Clara: I need some information. Did Drusilla have a protégé?

Clara put down the phone and turned her attention to the other side of her window. From this angle she had a view of the Atlantic. There were white caps forming over the waves and dark clouds loomed in the horizon. A storm is brewing.

“I’ve been looking for a reason to stay in tonight,” Clara mused.

She searched the room for a booklet on local restaurants or some flyers. Clara’s search was cut short when the phone vibrated. Clara cocked a brow, surprised that a response came so quickly.

Evelyn: A woman who’s that powerful rarely travels alone.

Clara tapped on her messages. She shook her head and tapped the button to start a new conversation. From there, she scrolled through a short list of contacts, and selected Elizabeth, from her choices.

Clara: It’s me, your live-in angel with black…

Her thumbs stopped typing. The message sounded way too cavalier for a woman who betrayed the one who she loved. Doubly so when it had been months since she made contact. Instead, she tried a different tactic.

Clara: I know you’re mad at me. I figured you’d needed some space…

This time she was trying to offload the blame for ghosting her girlfriend onto Elizabeth. That’s exactly the type of shit a drugstore cowboy would write to an ex when his latest catch escapes his clutches.

Clara was overthinking it. The words did not need to be eloquent, nor poetic. She only needed to write from the heart. Alas, Clara had made a career out of encasing her heart behind an impenetrable wall. Emotions get hunters killed…

Clara: Lizzie, this is Clara. I miss you.

The cursor taunted her, poisoning her mind with doubt and guilt. Her fingers hovered over the ‘Send’ button, but could not work up the courage to tap. Frustrated, she flicked up and was greeted by the background image.

She missed the twenties. For her, the world was simpler back then. Sure, her life had always been teetering on the fine edge of a blade, but she was damn good at it. Clara also understood that way of life, and the perks were to die for. Everything she did these days felt like a chore. The gains she made tasted as sweet as a spoonful of sand.

“I’m sure Hecate has something to do with this,” Clara groaned.

As Clara gained mastery over Hecate’s powers, her self-control waivered. At night, while in a state between the dreamworld and reality she sometimes heard them conspiring on how to escape her grasp. Their personas are bleeding through to my consciousness.

Clara was back at the hotel room. In her days as a hunter, she had often been a guest of the best hotels money could buy. Vampires rarely toiled in the trenches, since they viewed themselves as being above humanity. To find her prey, Clara needed to hide in plain sight, offering herself up as a delectable meal… I made sure they got a severe case of indigestion.

A hunter’s life had its share of perks, including hotels, luxury train compartments, instantaneous travel to major destinations, and the outfits. Clara’s one passion was keeping up with the latest fashions and the Roaring Twenties had been a treat for her. It helped that she had the youth, beauty, and the body type to sell the style… not to mention the attitude.

These days she wore plain clothes, work boots, and stayed at run-of-the-mill places. There was nothing extravagant in what she did, nor did she indulge. Now she was simply…

“Practical and boring,” Clara said before letting out all the air out of her lungs.

“Sister Maria passed willingly through the veil,” Eleanor said.

“You mean the pale woman with stern features, about yay high and a voice that strikes fear into the heart of children?” Clara confirmed.

Eleanor nodded before adding, “The one who died violently on the grounds?”

“How can you even tell them—” Clara asked before realising it was best to avoid this rabbit hole. “While I don’t remember it that way, that’s the one.”

“She went up the staircase,” Eleanor said.

“Have you ever known a soul to return?” Clara asked.

That question was pertinent, even if she personally knew of a few examples. Still, she suspected Eleanor would provide a cryptic response.

“Moreso of late,” the Eleanor said. “However, I cannot sense their presence if they return.”

“This was Ada’s husband?” Clara confirmed.

“It was,” Eleanor said.

Clara took the answer as being a clue. She noted the headstone was similar to Ada’s in appearance and similarly aged. Her husband died over a year before Ada passed. What? Pregnancies don’t last that long…

Several questions swirled around her head until one coalesced.

“Who paid for the tombstones?” Clara asked.

“Who indeed,” the Eleanor of the South replied.

“Did you take them to their final destinations?” Clara asked.

On a hunch she aligned herself so that the east and west versions of Eleanor were on either side of her. This is starting to feel like a game.

“He came willingly,” Eleanor of the East said.