specifically, those who were integral in helping this project come to fruition.

Thank you Tina E. Williams and Pamela Belyea for your diligence which proves that no amount of revision or self-checks can purge all flaws. While there will always be errors waiting to be found, I can be certain that the most glaring offenders have been caught.

Lastly, I wish to thank Selenie Ichijo and those who read my Saturday Scenes submissions. These were the brave souls that read through the novel while still a work in progress. These are my beacons in the night; proof that I am not navigating these dark seas alone.

Evelyn Chartres (Nom de plume)

theportraitofawoman@gmail.com

http://evelynchartres.com

THE VAN HELSING PARADOX

CHAPTER 1

BRING OUT THE DEAD

1903

Clara could feel it, caught in a state between reality and the dreamworld. She was still focused on the dream, but that the world was beginning to fade away while her senses bled through. She heard her sister’s slow and deliberate breathing, which meant the sun had yet to rise. In the background, she heard the grandfather clock’s counterweight swing back and forth. Alas it was that growing urge to pee that was chasing her dreams away.

She rather enjoyed prolonging her existence between realms. Clara could look upon her world, mould it as she saw fit, while her every wish was obeyed. That is until she turned around in bed, in the hopes of delaying the inevitable, but collided with Ada’s elbow.

Her eyes opened wide and forced the waking world to come into focus. Clara could barely see her sister’s elbow through the streaks of purple brought on by the impact. With her vision restored, she looked above and saw the familiar yellowed ceiling, and the fog from her breath.

Clara dreaded these moments, the early morning before her mother lit the stove. That moment in time where the hot stones placed in bed at night had grown cold. The ground outside was sure to be covered in frost this morning and judging by the view from their window, the sun would not make an appearance for a while yet.

While the urge was slowly migrating from the back of her mind to the forefront, she looked at her two sisters who were sleeping peacefully and for a moment, felt deeply envious of their situation. Alas, what was a girl to do?

Clara lifted the warm layers of linen from her body, instantly feeling the chilled morning air as it made contact with her bare skin. Her legs became covered in gooseflesh, and her muscles tensed before she threw herself out of bed and onto the cold floor.

“Cold!” Clara yelped.

Clara felt around for a moment to find a pair of woollen slippers. They were too big, but that was the burden borne by the youngest child, condemned to suffer the humiliation of wearing her sisters’ hand-me-downs. Nonetheless, the need to pee would not subside, cold or not, so down the stairs she went.

She crept down the stairs, careful to skip the second to last step. It had a tendency to creak and the last thing she wanted to do was wake up her father earlier than necessary. That would surely make him cranky, which had a tendency to trickle down to his children via their mother.

Clara made it to the door and noticed the sky was turning purple and red. She also discovered that the door was not latched, something that was profoundly peculiar in her mind.

“Odd,” Clara murmured. “Someone went out to the outhouse?”

The last thing Clara needed was to wait for her turn. Just thinking about freezing longer than necessary made her teeth chatter!

Clara slowly opened the main and screen door to avoid making a racket. Then with all due haste, she ran along the frosted patch of weeds, hearing them crinkle with every step. It was a shame that she needed relief. This might have been a pleasant experience had she been appropriately dressed!

A moment of inattention caused Clara to slip on a sheet of ice. For a moment she managed to keep her balance, but gravity ultimately proved the victor and sent her down onto her rump.

“Ow,” Clara complained.

She looked down and saw her reflection in the ice. She was momentarily mesmerised. Her hair was short and light brown, just like her mother wanted.

“Any longer and those dreaded curls will make an appearance and turn your hair into a rat’s nest,” her mother often said.

She had the near-rounded face of a child with a cute button nose. Her cheeks were a bit sunken, since wages had been lean this year, and that translated to smaller meals. Of course, nothing could shake the light from her steel-grey eyes.

The gust of wind sent a shiver down her spine and reminded her why she was outside. With the outhouse in view, she saw that the familiar half-moon opening was dark, a good sign that it was unoccupied. Clara smiled as she approached, reached for the thick wooden handle, and pulled open the door. While the door gave way easily, she was unprepared for the discovery.

At first, she was confused, seeing her father there in his long johns, butt flap open and seated over the opening. He seemed to be going about his business and yet his eyes were closed. Frost had built up on the exposed skin and his lips were blue.

“Papa. I have to pee,” she whined in the hope that he would just get up and walk away.

There was no response, no hint that her father heard a thing despite the urgency oozing from Clara’s every word. Odd, he was sitting at a peculiar angle. It was as though he had been pushed against the wall.

Clara continued to examine the scene, waiting as patiently as any child could under the circumstances. Only after a few moments did details from the scene seep in.

First and foremost, she noted his lack of breathing. While Clara saw her own breath, his was not visible nor could she hear the rattle in his lungs that seemed more acute in the morning, especially after a double-shift at the mine.

“Papa,” she said with more urgency before her mind realised that her prompting would get her nowhere.

On the wooden planks that made up the outhouse floor, she saw blood. Some of it was black like tar, thick and frothy, a sign that her father had suffered through another one of his coughing fits. However, there was more blood, a bright crimson. Her eyes followed the trail until she spotted a gaping wound where his calf should have been.

Her perceptive mind saw every detail of the wound. She saw how the flesh had been cut and torn off simultaneously and conjured up an image of a pack of wild dogs devouring a carcass. In that moment, Clara should have been quivering, but her mind kept running over the details, busy committing every detail of the scene to memory.

That is, until she heard something. It was faint, almost unintelligible, but the sound persisted. It took a moment for her mind to register what she heard, but sure enough, she made out the distinctive chewing sound originating from within the depths of the outhouse. It was not until she heard a loud and guttural belch that her need to pee took care of itself.

In a small company town, where everyone worked and lived together, a screaming child certainly got attention. The first on the scene was their neighbour who came down in his camisole. Wild eyed and alert, it took him no more than a minute to size up the situation and close the door to the outhouse.

As the rest of the community woke up from their deep slumber, Clara’s mother ran out of the side door. She had the same bewildered look in her eyes as their neighbour, however she never got the opportunity to approach the scene. The neighbour cut her off and before she could protest they exchanged some words.

Clara was not sure what had been said, but the effect it had on her mother was immediate and brutal. At first, her eyes darted about. She seemed restless but soon fell into a dramatic pause as she was consumed by shock. Her onslaught of tears and slow collapse to the ground informed Clara that her father would not be walking away from that outhouse.

“Martha, get Clara out of here,” the neighbour ordered his wife.

Clara turned around to find the wife, still in her nightgown, reaching out from behind. However, she had no intention of complying just yet.

“No!” Clara exclaimed. “There is something in there with him.”

“What do you mean?” Martha asked while shooting a glance at her husband.

Clara saw the hidden exchange between the couple and wondered why neither seemed particularly concerned.

“What do they know?” Clara wondered.

Martha got on a knee to be at Clara’s eye level before asking, “What did you see, my love?”

“There—” Clara paused, unable to formulate her thoughts. “Something—Ate papa,” she managed to add although the words were by now nearly a whisper.

Martha’s face lightened up, before she hugged Clara. It was bizarre how relieved this woman was to hear those words.

“Oh love,” Martha exclaimed. “You let your imagination get the better of you.”

Martha took Clara by the hand and led her home. From the corner of Clara’s eye, she observed her sisters looking down over the scene from the bedroom window. She saw how their faces were ashen grey as though they had seen a ghost.

“Now let’s get you cleaned up,” Martha said while they left behind a town full of gawkers and her grief stricken mother.

It seemed odd that no one had bothered to look inside the outhouse. Did they assume she was just another child afraid of what lurked beneath her bed? Or did they already know what they would find?

* * * *

Two years after the incident, Clara’s life had gained a bit of normalcy. At least, as much as could be expected when living in a company town without a breadwinner.

Clara remembered how the company men came to evict them shortly after the funeral. It had been fortunate that the townspeople had steeled their support and forced the company to relent. While grateful, she never learned how the leaders of that coup ended up in the local cemetery overlooking the ocean due to a series of accidents.

Without their father’s income, the entire family had to work. Clara and her sisters spent the bulk of their days doing laundry for the neighbours. On occasion, they would take random jobs from those who had a few pennies to spare.

Her mother helped as best she could. Her children were fed and clothed even if it meant more hand-me-downs. Come shift change, men would come to their door covered in coal and ask if her mother was free.

Ada and Maria were clearly bothered by the procession of men coming to their door. Clara did not know their reasons, nor did she understand why the bed rattled upstairs.

Despite her inability to attend school and devoting her days to monotonous work, Clara was quite happy. Children had an incredible ability to recover from trauma. The events of that day were dreamlike, distant, and few details remained of what happened that morning.

Now if only her mother would get better. To think it began as a benign sore throat, followed by a fever, headaches and a vile rash.

Times were lean that month, so the children had to work twice as hard to put food on the table. Nonetheless, their mother had gotten better and things returned to normal for another year or so.

Eventually her mind began to go, starting with her balance. It was one thing to see one’s father slowly succumb to whatever was eating away at his lungs. It was another matter entirely to see someone lose not only their ability to take care of themselves but also shed their identity. This stage of the disease had been hardest on the children and haunted Clara well into her adult life.

In time, a series of deformities developed near the surface of her skin which later turned into putrefying ulcers. Clara could not help but turn away when called up to assist their mother. No matter how bad it got, miners would still find their way to their door. Helmet in hand, they asked to see their mother and were disappointed to learn that she was unavailable. In the back of her mind, Clara hoped that whatever afflicted her mother turned out to be catching. That would have been the only way to stem the tide of eternal visitors, especially this last one.

During the last vestiges of sunlight, there came a knock at the door. Since her sisters were busy making supper, Clara answered the door. She took a quick glance through the window and found a tall slender man whose proportions seemed off. The man had the figure of a ferret or perhaps a slithering snake. Clara could have sworn that his eyes were glowing like dark embers in the fire. If it were not for the dark clothes, hat and distinctive white collar the door would have remained locked. Alas, her parents had always been clear that men of the cloth were to be obeyed. So what was a girl to do?

“Hello Clara,” the priest said as soon as the door swung open.

“Good evening,” Clara said in reply. She then thought it best to add, “Father.”

All the while Clara wondered how this man knew her name. At least his eyes were no longer glowing although they were black as coal.

“Is your mother at home?” he asked.

Now that question came as a bit of a surprise. This was a man of the cloth, not some worn out miner who had been worked to the bone. Still there was something peculiar about this whole affair, but Clara could not put a finger to it.

“No,” she said without elaborating.

“Really?” he asked while sniffing the air.

Clara merely nodded in response. Fortunately her sisters were in the kitchen, so they could not overhear her fibbing.

Why is he smelling the air? Clara wondered.

For whatever reason, that seemed sufficient to confirm she was lying to him.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Clara looked him right in the eyes and said, “Of course.” There was a momentary pause before she added, “She left a few moments ago to attend evening mass.”

Normally, such a flagrant lie would have been discovered, since the priest should have known that evening mass was not for a couple of hours. That being said, priests typically referred to her as ‘child’ and so far this one had not.

Once more, the man smelled the air, but it was his reaction afterwards that got her attention. The man smacked his lips which brought forth a half-forgotten memory from years back.

“You wouldn’t happen to be lying to me would you?” he asked.

Clara should have lost all composure by this time, but the fact that she was right invigorated her. She looked directly at the man with her steady steel-grey eyes.

“Of course not Father,” Clara said. She then looked down towards the kitchen before adding, “We are about to have supper if you’d care to join us.”

This was a gamble, a bet that this man would refuse the offer. Honestly, there would be little enough to eat without the additional mouth to feed, but she assumed his palate was geared for something else.

The man looked towards the kitchen and spotted the long shadows of her two sisters. The realisation that there were others in the house was enough to send him away.

“Mass you say,” the man said. “I will catch up with her then.”

“Good night Father,” Clara said in an unflinching tone.

“Good night,” he replied.

The man looked longingly towards her mother’s bedroom and then melted into the darkness. All except for those eyes and their disturbing glow, they endured for a few moments until they were swallowed up by the night.

“Who was that,” Maria asked.

Startled by her sister’s question, Clara stuttered, “Just a travelling bible salesman.”

Fortunately, she was not questioned further. As Clara closed the door, she felt certain that this would not be the last time she encountered this man.

* * * *

Clara often felt a rush when proven right. Tonight two of her theories had been proven correct, but all it did was make her worry. It seemed that the fruits of victory could be just as bitter as they were sweet. Unfortunately, that bitter taste in her mouth would not settle until it travelled to the pit of her stomach. Clara gritted her teeth. Now was not the time to worry or cower. Action was called for and Clara believed that hiding under the bed was the best way ahead.

Before the moon rose over the tree line, Clara had stashed away a kitchen knife under her mother’s bed. Over the last couple of days, her mother’s mental state had deteriorated severely, so Clara could have hidden a suit of armour, horse and squire without arousing suspicion.

Her sisters would have been sure to intervene if she walked by with an axe in hand. While powerful, that type of weapon was bulky and needed plenty of room to handle, whereas Clara needed something with more finesse.

Since the man had left without putting up much of a fight, she assumed he would avoid an attack in the face of opposition. Tonight she would put her theory to the test.

She hid under the bed with nothing more than the silver moonlight to illuminate the room. Just above, her mother’s laborious breathing went on, oblivious to the threat lurking outside.

Once the moon had travelled to the top of the window, she heard something downstairs. At first, she thought her mind was playing tricks on her. Ada’s ghost stories late at night certainly did little to help rein in her imagination.

Through her jumbled thoughts, Clara visualised the bolt catch sliding back. A moment later, the door opened with a long creaking sound that echoed throughout the home.

Clara waited and sure enough, there were a series of soft thumps as the sound made its way upstairs. One thump, followed by another and then a squeak. After a brief pause came a third thump. It seemed that this visitor was easily able to find his way through the house.

The steps approached her mother’s bedroom and paused once they were just outside. Again Clara heard the man sniff the air and make another series of sounds as it smacked its lips. She swore she could hear it drool, but doubt forced her to question if this was real.

Clara opened her eyes and saw two shadows stretch out from under the door. The other side was aglow in a ghastly light. So powerful was the light that it bathed the room in a hellish glare once the door cracked open.

She wanted nothing more than to run out of the room. She fought the urge knowing that such an action would prove to be foolhardy. Instead, she chose to hold her breath as the silhouette pushed deeper into the room.

Once at the foot of the bed, there was this overpowering scent of dirt and rotten meat. How had she missed that before?

Clara gripped the wooden handle of the knife while shifting her weight to prepare for an attack. She knew what this creature sought. It sensed how close her mother was to death and desired to feast on her decaying flesh.

Unfortunately, the shift caused one of the floorboards to creak and for a moment everything was silent. Was it aware of her presence? What should she do?

Quick as a flash, Clara was greeted by the sight of those sharp teeth, a long thin nose and a pair of red glowing eyes. In that moment, she realised what had been the source of that infernal light.

Clara could not help but stare into the fiery inferno raging within those eyes. Its state was hypnotic and just like that, the world began to fade to black.

* * * *

Clara woke up with the sun’s glow warming her face. As her eyes fluttered open, she saw the familiar settings of her room. She looked to her side and noticed that her sisters were already up and about.

They were bound to be cross with her, seeing how she slept past sunrise. After all, every waking moment was necessary to get their chores done.

Clara sprung out from the bed and noticed her unfamiliar nightgown. It was one of Maria’s and hung loosely from her frame. She furrowed her brow trying to remember when it had been passed down but could not recall.

Sounds from below got her attention, so Clara quickly got dressed then ran down the stairs, even now making sure to leap over the second to last step. Clara expected to find her sisters hard at work making breakfast or busy doing this morning’s laundry; instead her sisters were sitting around a table filled with food. Clara could not help but salivate at the thought of all those scrumptious dishes. So what was the occasion?

Ada looked up when Clara landed on the first step. Her eyes and cheeks were red and puffy from crying. Meanwhile Maria avoided making eye contact, but Clara could tell those eyes were red as well. Clara thought it over for a moment and realised that she had seen this behaviour before.

“Where’s mum?” Clara asked although she guessed the answer.

Maria began to sob uncontrollably at the mention of their mother. This shower of tears confirmed Clara’s worst fears and meant that their mother had passed away during the night. Her sisters had opted to let her sleep in so they could avoid telling Clara what had happened. Could anyone ever be prepared for this?

Ada swallowed hard, trying to find the courage needed to reply, “Mum passed away last night.”

To know the truth and having it confirmed were two separate matters. Those words hit her much harder than Clara expected and she reacted just like her mother had when papa died.

Ada swooped in to console her, taking the weeping Clara into her arms. Her sister held her tight even when Clara shook violently from the sobs.

“There, there,” Ada said in a soothing voice. “It will be alright.”

Alas, for Clara there was no one home. How could God see fit to take both her parents away?

* * * *

“What do you have to report, Father,” said the man wearing a red cap with red accents on his frock.

There was an aura of authority surrounding this man even if the bulk of his life had been spent serving the will of God. The man in priestly garbs that sat opposite of him, had no distinctive features; a desirable feature for those of his particular order.

“Your eminence,” Father Michael said to collect his thoughts.

Stories this fantastical often proved to be difficult to convey without appearing to be mad as a hatter. Even Father Michael found it hard to believe, and he had seen the evidence first hand.

Father Michael said, “I arrived on the scene a fortnight ago; called in by the local parish. The local priest led me to a home where I found three girls and their recently deceased mother.”

Father Michael hesitated for a moment before adding, “The youngest of the three had been found hours before, sleeping under their mother’s bed holding a knife. The blade was caked in a black liquid that was also found splattered all over the room.”

“Black you say?” the Cardinal asked.

“Correct, Your Eminence,” Father Michael replied.

“Very good. Carry on,” the Cardinal said.

Father Michael added, “There was a path leading out of the room through an opened window. Some locals had gone out to find whatever had escaped and after a couple of miles, their bloodhounds found Father Andrews near some caves.”

Father Michael had no interest in mentioning the particularly gory details. Namely, how that thing’s eyes had been gouged out, nor did he wish to describe the multiple stab wounds to the face and neck. It was an altogether disturbing scene to witness.

“Father Andrews has been dead for close to a decade now,” the Cardinal said in a neutral tone.

“Correct, Your Eminence,” Father Michael said. “Closer inspection showed that the face was nothing more than a mask fashioned from the skin of the parish’s former priest.”

Before the Cardinal could comment further, Father Michael delved into the situation in greater detail. He wanted to get this out in the open so they could move onto matters of the living.

“It was a ghoul,” Father Michael said. “They feed on the necrotic flesh of the dead. People have a natural aversion to them and subconsciously make up excuses for the havoc they cause.”

“So the child attacked the creature?” His Eminence asked.

“Somehow she saw through its deceptions and put up a fight before she passed out,” Father Michael said.

“Passed out?” the Cardinal asked.

Father Michael nodded, happy that the subject was shifting in the right direction. A dead ghoul meant the matter was closed, and there were three young girls who needed to be looked after.

“Yes, Your Eminence,” Father Michael said. “Their eyes have a certain hypnotic quality which results in memory loss. When the child awoke, she had no memory of the event, nor did she know that her mother had passed away.”

The Cardinal seemed to be deep in thought. The myriad of Bishops, Archbishops and Cardinals that Father Michael encountered on these missions rarely accepted concepts which differed from scripture. This one seemed more accommodating as though this was not his first exposure to the world’s darker elements.

“What about the girls?” the Cardinal asked.

Father Michael sighed before replying, “They have no known living relatives. It was my hope that Your Eminence would see fit to make them wards of the church.”

Specifically, he was interested in the youngest child. Anyone who could see past the veil and do so without panic had potential. The fact that she destroyed one of these abominations further piqued his interests.

“I will see to it that they are appropriately placed,” His Eminence said.

“If Your Eminence would indulge me, I would be honoured if you would permit me to arrange for their placements,” Father Michael said.

The Cardinal stared at Father Michael for a long time. The man was not an idiot and knew full well that there was an ulterior motive to his eagerness.

“See to it,” the Cardinal said.

“Right away, Your Eminence,” Father Michael said before letting himself out.

CHAPTER 2

FIRST BLOOD

1905

Sister Maria and Clara were outside, waiting on the platform for their train. While this woman shared her sister’s name, the similarities ended there. This was a stern individual, although anyone who had lived through what Sister Maria had was entitled to a bitter outlook on life. Clara quickly concluded that any attempts at conversation would get her nowhere.

Clara was anxious. A maelstrom of emotions lay just beneath her calm exterior. A lot had happened since her mother had been laid to rest. It was hard on a child to witness the chaos that invariably followed when a family loses its anchor.

A glowing light approached in the distance. At first it was as bright as a star but it grew in intensity until Clara had to avert her gaze. The ground began to tremble, but Sister Maria was not worried, since for her this was a routine and mundane affair. Clara found it hard to believe that having a mechanical behemoth barrelling towards them was anything less than extraordinary.

Clara was startled when Sister Maria grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her away from the platform’s edge. She was whisked away just in time to hear the whistle call out into the night and felt a rush of air as it roared on by. This particular train was an express and would not be making a stop at this nondescript outpost.

She sighed, disappointed that her great journey remained on hold. In the distance she saw a small group making their way up the boardwalk. Until that moment, they had been alone on the platform. Once their faces were illuminated by the light, Clara’s eyes brightened and she ran towards them. She jumped into Maria’s arms embracing her sister with all her might. It felt good to feel wanted and loved even for a moment.

When Clara turned to Ada, she noticed the family elder was holding onto a young man’s hand. She had seen him around town, the son of a miner who had just reached that age where he too would be going deep beneath the surface. It took a brave (or desperate) man to go deep under the ocean floor to mine for coal. To breathe in that dust and not see the light of day, all the while surrounded by equally desperate men and dwarvish horses. Clara hoped he would at least be spared her father’s fate.

“We couldn’t have you leave without saying goodbye,” Ada said before kissing Clara on the forehead.

“My train won’t be here until the morning,” Maria said and put on a brave face.

Clara nodded, trying to keep her tears at bay and found the stern gaze from Sister Maria did little to help. Originally, the plan had been for them to leave town as a family.

The Church had lined up work in a laundry for the elder sisters and Clara would attend school at another location. Now it was clear that they would each walk their own path.

“Congratulations,” Clara said while looking at both Ada and her beau.

It seemed like a sensible thing to say even though she could not bring herself to smile. She wanted to stay with her sisters, but they were too old to attend this school and Maria was too young to take care of Clara. Ada would soon be starting a family of her own, so Clara would have been an additional mouth to feed. That realisation was enough to douse any flames of hope in Clara’s heart.

Ada kneeled down to look Clara in the eye. It was hard to keep this moment from devolving into a shower of tears. They all knew what this meant for the last vestiges of their family.

“Thank you Clara,” Ada said. She then hugged Clara before adding, “Don’t forget to write.”

Another train came in from the distance. At first it mimicked the actions of its predecessor until it slowed to a halt in a long deliberate squeal.

Clara even felt the rush of steam as the locomotive stopped by the cistern. There, the engine would fill her boilers with enough water to carry on.

“Miss Grey,” Sister Maria said from a distance.

It seemed that this fond farewell would have to be cut short. The nun had no intention of boarding late so the girls could have some closure. A shame really, but Clara knew that this moment would remain near and dear to her heart.

“I have to go,” Clara said.

Her eyes welled up and a single tear streamed across her left cheek. This was going to be far harder than she had imagined.

“We will miss you,” her sisters said in unison.

“You’ll come and visit someday?” Clara asked.

Both her sisters nodded and individually gave her a big hug. Despite their assurances, each of the girls sensed it was the last time they would be together.

“Come now,” Sister Maria said with a hint of inevitability oozing from every word.

Her sisters gave the nun a dirty look and Clara concealed a giggle. She then ran down to the platform, grabbed her tattered suitcase filled with hand-me-downs and boarded the train.

By the time they were seated, Clara realised her sisters had gone. That’s when the tears began to stream down her cheeks; not that this torrent of emotion would garner an ounce of sympathy from Sister Maria.

* * * *

Whoever said that getting there is half the fun, had never travelled with a nun hell-bent on getting there. For Clara, the entire journey was nothing more than a confused blur of scenery and emotion which was further exacerbated by fatigue.

They would race from one train to the next at a breakneck pace. Clara felt as though her arm would be pulled out of its socket if she tried to stop long enough to catch her breath.

To what end? All for the privilege of waiting for the train to depart the station. A bit of shuteye was out of the question as well. Who could sleep on those unforgiving wooden benches?

Clara spent the last leg of the journey in a comatose state. The two days of solid travel and transfers had driven her to exhaustion and significantly lowered her requirements for sleep. By that point, she could have slept just as soundly standing up as on a bed made from twenty mattresses.

* * * *

“Wake up, child,” Sister Maria said loud enough to wake the dead.

Clara awoke in a start while her heart raced at a gallop. Her head hurt and she could barely focus, but Clara saw that she had arrived. At first, she was not sure whether to feel elated or dread, but at least the journey was at an end.

Somehow she had been transferred onto a horse and cart without her knowledge. They were in the middle of a large gravel courtyard surrounded by several buildings. Since this was a cloistered school, she assumed these structures made up the various dormitories and classrooms of the institution.

Sister Maria had not wasted any time in disembarking and was soon joined by another nun from the school. Given how she was unobserved, Clara took the time to take in the scene in greater detail.

The horse and cart she noted were old and well used. The one at the reins had white hair, a shaggy beard, sunburnt skin and vivid blue eyes. His clothes were covered in dirt, his hands calloused and clearly fit in with her view of someone who worked the land.

The nearest and most prominent structure was a three story building. There were evenly spaced windows throughout, with an ornate metal roof and gables. That meant the attic had usable space and guessed she would spend the bulk of her time there.

Another structure nearby was made of wood and stone. Clara could see other nuns through the windows and later learnt that it served as their dormitory.

“Miss Grey,” Sister Agnes said. “Since you are awake, you may as well collect your things and join us.”

“Of course,” Clara said. She then noticed how Sister Agnes’ eyes were beginning to narrow, so she added a belated, “Sister.”

Clara noticed that there was an authority concealed just beneath the veneer of Sister Agnes’ smile. Since this Sister was giving out orders directly, she must have been the senior of the two. Things were certainly going to get interesting.

“Now child, there are a few rules you need to know before we take you in,” Sister Agnes said.

Before more was said, both of the nuns paused and stared at someone approaching from behind Clara. She turned to find a young man walking towards them, his black clothes and a white collar were indicative of his vocation. The man appeared to be overjoyed to see her, even though she could not fathom why.

“Sisters,” he said while holding his gaze at the new arrival. “Clara Grey, is it?”

Clara looked flummoxed, she had not expected to be noticed this soon. One quick glance from Sister Agnes and Maria told her this was an unusual occurrence.

“Yes, Father,” Clara replied.

Sister Agnes attempted to bring some decorum by saying, “Father Michael, I was just—”

“Thank you, Sister,” Father Michael said. “I wanted the opportunity to see Miss Grey before she got settled.”

The priest winked at Clara then walked away. Clara could tell that the nuns were fuming and she found it amusing to see Sister Maria on the verge of losing composure. Perhaps this place would be far more entertaining than anticipated.

* * * *

Her arrival marked her first exposure to both schooling and religious studies. These had been luxuries that her family could ill afford, since it was difficult to justify higher learning when one had to give up a meal or lose the roof over their heads.

Clara readily embraced her new way of life, giving in to her newfound thirst for knowledge. She further utilised what she learned to make life difficult for the Sisters. Sister Maria bore the brunt of her pranks since Clara had sworn to see this nun smile before she was done with her schooling.

There were other children who enjoyed pushing the boundaries as well, but Clara quickly learned how to avoid the nuns’ wrath. She noted that judgements were only rendered to those unlucky enough to get caught.

Not only did this push Clara to conceal her movements, but it made her escapades much more elaborate. There was nothing more rewarding than seeing Sister Agnes’ eyes darting from child-to-child in another failed attempt to root out the culprit.

On occasion Clara would get caught in the act, although that was normally part of the plan. She would take her lashings, pray or fast as required. All the while, she would plot her next bout of defiance. Getting caught only made them underestimate her capability for mischief.

During her second year at the orphanage, Clara noticed how often Father Michael was called away. The man would disappear for days or even weeks at a time without raising suspicion. For a mischievous little girl, the concept of being able to avoid consequences had some allure.

Motivated to discover his secrets, Clara shadowed the man. It seemed to be easy enough since he probably never considered that someone would follow him. Such thoughts must have been a foreign concept for those who lived under the watchful eye of their God, especially for those who had given their vow of poverty.

In anticipation of his destination, Clara went ahead and hid in his quarters. She was reminded that the devout were notorious for remaining covered at all times. Clara once caught a sister flaying herself as she bathed, all in an effort to keep impure thoughts from her mind. She later learned that was their reason for adopting the habit. They did it to keep aspects of themselves hidden which might elicit any impure thoughts. Some orders were more strict, such as the nuns who taught at this school. They would go so far as to bathe clothed to avoid being seduced by their own bodies.

Clara caught no more than a glimpse of his scar-riddled back. It had been long enough for her to know that these scars had not been left by a whip, paddle or any form of corporal punishment. There was an animalistic quality to the scarring, but what kind of animal was capable of inflicting those?

While most assumed they were alone once in their quarters, this priest surprised her. So much so that it blew her earlier theories out of the water.

“It’s unwise to enter the house of God with impure thoughts,” Father Michael said calmly using the voice he reserved for his sleep-inducing sermons.

Clara did not say a word, she even held her breath in an effort to remain undetected. He never turned back to look, nor did Clara see any reflective surfaces in the room. Her presence should have remained undetected.

“You’ve been following me all morning, child,” Father Michael added.

Clara knew that she had been discovered, which made it futile to continue on with this game. It was obvious that he knew; the question was, how?

“Curious,” Clara replied while she mulled over her initial response. She then thought it best to add for good measure, “Father.”

“Curious, child?” Father Michael asked while continuing to change.

Clara noted how these new clothes were not a priest’s garbs. The more Clara questioned this situation, the more curiosity swelled within.

“Why does a man of the cloth disappear for days on end,” Clara replied. “The origin of your scars and your more recent wounds,” she added despite being a wild guess.

So why not turn the tables on him to evade his attempts at an inquisition? That tactic was much easier to handle than constant evasion.

Once again she threw in, “Father,” as a belated mark of respect.

“The sisters often mention how bright you are,” Father Michael said.

Clara wondered why he dropped the formality of calling her child. Father Michael turned around then knelt to get a better view of her. It was the first time she had looked into his eyes, steel-grey and full of life, just like hers.

“Clever enough to stay out of sight,” the priest said, which was quickly followed by a warm smile. “Quick enough to ask questions that would provide you with valuable insight.”

Before she could reply, he raised his hand to interrupt. This confused Clara because the room was silent, there were no sounds to be heard, inside or out. Was this a veiled attempt at making fun of her? Perhaps this was an attempt to teach her a lesson?

That answer came once the door was torn from its hinges. After the dust settled, Clara saw a woman of intense beauty. Clara had no words to describe her, only that she was as beautiful as Clara imagined angels to be.

Such beauty might adhere to a sense of trust in a little girl or even admiration, but it did nothing to arouse desire. There was no primal aspect of her soul which yearned for that woman, especially a child whose hormones had yet to sew confusion in her mind.

Not so for Father Michael. He seemed bewitched, unable to think nor focus. At first, she wanted to say something, to help him snap out of it. Yet she sensed there were forces at play that went beyond her comprehension.

Clara remained concealed and once more held her breath while she observed. If that woman was aware of Clara’s presence, she showed no obvious signs.

The creature continued her slow deliberate approach towards the priest. Once she was a foot away from Father Michael, he broke out of his trance and pulled out a rosary from his pocket. This particular item had been fitted with a thin metal blade attached to the base of the crucifix.

With one quick motion, he attacked but missed. This woman moved like a blur, reappearing just behind Father Michael and in one vicious strike, gouged out a chunk of his neck.

Clara watched as blood shot out in spurts. The initial jet of blood covered the wall to his left and the second narrowly missed Clara. The third spurt never materialised because this creature had latched onto his neck to feed.

Terror should have taken hold of this girl, culminating in a blood-curdling scream. Such a response would have made her the second victim that night. Fortunately, she remained even-keeled, her mind clear and focused.

Clara snuck out of her hiding place then crept quietly towards the rosary. She picked it up prior to focusing on the scene. Given the nasty wound, it would take no more than a moment for that creature to finish her feast. Even now Father Michael was white as a sheet, a sign that he was far too gone to be helped.

Regardless, Clara realised how this would be her only chance, she closed her eyes and recited a prayer. Relying on faith alone, she plunged the crucifix’s blade into the woman’s back and was greeted by silence. This entire situation evoked a sense of déjà vu although she had no clue why.

In the time it took for her to blink the other had turned around to glare. Pure hatred was painted on the creature’s face, a clear indication of what she had in mind for Clara. Meanwhile, Father Michael’s body slumped to the ground with nothing more than a few drops of blood trickling from his wound.

“How dare you,” the woman shrieked.

Again this confrontation should have left her shaking like a leaf. Instead, Clara stood tall, with her blade in hand. Blood from that creature covered the bare metal and Clara wondered why it appeared to be thicker than her own.

The girl then looked out to the doorway, noticing how it had splintered. Were these Titans? Who could be capable of such strength and speed?

When shadows appeared in the hallway followed by the sound of footsteps, a smile fell upon Clara’s lips. The creature’s face flickered for a moment followed by a hint of worry, it seemed that she had arrived at the same conclusion. In a blink of an eye, that creature was gone, her escape left nothing more than a breeze from an open window.

* * * *

Clara was whisked away the moment the group of men dressed similarly to Father Michael converged on the room. They did not seem to hesitate nor ask any questions. Instead the eldest simply glanced at the youngest members who promptly carried her away.

Why was it that Clara had never seen these men before? Normally in a cloistered environment there was near perfect segregation from the outside world, which made seeing a new face a rare occurrence. In any case, workmen, tradesmen or drivers were kept under a close watch.

To see a dozen such men certainly got Clara wondering if she had missed something. Was there some sort of tunnel or access to the outside world that she knew nothing about?

Sisters Agnes and Maria were waiting further down the hall. Clara was soon placed under Sister Maria’s charge who, in turn, escorted her back to her dormitory. From the corner of her eye she saw one of the men exchange words with Sister Agnes. When the nun collapsed, Clara had a good idea what had been said.

“What were you doing in the rectory, child?” the exasperated Sister Maria asked.

Clara looked down at her blood covered hands and remembered she was still holding onto the blade. Of all the things to ask? Clara palmed the crucifix under her sleeve to avoid making it a topic of discussion.

“Sister Maria, I was following Father Michael,” Clara said in reply.

“Now why would you go and do such a thing?” Sister Maria asked exasperated.

That was a good question. However, the tone of the Sister’s voice hinted that she had her suspicions on what had happened. That meant she already suspected that Father Michael was dead. The question was how?

Clara thought over her words before she replied, “Father Michael said that he wanted to discuss his plans for me Sister.”

Sister Maria’s eyes went wide, despite this being a blatant lie it certainly managed to get her out of the hot seat. Now if she could only coax more information out of her before getting caught.

“What exactly did he tell you, child?” Sister Maria asked.

Now Clara had to think on her feet. If she feigned ignorance, there would be no further gains. If Clara could guess his involvement, then she might gain more insight. The latter was riskier, but offered greater rewards. Besides, Clara enjoyed a challenge.

“Father Michael was explaining the particularities of his order,” Clara said.

That was vague enough to avoid getting caught in an outright lie. A guess perhaps, but one reasoned on the fact that men of the cloth were rarely, if ever, armed. Father Michael carried a weapon for a reason and she guessed that the fallen angel had something to do with it.

Sister Maria gave Clara a good long look before she said, “No matter, child.” She paused a moment before she opened the door to Clara’s dormitory and added, “It’s time to get cleaned up and ready for bed.”

A shame that bedtime was not for another two hours…

* * * *

News of Father Michael’s death did not circulate through the students like wildfire. Instead she was greeted by a wall of silence at every turn. Clara continued on for a few days, curious as to why they would not share his fate with the rest of the school. Even when a new priest settled into the rectory, the nuns remained stoic.

Despite being the only witness to that event, no one questioned her about what happened. It was like waiting until her father got home to learn of her punishment.

For once Clara kept her nose clean and focused entirely on her studies. An easy matter when other children avoided her, most probably the result of a secret directive. Like all directives, tenants or commandments, the repercussions were severe for those who failed to uphold them.

After a fortnight, Clara was pulled out of class by Sister Maria. Without notice, she was hurried over to the courtyard where a horse and cart were waiting for them. Surprisingly, her things were already packed into the same tattered suitcase she arrived with two years ago.

“It seems that Father Michael’s got his wish,” Sister Maria said while getting into the cart. She then reached down to help Clara up before adding, “It’s time to start your training, child.”

CHAPTER 3

HALL OF HIGHER LEARNING

1906

For the second time in her life, Clara wandered out into the world under the watchful eye of Sister Maria. That meant waiting on a train platform for what she presumed would be the first of many connections. Little did she know that their first trip together would seem like a stroll through the Versailles’ palatial gardens in comparison.

