“Awww,” Clara teased.

Clara stopped dead in her tracks when she noticed something. Her movements became slow and deliberate with her head aligning itself with the object of interest. It was made of iron, and resembled an elephant. The artistry put into this creature was exquisite, but it was the purpose that bothered her.

The black scorch marks along the beast’s belly were a clue as was the hatch in the rear. They would lock someone inside like a cell. That doesn’t end there.

“Pardon me,” Clara said. “It must have been the angelic equivalent of a burp.”

They both knew it was not, but also realised there were risks to Clara being too specific. Hunters may welcome an angel, but not one who was effectively a goddess vessel.

“If it’s any consolation,” Julia said. “I thank God every day that you’re the exception to the rule.”

Had Clara been wired correctly, she would have killed every werewolf that night, and promptly freed Evelyn of her head. Abominations to a hunter had to be put down, and ultimately, a few ended up being powerful allies.

“Awww,” Clara teased.

“Really?” Clara said, her voice booming out like thunder.

That was an interesting development. Angels did not possess the wrathful god voice. Does that mean Hecate is back?

The angel tried to channel a bit of power to make her eyes come aglow, but nothing happened. She hid her disappointment, but her eyes widened after spotting the look of shock on Julia’s face.

“What they literal fuck was that?” Julia said.

“Meaning?” Clara asked.

“Shit—Sorry.”

Clara’s choice to play on her own ignorance was a subtle reminder that the werewolf was outing herself. That might have changed the tone of their celebrations.

“You weren’t wired right,” Julia said after rolling her tongue three times in her mouth.

“Really?” Clara said, her voice booming out like thunder.

That was an interesting development. Angels did not possess the wrathful god voice. Does that mean Hecate is back?

The next booth served as a grim reminder of the Roman Empire’s darker side. Shackles, locks and other accessories for the affluent slave owner. How did I forget about these?

“Then I’m a fucking direct descendant of Lupa,” Julia said.

The young woman once again managed to surprise Clara. If there was ever a woman needing their mouth washed out with soap, it was her. Yet she knows about Romulus, Remus and the wolf who nursed them until they were discovered.

“What did you mean back there?” Julia asked.

Clara looked up from an assortment of copper jewellery that would never find an owner. This was an open-air market, filled with fish, meat, clothes, and accoutrements. As an acolyte Clara loved to take in the opulent artistry of the era. Historians would kill for such a find.

“People who never made the cut at The Tower,” Clara explained. “Individuals who once had a chance at a great life in the real world.”

“Whereas no one at The Tower showed any outward interest…”

“You can’t smell them—(like I do.)” Julia said.

There was a tremble in that voice, as Julia found herself back in that dark place at the mercy of those men. Her eyes were distant and glassy, while her breathing grew shallow.

Clara was not sure how to deal with the situation. Trauma like this ran deep, and she had little experience in handling it. Especially my own.

“Julia?” Clara asked.

She could tell from their mannerisms that most were uncomfortable having a hunter in their midst, especially one in uniform. Although several men complimented my wardrobe.

“I dunno… the men really wanted to get to know you a LOT better…”

These were artists, misfits, malcontents, those who were just a little off. As acolytes these traits would be filtered out quickly during training.

Clara never did find out what happened to those who failed out in her time. They have nowhere to go.