For one, the distance they needed to cover was far greater, and that came with a dizzying rate of train transfers. At least their journey over the open waters had been a new experience for Clara. She enjoyed being unsure of herself while the ship heaved and hawed with the waves. If her travelling partner had any inkling at all for amusement, Clara might have been granted a reprieve from her studies to enjoy the experience.

Instead they spent the bulk of the trip below decks, engrossed in prayers and lessons. Clara even missed seeing the iconic red shores of this land, although one would never know based on Sister Maria’s reaction.

Once they made landfall, Sister Maria flagged down the first available hansom. The ride was pleasant enough and marked her first taste of a larger settlement. There were people and horses moving about every which way. While chaotic, it was an enjoyable experience because Sister Maria could do nothing to hurry up this leg of the journey.

Whereas her hometown had a few buildings along the main stretch of road, this city had neighbourhoods and streets filled with an assortment of structures. It was something to behold especially after two years of being cooped up in that school.

For the first time, Sister Maria seemed to be enjoying the trip. Had this been her hometown? More likely, she was looking forward to being released from her charge.

“Here we are,” the cabby announced upon arrival.

This was the site of a massive construction and visible on the foreground were the beginnings of church spires. This structure of wood, masonry and stone would stand tall above its neighbours; a point of pride for any city. So why were they here?

Clara and Sister Maria stepped off silently and without hesitation the nun pushed past the protective fence. Despite the initial show of force, Sister Maria seemed slower and more deliberate in her movements. Clearly she was not relishing this stroll through a busy worksite, and the odd stares they got certainly did not help.

They walked through the chaos as workers were busy raising the structure. They continued on until they reached a cemetery surrounded by a stone wall. At a point separating the two sites, Clara saw a simple wooden door.

Sister Maria paused, stood aside and said, “I am afraid this is where we part ways, child.”

Clara looked at the facial features of her escort and, as usual, there was not an ounce of emotion to be found. That is until a naughty little thought passed through her mind. It would be a shame to miss this opportunity to speak with impunity.

“I was the one who rearranged all of the furniture in your room,” Clara said with a smirk.

Sister Maria’s scowl remained firmly in place for a moment but soon broke out into a deep laugh.

“Was it now?” Sister Maria asked in a light-hearted tone. “The sisters and I spent a great deal of time trying to work out how someone managed to get all my things up onto the ceiling.”

“You’re not angry, Sister?” Clara asked, disappointed at this particular reaction.

“Of course not Clara,” Sister Maria said in a serious tone. “Sister Agnes nearly wet herself laughing and anything that knocks her down a peg is worth its weight in gold.”

So Clara had gotten her wish after all. Not only did she witness Sister Maria smile, but she had also learned that nuns were human, a good lesson for any child to learn.

“Now child, you must be the one to go through that door,” the nun said. “You never know, we might end up seeing one another again. Although not as travelling partners, since you are far too talkative for my liking!”

Clara smiled, took her worn out suitcase, and then opened the door. It was dark inside, but she was not fearful, things that should be feared were often hidden in plain sight. Without hesitation, she crossed the threshold, curious about what she would find on the other side.

* * * *

Clara rubbed her eyes and found a corridor that stretched out in both directions. The walls were made of onyx and a myriad of matching doors lined the walls with no identifying features.

The architects had obviously chosen this design to confuse and mislead. She looked down at both ends of the hall and found no end in sight. That should have made her nervous, especially once she realised that the door had locked behind her.

“What an interesting welcome,” Clara said and half-expected an answer.

When no answer came, Clara left her suitcase in place and followed the hallway to her left. She hoped her bag would serve well as a point of reference. Either way the thing was too bulky to drag along for no reason.

After five minutes of walking, Clara spotted an object up ahead. At first, she felt a wave of excitement wash over her, that is until her worn out suitcase came into focus. She had gone full circle? How?

This hallway did not have an obvious curve to it, at least not enough to accomplish this feat. Things were certainly getting interesting.

A minute or so after Clara returned to her point of reference she heard a door open a couple of sections up the hall. A quick glance in that direction revealed a young man with a suitcase of his own passing through.

“Wait! Don’t let that door close!” Clara exclaimed.

The young man jumped then looked behind him just in time to hear the door latch into place. Only after a glance down the opposing end of the corridor did the graveness of his situation sink in.

“Sorry,” he said shyly. “I’m Jonathan Carmichael,” he said.

“Clara Grey,” she said before she beamed a smile.

“Most people call me Jack,” he said.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Clara said but was only interested in getting this social banter out of the way. “Do you know where we are?”

“No clue, actually,” he said looking confused. “Have you been here long?”

“Long enough,” Clara said. “Would you mind if we put a theory to the test?”

“Sure,” Jack said. “What do you have in mind?”

“Head that way,” Clara said, pointing down the corridor. “While I go in the opposite direction. If you encounter anyone, ask for assistance.”

Jack cocked a brow and shrugged. Without a word, he turned around and began his leisurely stroll down the hall. Clearly he was not concerned about being caught up in this situation. Clara silently wondered if he would need a nap halfway through.

She left her bag behind and looked at every door along the way in an effort to find a pattern or an identifying feature for the doors, but discovered none. The more she reflected on this matter the more she felt certain that this construct had been designed to confuse, like an elaborate trap.

They crossed paths midway and found themselves once again by her discarded bag. Once again, Jack did not seem perturbed when they crossed paths.

“How’d you do that?” Jack asked.

Clara smiled before she replied, “I’ve been here a while, remember?”

“Oh,” Jack said. “So, what now?”

“I’m not sure. Do you have any ideas?” Clara asked in turn.

Jack shrugged, and that nearly disheartened Clara. She had been sent here for a reason and could reasonably conclude that there had to be a way out. Eventually, she began to question why Jack had used a different door. Were there multiple entrances?

But how would they find the door leading to their salvation? Every door was identical, and the stonework had been expertly done to create the illusion that there was no variation. She could try every door, but there were no guarantees that such a crude solution would work.

Exasperated, she ran a hand through her hair and leaned back against the wall. She closed her eyes, aware that Jack was watching her intently. Great, just what she needed…

When Clara opened her eyes, she looked up as though to curse God; instead, she found salvation looking down upon her. While the walls and floor were nondescript, that was not the case for the ceiling.

Seven doors were enclosed within an arched ceiling, one high enough for most people to miss. There was a band of stone missing from the vaulted ceiling which permitted light to bleed through. It was a bright white light, reminding her of daylight but was consistent no matter the angle or side. Artificial lighting? This discovery had just made things more interesting.

As part of the vaulted ceiling, a passage of text was carved into each section. Of course it had to be written in Latin.

“How is your Latin?” Clara asked while positioning herself in such a way as to see the entirety of the text.

“I can muddle through,” Jack said.

How could she have expected anything else from him? Fortunately, Clara had spent a lot of time reading the bible and guessed that her recent prayer sessions had been so gruelling for a reason. She would have to thank Sister Maria if they ever crossed paths again.

“I know that my redeemer lives, and that in the end he will stand on the earth,” Clara read aloud.

“The book of Job 19:25,” Jack said.

At least he was right about something. Clara had a suspicion that every section held a different passage. A shame that the reason for these passages was not readily apparent.

“That’s right,” Clara said to encourage Jack. “Let’s go see what the rest say,” she said nonchalantly.

“2 Corinthians 2:17, John 12:25, Revelation 3:5, Romans 5:10,” Jack said.

Clara found it amusing that he dutifully called out every chapter and verse they came across. After all, they were clearly marked and engraved. At least that kept him focused, which was a good thing.

She read every verse looking for a clue, but so far they seemed to be random. Without a discernible pattern, it would be difficult to find a clue to work with. This worried Clara, but she remained hopeful that something would leap out at her.

“Then my people will live in a peaceful habitation, and in secure dwellings and in undisturbed resting places,” Clara read.

“Isaiah 32:18,” Jack said.

“So why does it say Isaiah 32:27?” Clara asked.

Jack looked up and shrugged before saying, “No such thing. Isaiah 32 ends at 20.”

The boy was right and Clara was ill equipped to admit it, even to herself. Of all the verses this was the only one she had expected to see. Clara had come here to find her new home after all, not some endless corridor.

“The engraver must have made a mistake?” Jack asked.

“No,” Clara said. “Every piece of stone here is seamlessly joined to its neighbour. Such work requires a mastery rarely found in the world.”

It was unlikely that this discrepancy had been made by accident. That meant the error had been stamped there for a reason.

“It’s a clue!” Clara exclaimed.

Without another word, Clara turned to face the set of three doors in this section then turned the knob to the door on her right. The door opened without any resistance. Confident in her decision, she walked through without hesitation.

* * * *

“Congratulations,” the priest said. “You almost beat our record time for finding your way through.”

“So it’s not a trap?” Clara asked while sounding a bit disappointed.

Clara looked around and found herself at the epicentre of an expansive circular tower. The architecture was airy, where white marble made up the bulk of the structural supports and walls. There were two staircases that wound their way through the core and led higher into the rotunda. The architecture reminded Clara of a double-helix formation.

The domed ceiling was made of glass and steel which permitted the sun to beam down directly into the centre of the room. Clara’s spirit rose at the sight of this light and oddly enough, felt at peace.

“Oh! It’s a trap as well,” the man said. “We can never be too careful about who or what ventures into the Terminus.”

The who or what part of his statement had gotten her attention. While a pertinent question to ask, Clara was pretty sure they would not be inclined to answer.

Jack appeared from one of the side doors with her suitcase in hand. Where did he find the time to get her bag and discover an alternate entrance? Her mind momentarily saw past her annoyance and noticed his piercing blue eyes and sharp features. At that moment, Clara wondered why her cheeks were warm.

“Father Taylor,” Jack said. “Shall I bring this to her room?”

“No that is quite alright, young Jack,” Father Taylor said. “You know full well that you’re not allowed in the women’s wing.”

“But that place smells of flowers and spice and everything nice,” Jack whined before he adopted a smirk.

That had been Clara’s introduction to his mischievous side. If that kind of behaviour was even partially tolerated here, then she was about to have a grand ole time.

“Jack is a second-year student here,” Father Taylor said.

“The pleasure was all mine,” Jack said. “I barely had to lift a finger.”

Barely? Jack had been more of a killick than an enabler. He must have been placed there to observe and potentially nudge her the right way. Clara had a sinking suspicion that he wanted to make sure she never broke the record.

“Likewise. Father, what are your plans for me?” Clara asked to show her eagerness to begin.

Without a word, an older student appeared from one of the upper levels. At first she assumed it was a nun since her uniform reminded her of a nun’s habit.

“Clara, this is Edith,” Father Taylor said while pointing to the new arrival. “Take your things and follow her to the women’s dormitory.”

“Yes, Father,” Clara said and hid her disappointment.

It seemed that answers would have to wait. This time, Clara was certain they would not evade her for long.

* * * *

That evening, Clara awoke in her quarters and realised that these were in fact hers. The room was Spartan in nature, but it had all of the basics including a wash basin and mirror.

She crawled out of her bed once her eyes adjusted to her surroundings. She went to the wash basin and looked into the silver polished mirror. Clara could barely recognise the little girl before her, it had been years since she had the opportunity to look at her reflection.

Clara’s steel-grey eyes shone brightly and defiantly. She supposed the twinkle in her eyes was deserved after that incident back at school. It had been her diversion and quick thinking that brought her here. Where here was, precisely, Clara did not know, but she was hopeful it was a step in the right direction.

Her hair was a mangled mess but the dark brown curls were nearly black in this light. Some women were blessed with straight hair while others had a head full of locks. Clara was decidedly in the middle; the envy of no one but with a bit of work, could mimic most hairstyles.

Her cheeks were round and had a healthy glow. After a few years of eating regular meals, it appeared that Clara had gained a bit of weight. She had been so gaunt when she arrived at the school, and for the first few months, the other children had teased her mercilessly over it.

Now she had the rounded face of a child who had yet to grow into her frame. Did that mean she was due for a growth spurt? Clara silently hoped that she would, because it seemed that many of the students here towered over her.

Her nose was straight but decidedly feminine. Not too narrow or wide, nor did it dominate her facial features. In fact, neither did her eyebrows, for which she was grateful considering how many of the older students at her cloistered school spent hours picking at them.

Fortunately, her ears also bore the ability to blend in, easily covered by her hair due to their size and how they stayed close to her head. A student once mentioned how they were elongated nearer to the top, which gave them an elfin look. To this day, Clara was not sure if that had been meant as a compliment or an insult.

Clara splashed her face with cold water to take out the crust in her eyes and clear out a few cobwebs from her mind. It was time to get a perspective on matters. Her lessons would begin tomorrow and she had no clue what subjects would be taught. Her vanity could wait. For now, she needed to make sure everything was in order.

A quick check of her uniform was all she needed before getting more shuteye. After the journey she had, the more sleep she got the better. Either way, the mirror was here to stay.

CHAPTER 4

HERE BE MONSTERS

1907

Clara was never given an official name for her new home, some called it The Tower of Babel or The Tower for short. Others referred to it as the Library of Alexandria and a few used an assortment of less savoury terms. It was rumoured that using its proper name would empower their enemies, so chances were, the name was forgotten long ago. The truth was irrelevant really, since the lack of a name suited this place.

Besides the name, there were many libraries and archives that contained vast sums of knowledge. Some contained codices dating back to the Antiquities. Clara made sure to explore the massive structure, ever in awe of what she found.

Professor Stephens had taught them that the Church had amassed stores of information before the fall of the Roman Empire. That hoard existed to preserve knowledge in the hopes that one day humanity would be ready.

Sadly, there was something in his choice of words that implied humanity would have to wait. This was further hammered home when he commented on the Edison and Tesla rivalry. He even bragged that the acolytes of the Temple of Zeus had resolved those debates centuries ago.

While that certainly explained a few aspects of this structure and the wonders within, it did little to explain others. The Terminus was a prime example of this disconnect: a network of gates leading to destinations around the world.

This gateway was a wonder of design, architecture and functionality. No religious acolytes from the antiquities could have dreamed up that technology, nor were there any scientists today who were capable of unravelling its inner workings.

There were a few who believed the Terminus’ inner workings were due to magic, although that notion was vehemently rejected by clergy and academics alike. While there were no clear answers, Clara occasionally heard the name Georgian whispered into the air.

The instructors were as varied as the subjects they taught. There were priests, nuns, and professors who all approached the world differently. Occasionally, they brought in specialists to teach and Clara especially enjoyed those occasions. It was a real treat to see someone be free from the taint of the order’s indoctrination.

Academics and theology were not the only course matter. There were courses on music, high arts, physical fitness and combat. Instructors were nebulous when questioned as to why the latter was considered a core subject. Clara could guess why, but very few of the students had been exposed to the truth like she had. She often envied their ignorance, especially their ability to imagine a world without things that went bump in the night.

Classes were almost exclusively segregated by gender or, at least, that was true for her age group. Courses which included both genders were heavily chaperoned. There were fire extinguishers found at every corner, those who kept a watchful eye on the students to ensure there was no fun to be had.

Clara was a bit younger than her classmates but even she could pick out the awkward attempts to get noticed by the other sex. While young, Clara was not immune. Jack would occasionally glance her way and her cheeks would turn a bright red. During those moments, Clara prayed for an answer; alas, that prayer remained unanswered.

Over the course of the year, students occasionally disappeared from the group. When Clara had joined, there were eight girls, and by the end of the year, there were four left. Like every other mystery in this school, no reasons were provided for their disappearance, simply endless theories generated by those who remained.

* * * *

On the final day of lectures for this semester, Professor Stephens provided them with some context as to the existence of The Tower.

Professor Stephens opened up with, “Throughout history there have been stories of things that lurk in the deepest corners of the forest, in haunted castles, or crawled out from out of our worst nightmares.”

“There are fairy tales which describe witches who prey on children. Creatures who grant wishes but exact a heavy toll for their service,” the professor added.

Clara could remember several stories that fit these themes. Hansel and Gretel came immediately to mind, whereas Rumpelstiltskin was an obvious choice for the latter.

These were children’s stories, told to keep a child’s behaviour in check or pass on valuable life lessons. It seemed hard to believe that such a revered academic would lend credence to these stories.

“In the past, we discussed how legends are rooted in fact, how these were nothing more than fishing stories that reached legendary proportions. What initially started out as a story of a man catching a six inch trout turned into an epic struggle between man and beast,” Professor Stephens said.

Clara nearly giggled but kept her composure. She knew they were being observed and had her suspicions as to why.

“Fairy Tales are also rooted in fact. Some have theorised that the Little Red Riding Hood was a tale on how the feminine form and sensuality can soothe the savage beast,” the professor said.

One of the girls giggled and Clara did not dare to look. Had this man really brought up a version of a fairy tale where the big bad wolf was seduced by the girl? She would have loved to hear that particular version. Clara bit the inside of her cheek to keep a straight face. She wanted to know more and that meant keeping the fire extinguishers at bay.

“The fifty or so variations of that particular tale that I came across all feature one element,” the professor said while he made eye contact with every student. “They all featured a wolf-like creature capable of taking on human form to blend in with the villagers.”

Clara mulled over the matter and connected the dots. Nowhere was such a creature explicitly defined or described as such, but certain elements could be inferred from the story. One might be able to come to this conclusion using nothing but these stories as source material and yet this seemed more like a case of hindsight…

“In fact, we are talking about a creature that stands approximately eight to twelve feet tall, bipedal, most powerful during the full moon and deadly beyond reckoning,” Professor Stephens said.

Clara leaned forward and opened her eyes as wide as she could. She was not about to miss what this man had to say.

As though on cue, the lights blacked out and a large wolf-like creature appeared out of thin air. The apparition towered over the professor and made everyone in the room feel small and insignificant.

So this was the creature behind the Little Red Riding Hood? What about the Boy Who Cried Wolf? In the background Clara heard one of her classmates sobbing uncontrollably. What would the fire extinguishers do with her?

“Lupinotuum pectinem, a lycantrop, or colloquially known as a werewolf,” the professor said nonchalantly. “A pack of these is rumoured to have decimated a battle hardened Roman Legion.”

The werewolf slowly morphed into its human form. It seemed that this particular specimen was female, but it was difficult to say considering her emaciated breasts and narrow hips. It was also a challenge to guess her age because of the hard life this specimen had lived.

Clara was not surprised, the transformations and associated behaviours were bound to make them social pariahs. Fear and isolation would be sure to follow them and that would make getting regular meals or even a bath daunting.

“The males are both larger and more powerful than their female counterparts,” the professor added. “However these are not the only creatures which feed our primal fears and haunt our nightmares.”

The woman’s image was instantly replaced by something humanoid. It was tall, lanky, had ashen skin and a long distinctive nose. Clara was unable to make out any other features, but that was more than enough to send a shiver down her spine. Why did this thing seem so familiar?

“There is something wrong with the eyes,” Clara said and immediately regretted having spoken out of turn.

Professor Stephens stopped to observe her a moment before he asked, “What about the eyes?”

“They should be glowing,” Clara replied, although she did not understand how she knew.

“That is only true in low light conditions,” Professor Stephens said. “Although that is an excellent point to bring up.”

“Homo ‎pallidi or colloquially known as a ghoul,” the professor said. “Most tales surrounding these creatures originate from Arabic mythology. They describe creatures that seek out cemeteries, battlefields or hospices to feed on the decaying flesh of the dead.”

The image changed again showing a different kind of creature. This was a thing of pure beauty, even with elongated fangs. Clara had no need to look at it further, she knew exactly what it was.

The professor began to name the creature, “Homo striga or more commonly known—”

“Vampire or nosferatu and popularised by Bram Stoker in the last century. Creatures who are perversions of humanity, feast on the blood of their prey, and move so fast that they appear like a blur,” Clara said.

“Correct,” the professor said, and looked a bit surprised. “How did you know?”

“That one killed Father Michael a little over a year ago, Professor,” Clara said. “She did so on consecrated ground.”

For a moment, it appeared as though the tables had turned. It seemed that the Professor had not been informed of this matter. Clara wondered how it was possible for the staff to remain unaware of such an explosive revelation.

Father Micheal must have been one of them, Clara thought.

Clara felt betrayed, not only had they never spoken to her about this matter, but they never cautioned Professor Stephens against the use of that creature’s image. Clara figured there was an ulterior motive to this lecture, so she decided to take a roll of the dice.

“Of course, you knew that already,” Clara said to defuse the situation and in that moment, noticed she was the only student left.

Edith walked out from the shadows and joined the professor. Until that point, she had rarely seen her outside of school gatherings.

“That’s why I’m here?” Clara asked.

“You are correct,” the professor said. “We needed to see how you’d react.”

“Your next phase of training could not begin until we assessed you. That phase begins now,” Edith said with a grin.

So Clara had been correct. How many were surprised to hear that there were monsters in the world? Not just innocuous oddities, but things dangerous enough to require significant resources to counter?

She was reminded of the old charts she discovered in The Tower’s archives.

“Here be monsters,” Clara said and thought the words fit this situation perfectly.

CHAPTER 5

A SAUCERFUL OF SECRETS

1908

Clara knew there were a great deal of secrets left to discover, but for now these secrets would have to wait. Sure, it was disappointing to keep her curiosity in check, but she needed to prioritise her studies, or at least initially.

Courses were taught all over The Tower, from the deepest bowels of the dungeon for combat training, to its highest reaches for poetry. Clara’s course load made getting to her classes on time a challenge.

On Thursdays, she would sneak through a library past the watchful eye of Father Allen, The Tower’s chief archivist, to shave twenty minutes off her trip. That gave her enough time to arrive early at her improvised weapons course to get some one-on-one time. However, there were risks in shaving time off her transits. Detention came to mind as a lesser repercussion, but the rewards were often well worth the risk.

Every Wednesday, Clara would leave five minutes early from bible studies to grab an early lunch. She would greedily consume everything on her plate to attend improvised weaponry classes.

Clara observed other initiates who were at the same point in their training. Some were cool and collected as though the chaos had been woven into the fabric of their souls, while others were on the cusp of a complete breakdown.

While never formally acknowledged, every aspect of their training had been designed to test the students. The ability for a student to realise this was a key factor for their survival. Those who sought perfection and needed to control their situation saw their grip on reality loosen little by little every day. It was obvious they wanted people to adapt to these conditions or fail spectacularly.

There was one factor which remained constant throughout. The Tower held a proverbial cornucopia of secrets. There were skeletons in every closet and people almost never gave a straight answer. That truth was not exclusive to the inhabitants of The Tower. Clara also learned that there were omissions in their archives.

For a young girl who liked to cause a bit of mischief, finding these omissions became a passion of hers. She would fly through rows upon rows of books looking for something that appeared peculiar or out of place.

Clara vividly recalled the conversation she had with Father Allen about a particular omission.

“What do you mean, child?” Father Allen asked.

“Pages are missing from this book,” Clara said. She then added a belated, “Father,” as a form of respect.

“That can’t be right, child,” Father Allen said.

He tore the book out of her hands to get a better look. There was something about his dramatic behaviour that made her suspicious.

“Which page, child?” Father Allen asked.

Clara took back the book then placed it neatly on a table surface. That way, both of them could get a clear view of the pages. Clara then thumbed through it quickly until she found the offending pages.

“I would say five pages or so are missing, Father,” Clara said.

Father Allen looked at the top of the book, nearer to the spine; there were no voids to indicate that the pages had been cut away. Fortunately, Clara knew that books were often rebound.

“There are no visible voids, child,” Father Allen said.

“No, but the animation is off, Father,” Clara said.

“Animation?” Father Allen asked.

Clara had come across many mediaeval texts before, hand written works of art that are normally created using the precise hand of a scribe. However, some must have found the task monotonous, since she occasionally came across doodles or illustrations hidden throughout.

Some of these doodles were depictions of killer rabbits locked in mortal combat against a noble knight. Some included elaborate battles which invariably involved a man taking an arrow to the rear end. Others included scenes where men fought their way through trees shaped like penises.

In this particular book, the scribe’s work had been more elaborate. At first, it looked harmless enough since every page featured the same design. That is until someone read far enough into the book to realise how much the image changed over time.

This particular doodle featured an owl who ruffled its feathers before taking flight. While soaring through the air, the owl spotted a mouse, grabbed it, and found a perch from which it could enjoy its meal. Clara flicked through the pages quickly enough to show the animation. All the while she pointed out the owl who was busy ruffling its feathers.

“See that owl, Father? Watch as it takes flight,” Clara said while flipping through the pages.

Sure enough, the bird spread its wings and soared through the pages. But there was a visible jitter, one which did not exist before or after the animation.

“A jitter?” Father Allen asked.

Clara smiled warmly before she said, “Yes, Father.”

“Surely you have more evidence to bring forward than a faulty drawing, child,” Father Allen said.

Clara expected her evidence to be taken seriously. It took an eye for detail to catch such a tiny flaw surrounded in a sea of information.

“The book is a collection of songs and prayers Father,” Clara said. “The page before the jitter introduces a protective prayer that is said to ward off evil spirits. The page that follows details a morning chant instead.”

“You can read Latin?” Father Allen asked.

“Of course,” Clara said. “Such knowledge is expected for all students, is it not Father?”

By that time, Father Allen had been called away by one of the staff. She did not see him again for a month and during that time, the book had gone missing.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Clara said under her breath.

Clara assumed that the spell had been deemed sacrilegious. But if that was true, why leave a reference in the text? Unless something more grievous had been omitted in between?

From that point on, Clara used every opportunity to dig deeper into the archives. Father Allen was a popular target for such matters since she enjoyed his attempts at avoiding her. Silently, she wondered if the feeling had been mutual; not all of the staff were social butterflies.

* * * *

On occasion, she would bring up her concerns in the hopes of finding answers. Most of the professors and clergy toed the line; they dared not betray some unwritten rule.

Professor Stephens, the keeper of secrets on monsters and creatures of myth was her most sympathetic source. Every so often, he would fill in the blanks or send her in the right direction. How could she contend with threats by remaining ignorant?

The most memorable conversation she had with Professor Stephens revolved around a book on pre-Christian gods. Clara noticed how the pages had been amended to include a series of symbols, specifically, how every symbol was found adjacent to the introduction of a god or goddess.

The symbols began with a circle and varied based on the fill or pattern. The circles were filled in by quarters and sometimes they were divided by a coloured border be it red, blue or green. There seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to the symbology, so Clara could not determine their purpose.

When she brought the thick and heavy tome to class, Professor Stephens noticed it immediately. For one, it was rare for students to bring reference material and secondly Clara was pretty sure he was familiar with this book.

“A surprise for me?” Professor Stephens asked.

“Well, not exactly,” Clara said. She opened the book to a random page, “I can’t decipher these annotations.”

“Annotations?” Professor Stephens inquired.

By this point in time Clara had grown accustomed to having her words returned to her in the form of a question. It seemed to be an efficient way to throw students off.

Clara played along by pointing to two separate instances of the circles on the page. She then flipped through some pages to showcase more examples.

“I found them all over this book,” Clara said. “Although I can’t make heads or tails of their intent.”

Most of the Professors or Clergy would sit there and feign curiosity. Father Allen was a poor actor who could ill deflect her questions, whereas Professor Stephens was an expert. Even then, it was rare for her to buy his deception wholesale.

This time, Professor Stephens surprised her. Instead of the expected song and dance, he sat down at his desk and sighed. It was the first time she had seen him show his human side.

“There is knowledge that students are expected to know,” Professor Stephens said.

He paused while he flipped through the book’s pages. Clara observed how some entries seemed to trigger memories.

“We expect students to deal with situations involving vampires, ghouls, werewolves and whatnot,” Professor Stephens added.

Such a statement had merit. Students were taught to counter known threats and learned strategies needed to win against their adversaries. Over the past few years, Clara had learned how to distract, attract, trap and attack their foes.

“There are certain topics that are deemed unnecessary for you to know. They run counter to our policies and officially are not acknowledged,” Professor Stephens added.

“So—” Clara said.

The professor raised his hand to prevent her from saying anything further. He scanned the room as if the walls had ears. In itself, that assumption was not wholly unexpected.

Before long, Professor Stephens said, “That’s the official story, of course. The truth, however, lies somewhere between our doctrines and your wildest imagination.”

“God—” Clara said.

“Alas, I can say no more on this subject,” Professor Stephens said. He then winked before adding, “I know nothing of these symbols or how they apply to the gods and goddesses of myth.”

That brief moment of honesty opened Clara’s eyes. There were things that even those from their order did not openly discuss. The reasons? Clara knew none would be forthcoming.

* * * *

Some mysteries left Clara certain that there would be no answers. Often her instincts served her well in making that determination. It proved wise to keep silent on such topics to prevent a whole slew of uncomfortable questions. Clara especially dreaded being questioned on where a particular line of inquiry came from.

In other circumstances, Clara knew that she would need to get her hands dirty to get answers. There were many nooks and crannies dispersed throughout The Tower waiting to be explored, some of which led to long forgotten sections of The Tower.

Officially, The Tower had few forbidden spaces. Some were flagrantly ignored by staff and students alike for convenience while others were avoided for reasons lost in the sands of time.

Other places were simply rumoured to be forbidden, so most gave them a wide berth. Clara came across old archives covered in dust and cobwebs, she often found them to be filled to the brim with history and artefacts.

Eventually, she stumbled upon a particularly neglected lavatory that led to another wing. Rumours were that The Tower once had direct access to the outside world, just like any modern college or campus.

While the wing had been sealed off using heavy stone and mortar, Clara managed to find this access point leading from the bathroom. It turned out that pipes and drains generally had to lead somewhere.

The opening was just big enough for her to squeeze through. Clara forced her tiny frame through the gap while her back grated against the rough stone surface. She was instantly covered in dust, mortar and years of accumulated filth. Clara found the mirror image of the floor on the other side.

Dust must have been over an inch thick here. Oddly enough, the lights and plumbing were functional. Clara took a moment to clean up before she walked out of the room. After all, even explorers had standards to uphold.

The rest of the wing was covered in a thin layer of grime and displayed signs of life. Scat had collected in the corners; bones from predator and prey alike covered the floor. Spiders created large networks of webs so thick that she initially thought they were the tattered remains of drapery.

Clara was in awe of how nature persisted and even thrived when human interference had been removed. Nowhere else in The Tower were there such obvious signs of life. This was a prime example of survival of the fittest, visible only because a cleaning staff did not wash away the evidence.

It took a few moments for Clara to size up the wing. There were two adjacent rooms: one large enough to serve as a classroom while the other contained the remnants of a library. Against the wall, she saw something that seemed to be a trophy case.

Clara looked over the tarnished silver cups, sceptres and crowns. These items would have been worth a princely sum to the right buyers, even in their deteriorated state.

She considered disturbing the artefacts to have a better look, but decided that the effort needed to read the inscriptions was not in her best interests. For what? To learn that The Tower at one point in its history had a semblance of normalcy?

Within the old library she found a small section filled with thick volumes, while the rest of the library had been stripped bare. She ran her hands over the leather bound spines but could not make out the titles. These looked and felt ancient and given the state of this wing, they probably were.

Clara pulled out a book at random then opened it up towards the middle. It contained rows upon rows of names, all written in a fine hand. Most of these names were in Latin but a few exceptions were found throughout. Occasionally, these would be accompanied by an amplifying paragraph such as a notice on promotion, appointment, or commendation.

These appeared to be ancient personnel records based on the use of animal hides for the pages. Clara wondered why some lines had been blotted out?

The curious girl pulled open a few more books and discovered that they also contained redacted sections. Were these deliberate attempts to purge records from the books? Odd, although abandoning these books in a sealed part of The Tower was certainly an effective way of keeping acolytes from finding them.

Once she left the library, she came up to a set of heavy oak doors. She noted they had been reinforced with steel, to deter any sustained attacks.

Immediately to the side, she found a door dwarfed by its adjacent kin. Clara would have missed it had she approached it from any other angle. The door was effectively invisible when viewed directly, probably as a camouflage to avoid accidental discovery. That in itself was not unusual. There were many such anomalies found in The Tower. Some had been known to go insane trying to find the right room.

Clara approached the smaller door and ran her hand over the handle. The brass was tarnished, which confirmed that it had not been used in years.

Without hesitation, Clara pulled on the door and felt it resist at first. With a bit more strength, the door creaked and moaned until a snap echoed throughout the hall. With corrosion shaken loose from its hinges, the door gave way easily.

Given the large doors immediately to her side, Clara expected much from this particular entrance. She suspected this one would lead to a caponier or some sort of defensive structure. How else would defenders be able to repel invaders?

Instead of a dark and musty tunnel, she was greeted by light bright enough to leave her temporarily blinded. Clara closed her eyes and walked out into the open, expecting to feel the warm sunlight on her skin. Instead she felt nothing. Odd!

Clara slowly opened her eyes so they could adjust to their surroundings. Before her, there was a city washed out by the light, rendering a landscape devoid of detail. The longer she looked over the scene, the more ethereal the world seemed.

All around her, she found signs that this city was inhabited. Structures were well-maintained, foliage was trimmed, the streets were neatly cobbled and marked, while the sides were lined with barrels and pottery. The latter was more telling since it helped her rule out certain eras.

Strangely absent from this world was the wind or sounds. Clara could neither hear nor see signs of insects, birds, animals or humans. Even when she came across a bazaar filled with wares, there was no one in sight.

Clara found a fruit stand and helped herself to an apple. One bite into the plump and ripened fruit yielded no flavour. The entire situation reminded her of something her sisters had said after their father died, namely about the existence of Limbo.

She headed back towards The Tower and expected to make out some details on its exterior. Instead, she saw something far more intriguing. Right before her eyes there was a towering volcano in the midst of an eruption. Clara wondered if she was in danger.

“Do you know where we are, child?” Reverend Mother Augustine quizzed.

Startled, Clara turned around so fast that the Reverend Mother flinched.

“How did she manage to sneak up on me,” Clara muttered.

Reverend Mother Augustine was a tall and imposing woman who was rumoured to have been a hunter. She did not wear the habit which people tended to expect for someone bearing that title. Instead, she opted to wear the same uniforms the girls were issued.

The woman had deep blue eyes, which gave Clara the impression that she could peer into the very depths of her soul. It never failed to send a chill down her spine when the Reverend Mother adopted her pose. The one where she narrowed her eyes and cocked her head to the side, a moment or so before she rendered judgement.

Clara supposed there was a theatrical component to this act, used as a way to discourage further interactions? Today she appeared just as she would within the confines of The Tower, in spite of the blinding light. Clara looked down and noticed that she too was unaffected by the light. Alice Liddell’s adventures did not hold a candle to this experience.

Clara was not certain of the answer and was tempted to say Limbo. However, such an answer would fail to impress the Reverend Mother. All of The Tower’s staff expected a reasoned answer, one which reached beyond faith and scripture.

“Roman architecture,” Clara said. “You can tell by the furniture, available goods, and frescos.”

“Go on, child,” Augustine replied.

“The abundance of fish and fresh fruits tells me that we are in a port city,” Clara said. “There is also a volcano in the distance spewing ash—”

The Reverend Mother was about to speak when Clara’s eyes brightened. Ash had been the trigger she needed to unlock the name.

“Pompeii!” Clara exclaimed.

“My, what a sharp mind you have there, child,” the Reverend Mother said.

“Thank you, Reverend Mother,” Clara said after realising she had forgotten to use any marks of respect until now.

“You also managed to find your way out here too. No student has managed that feat since the nineteenth century. You’re the first so far,” Augustine said, while hoping the number remained at one.

An obvious reply did not come to her, so Clara nodded and kept her eyes low. It rarely paid to appear confident when one’s transgressions were discovered.

“How did you find your way here, child?” Augustine asked.

“I followed the plumbing through the wall into an abandoned section of The Tower, Reverend Mother,” Clara said.

The Reverend Mother smiled before she said, “Only two others have used that particular route, child.” Just as Clara’s eyes began to glow, she added, “Yes, there are other ways inside. Since the cat’s already out of the bag, you’re welcome to try. So long as you don’t neglect your studies or tell the others.”

Clara cocked her head to the side and looked utterly confused. It was not every day that someone encouraged her to break the rules.

“Reverend Mother?” Clara said, confused.

“Have you been able to explain why our surroundings appear as they do?” the Reverend Mother asked to change the subject.

A quick glance at the volcano was all Clara needed before answering, “A pocket in time, Reverend Mother.”

“You guessed or knew?” Augustine pressed.

“A bit of both,” Clara said. “I initially thought this was Limbo,” she said honestly.

“I could see how you might have thought that,” the Reverend Mother Augustine said. “If Limbo existed, it might very well be a place like this.”

“Why are we in a pocket of time, Reverend Mother?” Clara probed.

Clara expected to be given the runaround or told she was simply too young to know the truth. After all, that was the modus operandi of those who taught at The Tower. However, it seemed that today was a day of firsts.

“I’m not quite sure that I can adequately explain, child,” the Reverend Mother said. Before the crestfallen look washed over Clara’s face she added, “I’ve been told that humans need to exist somewhere within space and time.”

Clara’s eyes brightened up, and she beamed a smile. Fortunately, there were no sounds or stimuli to distract her from listening.

“We can’t exist in any environment where time or space is absent. However, they can be coerced to permit situations like this,” Augustine said.

“Defensive,” Clara added and gripped her mouth just as the word slipped out.

“Correct, child,” the Reverend Mother said. “When we are in sync with the world, we can be located and attacked. The Tower exists here for now, so an enemy would need to coordinate an assault on this very day. It is our belief that the volcano, ash and pyroclastic flow would dissuade any direct physical attack.”

So that explained the need for the Terminus. On the bright side, this arrangement probably saved a fortune on maintenance costs.

“I’m afraid that’s all I know, child,” Augustine said.

“Thank you, Reverend Mother,” Clara said. She then grinned before adding, “Do I get any hints on the other entrances?”

“No, child,” the Reverend Mother said. “However, I will show you a quicker way back to the Main Hall.”

For now, Clara supposed that would have to suffice. At least she was not expressly forbidden from returning to Pompeii. It appeared to be the perfect place for those who needed a bit of time away from the hustle and bustle of Tower living.

CHAPTER 6

TWO SHIPS PASSING IN THE NIGHT

1911

Clara never realised how much fun she could have with her blinders removed. For years, Clara had been cooped up at The Tower learning the tricks of her trade, oblivious to the world beyond.

Now that they had set her free, Clara was capable of coming and going as her heart desired. In all haste, Clara used the Terminus to reach Paris with the intention of playing the tourist. Her first item on the list was to sit down at a café, order a meal, and sip on a cappuccino while she waited.

Previous to her reins being loosened, the outings had been tightly controlled and with good reason. It was said that students would often walk away. All around her there was life untainted by what lurked in the shadows. For a moment, she too could feel the allure, that powerful draw that seduced a great many to defect.

If Clara were not certain that there were things out there that used her kin for a food source, then she might have heeded the call of the piper. Instead, she took another sip and felt that brief surge of energy that caffeine provided, even if it was only imagined.

In the distance, she heard an accordion player serenade passers-by with his music. In the opposing corner of the intersection there was a mime who performed his craft. Clara was impressed by his soldier’s resolve, watching him keep silent no matter how hard the children tormented him. She wondered what it would take to break that discipline.

“A pair of tits,” Clara muttered.

She was in Europe, a society that was far more practical about matters of the flesh. That was not the case back home, and it was a shame that such fun was often considered a sin. Just thinking about ways of getting that mime’s attention by breaking social mores made her heart race. If this was the feeling one gets from going against the grain, then Clara was surprised people were not more easily convinced to lead a life of sin.

“You’re wondering what it would take to make him talk, aren’t you.” Jack said from behind.

Clara had been aware that someone was there. His steps on the cobblestone surface warned her of his approach. Still, she was not happy about this man’s attempt at reading her mind.

“Among other things,” Clara said with a perfect Parisian accent while she turned to see who it was.

“Hello, Clara,” Jack said.

Clara looked at the young man and remembered how he had been a boy the last time they met. It took all she had to maintain her composure and hide that schoolgirl giddiness she felt by the mere sight of him.

“Well… Well… Look what the cat dragged in,” Clara said calmly before taking a sip of her cappuccino.

“Your best house wine,” Jack said once the waiter came out from the café.

“It’s been too long,” he added before sitting at the table.

Clara tried to remember the last time they had crossed paths. He had been a year ahead of her but left The Tower three or four years ago. There were rumours that a mission had gone wrong and that Jack was to blame. That meant exile and if a member of the order had betrayed their kin, even Dante’s imagination would be insufficient to describe the punishment they deserved.

However, those were only rumours, nothing proven or reliably sourced. Still, Jack looked good, a real lady-killer. She found it hard to turn away, that is until the bottle of wine was brought to the table.

“Yes it has,” Clara said in a calm voice struggling to conceal her excitement.

Jack waited for the waiter to pour him a sample of wine. He glanced at the glass for a moment before he swirled the contents. Clara observed how he took in the aroma before taking a sip.

“Very good,” Jack said, which prompted the waiter to fill both glasses. “So what method did you settle on?”

Clara was momentarily confused, but her face turned a bright red once she clued in. She glanced at the waiter who was busy serving another table and caught his eye. As judged by the blank look on his face, it appeared that he had forgotten about her order of Moules Marinières waiting out back. Clara figured that would help cool things down a bit.

“A lady is entitled to her secrets,” Clara said.

“I don’t think your bare breasts, no matter how perky, would do the trick,” Jack said.

“Why not?” Clara asked without betraying her annoyance at the accuracy of his guess.

“His eyes focus on every well-dressed man who pass by,” Jack said. “He also ignored that particularly scrumptious baby vamp who crossed his path.”

Clara felt a slight sting to her ego. How could Jack comment on another woman’s appearance to her face? For the life of her she could not figure out where that particular emotion originated from. This man was muddying the waters and Clara did not appreciate the experience.

“My girls would get his attention,” Clara said bluntly.

“That stunning? Are they?” Jack asked.

“Yes,” Clara answered.

“Then prove it,” Jack said with a smirk.

“That’s not going to happen,” Clara tossed back.

“Why not?” Jack asked.

“I’m not that kind of gal,” Clara replied even if she were tempted to tease him with a little peek.

“Then how would I know?” Jack asked.

“You’ll have to take my word for it,” Clara said.

Before Jack could continue with the back and forth, the waiter dropped a plate of steamed mussels on the table. Two plates and cutlery followed suit.

“Bon appetit,” the waiter said.

“Merci,” Clara said before the waiter left.

Clara used this opportunity to take her mind off of Jack. She eyed the steamed mussels hungrily and selected the most accessible one. They never had this sort of dish back at The Tower, such delicacies were seen as wasteful indulgences. Odd how sin and indulgence seemed to be on a similar path to bliss.

“Do you want some?” Clara asked even though she had no desire to share.

“I’ve already eaten,” Jack said. “But thank you.”

Clara thoroughly enjoyed the mussels and wine. She was on her second glass when she noticed that his was still full.

Now she knew that Jack had been away longer than Clara and might be less inclined to indulge. Clara was certain that her own appetites would evolve over time. Still, why would he order the wine?

“Sorry,” Clara said. “I’m being gluttonous and forgetting my manners by ignoring my company.”

“It’s quite alright. We’re all the same when we come face-to-face with the real world,” Jack said.

“What was your first foray into worldly cuisine?” Clara asked just before she grabbed another mussel.

“Spaghetti Bolognese outside of Rome,” Jack said.

What were the chances of her meeting Jack on her first real outing from The Tower? Surely the odds were astronomical and yet here they were. Clara should have been suspicious and kept her distance, but she desired nothing more than to be with him.

Clara raised her glass and said, “To freedom and the food it brings.”

Jack raised his glass and said, “Cheers.”

They brought their glasses to their lips but Clara kept an eye on Jack. This time she observed him wetting his lips instead of taking a sip. Now that was enough to get her mind off of his rugged good looks.

Salvation came once she heard the bells from the nearby church. Clara looked up and feigned a frown, disappointed that it was time to attend the evening mass.

“It’s time to go,” Clara said.

Just as Clara reached for her purse, Jack took her by the hand and said, “No. My treat. This brought back some great memories of my first time.”

“Oh, I can’t do that. How would I ever be able to repay you?” she asked but guessed where this was going.

“Meet me at the cabaret around the corner from the church after service,” Jack proposed and at that moment he was the most impressive man she ever laid eyes upon.

The bells forced her mind to stay focused. In her heart, she was so very close to accepting his offer. However, she had a golden opportunity to test the waters.

Clara got her rapid breathing under control before saying, “Why don’t you join me for mass?”

“Sorry, I have a matter to attend to,” Jack said.

Clara simply nodded and began her slow deliberate walk towards the church. Once she saw the priest she smiled faintly, an act that required a Herculean effort considering her mind was somewhere else.

* * * *

Clara did not hear most of the sermon, her mind was busy trying to consolidate the mass of emotions swirling around in her head. The fact that the church was warm and stuffy did not help matters.

So what did she know? Jack’s sudden appearance from out of the ether was as odd as it was unlikely. Yet, it could still be attributed to dumb luck.

Would that explain his aversion to food and drink? What about her attraction to him? She could barely take her eyes off of him, and that was decidedly out of character. Clara had never felt so drawn to anyone before.

“Male vampires were known to form an intense attraction with their prey. This often proves fatal to the prey,” Professor Stephens once said.

Did that explain the pull? That draw she experienced just now? She had been chosen to fight their kind, trained by some of the best to fulfil that mission. Certainly her training would enable her to resist the temptation?

Or could she? The weapon for a hunter centred on their faith. Did Clara have sufficient faith in God or at least enough to imbue her with the ability to fight off such creatures? Or was it simply that she knew these creatures existed, so faith had never played a part in the equation?

Even now, she had no problems rhyming off in Latin the necessary replies or following the prompts to the evening mass. But what colour was the priest’s hair? How many other parishioners were in attendance? How old was that child fussing just behind her?

These were all things she should know. Members of her order survived by maintaining faith and vigilance; right now both were deficient. So what was she to do?

Clara closed her eyes and focused. It was time to rely on her training, push away all of these emotions and think her way out of this. At worst, Jack was human and she would end up naked, out of breath and completely satiated. Clara ended up thinking this was not a bad way to end the evening.

More than likely, she needed a weapon and a plan. Alas, this church had no cache of weapons and even if it did, they were probably ceremonial.

She did carry Father Michael’s crucifix. It made up part of her rosary and remained unnoticed during gatherings; even those at The Tower never questioned its existence.

As for defence, armour was out of the question. Clara sighed but was determined to keep her wits about her. Instead of panicking, she walked over to the pool of holy water. She dipped her fingers in and made the sign of the cross while reciting a quick prayer.

This time she varied the ritual by wetting her lips. With any luck it would make her lips appear glossy, at least temporarily. She was going to a cabaret after all, and clearly did not have the time to prepare.

“No matter. Women have been able to conquer the hearts of men with far less,” she added before heading out into the night.

* * * *

The Cabaret was much smaller and discreet than anticipated. Jack was waiting by the entrance and flashed a smile as soon as he saw her. The sight of that smile made Clara’s heart go a flutter, which in turn strengthened her suspicions.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Jack said before he kissed her cheek.

“It’s the least I could do,” Clara replied.

Jack took her hand and escorted her inside. There were tables surrounding a central stage and for the most part, the place was quiet. In itself, that was surprising since the street just outside was teeming with life. Clara wondered why this joint was nearly empty.

“Good evening, Jack,” the host said. “Your usual table?”

Jack nodded, and they were escorted to a table against the wall that offered a great view of the stage. Clara was impressed. They had sightlines to the stage and all entry points. An excellent choice for a hunter, since it prevented anyone from approaching unnoticed.

Jack held the chair out for her while Clara sat down. She saw the musicians getting ready in the mezzanine and wondered what kind of show this would be. While some of these cabarets offered it all, she felt this one catered to a specific audience.

“You look lovely,” Jack said.

Clara’s face reddened as she adopted a shy smile. That had to be a lie since she did not have the chance to change. Besides, she was more appropriately dressed for a convent, not a cabaret.

“Liar,” Clara said.

“It’s not the clothes nor the jewellery that make a woman,” Jack said. He then took her hand and added, “It’s her eyes, the gentle curves of her chassis and smile.”

Clara focused on her hand while all of her inhibitions melted away. This man was good. Odd, since seduction techniques were not taught to male students.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Clara said with a wink.

Jack looked right into her eyes and Clara lost herself in that gaze. This had to be some form of witchcraft.

“Did I tell you that I rent a room in the loft? Let me show you the way,” Jack said before taking her hand.

So this was a trap after all, Clara thought.

* * * *

Clara remembered little after he took her hand. A distant voice in the back of her mind tried to protest leaving before the show, but it was drowned out by her desires. In that moment, she would have gladly held the weight of the world. All Jack had to do was ask.

She did not remember shedding her clothes when they entered his room. Clara followed his lead and hurried their way towards the inviting bed. She even went as far as to hop on one foot to shed her stockings.

When he directed her to get on the bed Clara did so without saying a word. Naked and vulnerable, her heart was racing because she desperately wanted to feel every inch of him.

Jack watched from a distance before he joined her. He glided over the bed, moving between her inviting legs and then hovered over her. She felt a cool breeze and her skin became covered in gooseflesh. Everything he did made her want him more, so much so that her nipples were hard and her body ached.

When his lips were no more than an inch from hers, he gripped her wrists with monstrous strength. That earlier voice spoke up again in the hopes of raising the call to arms, but she was hopelessly at his mercy.

Her lack of response made him smile. This was precisely how he wanted her to be.

“So typical,” Jack said. “Hungry for a bit of freedom from that wretched place. You all claim to be ladies, above that base desire for sex, but I know better. In the end, you all end up on this bed desperate to be defiled,” Jack added with disdain.

There was no one home. Clara did nothing more than stare into his eyes. Jack could have rhymed off the box scores of a baseball game and Clara would have yearned for him all the same.

“Do you know why those other girls died in agony?” Jack asked. “They never told me what I wanted to know.”

He moved in closer and closer until his lips almost brushed against hers.

“You’re stronger than they were, aren’t you Clara?” Jack asked. “You’re going to tell me everything I want to know after this kiss.”

Jack pressed his lips against hers, forcing her lips open with his tongue. For a moment, time slowed down as her mind struggled to break through her defences.

Still, he was in complete control of her body, there was nothing she could do to counteract that brute strength. That is, until his eyes opened wide in shock before jerking away.

“You bitch!” he exclaimed.

With the fog lifted from Clara’s mind, the part of her cognizant of his intent asserted itself with a vengeance. She used her forearm to push against his neck and forced him off.

He screeched in pain, the sound diabolical in its tones, akin to the tinkling of glass when struck. To prevent any unwanted guests, Clara pulled away the crucifix and exposed the blade.

He screamed in pain, sounding diabolical in its tones, something like the tinkling of glass when struck. To prevent any unwanted guests, Clara pulled away the crucifix and exposed the blade.

Jack flailed around like a fish out of water while covering his eyes as though there was something left to protect. With Clara’s faculties fully her own, she danced around the bed until she was right behind him.

Her attacks were vicious and bloody, with every strike aimed at the base of his neck. The first couple of stabs severed his nerves and his body went limp. Even though he was disabled, Clara never stopped the attack, stabbing him over and over.

Blood was splattered throughout and the room was soon covered in gore. Nothing could dissuade her, not until she had landed a killing blow, accomplished once his head dropped onto the floor.

Clara stopped cold, her breathing heavy and jagged. On the verge of exhaustion, her hands trembled so much that she was barely able to hold on to the blade. Her vision was blurred but a quick wipe of her eyes permitted her to see clearly again.

“That bastard!” Clara exclaimed while tears streamed down her bloody cheeks.

She should have trusted her instincts and sought assistance. Perhaps they could have captured him and learned how many girls that this piece of filth had killed?

“Pull yourself together,” Clara said to harden her resolve.

Her eyes scanned the room and found it to be nondescript. That is until she looked closer to the bed and realised that she was at the epicentre of a slaughterhouse.

Clara caught the sight of a steamer trunk in the corner. Curious, she got up from the bed just as the viscous blood began to glide down her body. Clara did her best to ignore the discomfort.

The trunk was not locked, and Clara soon discovered that it contained art supplies. This was a part of Jack that Clara had never previously observed. Never had this man shown any interest in the arts, let alone charcoal or paints.

“Stop it,” Clara said.

She needed to stop thinking about that headless corpse as anything more than a monster. One who would have killed her without hesitation. Still, it was difficult to separate the two entities.

Clara bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. The pain focused her thoughts long enough to push away all emotion. She still had things to do, and they would not wait idly by until she got her act together.

She rummaged through the artwork and found a series of disturbing charcoal drawings. Each work featured a different model in all their macabre detail. The first had been drawn and quartered, but Clara recognised Blanche’s soft features despite the ample viscera.

“Nettie, Ruth, Alma, Della, Lizzie, Sadie, Sallie,” Clara said as she recognised the victims from the portraits.

Had Clara not been suspicious of his actions she would have ended up in another one of his tableaus. Another notch on his bed and this time he might have acquired the information he sought to exact his revenge.

As she flipped through his works, she came across a painting. She momentarily stopped breathing while her mind processed the image.

Before her was the face of a woman who Clara had seen both in life and in her nightmares. To think that she once believed that angels would look like her. A beauty beyond compare; too bad these sensual and feminine features concealed a brutality that would make Elizabeth Báthory cringe.

“That bitch,” Clara said.

So Father Michael’s killer recruited Jack and used him to do her dirty work? It explained how he could find those from the order out on unsupervised outings. The older and more powerful of their kind had spies and agents to project their power. Jack was able to borrow this intelligence to strike when the girls were most vulnerable.

Now Clara was mad. She moved back towards the bed to have a better look at the severed head. There were signs that his eyes had begun to heal since one of the eyes had reinflated, although the iris remained cloudy.

This was a testament to their kind’s ability to heal and served as a powerful reminder of how quickly the tables could have turned. Clara would have made it less than a hundred feet before he caught up to her had she run away.

At least the holy water proved to be effective. His lips looked as though they had been burned by vitriol. Clara would have to remember that trick in the future.

She also needed to redouble her efforts to strengthen her faith. Jack should have found it difficult to approach her. At least, if she were half as faithful as she believed.

Truth be told, she enjoyed the freedom because it allowed her to get some distance from her faith. It was a big sacrifice for young women to give their lives for a cause and give up on ever having a normal life.

A couple of hours ago, Jack could have realistically drawn her away from that world. The temptation to fall into his arms and find love was a powerful draw.

For most of their lives, they had been two ships passing in the night. For years, they had flown the same flags and paid their respects. This time, he had flown under the flag of truce with all his cannons run out. His crimes were unforgivable and she would make sure that he was erased from the history books.

The voice of reason and logic whispered in the back of her mind. Clara would need to prove what had happened today, otherwise, agents of The Tower would sanction her for what was about to happen.

Since her hands had steadied themselves, Clara picked up her crucifix and returned to Jack’s severed head. She then began the unpleasant task of cutting into its flesh until she pulled his fangs loose.

While their fangs were able to retract, they were longer and sharper than a human’s own set. She examined them for a moment. These were her first set, but Clara had no interest in starting up a collection.

Done with her grisly task, Clara found a nearby mirror to get a better look. Despite the gore, there was something different about her. That twinkle in her eyes had been replaced by a burning flame.

“I wonder if that’s what they call a smouldering look,” Clara mused with a grin.

Her round cheeks and baby fat were gone, which gave way to a chiselled chin, jaw and prominent cheekbones. It seemed that the elfin look that had been commented on years ago had come to fruition. It gave her a distinguished yet feminine look which would be sure to pay dividends later in life.

Her body had hollowed out in some areas and expanded in others. Clara had not yet noticed how drastic the change had been since her first night at The Tower. Sometimes change is good.

Clara had the body and grace of a dancer, although her bosom was a bit more defined than the average prima ballerina. It was a fair compromise. She had the ability to turn heads and was nimble enough to handle a sword. At that moment, she was certain that the mime would have talked.

Clara wiped off any blood using a clean set of Jack’s clothes. She noticed that it made the scene look more gruesome, but that would not matter in a couple of hours.

After a last check in the mirror, she got dressed and gave the room one last run through. Clara considered taking the paintings back to The Tower. Many would want some closure, but no one should be remembered for how they died.

Instead, she took the portrait of the vampire and wrote the names of his victims clearly on the back. After a brief pause, Clara added Jack’s name as well.

Before leaving, Clara slid open the thick curtains which allowed the moonlight to fill the room in a silvery glow. She then pushed the chest against the door even as music filtered through from below.

Next, she opened the window then slid down a water spout. Fortunately, the ancient fixture creaked but held up to her weight.

* * * *

Clara sat at a table outside her favourite café. She observed people caught in the current, making their way to work or school. In that moment, she realised how happy she was to be free from the shackles of time.

Busy sipping on a latte, Clara closed her eyes and relaxed. While she was not bound by time, she knew someone whose time was about to come to an abrupt end.

The first break in flow started with a few hushed voices. With every passing second, the crowd grew in size until panic spread amongst the onlookers.

“Au Feu! Au Feu!” a man exclaimed, marking this as the first coherent statement yet.

Hurried footsteps passed by, close enough that Clara felt the rush of air. Within five minutes, she heard sirens approaching in the distance.

Clara opened her eyes and saw a mob surrounding the bistro. While she feigned curiosity, Clara knew exactly what was going on.

“Monsieur?” Clara asked in an alarmed voice. “What is going on?”

“The Cabaret down the street is on fire,” the man replied without taking his eyes off the carnage.

“A shame,” Clara muttered, seeing how that would delay breakfast.

“Is anyone hurt?” Clara asked, but was ignored.

For the next several hours, the crowd ebbed and flowed like the tide. Men fought hard to save the building, but the fire ultimately claimed its prize. In the end, the stone structure was reduced to a smouldering heap of broken brick and ash. Clara was certain by this point that there was no evidence left to find.

She got up from the table, paid her tab with a generous tip and melted into the crowd. Today was a new day and seeing that traitorous bastard burn made things right as rain.

She thought back over one of Professor Stephens’ lectures. Many of the students chose to ignore his wisdom, discounting it as a work of fantasy.

However, Clara had known better and paid close attention to the effects of sunlight on these creatures. Direct light could sear flesh and longer exposures caused the body to erupt in a fiery inferno. In that moment, she knew that their bodies could easily be disposed of.

All she needed was a clear head and a little forethought. That knowledge, when put to practical use, had certainly done the trick.

CHAPTER 7

LES FILLES DE JEANNE D’ARC

1911

Clara had no idea what to expect once she got back to The Tower. Full-fledged hunters with years of experience often went missing without a trace. What was the likelihood of an acolyte coming back alive? Not very, and that was bound to get some attention.

Clara knew that her credibility would come into question. Others had lied about their exploits to progress through the ranks. Such a lie would be far more plausible than walking away from a trap.

She took a deep breath while focusing on the door leading into The Tower. While the Terminus had no obvious defences beyond obfuscation, Clara was certain that something would happen once she walked through that door. The question was what?

Clara closed her eyes, breathed out and recited a prayer. With one push of her hand, the door gave way, and she crossed the threshold.

* * * *

Blinding white light greeted her on the other side. Clara struggled in vain to open her eyes, but even that brief attempt was enough to leave her vision marred with deep purple streaks.

So this door leads to other destinations? Clara suspected that direct and unfettered access to The Tower would pose a security risk. In a way, it was reassuring to learn that The Tower had a few more secrets left, especially ones that favoured self-preservation.

Clara did not move. She felt the sharp edge of a blade touch her skin. A thin rivulet of blood ran down her neck but she was not worried. This was a warning; if they wanted her dead, Clara would have never known what hit her.

“There are very few ways to trigger The Tower’s defences,” Edith said.

Clara said nothing, since speaking would only worsen the bleeding. If Edith was interested in an answer, she would have to permit it.

“Traitors are not welcome here. So why are you still alive?” Edith demanded.

The blade remained firmly in place. Chances were that Edith had expected to find a smouldering heap of ash right about now. It must have come as a surprise to find an acolyte standing there instead.

“I wonder if that would be the best time to cook a marshmallow,” Clara muttered.

At this moment, Clara was caught in a state between life and death. She needed to convince Edith that she had not betrayed them.

Clara reached into her pocket in a slow and deliberate manner. She then found her prize and dropped them onto the floor. The bloodied fangs sounded like a pin drop once they hit the floor. Wherever they were, it had to be spacious enough to dampen the sound that much.

“Where did you get those?” Edith asked while she sheathed her blade.

Clara turned around and felt something in her hands. Her fingers probed the metallic, glass and leather device. Without a second thought, she slipped them over her head to protect her eyes. Now she had the opportunity to take a look at where she was.

Edith stood before her while sporting spectacles fitted with onyx coloured lenses. They looked a bit like welders’ glasses and she assumed that she had been given an identical pair.

“Jack surrendered them,” Clara said.

“Jack,” Edith questioned with a hint of confusion.

Clara nodded before she said, “He must have been turned a couple of years back.”

“Jack? We had no intelligence on this,” Edith said.

Clara pulled out the folded canvas portrait which contained the list of girls killed. The featured model had the same effect on Edith as it had for Clara.

“He was careful about who to ambush and when. He even painted a tableau mort for every one of those poor girls,” Clara said while pointing out the names.

“You got the better of him?” Edith asked.

“I got lucky,” Clara said. “So what now?”

Edith focused intently on Clara’s facial features. At that moment, her fate was being decided based on very little evidence. Clara hoped that this glimpse at the truth was enough.

“Follow me,” Edith ordered.

They walked away from the blinding light until the intensity dropped to a manageable level. Both Edith and Clara removed their glasses and hung them against a whitewashed wall. It took a moment, but Edith found a hidden latch which enabled her to push away a portion of the wall.

Clara had visited a lot of fortifications as part of her training. She saw arrow slits in the rock and larger openings that would permit a small cannon loaded with grapeshot. Simply put, this was a killing field designed to prevent entry.

At the end of the tunnel there were heavy steel doors reinforced with massive rivets. Clara had never seen these doors before. Once they walked through, Clara found herself safely within the confines of the Terminus.

“It’s a pocket of reality to keep undesirables away,” Edith said.

That was a detail that Jack would have wanted to get his hands on. That meant Clara would have died for nothing and thanked God that her gamble paid off.

A moment later they were back in the Main Hall. No one seemed to be paying her any particular attention, so no alarms had been raised. Edith moved at a frightening pace, and Clara did her best to keep up as they made their way up to the Reverend Mother’s office.

Clara had been up there before, to clear up some misunderstandings. Old habits do die hard after all, but this time she had a lot of explaining to do.

* * * *

“Why has Clara returned early from leave?” the Reverend Mother asked.

Clara was about to speak to explain her situation, but Edith jumped in instead. At least this time Clara did not need to talk her way out of trouble.

“She was attacked by one of them, Reverend Mother,” Edith said in a formal tone. “She claims that a former student known as Jonathan Carmichael was responsible.”

This was the first time that Clara noted a change in the Reverend Mother’s stoic mask. Her eyes went wide with surprise. It was priceless, if only she had a camera to cherish this moment!

“Is this true, child?” Augustine asked.

“Yes, Reverend Mother,” Clara replied.

“Clara also discovered that Jonathan has been responsible for the disappearance of at least six other girls over the past two years,” Edith said.

The Reverend Mother cocked her brow. That sort of information was hard to come by even with seasoned agents, so obviously it looked like a load of baloney. Clara had butterflies in her stomach, this was precisely the scenario that she wanted to avoid. Sometimes it turned out, truth was stranger than fiction.

“How, child,” Augustine asked.

“I got lucky, Reverend Mother,” Clara replied.

“Surely there is more to the story than mere luck?” the Reverend Mother queried.

Clara took a deep breath and began to recite her sordid tale. She went over the details on how Jack set a trap, how she gained the upper hand and disposed of the evidence. The Reverend Mother hung on every word, in awe on how calm Clara appeared to be, at least on the outside.

She then went on to describe the artwork, but focused on the portrait she brought with her. This evidence provided a vital link to Father Michael’s death, the recent whereabouts of the one responsible, and hinted at the scope of their intelligence network. To be honest, this revelation left them with more questions than it answered.

Clara doubted she would be involved in any effort to tie all of this information together. At least The Tower would be safer, for now.

“Please leave us, child,” the Reverend Mother said.

Clara nodded and left without saying a word. All the while, she wondered why Edith stayed back.

On her way down the stairs, she saw several members of the staff hurry on by. Clara must have created a bit of a stir; a rare occasion where this type of response did not end up with her in the hot seat.

* * * *

The next day Clara returned to her classes. There was a renewed fire within her heart, especially when it came to matters of faith. Clara was very keen to ensure that creatures like Jack would have a natural aversion to her. If all it took was a little faith, then she would make sure to have plenty on hand.

All she needed was to change her perspective, such as dismissing the will of God as blind luck. This string of good fortune was beginning to seem unlikely. After all, this was her second encounter with one of them where she lived to tell the tale.

Once the sun had set, Edith came down the stairs and went straight for Clara. It was rare for Clara to come across the older students since they were often out on advanced training. Edith was especially difficult to keep tabs on for reasons that were never obvious.

“Clara,” Edith said to get her attention. “You’re being transferred.”

“Where to?” Clara asked.

“Les Filles de Jeanne d’Arc,” Edith said.

Clara’s eyes brightened, but refused to let any more emotion bleed through to betray her composure. She had heard of this group named after Joan of Arc, the only woman in history to have led a nation’s armies into battle.

It was said that these were an elite group of girls who were known to advance quickly through the ranks. Their training was rigorous and secretive. In fact, even publicly admitting to being a part of that group meant dismissal.

Clara often wondered just what could be learned as part of that group. Until now she had no particular affiliation, even as she streamed past her peers. Her youth was seen as a serious hindrance, at least until now.

“When?” Clara asked.

“Immediately,” Edith said with a smile.

This was an opportunity of a lifetime and Clara silently hoped to avoid the fate of their namesake. Tied to a stake and burned as a heretic for her faith, Clara could not think of an outcome that was less desirable.

“Very well. I suppose,” Clara said with a wink.

Fortunately, her attempt at humour was well received. Since Edith was directly involved with this group, it paid to have a friend within their ranks.

* * * *

Clara followed Edith as they made their way through the depths of The Tower, and past the restricted section of the main library. Once they reached the North wall, Edith stopped dead in her tracks and turned to face Clara.

“Have you ever heard of Georgians?” Edith asked.

Clara suppressed her surprise before she replied, “Rumours, innuendos and whispers carried by the wind.”

“Good to know that we still have some secrets left,” Edith said. “We don’t know much about them, other than the fact that they have abilities and technology that outstrip our own.”

Edith glided over the spines of the books until she found the right one. With a single touch, the book began to glow. Without any hesitation, she walked right through the bookshelf.

Clara attempted to do the same, but bounced off the books and landed straight on her rump. Another surprise for this week, but this time, she suspected a key piece of information had been withheld. The theory was confirmed once Edith’s head popped out from the books and giggled.

“Georgian?” Clara asked.

“You’ll need to touch On the Revolutions of the Celestial Spheres by Nicolaus Copernicus to pass through,” Edith said before she vanished.

This time, Clara did as instructed and watched the book glow. She then pushed through the shelves as though they were an illusion, one that stopped her cold a moment ago.

Once she made it through, Clara found herself in a high, vaulted chamber. It reached out further than the eye could see, although that might have had something to do with the poor lighting.

“There are some who believe the Georgians are mages, while others claim they are a secret order of scientists. A new theory circulating amongst the younger staff claim they are a species alien to this planet,” Edith said.

While they pushed deeper into the chamber, Clara noted the series of alcoves built into the walls. Some were chock-full of weapons, while others contained armour, clothing and jewellery. There was Everything that a liberated femme fatale needed to wage war on the enemy.

Within the chamber, there were mats and targets intermixed with fashionable furniture. It seemed like a lounge dedicated to comfort, fashion, and combat. Clara’s eyes glowed with excitement; there was so much fun to be had here.

“They are the reason The Tower still exists. Without their direct involvement, we would have been overrun by our enemies long ago,” Edith said.

Clara listened to every word, even when she came across a series of small pistols on a table. She ran her hand over the cool steel of the weapons, curious about the carnage she could unleash with these.

“What’s the catch?” Clara asked when she picked up a double barrelled derringer.

“Smart girl,” Edith said. “Payment varies based on the request. Sometimes they exchange intelligence and knowledge.”

“Raw materials, precious gems, and money?” Clara asked.

She pointed the derringer towards a target. There was no rear sight so that meant this was a close-in weapon.

“Sometimes,” Edith said without expanding on that.

What was left unsaid told her all she needed to know. It was probably safe to assume that students disappeared from time to time so The Tower could make good on its payments. Sure it seemed cold, but they were at war.

Clara squeezed the first trigger until the hammer struck the primer. A loud bang was heard followed by a great puff of smoke and a gaping hole in the target.

“What the—!” Clara exclaimed.

“Should have warned you,” Edith said. “Although it’s more entertaining to learn this lesson first hand.”

Right before her eyes, the target repaired itself. The gaping hole grew smaller until a tink was heard when the projectile dropped to the floor.

“Georgian?” Clara asked.

Edith nodded and grabbed a heavy metal ball from another table. It was made of thick steel with pre-fragmented segments. At the top, there was a brass fitting followed by a loop.

“German Kugelhandgranate,” Edith said.

The elder attached a hook onto the loop and tossed it at Clara’s feet. It smoked for a few seconds until it erupted into a ball of flame that sent metal and unburned gunpowder in every direction.

Clara opened her eyes and saw that she was no worse for wear. However the furniture and targets within a couple of yards were shredded. Like the last time, it took a few minutes for things to revert to normal.

“Anti-personnel grenade. While heavy, they are deadly when properly deployed,” Edith said.

“So we can play without consequence?” Clara asked.

“Correct,” Edith said. “Any questions?”

“Where are the other girls?” Clara asked.

“Most are training or in their quarters, although some are in this room as we speak,” Edith said. “This room can provide privacy when needed. Just like you and I are enjoying right now.”

“So, where can a gal get her hands on a machine gun?”

“Right over there,” Edith said, unfazed by the question.

They both smirked before heading towards the goodies. Was this the beginning of a great friendship?

CHAPTER 8

CHEMICAL ROMANCE

1912

Joining les Filles de Jeanne D’Arc marked a significant change in Clara’s life. While she had the freedom to leave The Tower, that privilege was rarely used. Sure, exploring the world had its charm, but there was something to be said about conducting advanced weapons training in high heels.

Many of the other girls from the group were doing the same, so Clara did not feel like she was neglecting other aspects of her life. The courses she took were markedly more challenging; combat training became a daily event as were courses reserved for students of the finest European finishing schools. Clara could not help but feel that there was a certain dichotomy to her education.

Clara and Edith grew closer as the weeks together turned into months. She rather enjoyed having an ally who did not feel threatened by her youth. No price could be set on being friends with someone who had her back, no matter how dangerous the situation got. Of course, the feeling was mutual, and that only strengthened their bond.

Edith had grown into a beautiful woman, calm under fire and tough as nails. Clara found herself looking up to her, hoping to meet or exceed the standards Edith set. Many of the other girls felt the same way, so Edith served as the group’s unofficial leader.

Despite Clara’s brief brush with fame, she was not the focal point of the group. This enabled her to lurk in the shadows where she enjoyed the ability to move about unnoticed. What better way to avoid getting caught? Mischief, after all, needed a certain amount of discretion.

She was not the only one who used her skills to hide in plain sight. Some instructors were adept at remaining unnoticed even while teaching their lessons.

“God, they’re so boring,” Clara mumbled.

Clara soon learned that some in society remained unseen not by choice, but by convention. If humanity was good for anything it was ostracising one’s fellow man.

Sister Beatrice however was another matter altogether. She arrived at The Tower a month or so after Clara joined the group. At first glance, she was a young woman who adopted the habit, one who sailed through crowds without raising a brow. Now there was a talent that Clara wished to master.

The day Sister Beatrice walked into class left Clara confused. Despite her good memory for people and faces, she could not remember having seen her before, a trait it seemed that had saved her countless times.

“Sex!” Sister Beatrice exclaimed while walking towards the podium.

The class went silent as a tomb. It was not an everyday occurrence (if ever) to have a nun utter that word. Or at least without the accompanying sting of a leather strap.

Even though most of the class looked as though they had witnessed a train wreck, Sister Beatrice took things a step further. She pulled out a few pins from her habit and let her veil drop to the floor. Layers like her crown band, underveil, and coif followed suit. As though by magic, her long locks of auburn hair flowed down to her shoulders.

Clara grinned. There was a lesson to be learned here. Many of the girls were busy wondering how many taboos had been broken so far.

Her tunic was the last item to drop, which showcased her stunning hourglass figure. Gone was the mousy woman who could hide in a crowd. This version of Sister Beatrice could bring about serious neck injury to any male student.

This was clearly a vixen in sheep’s clothing. With the veil removed, Clara saw how Sister Beatrice’s ample breasts were barely contained by her little black dress. Clara could tell that a few of the girls were somewhat uncomfortable, and doubted that their sensibilities were hurt.

“Sex, or even the idea of sex, can have great sway over people,” Sister Beatrice said. “Can anyone name a few themes people associate with sex?”

From the back row of the class came, “It sells.”

“Correct,” Sister Beatrice said. “Advertising often portrays beautiful portraits of men and women to appeal to people’s baser instincts.”

“It evokes trust,” Clara said under her breath.

“Art,” the word came from the corner of the room.

“Sex and sensuality have led people to create beautiful works that have been cherished for generations,” Sister Beatrice said. “Does anyone believe that the Mona Lisa would have been painted if she were a shrill hag? Ever wonder why she was smiling?”

The girls giggled, which meant the atmosphere in the class was beginning to thaw. They were getting over the provocative nature of the entrance.

Had that been her intent all along? A nun in a habit would have certainly muted discussion.

“Death,” Clara said.

Several of the girls stopped giggling as soon as that word reached their ears. For a moment Clara felt as though the class’ collective gaze was focused on her.

“Not many students mention that aspect,” Sister Beatrice said.

For a moment, she observed Clara but quickly shifted her attention. Apparently, this was the opening she needed to move on with the lecture.

“There are stories of wars fought over the love of a woman. Duels, murder, and deceit can often be attributed to interactions with the fairer sex,” Sister Beatrice said.

“Women are not guiltless in this matter,” Sister Beatrice said. “Women have killed to keep a man in their lives or to prevent competition.”

By this time, the girls were murmuring, questioning the course material and how this all tied together. Clara had an idea on where this was going but looked forward to watching it develop.

“Now… Now… Girls,” Sister Beatrice said. “Sex is also a weapon,” she added just as the girls were starting to simmer down.

“How?” an older student asked.

Clara could fathom a few scenarios that fit the bill; heck, she survived an example. Alas, that meant she could never truly forget what had happened. Henceforth, Jack would always be there in the back of her mind, haunting her.

“It disarms your target,” Clara whispered.

Clara noticed that Edith was staring right at her. Was she concerned about her tone of voice? After all, she was normally assertive, not milquetoast. Clara could feel all those eyes on her, burning a hole into her skull. This moment was long overdue, and it was about time that it came out in the open.

“Correct,” Sister Beatrice said. “The process of flirting, foreplay and ultimately barneymugging can be used for or against you.”

A few girls giggled at the euphemism for sex. Clara remained silent, hoping someone else would take up the relay.

“How?” Edith asked as though reading her mind.

“Good question,” Sister Beatrice said. “Can anyone take a stab at it?”

Once again the room went quiet, it was obvious that most of the girls were unwilling to delve further into this topic. Some wanted to avoid ending up in the spotlight like Clara, whereas others were just waiting to hear more dirt.

“I’m caught between a rock and a hard place,” Clara said wordlessly.

Clara gulped and steadied her nerves because there was no backing away now. She needed to get through this, so she might as well do it on her terms.

“Their kind has a way of preying on our base instincts,” Edith said. “All you can think about is this desire growing from within and how they are the only ones capable of fulfilling it.”

Clara cocked her head to get a better look at Edith. The answer was eerily like the one she thought of, including the depth of emotion. Had her friend experienced a similar event?

“You are incapable of coherent thought; your instincts scream out for you to do something, but they are drowned out by your needs,” Clara added.

“That,” Sister Beatrice said. “That is how they often control their prey and have used it to hunt for millennia.”

Students were beginning to whisper amongst themselves. The little hens had just been handed a treasure trove of rumours to spread.

“How do we defend ourselves?” a student asked.

Clara smiled at Edith and said, “Faith, luck, willpower, or a partner concealed nearby.”

Sister Beatrice looked at Edith and Clara before she went on. Was this planned as a therapeutic session? Had this been another thinly veiled test? To what end?

“Willpower,” Sister Beatrice added with a pause. “Is rarely effective against their kind. The older they get, the more powerful their ability to manipulate us becomes.”

The chatter amongst the girls was growing in intensity. There was static in the air that was intangible and difficult to explain. In the end, all it took was a single look from Sister Beatrice to kill it.

“As for luck,” Sister Beatrice began. “Luck is always a factor but not something anyone should count on. It takes an incredibly brave person to head into danger while knowing she might never return.”

“Or foolhardy,” Clara said in a defeatist tone. Out of an abundance of caution, she belatedly added, “Sister.”

“The difference is how successful the fool was on that particular endeavour,” Beatrice said before her lips warped into a smirk. “As for a partner… we often work in pairs.”

“Boy and girl, Sister?” a student asked with a hint of excitement riding on every word.

While the question was aimed to determine if they would be interacting more with their male counterparts, the query remained valid. Clara, however, guessed there were other elements at play, which only a few students present were able to comprehend.

“Generally not, child,” Sister Beatrice said.

The formal pattern of speech had been used to dissuade students from overtly showing their disappointment. This was a serious topic for discussion and thinking about boys did little to help.

“Women are typically paired together. There is no better way to hide than posing as sisters or later on as spinsters,” Sister Beatrice said.

Clara found it odd that the sapphic nature of some of these girls had not been mentioned. Admittedly, those with such inclinations were still considered sinners by the church. There was an obvious advantage to a hunter who was immune to the conventional fare. Clara had an idea on how to explore that aspect without being too obvious.

“Wouldn’t they affect both hunters, Sister?” Clara asked.

There was a brief hesitation in the Sister’s voice before replying, “They can, but we ensure the effects are mitigated ahead of time.”

Sometimes a non-answer was enough to confirm a hypothesis. Clara would take on the male vampires while her partner would go after the women. It made sense, seeing as they would need a viable subject to be bait. What better way for their partner to strike than when their prey was otherwise occupied?

It also explained Sister Beatrice’s attempt at selling same sex teams. Posing as husband and wife could create complications that would make them vulnerable. One could not afford to be attached to their partners when on the hunt.

Besides, how else could Clara manipulate men for information? It would be difficult to seduce a man if she posed as a married woman or appeared to be spoken for… Well at least for some…

Edith was smiling as though caught in a pleasant daydream. Was Edith looking right at her? Did she know something that Clara did not?

Clara was not certain of much right now. This was a new situation which would bring about a new set of challenges. However, she had a hunch that this particular series of lectures would not only prove to be memorable, but would also be invaluable.

Sure, the old wounds left by Jack might resurface, but that would only harden her soul. In the end, this was a necessary step to take. In the future she would be sure that the tables were turned on them.

Besides, she had also found a kindred spirit in Edith. That meant Clara only needed to persevere, toughen up, and face the world waiting to strike her down. After all, there were a few years of schooling left before she had to face the world.

CHAPTER 9

SALT THE EARTH

1913

Clara sat down at her favourite bistro and let out a peaceful sigh. People flowed all around her, busy with their own affairs. Alas, that also included the waiter, who was otherwise occupied by flirting with two young ladies at another table.

She did not mind per se, although she had hoped that someone would notice her dress. It was a long red number which hugged her body and had a row of buttons that ran down the front. It certainly managed to turn a few heads back at The Tower, but Parisians tended to be more accustomed to cute girls and their dresses.

God, she enjoyed the ability to wear trendy clothing! Her ability to blend in demanded that she tap into current trends and fashions. That was one of the perks of being a senior student and Clara intended to enjoy every moment of it.

Below the brim of her hat, Clara saw the clear blue sky. She scanned the many shops, bars, and restaurants which brought back a flood of memories. For the most part, this neighbourhood had not changed since her first visit. The buildings were immutable, a testament to the builders who laid the foundations over a century ago.

Everything was the same, save for a certain cabaret; that site was still empty and relegated to open storage for the neighbouring businesses. The adjacent buildings showed signs of fire damage along their sides. Odd how those who passed by were oblivious to the damage, although the fire was bound to be considered ancient history now.

Clara sighed; this annual pilgrimage of hers invariably led her to linger on her memories of Jack. She often considered what might have happened if he had been a normal boy out to steal her virtue.

Her thoughts moved to his last words and how the poison he spouted had salted the earth. Nothing else would grow on that field now; oddly enough, an act which helped her become a formidable hunter.

It was fortunate that the impact of this anniversary lessened with every passing year. This time, she was mostly blasé about it and hoped that the cute waiter would strike out. Clara would be sure to get some mileage out of him.

“Miss Grey,” a young girl said.

Clara turned and found a little girl with red pigtails and freckles. The sight of her left Clara momentarily confused; it was not every day that a character walked out from the pages of a book. Of course, the acolyte’s uniform did much to kill the fantasy, but Clara chose to play this one out.

“How can I help you Miss Shirley,” Clara said on a lark but got nothing more than a vacant stare.

“You’ve been ordered to report back,” the acolyte said.

Her imagination had distracted her, Clara should have asked why anyone from The Tower was in Paris. Especially an acolyte that young; they rarely went anywhere without an escort.

“Oh,” Clara said while her eyes narrowed.

“Yes, Miss. There’s been an incident,” the girl said.

“Oh,” Clara said faintly.

* * * *

Carrots led the way while Clara followed. Until the girl provided her with a proper name, the nickname would have to do. The young girl was certainly a straight shooter; she was not even swayed by the hustle and bustle of a major city.

When Clara had been that young, she could not resist the temptation to explore. Even now, that desire lay just below the surface of her conscious mind, begging to be freed.

While the word incident had been used, the severity must have been misreported. An incident would not require her to report back. Was it a death? It was not every day that someone from her order died.

Although, a few times a year was accurate. Hunters were not normally recalled for a death; frequent use of the Terminus risked exposure. What was so important to risk having her recalled?

Clara kept these thoughts concealed along with the emotions that inevitably followed. It took a great deal of willpower to keep cool when one’s head was swirling, but Clara would not let an acolyte see anything more than cold professionalism. That much was expected from older students.

“We’re almost there, Miss Grey,” Carrots said.

Clara nodded; she already knew where to find the gate.

“I Love your dress,” Carrots said just before walking into a restaurant.

Clara waited until the kitchen staff were out of earshot before replying, “Thank you.”

“It must take a while to put on?” Carrots asked.

Clara momentarily looked down at the row of a hundred or so buttons that led from her collar to the very bottom. It did take time, but so did many aspects of being a lady.

“It’s the price of fashion,” Clara said.

“I wouldn’t know,” Carrots replied.

“You will,” Clara countered, certain that this girl would grow up to be a beautiful woman.

“We don’t all make it past our first day of freedom,” Carrots said bluntly.

That statement really caught Clara off guard. At that moment, she realised that this exchange had been an elaborate distraction.

Why? Clara wondered.

They came to a door at the end of the kitchen’s storage area. On the other side, there was a small courtyard leading to three other buildings. The abandoned one on her left led directly to the Terminus.

Clara eyed Carrots and realised that the girl was deathly pale, even for a fair skinned redhead. Clara remembered a lecture that covered many of these details. It had been memorable only because it explicitly refuted the existence of such things.

“How’d you find me?” Clara asked.

At first Carrots was quiet as though she were not expecting any questions.

“She wanted me to find you,” Carrots said.

“Who?” Clara asked.

While waiting for an answer, Clara pulled a few pins from her hair that anchored her hat. Her derringer dropped into her waiting hands; it was light and entirely familiar to the touch.

Instead of replacing her hat, Clara kept it in hand. Meanwhile Carrots’ corporeal presence lost cohesion; so much so that Clara saw right through her.

“Rest now, young one,” Clara said and for a moment Carrots appeared to smile.

Clara moved her attention to the door and listened intently. For now, it was silent as a tomb, which did little to reassure her.

At the moment, she had the advantage of daylight to cover her advance. Vampires would not attempt an attack in broad daylight, even with the cover of ample shade. The risk was simply too great.

Her instincts told her something was wrong. After all, spirits were not roused from the grave for idle chatter.

“Well, no sense in delaying the inevitable,” Clara muttered.

With one swift kick, the door flew open. The light of day strained her eyes, but she was able to make out a lanky figure standing at the edge of the building’s shadow.

Clara hesitated, at least until she caught that orange glow in its eyes. Without a second thought, she threw her hat at the figure, brought her derringer to bear, and squeezed both triggers.

Even loaded with half-powder charges, the weapon roared and obstructed her vision with smoke. Clara did not wait for the smoke to clear. Instead, she reached for her crucifix and charged.

Clara took three steps before the creature fell to its knees and collapsed. Only then did she see that a portion of its skull was missing and observed black ichor pooling on the ground.

“Ghoul,” Clara said.

Without a moment’s notice, a door from an adjoining unit blew wide open. A new figure was barreling down on her. The squeal it made would have filled her with dread, but training taught her to ignore such stimuli.

“Another?” Clara asked.

Clara stood her ground even as the seven-foot tall creature raced towards her. She averted its gaze to avoid falling under its spell, and waited for it to be nearly within arms-reach before kneeling. Her position forced the creature to trip and sent it soaring overtop. A moment later, Clara heard its body impact the wall.

Once she dropped her arm, Clara noticed her sleeve was stained black. Her blade must have caught a piece of that thing during their brief interaction.

“That’s never going to come out of this fabric,” Clara said.

She approached the second attacker and without hesitation cut a deep gash through its throat. A spurt of ichor splattered against the wall, but the tide soon subsided once the creature’s lungs filled with fluid.

Clara was confused. Ghouls followed death. It was unheard of for their kind to seek out the living for their meal or for that matter to hunt in packs.

“She wanted me to find you,” Carrots had said.

Her thoughts were disrupted when the cooks appeared at the doorway. One nearly dropped his butcher knife when the Ghoul’s stench reached them.

Clara expected to talk her way out of this situation, but they all seemed clueless. The human mind often chose to cast aside things that were deemed an impossibility. That explained why Ghouls were able to survive without being discovered.

“Is everything alright, mademoiselle?” a moustached man asked.

Clara concealed her crucifix and blackened sleeve. Her smile was warm and genuine, a distraction while she scanned the courtyard in search of an excuse.

“Mais oui,” Clara said. “I tripped on a crate and ran into the wall.”

At first they seemed sceptical, but the smell kept them from getting any closer. Fortunately that odour also provided her with an excuse.

“There must have been an old crate filled with rotten eggs… Oh dear. It looks like I broke a nail!” Clara whined.

“Pierre!” a man in the back row exclaimed just before he slapped the armed cook. “You idiot!”

The cooks’ civility devolved until they retreated from sight. Fortunately, men tended to keep their quarrels concealed from the fairer sex. Still, she was sure that there would be a black eye or two after the dust settled. At least they left her with the opportunity to deal with this mess.

“I was called here,” Clara said.

To give her a moment to think, Clara picked up her derringer and hat. The smell was really overpowering and her eyes nearly teared up. Still, there was something amiss, so on a hunch Clara held her breath and closed her eyes.

“Nothing,” Clara said in a dejected tone. “Wait…”

Clara heard a swarm of flies nearby, but there was nothing in sight to attract them. The ghouls’ bodies were too fresh to amass a swarm. That meant there was carrion nearby.

She walked from door to door until she neared the one nearly torn from its hinges. The sound through there was more pronounced, so she reloaded her derringer using full-powder charges as a precaution.

The first thing she noticed was just how clean the Ghouls’ home was. These things tended to live in crypts or in caves, so this was highly out of the norm for their kind. Clara thought that with the exception of a few stray claw marks, the place looked ready to live in.

Clara came across a pearl encrusted cigarette holder with lipstick smudges at the base. Someone had left this behind recently and it could not have been the ghouls. Lipstick was a challenge to apply when the model did not possess a set of lips.

Immediately next to the cigarette holder there was a stray blond hair. Clara mused over this discovery, but thought better of it. After all, blondes were not exactly uncommon.

Clara followed the sound of the swarm and moved deeper into the building until she found a locked door. There were claw marks around the lock, which meant that whatever was inside had been locked in.

“Why would a Ghoul lock something in? Or were they locked out?” Clara asked.

With the help of hair pins, Clara unlocked the door with a skill that would make a locksmith envious. With her derringer in hand, she cracked open the door.

Signs of a brutal attack were immediately apparent. Blood covered the walls and there were streaks of it leading deeper inside the room. Clara saw that this was a library; on a different day, she might have been excited to make this discovery.

Instead, she followed the blood until she found a shoe, followed by another and a bare leg with a deep gangrenous gouge. Clara gasped. Even through a thick cloud of flies she could make out the pale and delirious Edith.

“My angel has come to save the day,” Edith murmured.

* * * *

“I’ve been told that you made quite an impression when you burst in with Edith on your shoulder,” the Reverend Mother said.

“Oh?” Clara said, sounding distant.

Truth be told, Clara had not been looking to make a grand entrance nor a scene. Alas, she could not think of an effective way to deflect that statement without appearing to be insubordinate or a braggart.

Just another example of a no-win scenario, Clara thought.

“Those two Ghouls had been domesticated,” the Reverend Mother said when she decided to get to the point.

“What do you mean, Reverend Mother?” Clara asked.

“The same as one would do for a dog, I suppose,” the Reverend Mother said. “Someone taught them how to hunt and hide within a heavily populated area.”

“So, that’s why their place was so clean?” Clara asked. “Except fo—”

It was difficult to deal with what she witnessed. The gore, the stench and the flies were all elements drawn together from a poorly written horror story. Even if the minutiae of the scenes were impossible to recollect, the images still haunted her.

Surely Jack’s room had been just as gory. A dismembered head with gouged out eyes should have evoked a similar response. Still, there was something about this particular scene that made her mind run through what she witnessed over and over.

“Precisely,” Augustine said. “They had a fully stocked kitchen and one of the little ones was found dead in the icebox.”

Clara noted that even the Reverend Mother seemed troubled by this development. She always assumed that the head of her order was impervious to such news. Surely bad news came often enough to blunt her emotions?

The sight of the Reverend Mother showing a sliver of emotion was enough to endear Clara. The matriarch of The Tower being human gave her hope that she would not turn into some mindless killing machine. Somehow, that notion warmed her heart.

“Was the young one a ginger, Reverend Mother?” Clara asked.

“No child,” Augustine said. “Why’d you ask?”

Clara had not reported the apparition since ghosts and spirits went against all they were taught. To talk about such things might lead them to question her sanity. For now it was best to keep such knowledge close to her heart.

“What about the cigarette holder and hair Reverend Mother?” Clara asked.

“Your instincts that the item had been used recently were correct, child,” Augustine started with. “They also found a series of broken vases, frames and knick-knacks swept into a closet.”

So the altercation had been far ranging, and Edith must have put up one hell of a fight. Clara expected nothing less, but it was reassuring to have her suspicions confirmed.

That also meant they must have been waiting for her to die. Clara shuddered to think about such a death; left there to succumb to the infection. All to add flavour to the meat so that these creatures could feast on her friend.

A nearby door opened, and soon after a nun peeked out. Clara tried to read the emotions from the nun’s deep blue eyes but drew a blank.

“Reverend Mother,” the sister said. “The child is awake.”

“Oh good, Sister,” Augustine said while looking at Clara. “Shall we go in?”

“Of course, Reverend Mother,” Clara said with a twinkle in her eyes.

* * * *

Edith still looked pale but her eyes were aglow. At first she attempted a smile, but it faded once Clara came into focus.

“You’re not my Angel,” Edith said.

“That’s not what you said when I found you,” Clara teased.

Edith looked torn as though her mind struggled to make sense of the situation. Clearly, she remembered things differently.

To distract herself, Edith looked towards her leg. What had been a hive of infection and infestation was now mostly healed. The new skin was pink, a miracle if she had been sent to any other medical facility.

Above the bed, Clara saw the mechanical monstrosity of Georgian origin. She had never seen it in action, but the results were always spectacular. It was said that given enough time, the machine could reattach or even regrow limbs.

“Angela,” Edith said and promptly burst into tears.

The Reverend Mother pulled Clara out of the room. Between the two girls, she had managed to connect the dots.

“Angela had red hair,” Augustine said. “How could you have possibly known?”

Clara gulped hard before she said, “She came to the bistro and informed me that there had been an incident, Reverend Mother.”

“She’s been dead for over a decade,” the Reverend Mother said.

“I didn’t know that at the time,” Clara replied.

Clara described the situation in detail including any odd statements made. The Reverend Mother listened intently, but showed no signs of surprise.

“So the attacks may have continued unopposed had you not been warned, child?” the Reverend Mother asked.

Clara simply nodded, there was nothing more to add. Still she hoped there would be no repercussions for her omission. After all, she had failed to report the apparition.

“Those two were thick as thieves growing up,” Augustine said. “Inseparable and their friendship had all the markings of one that would last a lifetime.”

“Was that how Edith managed to send out her plea for help?” Clara asked.

Clara wondered how powerful such a bond needed to be to wake the dead.

“Edith withdrew from the world after she passed and devoted herself to her studies,” the Reverend Mother said.

They paused once Edith went silent. Until that moment she had been sobbing uncontrollably, audible even through the door. The nun must have given her a sedative.

“I never thought I’d see her embrace life again, that is, until you showed up,” the Reverend Mother said. “I think she saw your penchant for mischief and felt that spark in her soul reignite.”

Clara smiled. In a world where death followed her, it was great to know that she could occasionally improve the lives of others. The fact that it was someone she revered made it all the sweeter.

“I’ve made a decision,” the Reverend Mother said.

“Yes, Reverend Mother?” Clara asked.

“Your time at The Tower as an acolyte is over, child,” Augustine said.

“I thought—” Clara said but was cut off when Augustine raised her hand to interrupt.

“You’ve been ready for a couple of years now, child,” the Reverend Mother said. “We don’t typically send hunters out at your age. We were waiting until you were old enough to travel freely.”

Clara’s early exposure to death had accelerated her development. The price paid for her prodigious rise had indeed been heavy.

“Edith was reaching out to you for help,” Augustine said. “She had faith that you would come through for her. Those are signs of a great partnership.”

“Really, Reverend Mother?” Clara asked.

That was not faint praise coming from the matriarch of their order. Clara felt her heart overflow with pride, but took a deep breath to keep her emotions in check. Betraying her emotions now would do little to confirm that she was ready.

“Really, child,” Augustine said. “Now let Edith rest before you tell her the news,” she added before walking away.

The life of the Reverend Mother was indeed busy. Clara silently thanked the woman for giving her any time at all.

She would wait by the door until Edith was ready to leave. Freed from her academic responsibilities, she could let her mind wander without repercussion.

Clara wondered how much they could accomplish together. She had to admit it; she liked where her mind was headed.

CHAPTER 10

IN FLANDERS FIELDS THE POPPIES BLOW

1915

The powder keg that was Europe finally blew, spreading war throughout the lands like a plague. Death claimed the lives of millions, all thanks to the advent of the machine gun, artillery, and trench warfare. These advances in war fighting were responsible for untold deaths, many of whom never got a proper burial. These poor souls were damned to anonymity beneath the blood soaked mud.

It was no surprise that the abominations were also drawn to the conflict. The scores of dead attracted ghouls by the hundreds while other menaces lurked in the shadows and preyed on unsuspecting soldiers. What better way to conceal wanton carnage than amongst the casualties of war?

In response to this epidemic, hunters were sent out to assist in the war effort. Edith and Clara joined up as nurses and served at a field hospital near the front. Day after day, they were faced with a deluge of wounded and dying.

While tending to the living, they kept a watchful eye for things that lurked in the shadows. The nurses had to pay particular attention to the wounds; it was not always obvious if shrapnel or fangs had caused the injury.

Clara felt like a bystander as the war raged on over the horizon. The flashes of bright light were always accompanied by a thunderous bang. Sometimes the shelling would get so close that the ground shook.

When the war entered one of its rare lulls, Clara often sought out the comfort of men. Even if the offers were plentiful, the services rendered were always poor. The hurried undressing, awkward positions, heavy breathing and her partner’s quick crescendo meant she rarely got anywhere near the finish line.

Still, it temporarily provided her with a reprieve from the horrors she witnessed. For Clara, that seemed to be a better way of hiding from the world than resorting to drink or morphine. She needed to keep her reflexes sharp, since her enemies would not show any leniency nor allow her buzz to wear off.

This evening marked her second Christmas spent near No-Man’s-Land. When the war began, everyone thought their side would be victorious before Christmas. This year dredged up much of the same and Clara suspected they would do so next year.

Despite the horrors witnessed, people still expected a quick end. Their hope was spent on waiting for that singular break in the enemy lines. The one which would permit them to push deep into their territory.

There were countless others from the Tower, with some posted to the front lines. Snipers proved effective at culling any strays looking for a fresh meal. However, that tended to be dangerous work since the enemy liked to shoot back.

From time to time, Edith and Clara were called in for a specific mission. They would set aside their blue uniforms adorned with brass and white aprons in favour of male uniforms. A bit of padding to conceal the hips, wrapping for the tits, and cigarettes to harshen the voice did wonders to pass them off as young officers. As an additional precaution, these missions were always conducted under the cover of night.

The girls hid their change of clothes in an abandoned farmhouse near their camp. Clara often enjoyed the male uniform, which enabled her to carry her pistol openly while hiding a few surprises under all that padding. As a precaution, she opted to bring her derringer, a bayonet and some throwing knives.

They had been given little warning tonight, nor was there much intelligence as to the nature of their mission. Edith put on her uniform adorned with two pips, which was one more than Clara had. The selected ranks were senior enough to allow independent movement without arousing suspicion for their youthful appearance.

Edith examined the map with her compass in hand. She looked so different in an army officer’s uniform, that Clara sometimes forgot who this dashing young officer was.

No matter how dirty or weary Edith was, her eyes always shone brightly, a trait that Clara wished to embody. Clara then wondered if Edith envied her in any way.

“The objective is three miles bearing eleven-hundred mills,” Edith said while tracing out a line.

“Is there anything in the area?” Clara asked.

“According to the map? There’s nothing there but a bombed out church,” Edith said.

Clara scrutinised the map, stitching together the lay of the land. A week or so ago, there had been heavy fighting in that area until the front lines shifted to the east. Clara remembered it clearly because there had been a lot of casualties that week.

That meant they would have to traverse treacherous territory. The girls would be sure to come across networks of trenches, barbed wire, unexploded bombs, and gaping holes in the ground. They would have to move quickly and covertly while watching out for anything that posed a threat. Fortunately, little to no enemy activity was expected this far behind the lines.

Clara’s instincts left her with a nagging sense that there was something peculiar about that location. She glared at the map for a moment, but the reasons continued to elude her. Then, just like photoflash powder going off, an idea popped into her head.

“Isn’t there a gate there?” Clara asked.

Edith furrowed her brow before replying, “I’m not sure. I suspect it would have been deactivated when the fighting broke out.”

As with anything Georgian, there were very few guarantees. The Terminus’ gates provided travel to a single location, which made them safer for human use. Less discerning clients used multi-destination gates. Alas, those were known to cause accidents.

“No matter,” Edith said to break the silence. “That’s our objective and we have no further detail. Full stealth, evade, and if we get separated, we meet back here before sunrise.”

Clara nodded then picked up her greatcoat from a charred chair. It was cold tonight and she knew full well that it would get colder before sunrise.

* * * *

As expected, the terrain was treacherous. For the first mile or so, the ground was nothing but mud. Stepping through mud created suction which forced them to tread carefully or lose a boot. With every step, they brought more and more of the battlefield with them, so much so that they had to scrape off a few layers to bring some spring back to their steps.

Later on, they reached a series of trenches which concealed their advance. The trenches were quickly beginning to deteriorate without constant care. Still, it gave them ample cover, and they only had to keep an eye out for booby traps.

As they left the network of trenches, it began to snow. The type of snowfall that would have lit up a school child’s eyes. Both Edith and Clara shivered as they ventured on towards their objective.

The snow made it difficult to conceal their tracks. Despite the risk, they pushed on, and used a crater for cover while they surveyed the area. The girls spotted the shattered spires of the church in the distance. From here, the symbols of faith and sanctuary looked more like a jagged set of fangs.

The last five hundred yards or so were spent either on their knees or crawling across the terrain on all fours. It was eerily quiet; there was no gun, mortar or artillery fire to be heard. The wind was calm, so the snow fell lazily over the ground and transformed this burnt-out landscape into a winter wonderland. It bothered Clara how all of that death and destruction could be so easily concealed.

Once they reached the outskirts of what had once been the church courtyard, they found a piece of the property wall still standing. It would give them plenty of cover while they waited to find out why they were summoned here.

A half an hour later, Clara felt Edith press against her arm. To the east, Clara saw two distinct shadows break through the falling snow which turned into the well-defined silhouette of a sharply dressed couple.

The girls were confused, these were not the manicured gardens of Versailles. In the background, an artillery barrage started anew and Clara guessed that Christmas was over and along with it, one’s love for their fellow man. In the back of her mind, she kept count of how long it took between the flashes of light and the bang to see how far the fighting was.

As the couple reached the church spire, they paused to scan the area. By this time, the girls were covered in snow and thus well concealed behind the stone wall. They seemed unaware of the girls’ presence and the female grew increasingly impatient.

Edith passed the binoculars to Clara and from this distance they were a normal genteel couple out for a stroll. To put it mildly, this was clearly out of place for the setting.

For one, there was no fog on their breath. Anyone out in this weather should have shown signs of breathing. Although, one quick look at the woman’s uncovered face revealed a great deal more than she expected.

Clara would never forget those features: they belonged to the woman of great beauty who rivalled that of angels. The sight of that creature brought back all those memories from that night. Had it been more than a decade ago already?

She reached for her pistol, and released the clasp. Edith caught the movement from the corner of her eye and motioned Clara to stop.

“What?” Edith demanded noiselessly by moving her lips.

Clara handed back the binoculars and replied, “It’s her.”

At first, the words did not elicit a response, but after a moment, Edith’s eyes widened. She too had come to the same conclusion and knew why Clara had reached for her sidearm.

There were two of them, and one was powerful enough to kill indiscriminately on consecrated ground. Even armed as they were, the girls were poorly equipped to deal with the threat of that magnitude. In all honesty, Clara doubted that an artillery barrage would be effective.

The two kept their distance. While Edith focused on the threat, Clara kept tabs on what lay behind them. The last thing they needed was to end up surrounded.

After another twenty minutes of waiting, the couple appeared to be at their wits end. The female scowled and lashed out at her male companion. The latter knew well enough to cower, and was clearly subordinate to the female.

Clara contemplated a course of action, one that would permit them to see another day. She also envisioned a scenario where that female ended up with a sunburn. Alas, Clara could not find a way to consolidate these disparate plans.

“Just ducky,” Clara said wordlessly.

* * * *

The snow stopped just as suddenly as it began. The higher atmospheric ceiling created the illusion that the shelling had moved off, but the timings remained the same.

Just as the last snowflake fell to the ground, there was a bright flash that came out from the heavens. A column of light formed ahead of the couple and a new entity made an appearance.

Clara was temporarily blinded, but a breathtakingly beautiful man soon came into focus, a real billboard who wore a stylish tailor-made suit. Clara immediately suspected that they were dealing with a Georgian; no one’s appearance was that flawless.

“You’re late,” the female vampire said.

“Perhaps you were early,” the billboard said.

Clara observed how the female bared her fangs for a moment before backing down. Whoever this man was, he had enough sway to force her to play nice. It was odd to see someone like her so easily declawed.

The billboard smiled and said, “Is the delivery here?”

The female scanned the area and focused on the girls’ position. Both had been concealing their breathing, but it was already too late. Clara slowly and cautiously pulled out her pistol. There was no way she would go down without a fight.

“Yes. It seems our mole has drawn them here,” the woman said.

“The deal was for one,” the billboard said.

Meanwhile, the female’s partner seemed strangely nervous. This was starting to look like a setup and most in the group were just beginning to realise it.

“They are always dispatched in pairs,” the female said nonchalantly. “I held up my end of the bargain. So give me what I want!”

“You’ve only held up part of the bargain,” the billboard said.

This man pulled something that looked like a spyglass from out of his coat pocket, which instantly stretched out into a full-sized staff. Clara had heard of such things before and was now certain they were dealing with a Georgian.

When this billboard raised his staff into the air, Clara took aim and fired seven rounds at him. Time appeared to slow down, the bullets came out with a puff of smoke then streaked through the night sky towards their target.

Once the first projectile hit home, the billboard disappeared in a blast of shimmering light. In its place, there was an ashen grey creature with long thin fingers and an oversized head. Its eyes were the most chilling element, large, black, and mirror-like. There was no hint of emotion visible in those eyes, simply the dark reflection of one’s own image.

Clara instinctively pressed down on the ejector to release the clip. She then reached into her pocket to load a fresh magazine. Once the spent clip hit the ground, so did the Georgian’s body. The female’s partner looked over the scene in shock, but Clara assumed that would soon change.

“So where is she?” Edith asked.

“You!” the female shrieked.

From her peripheral vision, Clara picked up the sight of Edith being hurled through the air. She guessed what would come next. Without looking, she raised her pistol to the side of her left ear, pointed it at a forty-five degree angle and fired three rounds.

The blast left her temporarily deafened but did little to attenuate the shriek of pain that thing made. It seemed that two of the three rounds had reached their target, much to Clara’s good fortune.

Clara turned around while keeping her pistol trained on the woman and saw that distinctive blood pouring onto the snow. The thick red liquid did not melt the snow or steam in the cold, instead it coagulated and grew thicker. The blood was coalescing into a coherent mass in an attempt to return to its host.

Without a second thought, Clara unloaded a full clip into that thing’s head until the carrier remained fully to the rear. She stood there for a moment to observe but saw no movement. For now, that was the best she could do.

Clara ran towards Edith and found her unconscious but no worse for the wear. She looked about and thought it best to move Edith somewhere safe. It would only get colder and she needed to make sure that some random patrol would not come across her while unconscious.

She lifted Edith onto her shoulders, then moved deeper into the church until she came across a small room. The door was still serviceable, could be bolted from the inside, and permitted Clara to sneak out through the broken floorboards of what remained of the second floor.

Clara placed Edith down lightly and felt a chill run down her spine. Edith would probably get a lot colder if nothing were done to help her stay warm. Since lighting a fire was out of the question, Clara helped herself to one of Edith’s clips and left behind her greatcoat.

Even now, the chill made her shiver, so that meant she had to keep moving to stay warm. Still it would be a challenge, especially if she had to use stealth.

She ventured out towards the scene of the altercation. The body of the Georgian was gone. In fact, there was no indication that it had been here at all. Hopefully, those bastards had learned a lesson about playing both sides against the other.

At least the female’s body was still there. Clara then spotted a set of footprints that led deeper into No-Man’s-Land. Given an active threat lurking about, Clara knew her primary objective; so without hesitation she began her pursuit.

* * * *

This particular creature was making no attempt to conceal its escape. Given the clothes and his submissive nature, such behaviour was to be expected. Clara suspected that city dwellers knew little about tracking animals or how to avoid being tracked; these were not survival skills people needed in the land of steel, brick and mortar.

The path was random and haphazard. At first they travelled towards the front and suddenly veered away from it. If this creature was disorientated, that would complicate matters.

After about an hour she saw a dark silhouette against the ridge. The gentleman’s dress and hat were a dead giveaway. Was he waiting for the female’s return? No matter, Clara looked at her watch and saw there was another twenty minutes to go before the crepuscular sky.

Clara knew that he would instinctively seek out shelter and was capable of burrowing into the ground to avoid exposure, a survival instinct which permitted them to avoid their biggest natural threat.

She had her own share of risks if she remained on the hunt past sunrise. For one, she might be spotted by an observation balloon or a passing aircraft. They might report her presence then have her arrested, which would lead to an execution by firing squad for cowardice.

It was only about a hundred yards or so to her objective. Without cover, that would be difficult, since he would bolt if anyone in uniform approached. This meant she needed to distract him and she was not looking forward to the rest of her plan.

Concealed by a small crater, Clara removed her tunic, shirt, padding and wrapping. Already her skin was turning to gooseflesh, but she relied on her training to ignore the cold; at this point it was mind over matter.

Beneath all of those clothes she wore a slip, simple and not too showy. With her trousers out of the way, Clara pulled down the fabric, grabbed a knife, and cut the slip so he would get an eyeful.

Almost ready, she hurriedly removed the pins from her hair to let it down in the hope that it would make her appear more feminine. With any luck, she would not need the holy water applied to her lips nor would he notice the bayonet held behind her back.

Ready, she headed up the ridge wearing the boots and little else. Clara even elongated her steps to make the sway in her hips more pronounced. This had to be a first, trying to seduce an enemy in a warzone.

The man turned to find Clara moving up the ridge. Even in the moonlight, she saw the fear melt away. A look of confusion then set in, followed by a shit-eating-grin. Luckily for her, men seemed programmed (for the most part) to enjoy the sight of a woman, especially one in a state of undress.

“You’re not Gladys,” he said.

So it turned out the female had a name. It was a very modern one too, an aspect that left her a bit surprised.

Now there were a few ways to answer the question. Either ignore him or reply ‘no’ which might arouse suspicion. Although she could always act confused to see how gullible this man was, her instincts told her the latter would prove most effective.

“Gladys?” Clara asked.

The man’s smirk grew into a full-on smile, so he was clearly not thinking with his head. What were the chances of a half-dressed girl showing up in the middle of No-Man’s-Land? Then again, most of them were like Jack and considered themselves to be direct descendants of Casanova.

“I couldn’t resist,” Clara said in a distant tone.

“Of course not. Come hither my sweet,” the man added while adopting a smouldering look.

If Clara were not so cold she might have felt the effects of his charm. Hence the reason she applied a bit of holy water to her lips. Instead, she fought the urge to roll her eyes while she continued on with her approach. This pose had the benefits of pushing her chest out front and centre. Given her hard nipples, she knew that she was giving him a show.

When she got within a few feet, he backed away subconsciously. He must have been newly turned to be so affected by her presence. Faith was a potent weapon, but she needed him to overcome his aversion. In a few minutes, the sky would lighten and he would run for cover.

“I want you,” Clara said while pulling down on her slip to expose her bare breasts.

The appearance of willing flesh was all the motivation he needed. This time when she took a step, he did not move, which enabled her to get within inches of him.

Clara ran a finger along the buttons of his jacket until she reached his trousers and said, “I need you.”

He leaned in, his lips gliding over her chest towards hers. Soon their lips would be locked in an embrace, or so he hoped. In truth, the burn from the holy water would send him into a tailspin, but Clara had a different plan in mind. Just before their lips made contact, she drove the bayonet into his chest and pierced the heart.

She pulled away just before his body dropped to the ground. She covered up her chest since there was no sense of exposing them to the elements now. Without a second’s hesitation, she then pulled his smoking jacket away and wrapped it around her. It might have been too big, but at least it would help her stay warm.

The look on his face was priceless. Clara adopted that same smirk he wore when he first set eyes on her. Of course, he did not appear to be receptive to her brand of humour.

“What a shame,” Clara whispered.

“How?” he asked.

“You let your ego lower your guard,” Clara said.

“Why?” he asked with a strained voice.

“You’re a perversion,” Clara replied. “An abomination that needs to be culled.”

Clara broke eye contact with the man. She searched the area and started to gather any stray pieces of wood she found. Most had already been scorched, but that mattered little. Every time she recovered an armful she piled them over his paralysed body.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Clara did not bother to reply, instead she fought against the urge to shiver. Unfortunately, she could not afford to lose this opportunity to extract information.

As the sky turned from a deep blue to purples and pinks the man’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. He panicked as his survival instincts kicked in; he knew that his time was drawing to an end.

“Let me go!” he exclaimed.

Clara snickered before she dropped more wood onto the body. By this point, he was partially covered in kindling. Unfortunately that meant more material was needed.

“She said no one would get hurt,” the man said.

Clara paused for a moment and said, “Who?”

“Gladys brought me here to meet that man,” he said. His voice was shaking when he added, “A simple transaction to get them to open some door…”

“Really?” Clara asked.

She dropped more wood by the body while the sky began to assume some yellow hues. She was cold and looked forward to what would come next.

Despite her joints being stiff from the frigid air, Clara knelt down by the man and grabbed the bayonet’s hilt. She nudged the blade deeper into the wound and watched while he screamed in agony. It was time to up the ante.

“So why were we there?” Clara asked.

The man sighed in relief once she stopped, but he knew that was only a temporary affair.

“Gladys never told me,” he answered.

That answer was not hard to believe, but Clara had nothing to lose. She grabbed the hilt of the blade and shifted it to further motivate him.

“Are you sure?” Clara asked.

“Yes… Please don’t!” he pleaded.

“No mention of a name?” Clara asked while she wiggled the blade. “No mention of a contact?”

The man seemed torn between enduring more pain and the thought of what Gladys would do when she got a hold of him. Meanwhile, Clara saw how the sun was moments away from peering over the horizon.

Clara kissed him on the cheek. At first he seemed confused until the skin began to smoke and bubble. In that moment, he learned just how dangerous Clara was.

“Drusilla!” he exclaimed in hopes that she would end his pain.

The pain was about to end. Just as the sun’s rays reached the top of the ridge, the man’s skin began to blister and blacken. Clara backed away to a safe distance, watching as smoke rose from the body.

Just as he burst into flames, the whoosh overcame his screams. Clara’s eyes began to water as the life giving heat made her feel warm for the first time tonight. God she needed that!

Clara now had a name to go on. In a couple of minutes, she would run down to fetch her uniform. She would then head back to the church to find Edith.

That plan could wait. For now, she would warm up by this bonfire. So far, this was turning out to be a pretty great morning.

* * * *

The heat of the morning sun brought on an offensive that shifted the lines back to the west. It took thousands of men and millions of tons of munitions to advance even a mile and just like that their fortunes had been reversed.

Clara used the chaos of battle to make her way back to the church. The first thing she noticed was that there were no traces of Gladys’ body. Fortunately, it looked like Edith made it out on her own, so Clara went on to their rendezvous point.

Once she reached the remnants of the home, she heard a bird whistle. Clara replied by varying the chirp and saw Edith come out from the shadows wearing her nurse’s uniform. Clara’s partner looked very much worse for wear.

“You look like you had a rough go,” Edith said.

“I was about to say the same,” Clara replied.

The girls rarely showed affection, but the long night had heightened their emotions. They hugged one another and sought cover inside so Clara could be debriefed while she changed. With the battle raging on nearby, it was wise to not be seen as a combatant.

“I awoke with the sun in my eyes,” Edith said. “It took me a bit to remember what happened. Once I realised that I had your coat, I figured you put me there before pursuing your target.”

Clara nodded and began to recite the entire tale about blowing several large holes in Gladys’ head followed by her chase of the male. Edith listened intently, committing every detail to memory in case they were summoned to substantiate their report.

“You think the name Drusilla is legitimate?” Edith asked.

“I don’t know of a Drusilla at The Tower but that name was its dying words,” Clara replied. “At the very least, we should report it.”

Edith nodded while helping Clara remove the hastily added wrapping and bandages. Bit by bit, she turned back into a mature and sensual woman, the perfect weapon against any man who had an inkling for the feminine form.

“You took a big risk approaching him dressed like that,” Edith said as a friend.

“Gladys would never partner with someone who could challenge her authority. So that meant a low level neophyte,” Clara said.

“Still a big risk,” Edith said and this time she sounded like her superior officer.

“I know,” Clara said. “That’s why you’re here to keep me in line.”

Edith smirked. The mission would have gone sour had Clara not gone off half-cocked. It was her willingness to take risks that kept them alive.

“I will omit that from my report,” Edith said.

All the while, Edith was watching Clara get dressed, long enough to feel a shiver and bit her lower lip to maintain control.

“Did you find anything near the fence?” Clara asked while she adorned her hat and cloak.

“Nothing but a few stains of blood,” Edith said.

That meant that Gladys had managed to heal up enough to escape. She must have gone on a rampage. In the back of her mind, Clara wondered if the withdrawal had been caused by the actions of that enraged creature.

“She will not be so easily dealt with next time,” Clara said.

“No she won’t,” Edith said. She then smiled and pulled out a slip of paper, “Oh. I almost forgot to mention that I came across this.”

Clara looked at the piece of paper and for a moment thought these were hieroglyphs. However the iconography was inconsistent with anything known from that period.

“What are these?” Clara asked.

Edith shrugged then said, “I’m not sure. I once came across a reference that mentioned scrolls like these that contain gate symbols to list available destinations.”

“So… A list of destinations and their sequence?” Clara asked.

“Possibly. Either way, I’ll include it with my report,” Edith said.

That revelation explained a lot of their trouble in the region. While their portals had been shut down for security reasons, it seemed that these creatures had maintained the status quo. That meant they were able to pop in and out to sow discord just like Gladys had.

At least now, she knew why they were dressed as they were. No one could make it that far in No-Man’s-Land without getting dirty.

“We need to hurry. Casualties will be piling up by the time we get there,” Edith added.

“No rest for the wicked,” Clara said with a sly grin.

CHAPTER 11

SAINT BARBARA’S WRATH

1915

The girls were run off their feet the moment they got back to the field hospital. While casualties piled up faster than they could handle, Clara prayed that none of the patients showed signs of an animal attack. Alas, there were times when a pyrrhic victory was her reward for being right.

Her hunch was dead on; that thing almost decimated an entire company of soldiers. This senseless mass murder had been necessary to satiate her bloodlust and regenerate. Clara felt guilty for what she had unwittingly unleashed and promised that Gladys would get the fate she deserved.

After two days of relentless fighting, the front shifted back to the same stretch of burnt-out land they had fought over for years. All of those munitions, equipment, and men had been wasted in an attempt to gain a foothold into enemy territory. Now, they were back at square one; Clara could once more feel the ground tremble from bombardments.

On the fourth day, the fighting ebbed and the opportunity for rest became real. Alas, the girls received orders to muster at their Commanding Officer’s tent. At the sight of them, he adopted a stern look and handed them a letter. While addressed to him, the contents were clearly meant for them.

Fortunately, such letters were a common occurrence, so without a word they were dismissed. In the past, a great deal of time had been wasted in an attempt to extract information from them. Eventually it proved easier to give up, since enemy soldiers were more forthcoming with their secrets.

“That was quick,” Clara said. “When did you send out the report?”

“I sent it this morning,” Edith said, which effectively set a record.

“So where are they sending us?” Clara asked even if she had her suspicions.

“We’re to report back to the Homefront,” Edith said.

Those orders surprised Clara. They were in the middle of a war where tens of thousands of lives were lost in a single campaign. Those figures did not include the carnage wrought by ghouls, vampires and their ilk. So far, none of that merited this level of attention from The Tower.

Clara often imagined that the Homefront had been ripped from the world, which was technically correct. Clara often imagined that the Homefront had been ripped from the world, which was technically correct. Those who dwelled within the confines of The Tower were shielded from the atrocities that plagued this war.

We’re lucky to get orders at all, Clara thought.

Edith smiled meekly before she said, “I know exactly how you feel.”

The elder hunter was about to pull away but paused. There was something about the orders that required extra thought, but did not say.

“You’d better get packing,” Edith said. “The truck will be here at first light.”

“Never a dull moment in the service,” Clara said with a grin.

* * * *

For some reason people tended to believe that the Paris gate was located within the catacombs. There was a certain logic to that; many of the gates were located near cemeteries and mausoleums. However, people often overlooked how popular the Parisian catacombs were, even during wartime.

While an unnamed cemetery in some forgotten part of town was an ideal location for most gates, a site swarming with tourists, treasure hunters, and historians did little to conceal traffic. Instead, Clara and Edith stepped through the backdoor of a dilapidated hospital complex and found themselves in the Terminus.

Next week, the gate would be in a different location. In a city the size of Paris, changing the gateway’s location with some regularity helped reduce accidental discovery.

“Right on time, children,” said Reverend Mother Augustine.

Clara had never been greeted at the Terminus before, so it came as a bit of a shock. The fact that Edith shared the same stunned look, meant it was a new experience for her as well.

“Reverend Mother,” the two said in unison.

What am I missing? Clara thought.

“Come with me. We have no time to waste,” the Reverend Mother said without formality.

The girls fell in line, walking alongside the doors designed to confuse. They walked down a few sections until the Reverend Mother stopped and opened a door.

“Through here,” Augustine said.

Clara moved through the door and found herself standing in the middle of the Reverend Mother’s chambers. Apparently, there were many ways into The Tower, some active after certain conditions were met.

Once the Reverend Mother entered the premises she said, “Who gave you the name Drusilla?”

“That detail was clearly outlined in my rep—” Edith attempted to say.

“I don’t care what the report says,” Augustine said. “I’m perfectly capable of reading a report.”

Clara found the exchange telling, staff rarely set aside formality for the sake of brevity. Proper marks of respect were to be used on both sides. How else could the staff expect the young ones to follow their lead?

She also noted that security was bypassed for no immediate gain. This report must have gotten the senior echelon’s attention, but a key detail was missing. As a result, they were recalled to tap directly into the source, instead of relying on the war machine’s bureaucracy to relay their queries.

“Yes Reverend Mo—” Edith attempted to say but was motioned to stop.

Both girls remained silent. Clearly the Reverend Mother had something in mind but had yet to voice her requirements. Edith was not about to get cut off again and by convention Clara, was expected to let her senior take the lead. So she remained silent, curious about how far this would go.

“Cat got your tongue?” Augustine asked while staring at Clara.

“Gladys’s partner volunteered the name before sunrise,” Clara said without showing a hint of amusement.

“You’ve met Gladys before, correct?” the Reverend Mother asked.

“Once before, when she killed Father Michael,” Clara said.

“This is the same woman you identified in Professor Stephens’ class?” the Reverend Mother asked.

“Of course, and the one portrayed in Jack’s sketches,” Clara said. After a pause she added a belated, “Reverend Mother.”

Clara glanced at Edith for a moment and realised her partner was just as confused. This information was not new, nor did it provide them with any motivations for their recall.

“Did she recognise you?” the Reverend Mother asked.

Clara thought back over the events of that night. Had this been more than a mere coincidence? Up to now, she had dismissed the idea as being paranoid.

“I don’t believe so, Reverend Mother,” Clara said.

“Why not?” the Reverend Mother asked.

“Edith was attacked first,” Clara said bluntly.

This implied that Gladys had gone after the biggest threat first. If that thing had recognised Clara, then her rage would have been appropriately focused.

“True,” the Reverend Mother said while pacing. “How’d you know where to fire your weapon?”

“She attacked Father Michael in the same manner, Reverend Mother,” Clara said while avoiding the mention of this being a wild guess

The Reverend Mother smirked. The matron had no difficulty in seeing through what was left unsaid. It was hard to get anything past her, so Clara decided it was the time to change the beat.

“Reverend Mother Augustine,” Clara said in an unwavering voice. “This was all covered in our report. Surely that’s not the reason we were recalled?”

The elder hunter’s immutable face formed a smile. So this had been a trial to see who could break through their conditioning and face authority? Clara had to wonder if these tests would ever end.

Did Reverend Mother suspect Edith of embellishing her report? Was that the reason for their summons? Edith was known as a straight shooter, so the Reverend Mother must have wanted to make sure that Clara’s portion was truthful.

“Drusilla,” the Reverend Mother said. “She was one of the first hunters in our ranks.”

Both of the girls cocked their heads to the side and looked confused. Clara would not have guessed the origin of that name, so their mole had been one of their own. The big question on her mind was how long ago that had been?

* * * *

The Reverend Mother carried on for nearly an hour detailing Drusilla’s history. A woman who had been recruited shortly after Emperor Constantine converted to Christianity, quite literally she was one of the founding members of The Tower, a member integral to how the order functioned today.

She had moved up through the ranks quickly, very much like Clara had done. However, there was always an appetite for power that no amount of training or self-actualisation could purge. These days, students were discharged if that flaw came to light, but back then it grew unchecked.

The day Drusilla was passed over for selection as Reverend Mother marked the beginning of dark times for The Tower. It was as though a shadow loomed over staff and students; dozens of hunters, including some of their most experienced, disappeared without a trace. Faculty members were found mutilated and tortured just outside the gates.

Until that point, attacks against The Tower had been few and far between. There had been no coordinated campaign against them, nor any strategy behind their attacks. After Drusilla had been turned down, they began fighting a unified front fielded by a whole new class of monster.

No one ever suspected Drusilla. Even when the attacks grew more vicious, she remained to shore up their defences. At least that had been the image she portrayed on the Homefront.

In truth, she had been rallying the enemy, focusing their attacks to weaken her opponents. When the political situation failed to shift in her favour, she vanished without a trace.

The memory of these attacks faded from The Towers’ collective memory. Soon a new generation of hunters ventured out into the wild, better equipped and informed about what to expect.

A century later, rumours began to circulate about a dangerous vampire lurking about. Every encounter spoke of a woman of unimaginable beauty. The Tower ordered out waves of hunters to confirm these rumours and neutralise the threat. Most found nothing or were never heard from again.

A hunter eventually escaped the clutches of what she described as a cruel woman. While she barely escaped with her life, the contents of her report shook the very foundations of the order. That revelation led to many of the security precautions put in place today.

“Her name was stricken from all official records, as were the names of any who subsequently betrayed us,” the Reverend Mother said.

Clara’s eyes brightened when another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Obviously, some records remained, since the Reverend Mother knew exactly who Drusilla was. So why were the names stricken from the record? Augustine seemed to sense the question lingering in the air.

“When their names come up, it confirms the intelligence as authentic. Drusilla, however, has been clever enough to change her name frequently,” Augustine said. “Because it’s far easier to hide amongst your prey when your name is nondescript.”

“Yes, Reverend Mother,” the girls said in unison.

These names served as a red flag, alerting hunters of threats moving against them. That meant that Drusilla’s name must have sent off one hell of an alarm to warrant this level of attention.

“We’ve always suspected that Drusilla was responsible for Father Michael’s death,” the Reverend Mother said. “You confirmed it today when you mentioned her name.”

“The one who gave up that intelligence told us she was the mole, Reverend Mother,” Clara said.

“That’s probably the truth as he knew it. Do you believe she’d trust this man with actual information,” Augistine challenged.

“No, Reverend Mother,” both girls said in reply.

So this was nothing more than an attempt at taunting them. Although the word haunted seemed to be more appropriate.

“Why did she vow revenge, Reverend Mother?” Clara asked.

“What do you mean, child,” the Reverend Mother asked in return.

“What were the chances of two hunters being called upon to witness the meeting between the Georgians and Drusilla’s party,” Clara queried. “They were expecting us to be there to conclude a transaction, Reverend Mother.”

The Reverend Mother looked as though she was deep in thought. Clara began to wonder if Drusilla’s name had been used to throw them off the trail.

“This means that we have a mole,” Clara said out of turn. “One who can issue orders without raising suspicion?”

“Orders?” Augustine asked. “What orders?”

“We received orders through our CO to investigate sightings in that area. Intelligence strongly indicated that a meeting would—” Edith said.

“Did you see these orders, child?” the Reverend Mother asked.

“—No. These were passed on orally, Reverend Mother,” Edith said without hesitation.

That was a departure from the standard operating procedures, since hunters were normally given their orders directly. Their CO would need to break the seal to know the particulars.

“We should warn whoever remains—” Clara managed to say.

“See to that, child,” the Reverend Mother said to Clara while she kept her eyes fixed on Edith. “Edith, you’ll stay behind to discuss matters further.”

Clara looked over the situation and knew this was the end of an era. Until now, they had been inseparable, a formidable force to be reckoned with.

This time, Clara had proven her worth as a full-fledged hunter. It had been her quick thinking that revealed Drusilla’s ongoing interests in The Tower.

She left the office quietly without looking back, but prayed that Edith would be fine. She was a good soldier and one hell of a partner so that had to stand for something.

Once Clara reached the main floor, a young acolyte handed her a sealed envelope.

“For your eyes only, Miss Grey. You’re to open this letter when your mission is complete,” the acolyte said before he scurried away.

Clara stood there in awe, an impressive feat considering how little time had passed. Or had the Reverend Mother known how this debriefing would turn out?

“She’s never one to be underestimated,” Clara said.

* * * *

Clara stood on a ridge overlooking the battle that raged on a few miles ahead. Flashes of light erupted on both sides as gunfire and artillery flared up.

Occasionally, a blast would occur near one of the trenches and for a moment there was silence. It was just enough time for the men to shake the cobwebs loose before they sent their own volley in anger.

Tonight, the casualties would be lining up at the field hospital. There would be soldiers with lost limbs and gouges in their flesh caused by shrapnel or bullets. That’s if they were lucky; either side was not above using mustard gas or chlorine on unsuspecting troops, and those afflicted never fully recovered.

In the distance, Clara heard the sound of a car approaching. She turned and saw the hard wheeled affair labouring along the hellish terrain. Eventually, it stopped near the base of the gentle slope that led up to this ridge.

Two soldiers exited the cab and headed towards the back to fetch something. Clara turned to look over the battlefield. Clara turned to look over the battlefield. Even in this reduced lighting, she made out a few observation-balloons looming in the sky.

Men are refining their ability to kill, Clara thought. How long until they find a way to end all life on the globe in one strike?

Even over the sound of intense fighting, Clara heard someone struggling against his captors. The fact that he still had some fight left in him meant that her orders were followed.

“Miss Grey,” one of the soldiers said.

Clara turned to face the soldiers and recognised them as graduates from an earlier class. The first, named Sophie, was a tall and elegant woman. So much so that all of that padding did little to conceal those feminine features. More effort would be needed to avoid drawing suspicion.

The second, named Bell, was shorter in stature and had a uniform which fit her perfectly. She would prove invaluable in navigating No-Man’s-Land as a junior officer.

“Any trouble?” Clara asked.

“None, Miss Grey,” Sophie replied.

Sophie appeared to be shielding her side from the Colonel. He probably managed to land a lucky blow to her ribs; Clara was surprised the man was still standing.

“Excellent. Colonel Blythe,” Clara said in a feminine and sultry voice.

The Colonel looked up and went white as a sheet. It was as though he had seen a ghost and Clara’s smile did little to reassure him.

“You and I need to talk,” Clara said with her hands behind her back.

Clara began to pace back and forth while looking over her shoulder to make sure there were no surprises along the Western front. Colonel Blythe followed her every step, leery of what would happen.

“I hope they weren’t too rough on you?” Clara asked.

The Colonel never said a word. In fact, if looks could kill, she would have been another victim of this damned offensive.

“Cat got your tongue?” Clara asked. This time, when he failed to respond, Clara added, “Sophie, if you please.”

It was very important to deliver their lessons early, so the tall one landed a blow to the man’s sternum. The Colonel collapsed into the mud gasping for air. Class was now in session.

Clara smirked while she continued to pace. She would give him a few moments to recover, because she needed him coherent enough to answer questions.

“Well, Colonel?” Clara asked.

The fire in the man’s eyes grew in intensity. Clara watched as the fires of hell claimed all sanity and reason within.

Now things are getting interesting, Clara thought.

“Bell,” Clara said.

This time, Clara did not even bother to look. The smaller one sent the Colonel head-first into the mud in one smooth motion. Now he was beginning to get the idea.

“We can play this game all evening, Colonel,” Clara said. “Right now, my girls are under orders not to hurt you.”

Clara did not need to add anything to that statement. This man had either bought his commission or worked his way through the ranks; either way he was no fool.

“What do you want?” Colonel Blythe asked.

“You mean you don’t know?” Clara asked while her voice oozed with sarcasm. “Girls! Didn’t you pass on my personal invitation for tea and crumpets?”

“No, Miss Grey,” they said in unison.

“What do you want!” the Colonel barked.

She had to laugh at his attempt to establish dominance. Perhaps it was time for her to show that her authority was not only ordained but earned.

It took a few minutes of laboured effort for him to get back on his feet. Before he could blink, Clara held a straight razor a hair’s width from the base of his larynx.

Once he sensed the blade against his days old beard, he immediately looked towards the sky to avoid being cut. Clara however maintained control over the blade even while the cool steel glistened in the moonlight.

“If I wanted you dead,” Clara said. “You’d have woken up in front of the Pearly Gates wondering why your ears were still ringing.”

Sophie pulled out a little silver triangle that German snipers used to monitor casualties on the battlefield. If a casualty moved, the triangle would glisten in the light and draw sniper fire. The Colonel knew exactly what this object represented and what the implications were.

“Instead I had them bring you here so we could have a little chat,” Clara said. “Now why is that?”

“You want something,” the Colonel said.

“Very good,” Clara said.

Meanwhile she pressed the blade in just enough so that a trickle of blood ran down to his collar. That would let him know that he was not out of the woods yet.

The Colonel was stiff as an ironing board; it surprised her that he was not shaking like a leaf. Clara kept a close eye on him, waiting for some sort of response.

“She was so beautiful,” Colonel Blythe said with a cracking voice.

“Who was?” Clara asked, but suspected that Gladys was the answer.

“She never told me her name. I met her one night at the officers’ mess. An angel surrounded by every officer in the room. When—Once I walked in, she only had eyes for me—” he rambled on.

The rest of his sob story revolved around the trivial theft of his heart followed by threatening to tear it apart if he did not do exactly what he asked. The rumours of his infidelity would lead to a divorce, which meant the loss of lands and title back home.

Had this been the first time such a tale of woe reached her ears, Clara may have been tempted to feel an iota of pity. Everyone needed someone’s company from time to time, even just to forget the horrors encountered. However, ignoring everything that an officer and a gentleman was expected to uphold? That was another matter entirely.

This man had betrayed not only Edith, but everyone else under his authority. A wounded soldier deemed a threat to her could have been administered an overdose of morphine. The power of a CO in times of war was near absolute, and tonight Clara was going to remind him of the consequences.

There was no way to determine the damage this man’s indiscretions caused. He would never expose himself nor accept any blame for his actions. It was always easier to blame someone else than accept responsibility.

“—Could not help myself… Please forgive me!” the Colonel pleaded.

Clara moved her blade away then turned to observe the battle. She watched intently as the firefights grew bolder and that meant men would soon scale the walls in an attempt to gain an inch of land. In a couple of hours, casualties would come pouring in.

Clara turned back to face the Colonel then leaned in close. So close that he could feel her lips tremble.

“I could have been there for you,” Clara whispered so faintly that she sounded far away. “I would have made you come so many times that you’d pray for me to stop,” she added with growing intensity.

Colonel Blythe’s eyes widened while his heart pounded with excitement. Clara had no doubt that her words would have him rise to the occasion… how typical of a man.

“Instead you sold me out to some blonde number who offered you a dream,” Clara said. “It’s pride that turned angels into demons; it’s humility that makes men soar with the angels.”

The louder her words became, the more distant she was from him. There was something about her mannerisms that would have chilled the mood at an orgy. The Colonel was beginning to realise just how much trouble he was in.

“What did she offer in trade?” Clara asked. “A piece of tail or the promise of a longer life?”

Why else risk his career, title and wealth for a beautiful woman? Women like that were generally relegated to trysts or brought on as mistresses. Wives even tolerated their husbands playing the field as long as they were discreet, but these actions were anything but.

“I—I—Er,” he said.

Clara was growing weary of his games, so she drew her sidearm and trained the weapon on him. Once she cocked back the hammer, the Colonel knew he no longer had any leeway.

“More life,” Colonel Blythe said through sobs.

This man, defeated and broken, collapsed onto the mud while sobbing uncontrollably. Clara merely glanced at Sophie who responded by landing a blow at the base of his neck. Just like that, he went silent, oblivious to the world and the nightmare unfolding just a couple of miles away.

Without direction, Bell silently secured his arms and legs. The girls then walked down the ridge to the lorry and drove away.

It was not up to her or anyone else from her order to judge another human. People were often used as pawns and were victims in their own right. Many were easily seduced, which explained why sexuality was a weapon wielded by both sides.

After a half an hour of travel, they reached the remains of that burnt-out farmhouse. While Sophie and Bell changed back into their nurses’ uniforms, Clara picked up a field phone.

She wound the handle several times, and then picked up the receiver. After a brief exchange, she hung up and sat down on the remnants of a bed.

Clara closed her eyes, and heard artillery strikes moving closer and closer to their position. They eventually erupted in a volley so powerful that the farmhouse shook.

“Fire for effect,” Clara whispered.

Perhaps the Colonel could not be judged by those in her order. However, that did not mean she could not nudge fate in the right direction. Many survived artillery strikes and if God wished it, he would make it through.

Clara guessed that God would not intervene tonight. There were many who deserved to live under the grace of God that ended up run through with a bayonet or cut down by machine gun fire. Saint Peter would be busy admitting entire companies tonight.

From the ground, God appeared to be absent from this part of the world. Until he chose to pass his wisdom down to his flock, Clara and her ilk would have to look after his best interests.

“Safe travel, girls,” Clara said before they left.

Clara watched as they melted into the night. She then pulled out the sealed envelope that bore the Reverend Mother’s insignia. As ordered, it remained untouched until her mission was complete.

Without a second thought she pulled out a knife and cut through the envelope’s top. Inside, she found a simple sheet of folded paper.

“Great,” Clara muttered. “Time to babysit.”

CHAPTER 12

RAIDERS AND TOMBS

1916

For weeks, Clara had been trudging through sand and dust. This arid and sun bleached land was a new experience and in her opinion, the perfect stand-in for one of the seven levels of hell.

Like Europe, war was no stranger to these lands. Occasionally, she came across abandoned battlefields, some buried by the sands of time, while others bore fresh scars of modern warfare. Had they gained anything by unleashing such carnage?

Clara had been assigned to an expedition, exploring the ruins of a city abandoned for over six-hundred years. Specifically, their interests were centred on an abandoned portal site.

Why would they have a portal here? Clara wondered.

Some gates existed for obvious reasons, there were always portals leading to Paris or London. These were major cities of colonial powers that provided access to vast populations.

While these ruins once stood at the centre of a revived Sumerian culture, the bones from its rulers turned to dust long ago. Still, it was curious that this gate appeared to have been used well after the city had been lost in the desert.

Clara kept an eye out for anything out of the ordinary; ghouls, djinn, and angels of death were all creatures of myth that originated from this part of the world. The fact that vampires and Georgians were also interested in this region only heightened her suspicions.

On this particular day, they were searching the ruins of a structure of great religious significance; Clara supposed that it functioned in much the same way that cathedrals did today.

“A ziggurat,” Professor Jones said.

Clara never interacted with Professor Jones before being assigned this mission. Under his tan clothing and pith helmet, there was a man with a chiselled jaw and a day-old beard. His roguish good looks would have been a diversion to blossoming girls. That alone might explain why he instructed male students exclusively.

“Quite right,” Father Allen replied.

Father Allen was the team archivist and a fixture at The Tower’s numerous libraries and archives. His thick glasses, pale skin and balding head made him appear inoffensive. Clara guessed that many underestimated him because of his appearance.

Clara looked at the pile of rocks while Father Allen sketched out the site. Today was especially hot. The world shimmered in the distance. If only she could find shade instead of being cooked alive by the sun.

“Shade,” Clara mumbled.

“Something to share, Miss Grey?” Jonesy asked.

While her statement had been nothing more than a slip of the tongue, it was time to speak up. She was tired of this infernal heat and perhaps she could move things along.

“Yes, shade,” Clara said. “We’re exploring the surface of a city that was important to them. So travelling overland in broad daylight would’ve been impractical.”

For days, their search yielded no signs of underground structures. However, there should have been ventilation shafts or even a few sinkholes. Clara knew this, but it was time to think outside the box.

“If we abandoned The Tower,” Clara began. “Sensitive areas would be collapsed, filled in or concealed to deter future expeditions.”

“How does that help us, Miss Grey?” Jonesy asked.

“This step pyramid is directly in line with the gate room,” Clara said. “The chamber is located by the city’s secondary harbour and would have provided ample escape routes.”

“How—” Jonesy inquired.

Clara could have told them how the ruins were mapped out in her mind, but that would be a bitter pill for academics to swallow. She could have used a compass to prove her point, but there was a simpler way of pointing out what should have been obvious.

“At this time of day, the sun’s shadows point directly towards the chamber which is four hundred yards in that direction,” Clara said.

Father Allen’s jaw dropped to the floor while Professor Jones’ eyes bulged. Clara brought the camera forward, held it at waist height, looked down and took a shot. Moments like these were meant to be cherished.

“So, why don’t we look for the entrance?” Clara asked.

“But this structure is supposedly solid, child,” Father Allen said.

“True. This structure has an imposing facade, even after centuries of degradation,” Clara said.

“So what if it does?” Jonesy asked.

“Would their kind risk travelling through crowds or use the front door?” she asked.

“Well no—” Jonesy said.

“So let’s concentrate on the sides and back,” Clara said.

* * * *

The group spent the next two days scouring the temple complex. Clara kept a close eye on the tribesmen. It appeared they did not like lingering here and the last thing she needed was for them to get any ideas.

On both sides of the pyramid, there were channels which led all the way to the top of the structure. Clara noticed these shafts were heavily reinforced.

“What were these for?” Clara asked.

“I’m not sure,” Jonesy said.

“Do you think they were used to bring up stores?” Father Allen asked.

“Could be. How about a garbage shoot?” Jonesy guessed.

“Or perhaps they were used for drainage?” Father Allen mused.

“They offer good cover,” Clara said. “No one can see what’s going on from either side.”

Clara walked into the channel and disappeared from sight. Only those who faced her directly were able to see what she was up to, which proved her point.

She pulled out her canteen and took a quick sip. The water was refreshing and cool as it ran down her throat. Alas, she had something else in mind for what remained.

“Oops,” Clara said after she dropped the canteen.

The clear liquid was initially absorbed by the ground but soon began to pool. The theory that these were used as drains was blown out of the water, at least for this side.

Without a word, she picked up the canteen and handed it over to one of the locals to refill. Meanwhile she pictured the ziggurat in her mind and realised that this particular channel received the least amount of daylight.

“There are no obvious markings or pressure points to trigger a mechanism,” Jonesy said.

“No,” Clara said. “Just the way they would want it?”

Before Father Allen could speak, Clara cut into the palm of her hand with her crucifix. She then smeared an area just inside the nook with blood.

For a moment nothing seemed to happen, but the blood was slowly absorbed by a portion of the bricks. The break in the streak clearly outlined the concealed doorway.

Jonesy barked out orders, and within a minute three lanterns were brought forward. Since they were about to descend, the locals were also instructed to make camp.

Clara had never seen so many people go pale with dread. With a good six hours of daylight left, Clara made a note to ensure they were back before then. She had an odd feeling their camp would not be ready as instructed.

* * * *

Clara held a lantern in one hand and her pistol in the other. She stepped forward, crossed the threshold, and stopped once she had a clear view of a chamber along with a set of stairs leading down.

She took a few steps forward before Father Allen came through the threshold. At first, there was a gasp followed by a grunt when Professor Jones ran into the Father.

“It looks like there’s a missing segment,” Jonesy managed to say.

Right by the entrance, there was a section carved out to accommodate a large slab. Had the slab been in place, their expedition would have ended there.

“Early cuneiform,” Jonesy added.

“I agree,” Father Allen said. “It would take weeks to analyse even a small segment of this tunnel.”

“Clara, can you take some pictures?” Jonesy asked.

While she snapped a few shots, Clara said, “What god or gods were worshipped at this site?”

“Nanna who was also known as Sin,” Father Allen replied.

“Represented by a crescent moon?” Clara asked.

“Yes. Why’d you ask?” Jonesy asked.

Clara moved closer to the stairwell where a large relief of a crescent moon was prominently displayed. Given their aversion to sunlight, it seemed perfectly reasonable for them to worship a nocturnal god.

“Oh no reason,” she said. “Shall we head down?”

The men nodded so Clara took point. There was no sense in putting the brains of this outfit at risk.

* * * *

The place was cold, humid, and had the faint odour of mould hanging on her every breath; in the distance Clara heard running water. Given the construction, she assumed this place originally served as a well. There were pitch covered torches found at regular intervals, which were lit as they progressed deeper into this structure. At first, the walls were reinforced with brick, followed by stone slabs, and eventually the tunnel had been carved out of the natural rock.

Father Allen and Professor Jones were busy discussing how this discovery would change their understanding of the world. Clara had expected some form of resistance, unless this was meant to be an escape route. After all, that slab by the door would have taken ten men to move out of the way, or one motivated vampire.

After five minutes into the descent, they came across a large chamber. This place was massive, enough for light to be swallowed up before it reached the opposing side. The walls were smooth, carved by years of erosion. Had it not been for the cobbled floor, Clara would have assumed they were exploring a natural cave system.

“Wait here,” Clara said and after ten minutes of lighting torches, the chamber was dimly lit.

There was another tunnel opposing them, blocked by rock and rubble. She guessed that entrance once led directly to the gate. The direction seemed about right, but Clara had to admit that spiralling down as they had, made it difficult to be certain.

There was a natural beauty to the place, but everyone could feel the chill touch of the grave. Clara knew that no one else had been here in a very long time.

“So what now?” Clara asked.

Jonesy and Father Allen both shrugged. For now, this appeared to be a dead end which effectively ended this expedition.

“Why would they have a Georgian construct to protect an empty room?” Clara asked.

“They might have cleared the contents when they abandoned the site,” Jonesy said.

“There are no drag or scuff marks to indicate that anything was moved,” Father Allen said.

The Father moved towards the centre to sketch. Once he was within ten feet of the centre, they heard a loud click that echoed throughout the room. Everyone paused and held their breath.

“What’d you do?” Jonesy and Clara asked.

“Nothing,” Father Allen said. “I just stepped on this area of the floor.”

Clara moved towards the centre but kept her eyes peeled. From this vantage point, she saw a well-defined circular seam in the floor.

Once she stood opposing Father Allen, Clara pressed down hard with one foot. That was enough for the platform to give way and send Father Allen on his ass.

While Clara kept a straight face, Professor Jones began to laugh maniacally. Hopefully that would not sour their team cohesion; the last thing she needed was to mollycoddle these two.

“We found our first trap,” Jonesy said. “How’d you know?”

“I assumed most would travel through the centre to the exit behind us,” Clara said.

“So I forced the platform back onto its seat?” Father Allen asked.

“Precisely,” Clara said. “Now would you please wedge something under the platform Father?

Clara waited patiently as Father Allen ripped his pack apart. Item after item came out of that bag, but nothing seemed suitable. Eventually he thought of using his walking stick, which he used to keep the platform from falling into place.

The sound of water was more pronounced now. On Clara’s side, the slab was designed to give way. This trap was clearly meant to catch people travelling in a specific direction.

Clara hammered a climbing piton into the floor. She then used a length of rope to grapple and force the platform at its apex.

With the platform out of the way, the walking stick fell through the opening and made a racket below. Clara illuminated the area using her lantern and saw a slew of rusty spikes. The area was littered with bones, skulls and dried blood. Even after all these years, the stone was stained red.

Clara grabbed the remaining rope and draped it over the edge. Using the light of her lantern, she had no trouble manoeuvring around the obstacles. Clara then lit the torches on this level and within minutes, was able to shed some light on the macabre scene.

“I’m going to explore,” Clara said.

Without waiting for a response, she ventured through an archway. Visible were two entrances, one that led up presumably towards the chamber above, while the other led down to the source of that running water.

Clara pulled out her sidearm and moved closer to the stairs going up. She called out in that direction and eventually heard the men come down.

“Another Georgian illusion then?” Clara confirmed.

“Precisely,” Jonesy said. “It even provided some resistance to prevent accidental discovery.”

* * * *

After a couple hours, the two floors had been explored, documented, photographed and sketched. That still left them with several hours of daylight so Clara was not worried.

They ventured down the steps until their feet were submerged in water. The running water was cool and refreshing, so it must have travelled underground for some time. From the light of their lanterns, there were a few points of interest.

Fifty feet from the entrance, there was a stone archway that contained two heavy doors on rails. While Clara could not see the other side, they seemed designed to redirect the flow once dropped into place.

Clara saw a series of rusty chains leading away from those doors. Her eyes followed the chains until she spotted a wooden ratcheting mechanism that was covered in cobwebs. A shame it was just out of reach; not even her grappling hook would do.

“Do you happen to have some whiskey, Father?” Clara asked.

The Father glared at her. The look on his face implied there would be no further discussion. Nonetheless, he produced a bottle of whiskey that was nearly full.

“Here, child,” Father Allen said.

Clara took out some linen from a pack and cut it into strips. She was careful not to show the men the remnants of her knickers. A gal was entitled to her secrets after all. She pulled the cork and soaked the linen before stuffing it into the bottle’s mouth.

She then produced something that looked like a pistol with two triggers. It reeked of naphtha and quickly produced a bright bluish flame. She lit the wick attached to the bottle and made sure there was a solid flame before tossing it underhand.

The flame’s wick illuminated the rock face as it glided through the air. On impact, the fire engulfed the contraption and within moments, was licking every part of it.

“Now we just need to wait,” Clara said.

“For what, ch—” Father Allen asked.

“Wait a minute… Who taught you how to do that?” Professor Jones inquired.

Clara beamed her shit-eating grin before she said, “Sister Magdalen.”

“A Franciscan nun taught you improvised weaponry, child?” Father Allen asked.

“No, Father,” Clara said. “She instructed us on makeshift lighting methods.”

Clara was unsure if that would be a sufficient excuse for the Father. Fortunately, by that time, the wood had cracked and released the heavy chains. For a moment, they hung loosely from the overhead loops. The doors should have dropped, but nothing happened.

“What a waste of whisk—” Jonesy said.

Before Jonesy could finish ribbing the Father, one of the doors creaked loudly and dropped a foot. The shift had shaken loose some rust from the rails, which sent the other crashing down. In turn, the intense shaking forced the remaining door into place.

Immediately, the water levels began to ebb, revealing another twenty steps and a walkway. Now, they had a path to follow down a mild grade. Where would it lead? No one knew.

* * * *

They walked along the slippery path for about two hundred feet before they came across an opening. This entry had been carved into the rock and as judged by the tool marks, the excavation had been done recently.

When Clara wandered on through, she saw the many layers that made up this formidable fortress. Beyond the natural rock and sediment there was pitch, brick, and an inch of rotted iron plating followed by more pitch and brick. This section had been built to keep something out.

Or was it to keep something in? Clara wondered.

Once they entered the chamber, they saw that the walls had once been covered in ornate symbols. Alas, water must have rushed in after the excavation, rendering the writings illegible.

The room was in shambles. Broken pottery littered the ground and boxes that had been lined with gold were shattered. In the centre there was a large gold coffin that reminded Clara of a sarcophagus. The lid had been broken into three pieces and was empty.

When she looked above, Clara noticed two large slabs of rock that had been used to seal in whatever was inside. Whoever had been interred here was never meant to come out.

“Where do you think we are, Clara?” Father Allen asked.

His use of her given name surprised her. She thought over the convoluted route they had taken and despite the uncertainty, she knew where this was going.

“I’d say we’re somewhere under the step pyramid, Father,” Clara said.

“I’d wager this room is precisely under the centre of the pyramid,” Father Allen said. “This chamber was used to hide a vampire of unimaginable power.”

Clara vaguely remembered Professor Stephens giving lectures on such structures. Some of their kind were so powerful that they could control others even while in a state of deep sleep. They could run entire empires from the safety of these tombs. These were the eternal puppet masters who pulled society’s strings and never got their hands dirty. Peons rarely realised that they were being controlled, save for a trusted few.

“I recommend we be quick about it then,” Clara said and proceeded to take some snapshots.

* * * *

Everyone left the chamber feeling soiled. There was something to be said about being in the same room that housed evil for so long. Clara found it hard to describe, but it reminded her of an abandoned sanatorium. A place where souls were still lurking about, tortured and eternally detached from reality.

Despite leaving the crypt, wherever they were approaching sent a shiver down Clara’s spine. Was this a real world example of jumping out of the frying pan and landing in the fire?

In response Clara asked, “Can anyone feel that?”

Father Allen turned to ask, “Feel what, child?”

“You mean that feeling of walking on a mass grave?” Jonesy asked.

“Yeah,” Clara said.

Father Allen shrugged and carried on. This man spent the majority of his life in The Tower. He never had to rely on his instincts to survive nor did he know what to do when a shiver ran down his spine.

“Do either of you have an idea on what we might encounter?” Clara asked.

“I’m not certain,” Jonesy said. “Nor am I sure that I want to.”

Clara could relate. The same emotions were swirling around in her mind. Hunters were trained to keep their emotions in check, but she found it hard to ignore that sense of dread growing within.

After a couple of minutes, they came across a new chamber. This one had a large staircase carved into the rock itself. The path beyond this point was flooded; it seemed that the river’s alternate path met up just beyond the chamber. Clara was impressed. It was impossible to reach this particular point from any other route.

Despite their growing sense of unease, the group scaled the steps. Clara kept an eye out for any trouble but saw no obvious threats. Atop, there was a cobblestone floor with an ornate altar that dominated the chamber. Immediately after the altar, she noticed a large opening in the floor.

Father Allen and Professor Jones lit the torches while Clara ventured closer to the well. It was built in a perfect circle and had no visible bottom. Nonetheless, the glow from her lantern was enough to make a startling discovery. The walls were stained with blood.

“That’s deep,” Jonesy said.

“Really,” Clara remarked sarcastically. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Father Allen chuckled nervously, a sign that he too was beginning to sense something was dreadfully wrong here.

“The altar is stained with blood,” Father Allen said grimly.

Clara tied a rope to the end of her lantern and lowered it down the shaft. The red stained rocks glowed like hellfire as it descended. No matter how far it travelled, the bottom would not show.

“So either it’s infinitely deep or—” Jonesy said.

The lantern’s light went out without explanation. In response, Clara tried to bring it up to light it, but something was fighting her every pull.

“Must have gone—” Clara said.

Just like that, the light reappeared, just as bright as before. The men looked at her, then down the pit, just in time to witness the light being enveloped another time.

“Here,” Clara said as she handed the rope to Jonesy. “And make it fast!”

While Professor Jones pulled up the lantern, they noticed that the darkness was trying to overtake the lantern. Whatever was down there was interested in the flame.

Clara dropped her pack to the ground, then rummaged through until she found a potato shaped Bakelite contraption fitted with a metal spoon and pin. She had no interest in talking things out with whatever was down there.

Clara pulled the pin and watched the spoon fly off as it was dropped. The grenade began its descent, just as the lantern was recovered.

“Get back!” Clara exclaimed.

The floor shook, but the expected flash of light did not materialise. Instead, there came a shrill shriek that echoed throughout the chamber. Done with her experiment, Clara backed away with her pistol drawn.

“Gentleman,” Clara said.

Her voice roused them out of their stupor and they followed her lead. Just then, a series of shadowy tendrils emerged from the well, probing the area in search of something. Truth be told, Clara had no desire to find out what it was searching for.

“Do you have any holy water, Father?” Clara asked.

“I left it behind in favour of the whiskey,” Father Allen replied.

“That’ll be worth a laugh if we ever ma—” Jonesy said.

Clara raised her hand to silence the group while the tendrils continued to probe. So far there was no sign that they could hear, but she had no desire to taunt fate.

Slowly, they backed away while keeping an eye on the creature and for a moment, it appeared as if they were free and clear. Alas, the ends of these tendrils changed into spearheads and shot out in every direction.

The attack may have been blind, but it nonetheless proved to be effective. Clara saw that Father Allen had been struck in the shoulder by a tendril.

The tip blunted immediately after penetration, making it impossible to extract. Clearly, he was in shock, because there was no one home in Father Allen’s eyes.

She fired several rounds into the tendrils with no effect. Without warning, Father Allen was whisked away into the well, leaving only his bag behind.

“Run!” Clara exclaimed sharply while grabbing the extra pack.

* * * *

Clara and Jonesy ran without pause. Even when their lungs felt as though they were on fire, they ran on. When they passed by the tomb, Jonesy tripped on a slippery surface and without missing a beat, Clara pulled him back onto his feet.

When they finally reached the light of day, they both dropped to their knees. After the experience they had, it was great to feel the warmth of the sun’s glow, a sure-fire sign they were safe.

“Well that explains the lack of traps,” Clara said.

“No kidding,” Jonesy said.

The locals were quick to notice that someone was missing. If the tables had been turned, Clara would have pressed them for information, but they already knew.

There must be local legends on what lurks below, Clara thought.

“Professor Jones,” she said. “I thought they were instructed to set up camp.”

Jonesy looked around and came to the same conclusion. His face was still flushed from the exertion and would need time to recover his mental faculties.

There was still a solid hour of daylight left. That meant they had time to get away from here and never return. Jonesy was certainly thinking the same thing, so he passed on new instructions.

While the locals quickly collected stray items before getting atop their mounts, Clara fetched a pack from hers. She casually walked towards the entrance, gave it another donation of blood and walked on through.

The locals looked at each other in awe. It was one thing to face the horrors below and come back alive. It was something else altogether to walk back inside willingly.

Fortunately, Clara emerged quickly. She then brushed some dust from her top, checked her nails to see if they were clean, and then sauntered away. Within a minute there was a dull thump. The ground shook, which spooked the camels, but Clara never flinched.

“What’d you do?” Jonesy asked.

Clara mounted her camel with a self-satisfied look on her face. Nothing was going to find its way down there without a lot of effort.

“I blew the entrance to the tunnel,” Clara said calmly. “Some things are better left buried by the sands of time.”

* * * *

Clara sat by a fire while looking through the contents of Father Allen’s bag. Nearby, Professor Jones wrote up his final report, it was up to her to sort through Father Allen’s belongings.

She had never taken the time to look at his sketches. They were really quite good, an excellent combination of speed and accuracy. She found a series of sketches dedicated to the city and inside the ziggurat.

She even found a sketch of Professor Jones interacting with the locals. Clara wondered if the professor had known he was being sketched.

Clara was certainly unaware that she once inspired him. She had been reading a book on that particular evening. It was bizarre to witness another’s perception of her. Clara was both flattered and worried, but given her vocation, she should have known what he was up to.

The underground sketches revealed a great deal. Clara had taken pictures as directed, but she missed a series of symbols found throughout the complex. For Clara, they had been lost in the noise, like picking out minutia on a complex tapestry.

There were at least fifteen different instances of the crescent moon over and above the one found at the entrance. Some symbols had been in plain sight, while others were concealed.

When Jonesy came by, Clara inquired, “Did you notice these instances of the crescent?”

Professor Jones looked at every sketch. It was clear from the look on his face that he had missed these as well.

“It makes sense,” Jonesy said. “That step pyramid was built in his name.”

“It’s a fitting symbol for those who fear the sun?” Clara mused.

“What do you mean?” Jonesy asked.

“Well,” Clara said while trying to find her words. “Being exposed to the light of God will set them aflame.”

Professor Jones looked at her sceptically. Only the clergy were expected to make that type of connection. Most professors saw these creatures from a pragmatic point of view; concepts based on faith rarely occurred to them.

“Go on,” Jonesy said.

“It’d be logical for them to worship a God that stood in opposition to the sun,” Clara clarified.

“Worship?” Jonesy asked.

His eyes were glassy as though years of indoctrination had been shattered. Clara was sure to hear about this back at The Tower, first she lost a priest and then broke a professor on the same day. At least that meant no more babysitting for her.

* * * *

Clara overlooked the top of a ridge towards the sand swept and desolate land. Up ahead there was a crew busy pulling up a large globe from the back of a truck. The item was covered in spikes that would normally trigger a detonation, however those elements were disabled as a precaution.

Besides the truck, the river was being swallowed up whole. This was one of two access points for the river that ran under the ziggurat. The men continued pulling on ropes until the sea mine splashed into the water.

In all, there were five other trucks similarly equipped. Clara convinced the Reverend Mother to support this plan. A lot of strings had to be pulled to make this happen, but Clara knew this was the only way.

As the sea mine floated downstream, she looked at her watch and set the timer for twenty minutes. While the default triggers had been disabled, a timer had been wired into the detonator. Clara estimated it would take eighteen minutes to float down and make contact with those doors.

Clara sat down on the ridge with a sketchbook in hand. She began to sketch out the rough details of the landscape and would make touch-ups later. She found the process relaxing and thanked Father Allen for introducing her to it.

After the timer ran out, Clara felt the ground shudder. The hunter began to smile once the water level dropped significantly. That meant the obstructions had been destroyed by the mine and the rest of her plan could continue.

A second mine was dropped with a forty-two minute timer. As it floated away, Clara continued on with her sketch. She fought for a few moments to capture the wind swept ridges, but there was no need to rush.

The second mine detonated out in the open. As expected, it overshot the complex by a hundred feet or so.

The third mine detonated after thirty-nine minutes causing the water levels to rise. Clara had detonated this one to damn the river’s exit, exactly as planned.

Before water levels rose over the river banks, the remaining mines were dropped into the water with a thirty minute timer. Clara kept busy by continuing her sketch.

This time the ground shook violently and prompted Clara to collect her things. By that point, the trucks had already been evacuated to higher ground. She watched as the river flowed over its banks and began to form a lake.

There was no way of knowing how much damage the mines did to the complex. However, Clara was certain that the water level would make any future pilgrimages impossible. For now, the threat was contained.

The water level would rise until a new path was found. In time, the tunnel would be filled with silt, harden like mortar, then seal the complex shut.

“Rest in peace,” Clara said as she walked away from this dustbin, never to return.

CHAPTER 13

DINNER WITH THE DEVIL

1922

Another two women were found dead last week,” Clara muttered.

Clara hopped lightly from one foot to the other so her toes would stay warm. Snow covered the ground, while more fell lazily from the sky in the form of large snowflakes. This could have been a romantic winter’s eve if she were not busy working.

A couple passed by on the opposite side of the street. While the gentleman paid her little heed, the well-dressed flapper at his side leered at her. Even from that distance, the tattoo on Clara’s leg was visible and around here that was a symbol for women who were from the wrong side of the tracks.

Clara had been working this particular corner for the past three weeks. In that time, there had been eight deaths involving prostitutes. All of them had been killed without a single witness coming forward. In itself, that was odd since the deaths all occurred in heavily trafficked areas.

The city had done its best to keep things under wrap, namely by clamping down on the prostitutes. The local intelligencia also kept it out of the news, even that nagging tidbit about the women being drained of blood. Worse still, their fates did not lend any sympathy from the constabulary; around here an impure lifestyle meant they deserved a death to match.

All the victims shared certain commonalities, they were all ladies of the night, dark haired, and young. Lastly, every one of them had a tattoo on her leg, although the latter might have been a red herring.

“At least it can be removed once I’m done,” Clara whispered.

In the distance, she saw a set of glowing headlights coming down the street. Cars were becoming more common now, especially in big cities. These vehicles were tricky to control since those hard rubber wheels offered no traction.

Fortunately, this was a newer model: long hood with side mounted spare tyres, a hard top and running boards. There was a single occupant inside who sported leather gloves and a white scarf. Funny how some were unable to break from tradition.

The car slowed as it approached, Clara noted that he was sizing her up. This was not the first time that she had been approached in this manner, so she opened up her coat to let him have a peek. While the cold air rushed in, she shivered, an effect that somehow got his attention.

The spider is checking its web for flies, Clara thought.

The man obviously had money. How else could he own an imported car of this sophistication? That may have been a disarming trait for some, but Clara suspected the killer was wealthy. For the most part, they were all affluent and drawn to power.

The man pulled up to the curb and rolled down his window. This was the part Clara dreaded, feeling like a piece of meat. She wore a simple dress that left little to the imagination and did much to draw the eyes to her ample bust, but he showed no interest. Instead, his eyes narrowed, focused on her tattooed leg.

“Hiya handsome,” Clara said, mimicking the accent of the local street urchins.

“How much?” the man asked.

“It starts at two bits for a dry bob, honey,” Clara said.

The man never batted an eye at the price, since he could easily afford the going rates at an exclusive brothel. While Clara was attractive, she was hardly unique in that aspect, so her prices had to be competitive to not arouse suspicion.

The man smiled before he said, “I’ll pull up over there.”

“Whatever ya say, honey,” Clara said and winked.

While this gentleman drove off fifty feet, Clara made her way towards the alley and realised the car had no frost in the windows. Despite that clue, all she could think about was how cold her feet were, and how divine it was to start walking again.

From her purse, she pulled out a lipstick applicator and applied a fresh coat. A moment later, she dabbed a bit of holy water on her lips, a trick that worked well in the past, but prayed it would not be needed.

Once she got to the alley, Clara saw the gentleman standing by a series of refuse bins. Inside, she heard the band playing, which meant no one would notice errant moans, grunts or gunshots.

Clara played her part and placed the purse she carried within arm’s reach. She then sat on a bin and hiked up her dress to reveal that she had no knickers. For a moment, his eyes glanced at her inviting muff before he licked his lips.

For all the pomp and circumstance this man had shown while driving that car, he displayed none of that now. The buttons on his trousers were undone in a flash allowing them to drop effortlessly around his patent leather shoes.

Clara would have helped him, but he was too fast for her. Before she knew it, his hands were on her thighs forcing her legs apart while his member hovered just an inch away.

“Take it easy, handsome, we got all the time—” Clara said.

Clearly this man was not in a mood to listen. He grunted as he drove his penis into her. Clara momentarily gasped, not from shock but from how cold it was!

He began his slow and deliberate strokes. With every movement his entire body shuddered. Clara feigned closing her eyes and let out a soft moan. All the while, her hand slid ever closer to her purse, and the derringer concealed within.

This had to be a powerful vampire, there was no other way to explain it. Being oblivious to her aura of faith required nothing less. The fact that he was still enjoying the ride, further demonstrated what he was.

The man sped up, driving in harder with every thrust. Clara opened her eyes just enough to watch him clench his jaw. The act should have been pure rapture and yet every plunge worsened the pain.

Clara grabbed a hold of her derringer and drew it out the moment he pulled out. While his penis smoked and bubbled, she squeezed on the first trigger of her weapon.

The muted shot still echoed through the alley, but the music inside drowned out the noise. The man fell face first into the snow and gave her a view of the gaping hole through the back of his skull.

She sighed in relief that her precaution of applying holy water in all the right places had been an unmitigated success. With her weapon trained, Clara got back on her feet and closed up her coat. She was chilled to the bone and looked forward to a warm bath at a reputable hotel. With this threat neutralised, she had no need to stay at the local dive.

“At least he has a car,” Clara said.

The hunter then fired another well-aimed shot at the base of his spine, which ensured he would stay down until morning. Now all she had to do was get him into the boot of his car.

“All work and no play,” Clara said.

* * * *

Clara was perusing the newspaper while sitting at a booth. She noticed the article detailing the discovery of a burnt-out car near lover’s lane. It seemed that a young couple heading home from a petting party had spotted the wreck.

A coroner’s inquest was sure to follow, but Clara suspected they would find nothing. After all, their investigations into the deaths of those girls also turned up empty and their bodies left behind valuable clues, not ash.

A waiter passed by and placed a drink on her table before he said, “Compliments of the lady at the bar.”

Clara had been offered drinks before. It came with the territory. Doubly so when she was all dolled up, but until now only men had made such overtures.

Even from here, Clara saw the impeccably dressed flapper who could make jaws drop from a hundred paces. For a moment, she even felt a twinge of envy.

The lady’s green eyes simply enhanced the overall effect, enough to overshadow her expensive jewellery. Clara assumed that lady, in this case, was most likely the correct term to use with this one.

“Long haired brunette,” Clara said in a mumble.

Clara recognised her immediately, since they crossed paths last night. She was the one who leered at her for having that tattoo. This had to be more than a coincidence.

She raised her glass in salute and the lady reciprocated. They both sipped on their drinks and kept their eyes locked on one another. Clara had an inkling that the lady enjoyed the attention.

A waiter dropped something at the corner of the table. When Clara turned to investigate, she felt a cool breeze. Some might assume it had been from an open door, but she knew better.

“Beautiful work you did last night, ma chère,” the lady said.

“What do you mean,” Clara responded nonchalantly.

Clara knew full well that she should be dead. That diversion alone would have given her ample opportunity to bury a blade in Clara’s chest and escape unnoticed.

When she turned to get a better look at her guest, she let out an involuntary gasp. It was hard to believe just how stunning the lady was up close.

What’s wrong with me? Clara wondered.

“I love this fashion trend,” the lady said. “My body type is finally starting to turn some heads.”

Clara had studied history extensively, but such anecdotes were usually left out of the books. It was unusual to hear such a statement from someone who lived through it. Although she kept wondering why this lady had yet to relegate her to a footnote in the history books.

“I’m Evelyn,” the lady said.

“Clara,” she replied. “We met last night.”

Evelyn giggled. Her voice had musical overtones that bordered on being hypnotic. Clara knew she was toning it down, likely to prevent anyone else from becoming entranced.

“Yes, we did, ma chère,” Evelyn said. “We were after the same man, you and I.”

“You hunt in packs?” Clara asked.

Evelyn giggled again before she said, “I was dispatched to stop him.”

Clara had been sipping on her drink while the words sank in and coughed up its contents. It was not exactly ladylike, but that statement had thrown her for a loop.

“It hasn’t been my experience—” Clara said before coughing again.

“You deal with the dredges, those we eventually put down, ma chère,” Evelyn said. “Do you think we need that kind of publicity?”

In a way, it was a relief to hear that the more dangerous elements of their kind were culled. However, that implied there were a great many more than they suspected, concealing their numbers by taking out the ones who got caught.

“I suppose not,” Clara said.

Just then, a series of plates were brought in by the waiter. While the man silently deposited the food, Evelyn winked at him.

“That waiter was with you last night?” Clara asked.

“Of course, ma chère,” Evelyn said. “He and I have travelled together for four centuries now.”

Evelyn broke a bun with her hands and dipped it into the bowl of soup. Clara eyed every movement, even when she brought food to those lipstick covered lips and took a bite. It was the first time she had witnessed their kind eating food.

As soup broth ran down Evelyn’s chin, she giggled. It was so disarming to watch her do these every day actions and for a moment Clara forgot who she was dealing with.

Clara looked at the various items placed before her and opted to grab a devilled egg with anchovies. She wanted something that required one hand to eat.

“So why are we having this pleasant chat,” Clara said.

“An excellent question, ma chère,” Evelyn said while she clapped her hands in excitement.

Evelyn really sold Clara on being an innocent and excitable young lady. However, she knew there had to be a dark side to one of them. They all needed to feed after all. Besides, how could she have silenced last night’s target without a predatory nature? No, Evelyn clearly had a dark side, and it was important to keep that in mind.

“I can honestly see how you might be confused,” Evelyn added just before she bit down on another piece of bread. “I’ve admitted to my advanced age, hinted that I was associated with your latest conquest, and I know you’re not a prostitute.”

“Sounds about right,” Clara said.

“You know, I was a courtesan before my partner found me. Though not nearly as famous or in demand as the Mata Hari,” Evelyn said. “I owe him a great deal for taking me in.”

“So you two are close?” Clara asked.

“Not physically,” Evelyn said dryly. “But yes, more so than many couples will ever be.”

“If I had been a prost—” Clara managed to say.

“Then it might have elicited a measure of sympathy,” Evelyn said.

Clara nodded and grabbed another egg. Fortunately they were rather scrumptious, not a bad choice for a last meal.

“That’s not why you are here. After all, we normally strive to keep your order out of our business,” Evelyn said.

“You like my eyes,” Clara said facetiously.

Evelyn gave her a good long stare as though she were expecting to find her soul. It was the grin that followed that hinted how close to the mark Clara’s comment had been.

“The fun you and I could have,” Evelyn said. “The passion and ecstasy you’d experience. I could make you question your very existence.”

Every word she said became more hypnotic. Clara had trouble staying focused. She sensed that those words were not only meant to entice but also marked Evelyn’s own loss of control.

“Oh!” Clara murmured while blood flushed through her cheeks.

“You’re a very beautiful woman, Clara,” Evelyn said. “It would be fun while it lasted, but you’d eventually realise that I was really the monster you originally envisioned me to be.”

“The hunt would be half the fun,” Clara said with a grin.

“True, ma chère,” Evelyn said and winked. She brought up her glass and said, “To the endless possibilities of life.”

“That can follow you into death,” Clara countered and finished her drink.

“Now, I must get going,” Evelyn said while getting up.

“So soon?” Clara said honestly.

“The opportunity for trouble is far too great,” Evelyn said. “You did us a favour by ridding the world of that filth, so I can in good conscience spare your life.”

“How kind,” Clara said.

Evelyn did not seem to be bothered by the reply. That did not stop Clara from cringing. She had run off her mouth at precisely the wrong moment.

“However, I’m obliged to inform you that you have two days to leave this city. Others in your order would do well to leave us be… For now,” Evelyn said.

Clara nodded, the seriousness in Evelyn’s tone made it clear that she meant business.

Evelyn then did something that completely took Clara by surprise. She leaned over the table and kissed Clara square on the lips. The passion of this act overwhelmed Clara, so much so that she felt her inhibitions melt away.

The lady then picked up a cloth napkin and wiped the combination of their lipstick from her lips. Clara was impressed, Evelyn was aware of her fail-safe.

“You owe me one,” Evelyn said.

She walked out with an elongated gait to show off that sensual sway of her hips. Clara loved to be with men, loved their bodies and how they felt inside of her. Despite all of these points, this imp had been able to negate that factor without breaking a sweat. Clara had learned an important lesson tonight, one that every hunter should learn early in their careers.

“I always repay my debts,” Clara said.

CHAPTER 14

THE PRELUDE TO ACTION

1929

Clara had not been recalled in years, so the request from the Reverend Mother herself surprised her. Mind you, the fact this was a private audience with The Tower’s matron really threw her for a loop.

While Clara walked up the staircase all of her memories came back in a rush. The mischief she had caused as a girl put a smile on her face, one which was sure to make the staff cringe.

There were very few from the staff that Clara recognised. The Great War had severely depleted their numbers. Clara could not recognise any of the students, but that was to be expected. A lot had changed since her time here.

Fortunately, The Tower and its architecture were immutable. Clara guessed that this place being anchored to a specific point in time prevented change.

An older student saw Clara approach and opened the doors leading to the Reverend Mother’s chambers. Clara beamed a smile at this awestruck girl in hopes that it would ease her excitement. Alas, it only made things worse and left her worried that the child was about to suffer a case of the vapours.

Had Clara grown into a legend over the years? In her mind, there was nothing worse than living up to the ideals of being famous. Then again, it might have been innocuous, nothing more than Clara being fashionably dressed, which reminded the student of some starlette of the silver screen. Appearance did much to set the stage, especially when she was fresh out of the hen coop.

“Reverend Mother,” Clara said with a slight flourish and bow. “It’s an honour to be in your presence once again.”

“Oh stop it,” the Reverend Mother said with a chuckle. “You could barely remember to use marks of respect as a student.”

“True,” Clara said with a smile.

The matron motioned her to take a seat by an oversized fireplace. While a fire crackled happily within, it lacked sufficient size to warm up the room.

The Tower’s secrets never ceased to amaze Clara. With a wave of the Reverend Mother’s hand, stone blocks slid away to reveal windows and a view of that washed out landscape. Windows? That explained how the matron could catch the scent of students exploring the city.

Clara sat down as directed, crossing her silky smooth gams, and pulled out a compact with a mirror. She used the opportunity to powder her nose and fix up her lipstick. It was all for show; Clara sensed that the Reverend Mother needed more time to prepare.

“Thank you for coming in so quickly,” Augustine said.

“Anytime,” Clara replied.

“How have you been?” Augustine countered.

“As best as one can expect I suppose,” Clara said. “I’m certainly enjoying these new fashions. So liberating!”

Clara enjoyed the freedom to live her life as she saw fit. She had her own clothes; possessions and lived out of a flat in the city that she used as a base of operations. Independence turned out to be a powerful motivator for her.

“Is there anyone of interest in your life?” the Reverend Mother asked.

Now that surprised Clara, but she kept it hidden beneath the veneer of cultivated sophistication. She supposed that if her mother were still alive, that particular question would come up nauseatingly often.

“No,” Clara said flatly.

There were flings. After all, men did have their uses. For one, they could scratch that itch better than she could by hand. They were also handy for the occasional free meal or when she needed to get into exclusive venues.

However, Clara did not feel any desire to keep a man around. They would insist on muzzling her freedom and limiting her activities. Such restrictions would invariably drive her away. So why go through all that drama?

“A shame,” the Reverend Mother said. “Now onto business.”

Clara put her things away and listened intently. She had no desire to show disrespect or miss a telltale detail.

“We lost two hunters recently,” the Reverend Mother said.

Clara was not surprised. Hunters disappeared all the time; some were killed, turned, deserted or simply vanished. To be brought here for missing hunters meant there was something else at play.

“They were members of Las Brigadas Femeninas de Santa Juana de Arco,” Augustine said. When Clara’s eyes widened, the Reverend Mother added, “I see that the name still has meaning for you. It should, since it was founded by members from your group.”

“Do we know why they went missing?” Clara asked.

“We dispatched them to Mexico to determine if there were any outside influences on the government’s anti-clerical activities,” Augustine said. “There were legitimate fears that they were trying to destabilise the Church within the region.”

Clara had heard the news of what was going on in Mexico. Truth was that it mattered little on the world stage. World powers were busy rebuilding or waging war over some distant colony.

“Their taint is all over the conflict. There are rows upon rows of hanged Cristeros lining up major roadways,” Augustine said.

“It’s a rather brutal response to a religious uprising,” Clara said. “So how does this tie into the disappearance of two hunters?”

“As a precaution, our gates to that region were disconnected,” the Reverend Mother replied.

Clara followed the trail of breadcrumbs laid out by the Reverend Mother. During conflicts, gates were shut down to prevent any unauthorised access to the Terminus.

The hunters’ disappearance meant that the deal she interrupted over a decade ago might be back in play. The difference being that this time the payment had been met in full and that worried Clara. The last thing they needed was Drusilla gaining access to The Tower.

“When do I leave?” Clara asked.

Reverend Mother Augustine smiled and, for the first time, Clara noticed that her ageless beauty was beginning to erode. There were a few more wrinkles present and the crow’s feet were asserting themselves. No one could hide from Father Time, unless you made a deal with the devil, that is.

“You’ll leave immediately for our closest gate in the United States. From there, you will make your way south,” the Reverend Mother said.

Clara got up and said, “Right away, Reverend Mother.”

With a smirk, she headed towards the door. Soon, she would be headed off on her next mission and needed to keep her wits about her. She was bound to encounter opposition en route; that was inevitable.

* * * *

Clara walked through the Terminus’ sections until she found the door leading to her destination. While the gates were designed to travel one way, the doors themselves shifted and moved. Otherwise, given time, an individual could map out the Terminus in its entirety.

Now, she stood before the door and opened it. Clara never liked to dwell on what was about to happen, so she just stepped through.

This time, things were different. Normally, the transition was effortless, and the traveller simply found themselves in a new location. This time, the transition was anything but instant and felt like she was being pulled in every direction. Clara opened her eyes and saw a whitewashed world, similar to the one found outside of The Tower.

Unlike the faded memory that was Pompeii, the world before her was changing at a fantastical rate. No one had ever mentioned being conscious during transitions.

So, why am I seeing this? Clara wondered.

With that thought came a whoosh followed by a ball of fire that was gaining on her. Clara looked about, but found no way to push herself forward or manoeuvre. For better or for worse, she was stuck in transit until she reached her destination.

Moments before the ball of flame enveloped her, Clara felt cool grass beneath her bare feet. She instinctively rolled away and sensed a blast of heat pass over her.

Her eyes took a while to adjust, but she soon witnessed the carnage. The door itself had been blown from its hinges, rendering the gateway inoperative. Clara noted how debris was spread out all over the area and that the luscious green grass had been scorched… Just like the top of her outfit.

“I liked that top,” Clara whined while brushing any dirt from her shoulders.

Clara quickly scanned over her surroundings to make sure there were no witnesses. Fortunately, no one had been visiting this graveyard. Odd, it should have been night. Clara had expected to be under the cover of the waxing moon.

Instead, the sun was a quarter of the way up in the deep blue sky. So unless she had been pulled out of time, Clara must have reached an alternate gate. Did that explain the feeling of being pulled in multiple directions?

“Horsefeathers!” Clara exclaimed. “So, where am I?”

* * * *

It took the better part of the morning to find out where she ended up. Unfortunately, the gate’s destruction made it impossible to return to the Terminus to get some answers.

Clara used a shawl she had lifted from a passer-by to conceal the scorch marks, then wandered about until she came across the main entrance. The fact that every sign and the bulk of the graves were marked in French convinced her that she was nowhere near Mexico.

She eventually found her way out into town. People, for the most part, nodded politely and seemed oblivious to the mesquite odour that followed her. Clara kept on a smile and listened intently to their non-Parisian accents.

Without much effort Clara made her way to the river bank. On the opposing side, she saw a small port city that could have been pulled straight out of central Europe. The city even featured a fortified wall and a French château overlooking the old city below.

To her right, she saw a large steel bridge that linked the two communities. Clara had not been here before but she knew enough from the landmarks and language to make an educated guess.

That helped her come up with her next course of action; first, Clara had to find a place to stay. A problem that was easily solved by finding her way to that French château. Fortunately, it was a railway hotel and a luxurious one at that.

After a base of operation was established, she would need to make contact with The Tower. How hard could that be?

* * * *

Clara walked into her opulent hotel room. The plush carpet, decorative bedding and fine crafted furniture adorned the room. In the space of a week, she had gotten a few odds and ends to keep her going.

Her wardrobe was a different matter. The clothes she wore on arrival had long been relegated to the trash heap. Clara amassed a sizable wardrobe, one that would permit her to blend into a crowd or stand out like the paragon of fashion she was.

A bell hop brought in a wireless that Clara purchased earlier this morning. This disruptive technology was making the world feel smaller. Isolated communities now had a peek of the world beyond, exposed to music and cultures they never knew existed.

Wireless radio was a boon to her group. As they became ubiquitous, their order used the technology to stay informed and even coordinate missions.

To communicate, The Tower ran a number station, where an older student would read a series of numbers, repeated every five minutes. All she needed was ink, paper and her wireless.

She turned on the contraption and began to tune it. While most radios were not designed to pick up this frequency, certain models such as this one could be tweaked, all thanks to the Georgians. She tuned it exactly as taught using jewellery tools. At first, she heard nothing more than white noise, but slowly the distorted voice of a young woman cut through the interference.

“Thirty,” the unfamiliar voice said calmly then trailed off.

“Aww, nertz!” Clara said.

Clara looked at the clock and determined that it was running late. Unfortunately, that meant she needed to wait until the numbers were repeated.

After a pause, the voice began to recite the code, “Ten, Five, Eight, Fifty-One, and Thirty.”

The code always used biblical references. In this case, the first three letters identified the book, so J, E and H were used to identify Jeremiah. The latter two numbers referred to the chapter and verse.

Clara looked it up in her room’s copy of the Gideon’s Bible. She already had an idea of what it would say, but it paid to be prudent and confirm what she knew.

“The mighty men of Babylon have ceased fighting, they stay in the strongholds; their strength is exhausted, they are becoming like women; their dwelling places are set on fire, the bars of her gates are broken,” Clara read.

Bible verses were, of course, cryptic and this one required a fair amount of context to interpret. Based on her last jaunt through a gate, Clara determined that the Terminus had been attacked and disabled. Clara was effectively on her own, just like anyone else away from The Tower during the attack.

The Tower did have alternate entrances, kept secret from everyone but the most senior members. No doubt, they would use those to evacuate or to establish a new base of operations. Clara wondered how long that type of operation would take.

“That’s not good,” Clara muttered while pacing the room. “So who’s responsible?”

Clara could not help but think that Drusilla was the one behind this particular attack. That meant that those two hunters had paid the ultimate price so they could gain access to the Terminus.

Trading the lives of your enemy to weaken them globally. Even Clara would take that deal if the situation were reversed, especially if it crippled their ability to wage war.

The creature would have made sure to vacate the scene of the crime. Staying in proximity to the gate might lead to retaliation, so that meant getting as far away from the scene of the crime as possible. Drusilla must have used one of the vampire gates to escape the scene.

At least Clara had a starting point: Find the gate and narrow down potential avenues of escape. That would focus her search and perhaps find a trail to follow.

“Not a great plan, sure, but it’s better than nothing,” Clara said.

* * * *

For Clara, getting into Mexico was not a concern. The Cristeros War required substantial government resources to contain. That meant border guards did not bat an eye at a pretty foreigner crossing the border alone.

All Clara had to do was hide any religious affiliation. The government had grown suspicious of anyone connected with the Church. For now, it was best to avoid being a target for arbitrary arrest.

Clara had a good idea about which gate had been used. It must have been near the city from which those missing hunters were based out of.

The most interesting aspect of this journey had been the transition in flora. When she crossed into Mexico, the area had been dry and arid; but it gradually transitioned into a greener and more welcoming land as she progressed westward.

By the time Clara reached the Pacific, she had crossed a lush jungle. This was a tropical paradise, and she imagined that it would become a major tourist destination once the dust settled.

The two hunters had been operating out of this city when they disappeared. Since this was an important port-o-call, the gate had strategic value.

Clara sensed that The Tower’s reason for choosing a gate location applied just as well to their enemy. So it was reasonable to assume they had a gate nearby as well. With some luck, she might be able to determine the available destination, although by itself that would be daunting.

Once Clara arrived at the train station, she took a cab to a nearby hotel. The surroundings were quite ritzy leaving nothing to desire. Clara was even surprised to find a few telegrams waiting for her.

Clara tipped the concierge and quickly read through the messages. Every telegram received conveyed the same general information; all of the gates except for those in use during the incident were intact but inoperable. That meant the point of attack must have been destroyed as well.

When her luggage had been delivered, Clara pulled out the wireless. As expected, the number station provided the same sequence of numbers, but the message was being narrated by a male student. That meant the station was manned, so The Tower itself must still be intact.

Clara changed into a fashionable dress and made sure to bring her derringer along with a vial of holy water. It was time to explore the city and fashionable attire would distract the government troops while she sought out the Terminus gate. That would be her starting point. She only hoped it would not be a trap.

* * * *

By the time Clara neared the gate, the sun hung high in the sky. While it precluded stealth, it made it impossible for Drusilla or her ilk to be out and about.

The heat and humidity were making it difficult for her to keep dry and composed. She was starting to understand the allure of siestas. Even from this distance, she saw the devastation that surrounded the area. Clara had seen this level of destruction before, but only in a warzone.

“There’s very little left,” Clara said as she ventured deeper into the ruins of what had been a church.

The remnants of the structure were charred and retained that distinctive odour of cordite. An incredible amount of munitions had been used to secure this place. That might explain the ball of flame that followed her through the gate.

There were tracks from heavy wheeled vehicles visible throughout the area. This had all of the hallmarks of a government sanctioned assault. So that meant that she was probably in the middle of a…

“Don’t move,” someone ordered in Spanish.

When she turned around with her derringer in hand, Clara noticed that she was surrounded. There were about thirty or so armed women visible, which meant there were more hidden.

“Ambush?” Clara asked.

“Correct señora,” the leader of the group replied.

“Lovely,” Clara said.

* * * *

Clara had been blindfolded and transported to a new location. Had she been familiar with her surroundings, she may have guessed her whereabouts.

When her blindfold was lifted, her eyes struggled to adjust to the light. Hay, thick supporting beams and wood planks made up her immediate surroundings, so these were either stables or a barn.

She had been tied to a chair and her bindings had been expertly secured. The well executed ambush, transfer and securing of the prisoner were indicative of someone who knew their craft.

Since only women were present at the ambush, that implied she was dealing with the Feminine Brigade of Saint Joan of Arc. The Reverend Mother had already revealed that members of The Tower had infiltrated this group. Although the name was far too…

“I’m surprised you were captured so easily,” Edith mused.

Clara sniggered before she replied, “And miss the chance to see who was running the show?”

“Good point,” Edith said. “How are you enjoying our hospitality?”

“A bit to be desired in terms of locale,” Clara said in riposte.

“Take it up with management,” Edith said.

“I am,” Clara replied. “She won’t lend me her ear.”

Edith did not say a word and for now they were at an impasse. Clara was curious about why they were having this exchange.

“You went native?” Clara asked. “Nice tan, by the way.”

“You’re still hunting, I see,” Edith said. “Are you still bathing in milk?”

“So you haven’t heard?” Clara asked to break the cycle.

That odd question caused Edith’s face to register some emotion. There was confusion, but also a faint sign that their friendship still meant something to her.

“Heard of what?” Edith asked.

“The Terminus was attacked,” Clara replied. “The gates are closed, and The Tower is isolated.”

“When?” Edith sputtered out. “How?”

“When did the government attack that church?” Clara asked.

Edith fell into deep thought. Clara had seen this before in people who struggled to survive. For them, the passage of time was nearly irrelevant. When living to see another day was a challenge, what was a week or even a month in their minds?

“About a fortnight ago,” Edith said.

“I was heading to a gate in California when I was redirected to French Canada,” Clara said. “Ruined a perfectly good dress, too,” she whined before adopting a smirk.

Edith suppressed a laugh. The air between them was beginning to clear. Gone were the theories that Clara had been sent here to bring her back into the fold, theories that may have held true had the Reverend Mother told her about this defection. Was The Tower aware of this development? Had Edith been counted as one of the hunters who went missing? Clara wondered if there was an end to these secrets and omissions.

“Did you break a nail?” Edith asked.

“Do you know how expensive manicures are up there?” Clara asked sarcastically. “I practically had to sell out every hunter in the country to afford it.”

Edith almost cracked a legitimate smile but there was still a distance between them. Clara felt a twinge of regret. Edith’s actions would forever set them apart, even if they ended up working together.

“Your angel was in town,” Edith said while she produced a newspaper clipping.

Clara brought out her hands from behind the chair. She had been holding the rope together after cutting her way to freedom. Fortunately, devout Catholics rarely took away religious artefacts, even those with sharp blades.

When she grabbed the newspaper clipping, Edith raised an eyebrow. She must have forgotten how slippery Clara could be.

“It was taken at a social Gala a couple of days before the attack?” Clara asked.

“Yes,” Edith said. “I recognised her as soon as I saw that picture.”

“Was there any news on the attack itself?” Clara asked.

“None. Not a peep,” Edith replied.

“That’s decidedly odd. The army shows up and blows a church to Kingdom Come, but there’s no mention of it in the local papers?” Clara asked.

“That’s why we were keeping an eye on the site,” Edith said. “To see if anyone came sniffing around. We thought that we might get a few answers from those who came to investigate.”

That strategy made sense, except it failed to account for their opponent anticipating the move. Clara would have left traps behind to throw them off. So far, it seemed that Drusilla did not have the same instincts.

“Did anyone else come sniffing around?” Clara asked.

Edith’s lips went white and in that moment, Clara realised that someone had indeed laid a trap. There was blood on her friend’s hands.

“Did Drusilla come back to inspect her handiwork?” Clara asked.

For a moment, Edith avoided Clara’s gaze but relented before she replied, “Y—Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Clara said. “The two of you must have been close?” Clara guessed.

Clara inadvertently poured salt in an open wound, but her show of sympathy would avoid making her the target of all that pent up guilt. Edith, the woman who was always cool, calm and collected, finally broke.

As tears streamed down her cheeks, Clara freed her feet just in time to catch Edith. Nothing she said or did would stem the tide, so Clara simply held her friend.

“It’s not fair,” Edith sobbed.

“It never is,” Clara said before taking a long pause. “It never is.”

Life was not fair and there was nothing they could do to change that fact. Many held on to the promise of an afterlife, putting up the good fight until the bitter end. This was done in the hopes that Saint Peter would welcome them with open arms when the time came.

Clara knew that this moment could not be hastened. It was not the time to be selfish nor righteous in dealing with Edith; it was the perfect opportunity to show compassion and empathy. Alas, those were traits hunters rarely needed to use.

Edith finally pulled away after what seemed to be an hour of sobbing. Her eyes were red and puffy while her cheeks were covered in streaks. Even in a place like this, Edith still liked to powder her nose. It was often said that vanity was the devil’s favourite sin.

“I’m okay,” Edith said softly.

“It’s quite alright. We’ve all been there at one point in our lives,” Clara lied.

“I doubt it,” Edith said with a meek smile.

“Is there anything I can do?” Clara asked.

“Yes,” Edith said. “Kill that bitch.”

Clara did not expect that. Had the tables been turned, Clara would have led the charge herself. Nothing less would satiate her thirst for revenge.

She was doubly surprised when Edith handed over a slip of paper that contained a series of icons indicating gate locations. Disguised as a business card, it could easily be handed around without arousing suspicion.

“How did you get this?” Clara asked.

“I found it—” Edith said before she broke into tears.

While Clara held Edith, she figured out the rest. The card had been crumpled into a ball as though someone had gripped it with all their might. Somehow her friend had managed to wrestle it away from her killer.

So Drusilla had been there to witness the attack? A gutsy move that worked in Clara’s favour, because she now had a place to start her search.

With the card in hand, she glanced at the design. Some symbols were familiar while others were a complete mystery. One particular symbol brought back memories of Father Allen being dragged away. Her recollection had been so vivid that she nearly dropped the card in response.

This variant featured a crescent moon hanging over a cross. It represented a merging of two faiths, the original, cast aside by the upstart. This must be the location of their holy site, which also meant heavy security.

“Aww, nertz,” Clara said.

Fortunately, this did not appear to be Drusilla’s destination. There was one symbol which had been circled with lipstick. Something the woman who died was likely unable to afford. Besides, who wore makeup while fighting a civil war? Other than Edith?

That symbol did seem to be familiar. It was an icon of the caduceus with an eagle in the background. The caduceus was normally carried by Hermes, however the eagle at its back was the key.

According to Edith, Drusilla desired to be the centre of attention. That jived with previously observed behaviour. Someone who hides from the spotlight would not be found in art throughout the ages. Despite being one of Mexico’s major destinations, it was not large enough to keep her interested for long.

Clara smiled, she remembered seeing this icon adorning a major train station. One that was located in a metropolis, which made infinite sense. The site made it easy to run, hide or party, based on the amount of attention she got.

All Clara needed to do was make sure Edith was alright before leaving. It seemed like the least she could do for a friend. Besides, that woman had roamed the earth for a long time. What was the harm in delaying her death by a couple of weeks?

CHAPTER 15

THE VAN HELSING PARADOX

1929

People often said that revenge was a dish best served cold. Although the originator of that turn of phrase probably never came across those who possessed the chill touch of the grave.

Either way, Clara was not sold on the idea, considering that the memory of a corpse bursting into flames was so near and dear to her heart. It was the heat from those flames that permitted her to keep going until the sun claimed its dominion over the land.

Revenge for whom or for what? Clara wondered.

Clara wondered why she considered her vocation a form of revenge. Her father died working the coal mines while her mother followed suit years later; there was no desire to avenge their deaths.

The hunter was also not sure which of their deaths had been the most traumatic. Was it watching one’s father grow weaker until he could barely get up from bed? She remembered how he would cough up black blood. They eventually found him in the outhouse stiff and blue. Somehow, he managed to make it there during the night but never made it back.

Or was it her mother’s death that had been more traumatic? A slower and more prolonged death, which brought about skin lesions, rashes and the eventual collapse of the mind. Even though she had gone blind near the end and appeared leprous, Clara remembered how men would still come around looking for her services. She had silently hoped that whatever her mother died of, turned out to be catching.

After her death, Clara and her two sisters went their separate ways. That had been her first time on a train and the last time she ever saw them again…

* * * *

Clara snapped back to reality, momentarily confused about where she was.

Was Father Michael’s death the catalyst that drove my thirst for revenge? Clara wondered.

That reason did not jive. He dedicated his life to purging the world of their kind. He knew the risks and died doing God’s work.

“Not a bad way to go,” Clara said absentmindedly.

As the somniferous clickety-clack of the railcars took hold of her mind, Clara realised the sandman would soon claim his prize. It was midday and the train would not get there until a few hours before sunset.

She reached for a picture at her side, a recent shot taken a week or so ago. It featured a woman who walked hand in hand with an unidentified man who was later found dead. Despite a different hairstyle and clothes, Clara knew this woman, the one named Drusilla, who had been responsible for countless deaths and atrocities. Unfortunately, before Clara could deliver her verdict, she was fast asleep.

* * * *

“Check out the rock of ages,” a lobby boy said loud enough that Lewis’ ears perked up.

The concierge looked up to see how a woman in her thirties would deserve that kind of reaction. Sure enough, Lewis’ question was answered the moment he set eyes on the gal making her way towards the lobby desk. Her baggage followed suit along with the love-struck valet who hauled it.

Odd how he seemed unaffected by the crushing weight of her bags. It might have something to do with the fact that his eyes were glued to her ass!

She had the chassis of a Greek goddess, toned and shapely. Despite her obviously active lifestyle, she retained that distinctive feminine sway, which entranced every male in the room.

Of course, the lobby boy would need to be reprimanded, even if his call to arms had been spot on. The day shift’s concierge eyed every movement she made, finding the entire affair sensual despite the lack of visible skin. The lady had chosen to wear a knee-duster that was both longer and of a heavier fabric than fashion dictated. A shame, because he would have enjoyed seeing more of her.

“Good day,” Clara said after giving Lewis the once-over.

Experience shone through her steel-grey eyes and Lewis could tell she had been around the block. All the better for him. He rather liked the idea of learning new tricks.

“I cabled ahead for a room,” Clara said with a soul-crushing tone that reinforced her desire to keep things strictly business. “Under the name of Grey,” she added nonchalantly.

Left with a deflated ego, Lewis wondered how she so easily rejected his masculine charm. The concierge looked over the register and found the entry. First name Clara, he noted and thought it was a pretty name which fit her to a tee.

“Ah, yes,” Lewis said, playing the game. “Clara Grey, right here. May I call you Clara?” he asked with the backing of his warmest smile.

Clara smirked, then shook her head before replying, “No. Miss Grey will do.”

In the background, Lewis imagined his ego being shanked in some dark alley and left to bleed out. Unfortunately, she was not done with him yet, choosing to show no mercy by delivering the coup de grâce.

Clara said, “The key, if you please.”

She grabbed the key from his hand and before he said a word, left with the valet in tow. That man would probably go to the depths of hell as long as she led the way. Bets were sure to be made amongst the staff on how big a tip he would get for his trouble. Lewis assumed a big fat goose egg and was later proven correct.

It seemed that Lewis had been right all along, in that Miss Grey had been around the block a few times. She certainly had no trouble seeing him for the player he was.

* * * *

Clara locked the door as soon as the valet left empty handed and crestfallen. She settled onto the bed, admiring the opulence. There was nothing here but the best and that came as no surprise.

She pulled out the picture from her bible. How odd was it that she had not aged a day since they last met? They never aged, none of them did. That explained why people were so easily convinced to turn their backs on God. Such a small price to pay to avoid the ravages of time.

Rumours swirled within her order that this transition occurred during a ritual that was eerily similar to a baptism, a willful act which ceded their place in paradise for commuting their death sentence on the mortal plane.

The older these creatures were, the more twisted and dangerous they became. Age warped their minds as boredom led them to shed their morality. Their kind would do anything in their power to keep boredom at bay, even for a moment.

Drusilla was a particularly nasty one who had walked the earth for a long time. There was no other way to explain how consecrated ground meant nothing to her. The younger ones often had an aversion to those with faith, although they were rarely conscious of it.

This was an invaluable way for Clara to find threats in a crowd. If she observed someone who kept their distance despite making advances, Clara knew she had found a monster in their midst.

“Betty Jones,” Clara said after reading the name on the back of the picture.

A very modern name, which was Drusilla’s way of avoiding unwanted attention. How many names had she used over the years? As many as the Devil?

“Time to get ready,” Clara said while she grudgingly slid off of the bed.

Tonight she would dress in accordance with fashion, and not for comfort. This would make her the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing, free to manipulate men as she saw fit. Drusilla was not the only one who possessed that particular skill set.

The latest fashions did have disadvantages. For one, it was difficult to conceal weapons. This was a trade-off that women regularly made, since walking into a gin mill while dressed in plate-armour tended to be a giveaway.

Before leaving, Clara put on a long strand of pearls. The pearls formed a fashionably long necklace that draped over her light blouse. In turn, her blouse flowed loosely over her skirt which did the same over her gams.

Her ears were adorned with a set of studded pearl earrings. These were convincing fakes since patrons of The Grand could spot cheap knock-offs from a mile away. Each contained a single drop of holy water, one of the many tricks up her sleeve that had endless possibilities.

Out of habit, she wrapped Father Michael’s rosary around her wrist, snugly enough to conceal its religious significance and the blade fitted at the end. Clara carried it with her everywhere she went ever since the incident. She wore it out of respect for the dead, for those who lost their lives protecting the innocent from the likes of them.

She looked into a mirror, making sure her hair was neatly bobbed and devoid of any stray curls. She then turned the outer casing of her lipstick to extend the carmine dye and wax stick. Clara proceeded to glide the compound over her lower lip. She then followed through to the top but did not extend completely to the edges of her lips. Somehow, the illusion of smaller lips had become the latest craze. No matter how silly it seemed, breaking from the norm in this situation was asking for trouble.

As an additional precaution, she dabbed a thin layer of holy water onto her lips. While women were mostly immune to feminine wiles of others, men took more effort. Fortunately, they tended to be melodramatic losers like Jake who sought to romance their prey. The holy water was a fail-safe and one that saved her life on several occasions.

Lastly, she placed her compact, lipstick and other cosmetics into a small purse. It was a black, sequined affair with a thin shoulder strap that left just enough space to accommodate her derringer. A gal had to look out for herself after all.

Clara slipped her feet into a pair of shoes then double-checked her appearance in the mirror. She hated getting all dolled up for a hunt, but one had to play the part. She wondered if Father Michael ever had to get ready like this and giggled at the thought of him wearing her dress.

“That would be something to see,” Clara said before opening the door. “Now, where’s Drusilla?”

That creature was bound to be at the biggest party going. Where else could she be the centre of attention? Clara had every intention of crashing the party.

* * * *

Max, the night concierge, kept busy by reading the local paper. News never changed, especially the local rag, since the truth was bad for business.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted a keen woman heading towards the fountain. When she stopped to take in the view of the cherubs feeding their eternal pond, his eyes focused on her.

She had all the signs of someone afflicted with the malady called life, an unfortunate condition that invariably led to death. Despite her terminal prognosis, she appeared to be fit, at least as judged by the toned muscles in her getaway sticks and bare-arms.

When this dame turned around, he saw a hint of worry in her eyes. She looked around as though searching for someone. Max even noted how her heart rate rose to match her anxiety.

When she was about ready to give into hysterics, the woman’s eyes floated over to Max. Upon seeing the presence of staff who could assist, she approached his desk and he noted the sensual sway of her hips.

“Oh, where is she?” Clara murmured while looking over her shoulder.

“Where is whom, madam?” Max asked.

The poor dear’s heart was very much at a gallop by now. With curiosity renewed, he hoped this event might temporarily relieve his boredom.

“I was supposed to meet Betty here an hour ago,” Clara said, all worried. “But I fell asleep and woke up too late,” she added while her voice was on the cusp of cracking.

The concierge had no desire to deal with the waterworks. After having lived for over a thousand years, this type of melodrama wore thin. Max’s only interest was to get her out of his hair.

“Betty?” Max asked to see if she would cough the family name.

“Jones. Betty Jones,” Clara replied.

With hope renewed, her voice perked up, but Max quirked an eyebrow. That was not a name that should have rolled off her tongue.

Her eyes were hard to read but he could tell this was not some dumb dora. Years of life and experience shone through clearly enough. Was this one playing him? This was not Drusilla’s conventional fare. How did these two know each other?

While his mind was racing with unanswered questions, he noticed something peculiar. To think he nearly missed the clues! Max was now standing a foot away from the counter as though her very presence could harm him.

He could overcome that fear if need be and even vacation at Sancta Sedes while sucking the life out of the Pope. Still this was a potent clue that there was a hunter in their midst.

“I believe I saw the young miss heading towards the East wing,” Max said wholeheartedly.

At this point, it simplified matters to tell her the truth. It would get her out of the way so he could get on the blower to coordinate a response.

“Really?” Clara asked excitedly.

The girl relaxed and even her heart slowed, a clear sign that she was well trained and could wreak havoc. A hunter of this calibre on the loose was bad news.

“Thank you!” Clara exclaimed. With a warm smile, she added, “I could kiss you!”

“That’s quite alright, madam,” Max said with a nod. “Now, be sure to head in that direction and you are bound to cross her path,” he added while pointing out the way.

“Thank you,” Clara said excitedly.

She walked away with a light seductive sway. It was as though she were inviting him to follow, or was that a dare?

Max could not help it. He was in awe of just how manipulative this one was. With this distraction out of the way, he picked up the receiver and waited for Mavis to answer.

“Operator,” Mavis said.

Tonight Mavis would be the vital link to contain this evening’s complication. Selene would need to wait before getting his undivided attention.

* * * *

“Horsefeathers,” Clara said under her breath.

All the signs were there, so how had she missed them? There was no doubt the concierge was one of them, making it a foregone conclusion that there were others on staff as well. The latter was obvious considering how the lobby boys seemed afraid she would set them aflame.

So this must be a haven for their kind. Hunters like her probably ended up on the menu once their suspicions were aroused. No wonder Drusilla decided to make a stop here.

“Fine place to end up,” Clara said while trying to work out a solution. “Served up like a thanksgiving turkey at a five-star hotel,” she added, none too amused.

Clara stopped once she heard the familiar clicking sound, one that might prove to be her salvation. When she looked in that direction, Clara saw familiar brass and glass contraptions busily spewing out stock market updates.

Could it be? Clara wondered in hopes that she might be right.

On her way to the hotel, she noticed they had sentinels posted atop the perimeter walls. Clara had initially dismissed their presence as some misplaced adherence to historical anachronisms. But given the revelation that this was not a normal hotel, Clara figured they might be automatons used to protect the grounds. If that were true, then Georgians must be involved.

On a hope and a prayer, Clara casually made her way through the crowd towards the ticker tapes. That was the easy part, since men naturally ceded their places once women came into the picture. To think people said chivalry was dead!

She found that these devices were anchored to the marble top, not that anyone would dream of stealing one, at least not here. These marvels of technology were connected to a teletype line and received stock updates from their particular markets. Fortunately for her, one of the machines was beginning to show signs of ink fade.

She gave a quick glance to the immediate area and noticed sliding panels below the marble tops. Clara knelt down, found some ink, and proceeded to place it by the faltering machine. First, she removed the glass, then the inkwell’s cover. Next, she applied liberal amounts of fresh ink while simultaneously pressing down on a button just to the side.

To anyone who observed, Clara appeared to be doing nothing more than routine maintenance. But a hidden function had been triggered within the device which forced it to read from an alternate channel. To Clara’s satisfaction, the machine generated a series of glyphs.

Once the symbols began to repeat, she ripped the ticker tape then replaced the ink and cover. Without a second glance, she walked away from the crowd intent on finding a potential escape.

* * * *

When Clara neared a ladies room, she feigned a quick pace to appear as though nature was calling. She then darted inside, hurried into a stall, and sat down prior to looking at the three-foot length of ticker tape. Three feet of stock updates could make or break fortunes, but tonight it might save her life.

Right before the glyphs, she saw a four, one and four printed. Clara assumed it to be the point of origin for the portal. A reference to anything, but in this case, it was probably a room number. A shame there were only three floors that she knew of. So that meant there was a fourth floor hidden from the public.

“Not much of an escape plan,” Clara muttered.

She looked over the glyphs to see if any were familiar and found two that were. The first was not an option, recognising it as the symbol for the goddess Selene. Clara doubted she would enjoy that particular destination and wondered why it was an option at all. Could this have been a rare example of Georgian humour?

The second symbol was more of a concern, familiar only because she found it at sites their kind were known to congregate.

While Clara often referred to them as those without faith, that was actually a misnomer. They believed strongly in something even if it proved to be the anathema of her faith. This place was assuredly sacred for them, their equivalent of the Holy See. As a destination for her escape, she had no hope of finding allies there.

“Just ducky,” Clara said while considering what to do next.

The proof of her knowledge on the portal could be flushed away, but misdirection seemed to be the best course of action. Clara pulled out her lipstick and circled one of the other destinations. Even if she had no clue where it ended up, they might assume otherwise. That meant the staff would dedicate resources to defend the portal which would weaken their security elsewhere.

When she returned her lipstick to the purse, Clara dropped the ticker tape. For now, it appeared as though she was being careless, understandable given the situation.

Before leaving, Clara looked into the mirror, breathed in deeply, and forced herself to tear up. Time to let loose her tears and fool anyone who caught sight of her. Now they would think she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“Let them underestimate me,” Clara said.

She then recited a prayer while walking through the East wing. It was the hunter’s equivalent of the Last Rights. May as well make this trip worthwhile because Clara doubted she would leave through the front doors intact.

* * * *

Drusilla turned out to be a snap to find. All Clara had to do was stumble across the wildest party. Her target craved to be at the centre of attention and this baby vamp loved nothing more than to be treated like a goddess.

While this flaw made finding her opponent easy, it came at the expense of dealing with a wall of human flesh. People naturally congregated around Drusilla which made most ranged attacks messy.

Nonetheless, the hunter moved deeper into this clip-joint while heading towards the bar. This manoeuvre would give her time to familiarise herself with the surroundings and devise a plan.

From the corner of her eye, Clara saw Drusilla busily petting a young man. Chances were that this boy would end up as her late-night snack. She wondered if this situation could be leveraged to her advantage.

Clara found the bar, then plopped down onto a barstool while crying quietly. In a place this lively, she was bound to get some attention, which was precisely what she needed.

Right on cue, a tough looking bimbo sat down on the adjacent stool and ordered a drink. It took no time at all for him to home in on her. While not the youngest woman around, men knew how to spot an opportunity.

“You okay, miss?” the man inquired.

“Said it would last forever,” Clara said while her voice was on the edge of cracking.

She extended the last word to coincide with the beginning of a wail. Very childlike, but effective in manipulating those with an ounce of empathy. Clara was certain that this one would do fine.

“Excuse me?” the man asked.

She saw his entire demeanour change, then thought bingo! A positive sign that he was buying her brand of baloney.

Clara broke into a shower of tears, sobbing uncontrollably while she fell into his arms. For a moment, the two were locked in an uncomfortable embrace until he realised there was no escape. Defeated, the bimbo wrapped his arms around her in an attempt to comfort her. Now it was his turn to make the next move.

“There now,” the bimbo said.

Clara toned down her crying and sobbed as if she were holding back biblical floodwaters. His hold softened once he accepted his fate.

“Now what were you saying?” the man finally asked.

“Came here with a friend,” Clara said with puffy red cheeks and a shaky voice. “Said he would always be there for me.”

Clara made sure the statements appeared to be somewhat incoherent and disjointed. Men rarely expected the lesser sex to handle such situations with a level head.

“Then what happened?” the man asked before throwing in, “My name is Victor.”

He was looking to establish a rapport even if it threw her off. Clara pulled away and wiped the tears from her face. To cry with that much intensity took a lot out of a girl, especially when forced!

“Clara,” she managed to say.

Clara then set her eyes on Drusilla’s little pet. Her eyes narrowed in a way that would impress upon Victor just how close he was to seeing Mount Vesuvius blow its top.

Victor looked in that direction and connected the dots. Since she had practically drawn him a map, this was hardly the demonstration of a razor sharp wit! Nonetheless, they were on the same page.

The bimbo turned around and ordered a stiff drink. Before Victor’s lips could touch the glass, Clara snatched it away then downed it in one shot. God, she needed that! Sure, it was not very ladylike, and it tasted like coffin varnish, but it lent credibility to her being an emotional wreck.

To sweeten the deal Clara said, “That bastard!”

If the man felt offended in any way, he hid it well. Instead, he ordered another two shots. The bimbo downed one for the road and took a long hard look at Drusilla’s pet. He was clearly working up the courage to play his role in her plan.

“Is that him?” Victor asked.

“Yes,” Clara confirmed before a stream of tears started up again.

Now Victor was left with a choice: either face the emotional wreck named Clara or go after the patsy blamed for hurting her feelings. The latter offered a far greater payoff, so without much fanfare, the bimbo ventured out into the crowd. Clara feigned an attempt to stop him, but his resolve was steeled.

Now that her plan was set in motion, it was high-time she got in position. Clara rolled down the rosary, placing it around her hand and left the crucifix hanging freely.

For a moment, she gazed at Victor’s remaining shot then smiled. The hunter crushed one of her pearl earrings over the glass. She then reached into her purse and pulled out a small silvery object.

With a drink in hand, Clara made her way through the crowd, following in Victor’s wake, passing by a tall woman with dark hair. She gave her a quick glance, noticing those dark eyes, so dark they reminded her of a moonless night. Those eyes bothered her, but she had no time for that, so Clara bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. She knew the pain would keep her focused.

By the time she neared the scene, Victor had already arrived and confronted the patsy. The expressed confusion only served to infuriate Victor which quickly escalated matters.

Clara heard the familiar sound of a punch making contact, followed by the crowd’s inevitable reaction.

Victor is not one to fool around, Clara thought.

Perhaps he had been a palooka? Nothing like a former boxer to make things interesting!

For now, Drusilla remained at the centre of a gawking crowd who enjoyed this fresh bit of entertainment. This was her chance!

Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, Clara prayed in silence.

Clara entered the makeshift ring, ignoring the men while walking casually towards the creature. If people had not been aware of her presence a moment ago, they were about to be.

Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus, Clara recited the second verse.

The words rolled off her tongue, the effect of having spent hours reciting the prayer over her rosary. Bonus, there would be no kneeling tonight!

Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, Clara completed the the third verse.

Clara then pounded back her drink and felt her tongue burn. When she was no more than a step away, Clara slipped the silvery object between her fingers then snapped it open. With a quick flick of her wrist, a bright flame came about.

Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae, Clara recited and could hear the verse reverberate in her mind.

The prayer was as yet incomplete since one word remained. Clara spat out the fluid, forming a slew of droplets, sailing effortlessly towards Drusilla. However, the real show began once the liquid came in contact with a naked flame. The candle-sized flame erupted into a fireball which enveloped the creature’s head.

Drusilla may have been unaware of the impending attack, but the zippo certainly got her attention. The timing had not been planned, but was nonetheless beneficial. At that moment when the flame flashed over, Drusilla had been facing Clara.

The creature screamed while flames enveloped her. The sound was hard to describe, but it reminded Clara of a child running her nails across slate. It had certainly been loud enough to stop the band cold.

Clara kept her distance while fire consumed Drusilla’s hair. The heat was so intense that she wondered if it had been fashioned with embalming fluid. When the time was right, Clara attacked with a quick and precise jab across Drusilla’s jaw.

“Amen!” Clara exclaimed, releasing that word for all the world to hear.

In that moment, Clara realised just how alone she was. Well not literally since the crowd was there, however everyone at the party seemed to be converging on her. As a distraction Clara grabbed her pearl necklace and tore it from her neck. While pearls went flying through the air, she exposed the blade of her crucifix.

Despite the distraction, it seemed unlikely that she would have the time to land a killing blow.

“Fuck,” Clara exclaimed feeling robbed of her already hollow victory.

That is, until the world paused, literally; even the pearls were suspended in mid-air. Clara felt as though she were seeing the world through a stereoscope. Most disturbing was the absence of sound, Clara never realised how loud this party had been until it all stopped.

“That’s an interesting development,” Clara said and found the words reassuring.

Clara did not dare hesitate. She plunged the blade into Drusilla’s spine. The blade penetrated just below the base of Drusilla’s skull, effectively paralysing her lower body. With any luck, the damage might even be permanent. For now, her biggest threat had been neutralised.

Out from her purse came her derringer which she held close to her body to prevent her being disarmed early in the game. She looked about, able to take in this tapestry of horror, and noticed that one-third of the room was made up of their kind. Did that mean the rest of the guests were food? The idea of a place with so many of those things made her skin crawl. How could there be so many?

“You Bitch!” Drusilla said from the depths of Clara’s mind.

Since there was not much left of Drusilla’s face, Clara would have been more surprised to hear her speak. The mixture of burning alcohol laced with holy water had somehow aggravated the damage. If Clara ever made it out alive, she would be sure to add that trick to her playbook.

Clara turned to face the thing, finding her crumpled on the floor. To her right, Victor and Drusilla’s pet were bloodied from exchanging jabs. That paled in comparison to the look on their faces, a mix of shock and awe. Of all the times, she wished for a camera!

* * * *

The sound of applause got Clara’s attention. When she turned to look, a portion of the mob was gone, which gave her a clear view of the bar. Clara saw three women sitting on individual barstools. From this distance, they appeared to be triplets, albeit there were clear differences between them.

The middle sister wore a locket shaped like a key and was imbued with a silvery aura. The sister to the left had a brooch shaped like a lantern on her left lapel that glowed like a spark gap transmitter. Last, but not least, was a sister who also had a lantern adorning her lapel, this time on her right, but appeared to have just stepped out of her grave. The single most disturbing aspect was her ethereal translucency.

“Bravo,” the silvery sister said in a jovial and uplifting tone. After all she had gone through today, any words of encouragement were welcome!

Say, I’ll settle on Silver, Clara said to herself.

“I’ve seen better,” the ethereal sister said.

Ethereal it is, Clara thought once the name popped into her mind.

This comment left Clara feeling as though she had been bludgeoned. Peculiar how those words had no emotion, no warmth, and how they sucked the life out of her.

“Leave her alone!” the sister reminding her of a spark gap exclaimed.

From now on, I’ll call her Sparky, Clara noted.

As a good measure, Sparky sent a jolt of electricity through to Ethereal. The recipient just glared at the others before she gave it her all in a Bronx cheer.

Should she laugh or get ready for another attack? There was something vaguely familiar about this whole affair, but for the life of her, Clara could not remember why.

“Thank you,” Clara said but remained unsure of herself.

“She’s stalling,” Ethereal said without a hint of emotion.

The silvery sister had nothing to say. Instead, she slipped off her barstool. With her first step, the other two merged into a single body, but every so often they would morph from one persona to another.

“You’ll have to excuse her,” Silver said while extending her hand.

“Spirits and necromancy have a tendency to drag a girl down,” Sparky added.

The moment they shook hands, Clara felt the current flowing through her.

“Like anyone believes in magic anymore!” Ethereal said, while pulling her hand away.

Clearly, not the life of the party, Clara thought.

“I will get you for this!” Drusilla said.

Up to that point, Clara had forgotten about that irritation. The triplet’s reaction was humorous. One by one, they glared at Drusilla and snapped their fingers. After the third sister completed this motion, Clara saw Drusilla’s eyes glaze over like an aged photograph. A quick glance around the room confirmed that the rest had been frozen in the same way.

The word bizarre fit this scene to a tee. There were clues leading Clara to believe that this situation had been manufactured by the sisters. Was it necessary? Clara had no doubt that her fate would have been unpleasant had they chosen not to intervene. So why the show?

Clearly, this remnant found her amusing, even one powerful enough to distort reality. The Georgians were unable to manipulate space and time to this degree. Since she was not getting any headway with this one, Clara decided to play a gambit.

“I am sorry,” Clara said followed by a pause to seem natural. “Have we met before?”

All three versions rolled their eyes in succession, but the transitions slowed until they settled on one version. This variant was nothing special to look at and could easily blend into a crowd. For now, it seemed like she was done with her parlour tricks.

“No,” the goddess said while moving back to the bar.

Once the goddess sat down, two full glasses materialised at her fingertips. She raised her glass in salute, then emptied it in one hit. She then pointed to an empty stool. Subtlety was not one of her hallmarks.

With no perception of choice, Clara sat down. She picked up the glass, staring deeply into the swirling liquid. Nothing appeared to be familiar about the elixir. Heck, it even glowed, although it did smell divine. All it took was a drop of the elixir on her tongue to make all of her senses come alive. It was hard to describe, but it easily put the most intense orgasm she ever had to shame.

“Ambrosia,” Clara said absentmindedly while waiting for her body to stop tingling.

“Very good!” the other exclaimed.

The goddess grabbed the glass from Clara’s hand and finished it just like the other. Good thing it had only been a drop!

“That makes you a goddess?” Clara managed to ask.

“Right again,” the other said, before trailing off.

The change in her voice would have been hard to catch to the inexperienced ear. Clara focused on that change while forcing her mind to recover from the effects of the ambrosia. This was important, and she needed her wits to stay alive. Clara blinked a few moments and wondered why the world seemed so dismal and grey now.

“Something wrong?” Clara asked.

“Oh,” the other replied distractedly with a sigh. “It’s nothing, really.”

Clara hesitated. Playing a motherly figure to something that was well over three-thousand years old was suicide. The elderly did not take their advice from newborn babes, a comparison Clara expected to hear from self-professed gods.

She mulled over the situation. First, there was the fight which brought her out of the woodwork, then her powers faded over time. Greek gods were renowned for their need for worship. Like Drusilla, they craved to be the centre of attention, be it on Olympus or in the mortal realm.

Could it be that the wholesale abandonment of their followers had weakened them? Just how bored and lonely were they? How much would they give to feel alive? Even for a moment? How long would such emotions last when they were awash in several millennia of experiences?

“Clara,” she said to break the silence.

“Hecate,” the other said with a half-smile.

So that explained the three distinct personas! A goddess represented by holding two lanterns and a key, or sculpted as Siamese triplets. The goddess of magic, crossroads, moon, ghosts and necromancy. A fitting entity for the hallowed grounds of The Grand.

With a snap of Hecate’s fingers, an amphora appeared permitting her to pour liberal doses of ambrosia. What effect did ambrosia have on the Gods of old?

“Thank you for intervening,” Clara said.

Clara reached over the bar and grabbed the bottle of coffin varnish. She opted to leave her derringer on the counter, doubtful that a firearm would be of any use given her situation. A shame. She rather liked that weapon.

Unlike the Goddess, Clara decided to forego a bit of class and drank straight from the bottle. Compared to ambrosia, this stuff tasted like molten brimstone. Why did that feel so right?

The goddess smiled. It must have been a while since she had last revealed herself. Clara still wondered what made her so special to deserve such an honour.

“Fun to watch,” Hecate said. “They wholeheartedly believe they control every facet of your society. Nice to see them knocked down a peg.”

For the moment, Clara kept quiet. That was the only way to see where she was headed. Clara turned to glance at Drusilla crumpled onto the ground. A shame that she was unable to land a fatal blow. That was a problem that she needed to remedy.

“Besides,” Hecate said, “Someone was waiting for you to fail.”

The goddess pointed to the woman with raven black hair, the one who creeped Clara out earlier. Was this a mythical creature as well?

Now Clara was left with a lot of questions but no answers. All to be expected when dealing with the divine.

“You have a choice,” Hecate said.

Since Hecate did not elaborate, it forced Clara to ask what her choices were. Before that happened, Clara sent another dose of fire down her belly to calm her nerves.

“What choice would that be?” Clara asked.

“For a minute, you managed to shake a few cobwebs loose,” Hecate replied.

So Clara’s assumptions had been correct. The goddess was hoping to regain her former glory, regain even a sliver of her former powers. There were probably some followers to be found, scattered about by the winds of time.

How many still prayed to Athena or Ares? How many people damned others to Hades anymore? These were vestiges of a time long past. Who could fault them for wanting to regain even one iota of their power?

“You mentioned a choice?” Clara asked, but could guess where this was heading.

Hecate smirked and pointed over to the mob of people who, by all rights, should have torn her to shreds by now. That would have been a quick death, perhaps, but also gruesome. Would such a death have made her worthy of canonization?

The hunter swallowed two large mouthfuls of that swill. Clara began to feel close to the edge, and if she were careless, might end up spifflicated. Then what?

“What about that one?” Clara asked while pointing towards Drusilla.

“What about her?” Hecate replied with a yawn.

“She’s still a threat, even in her current state,” Clara said, hinting at the importance of this task.

“Not really your problem,” Hecate said.

There was truth to that statement. Had the goddess not intervened, Clara would not have lived to care. Drusilla would live to see another night, although scarred from their encounter, but nonetheless, free to continue her pattern of violence.

Would stories of my sucker punching Drusilla become legend? Clara wondered.

Hecate’s yawn had been the definitive clue Clara needed. She would live to fight another day, but at the expense of becoming a diversion. Once bored, would Hecate toss her away like trash?

“You would leave her to exact her revenge on the innocent?” Clara asked.

Time for her to start poking the bear, she thought. For a moment, all three versions of her appeared to break away from the unified form but were quickly drawn back together.

“Innocent!” Hecate laughed. “No one in this room is innocent.”

“God forgives all sins,” Clara insisted.

What were her chances of being killed for simply throwing down that name? Hecate glared at Clara, a sore point to their kind, given how Christianity had usurped their dominance long ago.

She walked away and made sure to have the bottle of coffin varnish with her. Clara stopped by Victor then giggled at the look on his face. He may have believed he was going to get lucky tonight, but that was a deal forged entirely in his mind.

“What can you offer me that God cannot?” Clara asked.

Clara’s demeanour was that of a woman who was drunk. The emotional upheaval, stress, and booze created the perfect conditions for Clara to lose control. To pull off a convincing lie, she needed some effects to seem authentic.

As expected, the goddess’ reaction was more violent this time. The goddess split back to her three distinct entities and this time, the Ethereal entity took the lead.

“This one is trying to rile us up,” Ethereal said.

For once, the Ethereal one was right. Sparky began to channel her powers which mimicked a tesla coil as surges of energy flowed along her length. Clara giggled. A goddess that was unable to conceal her temper was silly.

“Now why would I do that?” Clara said while playing the role of a dumb dora.

Clara pulled at her last pearl earring, then crushed it over the mouth of the bottle. The sleight of hand had been quick and expertly done, appearing as though she had been fumbling with the bottle prior to taking another swig.

“See! See! She just did something!” Ethereal exclaimed.

“What did you see?” Silver asked.

Clara saw how Sparky’s eyes were set aglow in a bright blue hue. This was the first time Clara had observed this behaviour, so perhaps her capacitors were fully charged?

This was the perfect time for her to pretend to be scared. Her heart rate rose, and she backed away from the sisters until she tripped over Drusilla. Clara’s fall caused the bottle to fly through the air like some slapstick comedy. To think that all that time spent watching Charlie Chaplin movies would come in handy someday!

When she landed hard on Drusilla, the bottle crashed on top of that monster’s head, drenching both of them in alcohol. God, she hoped the bitch could still feel that. The odour of alcohol invaded every one of her senses. It even made her eyes water.

“Bravo!” Silver exclaimed.

“All part of the act,” Ethereal added to keep the other two focused.

Based on the hysterical laughter, the Ethereal sister’s words were having no effect. Clara needed them to unleash their wrath for her plan to work. That meant it was time to up the ante.

Clara grabbed onto the hilt of her blade buried into Drusilla’s spine. As expected, the blade would not budge. Nonetheless, she hoped this act would force the goddess to play her hand.

“She’s going to attack,” said the decidedly paranoid Ethereal.

“Now wait—” Silver managed to say just as a long and powerful bolt of blue energy made the air crackle.

The beam struck Clara dead centre in her chest, spreading over her body while passing through the blade and into Drusilla’s spine making them both convulse. Whatever prevented Clara from affecting others in the room was easily sidestepped by the goddesses’ power.

The other two sisters turned to look at Sparky. The look matched precisely what was etched on Victor’s face. Of all the times to wish for a camera!

The look on their faces soon dissipated when a bright yellow light filled the room. That bolt of energy had been enough to ignite the alcohol which engulfed both women in an inferno.

“In nómine Patris et Fílii et Spíritus Sancti,” Clara said while making the sign of a cross.

In a final act of faith, Clara closed her eyes, understanding that time was not on her side. This would be a painful and unpleasant death. So where were the effects? Her skin should have been burning, her flesh drawing tight while pain flooded her mind.

Surprised, she opened her eyes and expected to see Hecate taunting her. Instead, she was greeted with a wall of flame growing in intensity.

When Clara glanced at Drusilla, she saw that the flames licked her corpse with zeal. Soon enough, Drusilla would be nothing more than a collection of charred bones. That idea put a smile on her face, succeeding in her mission despite interference from a higher power. Drusilla would never again be a threat to anyone.

So where was the sense of accomplishment? If her life revolved around revenge, then her goal had been met. To die doing God’s work was a good way to go and certainly better than Drusilla’s pot-roast welcome to hell.

Then it dawned on her. Revenge had consumed her life because she was furious with these creatures for robbing her of a mundane life. Until that moment, she never stopped to think about her desire to find a good man, fall in love, and become a mother. The idea of existing like a normal person and carrying on in a world oblivious to what lurked in the shadows had been her idea of paradise.

Clara felt some form of energy from within which was hard to describe. She humbly accepted her fate, even while this power kept the flames at bay. Despite this divine intervention, Clara knew she had mere moments before being overwhelmed.

Clara finished off by saying, “Amen.”

Her final word was followed by an intense shock wave of blinding light that knocked down the column of fire.

“That bastard!” Ethereal said before spitting on the floor.

For the first time tonight, her voice carried a depth of emotion.

“Ab-so-lute-ly,” Silver said before she turned to look at Sparky. “Someone just had to go and stir up enough shit so that egomaniac would save the day,” she added with a hint of disdain.

“What did I do?” Sparky said while feigning ignorance.

Tired of this party, Sparky casually strolled towards the exit. However, that did nothing to diffuse the situation.

“You know full well what you did,” Silver said following suit.

“You always fuck things up!” Ethereal tossed in to get one last dig in.

“Me?” Sparky asked while her eyes were aglow.

“Just ducky,” Silver said.

The latter knew this would take a while to fix. The last fight that broke out between those two had taken the better part of a century to resolve!

CHAPTER 16

FREYJA’S SHIELDMAIDEN

1929

Clara’s eyes opened in a flutter and revealed an immaculate world. Not only were the walls a pristine white, but so was the ceiling, floor and, alarmingly, so was her gown. Everything was imbued with a white so intense that she had trouble focusing.

“Just ducky,” Clara said although her voice did not echo back. “I’m in the nuthouse.”

Clara had been in sanatoriums before, places where colour and style were relentlessly shed away to avoid upsetting a patient’s fragile psyche. Of course this was the first time that Clara was there as the patient.

Occurrences were rare, but from time to time one of them would wind up in an institution. Normally they were newly turned, still clinging to their unravelling humanity. Hunters would pose as doctors or nurses to infiltrate the site and deal with the threat.

“Mister Jones. The doctor feels that some fresh air would do you wonders,” Clara said before chuckling.

Sometimes these sanatoriums would suffer a devastating fire in the early morning, a side-effect of not reaching these patients on time. There were no official causes in the reports, but those from the order had their suspicions.

“Am I mad?” Clara asked.

That was an interesting question. Would someone suffering from a sickness of the mind be able to answer? Would they even be able to formulate the question?

After all, believing she was a well-travelled flapper who cleansed the world of the undead was bound to have people contact the nearest nuthouse. Clara could just as easily be suffering from a psychotic break. After all, she did remember being burnt to a crisp in a fiery inferno.

As the memory of Drusilla’s final moments filled her mind, she had to ask what was going on. Clara reached for her face and felt her smooth clean skin. She sighed in relief, thankful that while perhaps insane, she had not been mutilated in the fire.

“That still doesn’t mean that I’m sane,” Clara said.

In fact, her steady heartbeat, pristine skin, and surroundings did more to lend credence that this had been nothing more than a drug-addled dream.

Clara checked her arms for needle marks but found none. At least the staff did not have to inject her with drugs to keep her docile. However, that did not preclude a steady diet of mind altering pills.

For a moment, Clara seemed to find the idea of being institutionalised somewhat alluring. A world without a care, all thanks to a state sponsored high that she could never afford at an opium den.

While she had never tried to kick the gong around, the idea of being in a blissful drug induced haze did have some perks. But were the monsters encountered throughout her life brought on by her addictions? Did they not refer to it as chasing the dragon? Could it be that for the first time in her life she was actually seeing the world clearly?

The reasonable thing for her to do was to wait for an answer. A doctor or nurse would eventually come through that door to check up on her. Wait? What door?

Clara examined every surface of this room and found it free of seams or imperfections. For lack of a better term she was inside a geometric shape. Fortunately, it was too big to be a coffin.

“So where is this light coming from?” Clara asked.

There seemed to be no specific source. It was as though she were being immersed in pure light. It certainly explained how everything was a pristine colour of white.

Where was she now? Where to begin?

“First off,” Clara said. “Light.”

A pure white light, flawless in every way. True perfection was often used to describe art and architecture, but perfection was a myth. People were imperfect beings who subsequently passed down their flaws to their creations.

Some occasionally told her how she was beautiful and perfect in every way. Of course that was a lie, most men said such things to get a girl in bed. She had her flaws, everyone did, so to witness true perfection was almost…

“Like being touched by God,” Clara said.

Clara looked from side-to-side half-hoping that her current reality would change to reveal the truth of her situation. She supposed that simply invoking his name was not enough.

“Two,” Clara said. “Trapped in a perfect geometric shape.”

Again, the element of perfection implied the presence of God. Clara seriously doubted Hecate could manage such a feat. Those three personalities would never be able to work together long enough to make such a construct possible.

“Construct?” Clara asked.

In this particular case, a blank slate. Clara was quite literally in a world without a basis in reality. She was not thirsty, hungry nor uncomfortable. How long had she been standing? Where was the fatigue? Her need to pee?

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Clara said.

Alice had the benefit of transitioning from one world to the next. As she fell through the rabbit hole, Alice knew that change was afoot and she was now in unfamiliar territory.

If this was a precursor to reality, then who controlled the settings? Now that was a question that deserved an answer.

If Clara were truly insane, then the control of this construct rested with her. That meant things would be getting rather interesting. To her, it might have appeared normal, but for some hapless witness it would be a rendition of Through the Looking Glass on Opium.

If she were sane and in control, then Clara hoped she could imagine something more entertaining than this sterile scene. A mind this empty spoke volumes on the personality that spawned it.

That meant someone else was pulling the strings. Who and why were questions that she could not easily discern. She needed to peer beyond this construct to gain insight.

“What a shame… Yet another challenge,” Clara said before letting out a long sigh.

* * * *

Time passed by and nothing changed, so Clara wavered between the presumption of madness and sanity. Each argument, when carried to its conclusion, could be used to prove either side.

Eventually, she gave up on this never-ending battle of wills, closed her eyes, and began to meditate. Given the lack of distraction, it was only fitting to relax her body and mind. Once her heart rate slowed, Clara began to recite a prayer.

“What’s the harm in meditating?” Clara asked. “None at all.”

“Quite correct,” a voice boomed.

Clara fought against her desire to confront the voice. If it waited this long to make its presence known, then she should not risk rolling back any gain.

“I’m Clara Grey,” she said.

A weak opening move, but she had no precedents on how to approach such a situation. How did people normally introduce themselves? They provided their identity and waited for a reply.

“Ah yes,” the man said. “Just as my register states.”

“Saint Peter?” Clara asked.

“Of course, child,” Saint Peter replied. “You can open your eyes now.”

When Clara complied, she found herself in a world of dreams. Clouds, angels frolicking in a bright blue sky, golden gates, and a wise old man behind a podium looking through a ledger. It was perfect, too perfect.

“Had I guessed Osiris, Aeacus, or Freyja, would you have replied accordingly?” Clara asked.

The old man quirked a brow while his deep blue eyes twinkled. Even now, she saw that he was concealing a slight smirk.

“Of course, child. That is, if you had been Egyptian, Greek or Norse,” Saint Peter said. “Freyja would have been proud of her latest shieldmaiden.”

“To ease my transition?” Clara asked.

“In a way,” Saint Peter replied. “Unlike your faith, death has always been a part of life.”

“Will I be judged?” Clara asked.

Saint Peter chuckled then said, “You were judged before you reached these gates.”

Clara’s eyes widened in surprise. While technically an answer, it did not address the how. Did that matter?

“Were you expecting different surroundings?” Saint Peter asked.

Clara shrugged because she honestly had never thought about it. If one followed the tenets of a Franciscan monk, then Clara was far from immaculate. Her list of sins was rather extensive.

Saint Peter flipped a few pages. He appeared to be pensive as though he were absorbing a large amount of new information quickly.

“Projections indicate that you might have lived for thousands of years had you accepted Hecate’s proposal,” Saint Peter said.

Clara remained quiet. The idea that she could have lived a long life if she acquiesced to that goddess was astounding. She had been so certain in her convictions that she would end up as a chew toy to be tossed out once threadbare.

“You were given a sixty percent chance of ending up a goddess in your own right,” Saint Peter added.

“What happens in the other forty?” Clara asked.

Saint Peter cringed before he said, “Less than desirable.”

“Just ducky,” Clara said.

“Although, you did cut short Drusilla’s forecasted lifespan by two thousand years,” Saint Peter said. “I can also assure you that she won’t be passing by these gates.”

It was Clara’s turn to quirk a brow, even if the news did not come as a surprise. Although, it was still a point of pride that Drusilla’s reign of terror warranted a different locale.

“You only talk of probabilities,” Clara said. “Why’s that?”

Saint Peter leaned in nice and close from his podium before he said, “Free will tends to wreak havoc on predicting the future.”

Until now, Clara equated omnipotence with all knowing. Admittedly, it would be difficult to account for over a billion people on the planet. Accounting for every action and thought accurately over time meant there were no random elements to life. In hindsight, Clara thought that reality would turn out to be quite boring.

“Were those two choices the reason I’m here?” Clara asked.

“You were judged on the whole of your life,” Saint Peter said. “Those were merely recent highlights.”

The gates opened, but Clara did not move. She was not quite finished with this conversation.

Sensing this, Saint Peter said, “Those highlights did not tip the balance of where you’d end up. However they did a great deal in determining your role in the afterlife.”

Clara looked puzzled when she said, “Role? What role?”

“All in due time,” Saint Peter said while directing her through the gates.

So Clara smiled, curtseyed smartly, and walked on through. She wondered what she would find on the other side.

“All in due time,” Clara said.

EPILOGUE

NULL AND VOID

2017

What happens when you die, Momma?” Clara once asked.

Her mother looked down at those big steel-grey eyes and paused. For a moment, the pain in her mother’s eyes were visible, perceptible even to someone so young.

“Well—” her mother said before wiping her eyes. “People who pass away go to heaven.”

Clara continued to look into her mother’s eyes even as the predictable question came to her lips, “Heaven?”

What is heaven? It was not the easiest concept to explain, especially when one’s husband had just been lowered into the cold hard ground. Questions were natural and to be expected, but this was a daunting task for a mother who could barely keep it together.

“Well—” her mother said. “Paradise is a place where all your loved ones are waiting for you. Where you’ll wish for nothing as everything you desire will be there.”

* * * *

“She almost had it right,” Clara said in response to that faded memory.

Clara was perched at the edge of a balcony. This particular vantage point gave her a pristine view of the mortal realm below. Even from this distance, she was able to make out landmarks and even individuals going about their lives.

From here, she had no trouble witnessing the chaos that reigned on the mortal plain. People continued to be born, grow up, fight wars, and die. The only difference was advancements in technology and medicine. Funny how that only served to make life more complex.

That curiosity and drive to understand the world is what interested Clara. She often wondered how life would have turned out had she been born in the twenty-first century. All of that knowledge available at her fingertips appeared to be a blessing for those curious like her. Still, would she have made use of it?

Everyone here could access the knowledge of creation, but many remained blissfully ignorant. Would she do any better without her educational foundation? Or would she employ this knowledge to achieve her goal of committing the perfect crime?

“God I need some barneymugging,” Clara said absentmindedly while thinking that it had been close to ninety years since she last enjoyed the carnal pleasures of another.

Sure, there were many who avoided this place for fear of being reminded of what was lost. Clara did not share their views. As one of God’s soldiers, her interactions with other souls were to be kept to a minimum. From here, she dreamed of the good she could do, if only they loosened her leash.

Instead of answering her questions, she kept on observing the world. Wait! What was that? Were her eyes deceiving her? Clara could have sworn she observed a shockwave emanating from North America’s Eastern seaboard.

“I thought you’d be here,” Gabriel said.

Clara did not turn around to look, but smirked before she said, “The easiest way to be found is to stay in one place. What brings you here Gabriel?”

This was a tall man who was also built like Da Vinci’s David, a perfect rendition, except for the lack of flaws. His hair was always perfectly trimmed, his muscles developed and cut. Even his wings were flawless, white, and without a single feather out of place.

Was this the angel Gabriel from scripture and lore? Clara did not know, and never bothered to ask. Curious how that particular question never came to mind until now?

“There’s been a violation,” Gabriel said flatly.

Clara raised an eyebrow. Any violations on the mortal plain meant that people were not playing by the rules. Free will was an aspect respected by both sides. So a violation meant that someone was denied the opportunity to choose.

“Sounds serious,” Clara said in hopes of getting more information.

Gabriel chuckled before responding, “You look down all the time and yet you cannot see.”

“And miss out on the opportunity to learn from your wisdom?” Clara asked.

For a moment, there was silence and Clara’s discomfort grew. Had she managed to get under his skin? That would certainly be one for the record books.

Alas, Gabriel smirked before he broke the silence, which meant he had been playing her. Truly there was much to learn, even after death.

“A soul was torn away from the light of God,” Gabriel said.

Many choose to forfeit their souls in exchange for everlasting life in the mortal realm. Their baptism of sorts, meant they turned their backs on God and his divine light. Such bargains had been made with humanity since time began.

“So what am I missing?” Clara asked.

Gabriel resumed his disconcerting silence from earlier. Since they were both immortal, there was no reason to hurry things along, and yet there was something unnatural about the experience.

“It was not voluntary,” Clara guessed to keep the conversation going.

It was an educated guess, of course. If their kind could banish anyone they wished, then that would alter the balance? All of their actions were guided by the need to maintain an equilibrium, so a deliberate disruption meant a correction was due.

“What are the ramifications?” Clara queried.

“Our agreement is null and void,” Gabriel said. “We can wage war if we so choose.”

“I sense a but in your statement,” Clara said.

“We would lose the wager,” Gabriel answered.

Clara knew very little about this wager. Many mused about a game of chance being played for supremacy over all outstanding souls. Some aspects of these stories were likely true, while others were nothing more than details added to dress up the truth. All Clara knew for certain was that no one talked about it.

“So the Council decided to send an agent,” Gabriel said.

“Me?” Clara guessed. “Why me?”

“Can’t send one of the seven,” Gabriel said. “That would be tantamount to going nuclear.”

“So why choose your most junior conscript?” Clara asked.

The ability to experience life once again, set her heart aflutter. It would likely not be permanent, but nothing down there was.

“You were mortal. You knew how to fight them,” Gabriel said. “Besides, we knew you’d be willing.”

“Can’t hide anything from you, can I? And to think I once believed that nuns were unsurpassed at mind reading!” Clara exclaimed. “I’m in. So what do I do?”

“Fall,” Gabriel said.

“That’s it?” Clara asked.

“That’s it,” Gabriel replied.

“Anything I should know?” Clara asked.

“Keep your true nature concealed as much as possible,” Gabriel said. “Your powers will be limited, and that varies from person to person.”

“So act and behave as though I were mortal and everything will be fine?” Clara asked.

“That would be a safe bet,” Gabriel said. “Ready?”

“Always,” Clara said.

Without hesitation, Clara looked down and leapt from the railing. At first, she floated in mid-air while she freed her mind. On command, Clara dropped like a stone, reaching higher and higher speeds until she glowed in the atmosphere.

“What a rush!” Clara shouted while tearing through the atmosphere like a meteor.

The world beneath her grew in detail. While she had no idea where she was headed, that did not bother her. Clara sensed that her drop was guided.

Smudges of grey against the terrain became cities, followed by streets, buildings, and finally, people. No one seemed to be aware of her descent, even though she must have looked like a shooting star against the night sky.

Will a little girl wish upon me? Clara wondered with a giggle.

Clara made out her destination, a nondescript courtyard nestled between multi-story structures. There would be no one around to witness her arrival once she made contact.

“Three… two… one…” Clara said.

Right on cue, her feet hit the ground and absorbed some of the impact. Unfortunately, that had not been enough, so the concrete beneath her deformed, cracked, and was scorched by the heat.

She took a moment to adjust, stood up, and then straightened out her back. While no longer visible, a set of majestic wings could be seen folding in the shadows. How fortunate, since her wings would have drawn a few errant stares had they remained visible.

“Just as much as not wearing a stitch of clothing,” Clara muttered while eyeing her bare body. “At least I’m no worse for wear.”

Gabriel should have mentioned how her clothes would burn away as she fell to Earth. Then again, life on Earth was not without its challenges, and this was bound to get a few laughs back home…

LEXICON

A Snap

Something which is quick or easy.

Ab-so-lute-ly

Agreement in the affirmative.

Absent Treatment

Dancing with a bashful partner.

Airtight

Someone who is extremely desirable or attractive.

Attaboy

A congratulatory statement.

Balled Up

Confused and/or messed up.

Baloney

Complete nonsense.

Baby

Another word for sweetheart. Can also be used to denote something of high value or respect.

Baby Vamp

A woman considered attractive or popular.

Bank’s Closed

Not interested in kissing or fooling around.

Barneymugging

Euphemism for sex.

Beat It

Another word for go away.

Batty

Driving someone crazy.

Bee’s Knees

Excellent or very high quality.

Berries

Someone attractive or pleasing, or another word for great.

Berry Patch

Euphemism for a woman’s genital area.

Betty

An attractive woman.

Billboard

A flashy man or woman.

Bimbo

Slang for a tough guy.

Bingo

Used to express satisfaction at a sudden positive outcome.

Bird

A term for someone odd or strange.

Bird Cage

Elevator car.

Biscuit

A pettable flapper.

Black Tuesday

Also known as the Great Crash of 1929.

Blower

Slang for the telephone.

Blowhard

A braggart and/or a bully.

Bootleg

Alcohol that has been illegally produced.

Bronx Cheer

Loud sputtering noise to show disapproval. Also known as a raspberry.

Bub

Often used as an insolent term of address.

Bull

Slang referring to a police officer or another branch of law enforcement.

Bump in the Night

Unexplained and frightening noises at night, purportedly caused by ghosts.

Bumped Off

To have someone killed.

Bum’s Rush

To be forcibly removed from an establishment or locale.

Cable

Message sent by telegraph.

Cash

Euphemism for a kiss.

Caper

A criminal act which normally involves an elaborate plan.

Cat’s Meow

An excellent person or thing.

Chassis

Slang referring to the female form.

Cheque

Euphemism for saving a kiss for later.

Chippy

A woman who is the polar opposite of frigid.

Clip-Joint

A dance club filled with rich or sophisticated patrons.

Coffin Varnish

Moonshine.

Cool His Heels

Forced to wait.

Copacetic

That which is wonderful, fine or alright.

Cupid’s Bow

The way a flapper uses lipstick to make the bow more prominent, while also making their lips appear smaller.

Crashing the Party

The act of getting into a party in which one was not invited.

Daddy

A young woman’s boyfriend or lover, especially if he’s rich.

Dame

A lady.

Dapper

A flapper’s father.

Dead Hoofer

A lousy dancer.

Declaration of Independence

A divorce.

Di Mi

Dear me.

Dimbox

Slang for a taxi cab.

Dingle Dangler

Someone who insists on calling.

Doll

An attractive woman.

Doozie

Something that is big, complex, outstanding, or unique of its kind.

Dough

Slang for money.

Drugstore Cowboy

A man who tries to pick up women on a street corner.

Dumb Dora

A woman who is considered lacking in intellectual prowess.

Ducky

Great or wonderful. Can be used sarcastically to imply the opposite.

Edge

A term applied to the feeling of intoxication.

Electric Cure

As in, the electric chair; a permanent solution.

Face Stretcher

An older woman who adopts youthful fashions or wears heavy makeup to conceal her age.

Fancy Smancy

A derogatory way to refer to something high-class.

Finale Hopper

Someone who arrives after everything has been paid for.

Fire Extinguisher

A chaperone.

Flapper

A stylish, brash, hedonistic young woman with short skirts and shorter hair.

Flat Tyre

A dull-witted, insipid, and disappointing date.

Flivver

A Ford Model-T or any old car after 1928.

Flour Lover

Girl who is too liberal with the face powder.

Four-Flusher

A term applied to cheats, swindlers, and liars.

Gams

A woman’s legs.

Getaway sticks

A woman’s legs.

Giggle Water

An alcoholic drink.

Goofy

To be in love.

Hayburner

A vehicle that uses a lot of fuel.

Heater

Slang that is applied to firearms.

Heebie-Jeebies

Nervous or anxious.

Helluva

Alternate pronunciation for hell of a.

Hen Coop

A term referring to a beauty salon.

High-Hat

A snub.

Hit on All Sixes

Going full throttle or all out.

Hoity-Toity

Marked by an air of assumed importance.

Hole

Slang for solitary confinement in prison.

Hooch

Another term for bootleg alcohol.

Hoofer

Slang for a dancer.

Hoofing

The act of dancing.

Hoosegow

Slang for prison.

Horsefeathers

The equivalent of a modern swear word.

Indoor Aviator

Also known as an elevator operator. This is a play on the fact that their lives are composed of a series of ups and downs.

It

Slang for someone with sex appeal.

Jalopy

An old car or a beater.

Jane

A term applied to any female.

Juice Joint

Another name for a speakeasy.

Keen

Attractive or appealing.

Kick the Gong Around

Smoking opium.

Killjoy

A person who spoils other people’s fun or enjoyment.

Knee-Duster

Slang for a skirt.

Kodak Moment

A memorable moment that one would wish to capture on film.

Mad Money

Cab fare home if she gets in a dispute with her escort.

Make Do

Working with what one has.

Malarkey

Talk that is nonsensical.

Middle-Aisle

The act of getting married; walking down the middle-aisle at church.

Moll

A gangster’s girl.

Mistress Grundy

A priggish or extremely tight-laced person.

Munitions

Face powder and rouge.

Mustard Plaster

Someone who is not wanted and will not leave.

Neck

The act of kissing with passion.

Nobody Home

Describes someone who is dumb or dumbfounded.

Nertz

Used to express disgust, defiance, disapproval or despair.

Nervous Nellie

Timid or worrisome.

Off-Time Jive

To be inappropriate, impolite; to have bad manners.

On the Lam

Someone who is fleeing from the authorities.

On the Up and Up

Legitimate and above board.

Ossified

Someone who is intoxicated.

Palooka

An average or below average boxer.

Peashooter

The term for a firearm, normally of smaller calibres.

Petting

To make out or participate in foreplay.

Petting Party

A party where young couples make out.

Piece of the Action

Share of the profits or advantages generated by an activity.

Pill

A person who is generally unlikable.

Poufter

An effeminate male.

Pushover

Individuals who are easily convinced or seduced.

Quiff

A term applied to sexually active females.

Real McCoy

A term applied to an item that is genuine.

Ritzy

Based on the Hotel Ritz; implies elegance.

Rock of Ages

A middle-aged woman, usually over thirty.

Sap

Someone who is easily fooled.

Sapphic

Slang for a lesbian.

Says You

A reaction of disbelief.

Shell-Shocked

A term used during the Great War referring to Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

Speakeasy

An illicit drinking establishment dealing in bootleg alcohol.

Spifflicated

Someone who is intoxicated.

Spiffy

Something that is elegant or opulent.

Stewbum

Someone from the dredges or an old drunken hobo.

Sure-Fire

Will not fail.

Swanky

A term similar to ritzy.

Talkie

Original term for movies where actors speak.

Take for a Ride

The final drive someone will take before they are murdered.

Tapped Out

Slang used to imply that one has no money.

Tarte

Slang for a prostitute.

Tits

Slang for breasts.

To a Tee

Something which is made or fits properly or to exact specifications.

Toe-to-Toe

Being in direct confrontation or opposition.

Torpedo

A hired gun or enforcer.

Tough

Too bad.

Townie

Someone from the city.

On the Up and Up

Open and honest.

Upchuck

Slang for the act of vomiting.

Wallflower

A person who stands apart from others during a dance or party.

Waterworks

Crying.

What am I, Chopped Liver?

Frustration or anger at being ignored on a social level.

ABOUT EVELYN CHARTRES

Evelyn Chartres is the nom de plume for a self-published Canadian author. The writer of eight Gothic fantasy novels, Evelyn released her debut novel, The Portrait, in 2016, and her latest, The Van Helsing Impetus, in 2023.

A fan of the phrase ‘live to eat’, Evelyn shares her recipes on evelynchartres.com. These recipes have a loose focus on French-Canadian cuisine, which feature deep-dish meat pies, seafood, and desserts that are rarely seen outside of La Belle Province.

Evelyn is currently living in Ottawa, Ontario, and is busy laying the foundations for her next book featuring Marc.

Follow Evelyn on Facebook

http://www.facebook.com/theportraitofawoman

Follow Evelyn on Instagram

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Follow Evelyn on Twitter

http://twitter.com/EvelynChartres

Visit Evelyn’s Website

http://evelynchartres.com

ALSO FROM EVELYN CHARTRES

THE PORTRAIT

“A vision from the past becomes a writer's deadly obsession.”

The Portrait is a Gothic fantasy about Victoria Frost, an author who develops an unhealthy obsession for her character. As events unfold, her infatuation sours, forcing Victoria to question her sanity. Is she simply slipping into madness, or is there something else at play?

The Portrait features a mixture of contemporary and historical scenes brought forward as Victoria explores the world of her muse. Using both prose and art, every scene yields a new piece of the puzzle, providing insights on the origins of her character's portrait and its featured model.

Discover how a vision from the past becomes a writer's deadly obsession.

THE GRAND

“Even things that go bump in the night need a place to unwind.”

You will find the Grand nestled atop a cliff that overlooks a cursed valley. Surrounded by foreboding mountains, this ritzy French palatial-style hotel is a place where a roaring party’s success is measured by its body count. This hotel does not cater to the rich or famous. Instead, its staff and facilities serve a clientele with a more discerning palate.

The Grand is a collection of Gothic fantasy stories with an overarching storyline that incorporates supernatural themes. The Roaring Twenties serves as a rich historical, linguistic, and cultural backdrop.

Centred on the victims, each story brings a unique perspective to the hotel, the staff, and their esteemed guests. At the Grand, it is best to remember: Even things that go bump in the night need a place to unwind.

THE VAN HELSING RESURGENCE

“While the Roaring Twenties are long gone, a heroine’s work is never done.”

Clara Grey was a hunter and part of a secret organisation known only as the Tower. During the Roaring Twenties, she sacrificed herself to destroy a powerful vampire. As a reward, she joined the ranks of Heaven’s army, and for ninety years, Clara yearned to take an active role in the mortal realm.

In an attempt to alter the course of history, scientists trigger an experiment with devastating results. The effects are felt not only on Earth, but in other realms as well.

Clara and an echo from her past are sent to Earth to investigate the case of a stolen soul. For this transgression, Heaven could go to war, but they choose to send Clara—and Edith. They fall to Earth, focused on their mission.

Both had been isolated from the mortal realm for generations. In their lifetimes, monsters were on the decline, but learn how much the modern world has changed. While navigating this alien land, will they adapt to their surroundings to fulfil their mission? Or be swallowed up by the evil that lurks in the shadows?

Before reading on, be sure to remember: While the Roaring Twenties are long gone, a heroine’s work is never done.

THE VAN HELSING INCURSION

“Hunting things that go bump in the night is child's play when compared to juggling relationships.”

During the Roaring Twenties, Clara Grey hunted things that went bump in the night. On her last mission, she paid the ultimate price to rid the world of a powerful foe. As a reward, she ascended to Heaven and joined its ranks as an angel.

Ninety years after her death, Clara fell to Earth, intent on saving a soul. While successful, killing an old god in self-defence barred her from returning to Heaven. Lost in the modern world, Clara was forced to seek unlikely allies to navigate through these uncertain times.

Four months later, Clara has settled in with Elizabeth, a young woman she saved shortly after descending to Earth. For a gal who had sworn off anything that hinted at normalcy, Clara learns that being average takes more effort than she suspected.

Alas, repercussions from choices made on that fateful mission have not been idle. Her enemies trigger a chain of events that force our fated femme fatale to act. Is Clara prepared to deal with the fallout? Will her allies come to her aid? Or must she stand on her own?

Before reading on, be sure to consider: Hunting things that go bump in the night is child’s play when compared to juggling relationships.

THE VAN HELSING IMPETUS

“While she failed at normal, she's still a force to be reckoned with.”

Clara Grey is a fallen angel, one who tried her hand at having a normal life. That experiment came to an abrupt end when werewolves kidnapped her gal. While victorious, tales from that fateful night became the stuff of legend. Now known as ‘the Valkyrie,’ she is a wanted fugitive.

She has been on the lam for months, using a nondescript persona to evade the authorities. All the while, Clara is tormented by voices from a goddess that she thought long dead.

Clara has never faced an enemy that can strike from the shadows, forcing her to align herself with the things she hunted in life. Even with an army at her back, does she have what it takes to defeat her foe?

Before reading on, be sure to consider: While she failed at normal, she's still a force to be reckoned with.

HIGH WATER MARK

“When humanity has been driven into the sea, what lurks above the waves?”

Anna is a humanoid mermaid who spends her days with the local timekeeper until a podmate comes to her with a proposal. They hatch a plan to head out into the watery ruins of humanity in search of lost technology and materials. For a young mermaid living in the dredges of society, the promise of riches from such a find is just too good to pass up.

Armed with nothing more than an old map and some rusty road signs to follow, they are soon reminded that adventure often brings forth more than its fair share of rough waters. Her friend gets captured, leaving Anna alone in a world where mermaids are nowhere near the top of the food chain.

Follow Anna as she makes landfall and learns why her ancestors abandoned the surface. Lost in a world that is perpetually covered in a thick fog, Anna must navigate through what remains above the high-water mark. What will she find? An ally? A foe? Or will she find nothing but death and destruction?

Before reading on, be sure to consider: With humanity driven into the sea, what lurks above the waves?

DARK HEARTS

“She may look like the Little Red Riding Hood, but she really is the wolf!”

Julia is a werewolf who turned against her pack and saved an innocent life. As a reward for her good deed, she ends up in prison, but thrives while others like her waste away.

On the eve of a full moon, an unknown benefactor arranges for Julia’s release. Faced with the prospect of returning to the city that nearly killed her, she opts to disappear into the surrounding woods.

This is the opportunity she needs to find herself and reconnect with the wild. As her past resurfaces, the supernatural and dark elements within humanity take notice of her.

Before reading on, be sure to consider: She may look like the Little Red Riding Hood, but she really is the wolf.

LICENCE

The Van Helsing Paradox is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblances to reality are purely coincidental.

All images and text herein are copyrighted:

The Van Helsing Paradox

Copyright © 2018 by

Evelyn Chartres (Nom de plume)

theportraitofawoman@gmail.com

All rights reserved.

Google Play – Fourth Edition – ISBN 978-1-9994606-0-0

Cover art designed by Amy Queau

http://qcoverdesign.com

Table of Contents

FRONT PAGE

ABOUT

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

THE VAN HELSING PARADOX

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

EPILOGUE

LEXICON

ABOUT EVELYN CHARTRES

ALSO FROM EVELYN CHARTRES

LICENCE