“You didn’t come to critique my power?” Clara asked.

“I suppose not,” Eleanor replied. “I was compelled here.”

“You have a soul to collect?” Clara confirmed.

“None for tonight,” Eleanor said while following Clara’s wake.

“You’re here because of me?” Clara questioned, unsure on how to take such an answer. Keep it together Clara, she’s not a threat.

She avoided asking the question on how an agent of death had such a light schedule. Some things are better left unanswered.

The sound was faint but persistent. It was as though someone was sweeping a floor, first in one direction and then the other. It was also rhythmic, subtle, and knew that no one else was aware of it. That’s the ocean above our heads. Some of them would panic if they knew.

Above those beams, there were layers of coal, rock, dirt, and mud. Right above their heads the Atlantic ocean reigned supreme, with the waters dancing over the sea floor.

While Papa never mentioned it, they knew that one false move or failure of the pumps would send the waters rushing in. It wouldn’t matter if they could swim.

“Those were your parents?” Silver asked. “No wonder you turned out ugly!”

“Octavius and Theresa Grey,” Clara whispered.

This shot had been taken well before Clara came into the picture. They looked so happy and full of life, because they were at the genesis of their journey together. Whereas Clara had known her parents nearer to their deaths. They met their bitter end a little over twenty years after this picture was taken.

“They lived longer than I did,” Clara said, while blinking repeatedly. 

When a nor’easter was on the horizon, they had to nail shut the shutters along with the screen door. The house would creak and haw as the wind howled.

A cold drought always found a way to get through the walls, which reminded her of being outside on  a cool spring day. On stormy nights, the cold wind blew through the chimney and prevented them from lighting a fire. Ada and Maria had to take turns keeping the fire going all night.

Clara gasped after spotting something at the back of their home. The rough wooden construction, slanted roof and crescent moon carved out of the door was all she needed.

“That’s where papa died from black lung—” Clara whispered before choking on her words. “My god… I almost forgot.”

“There it is,” Clara whispered.

The man standing beside her gave her an inquisitive glance but quickly returned his focus on their tour guide. Clara was not interested in this portion of the tour or even the rest of this museum. The angel was not about to lose the opportunity to look upon the details of her childhood home. It’s the only home I ever lived in.

Well it was not her actual home, since the physical house had been condemned and torn down decades ago. This was a black-and-white picture of their home, housed within the local miners museum.

A smile crept across her lips while a tear formed at the corner of her eye. She looked at her wrist, the familiar black beads of the silver Rosary hung loosely. She brought it up to her lips and kissed the crucifix, comforted to have a connection with her past. 

“I doubt this was Eleanor’s reason for giving me that clue,” Clara said as her boot soles squeezed out water with every step. “Still, I’m thankful for finding my way back here.”

Comforted or not, Clara had questions for Eleanor. Their paths crossed often and guessed the opportunity would come up soon. This meeting with Sister Maria led to more questions than answers.

“Figures…” Clara grumbled.

The discombobulated voice was difficult to place, but there was something familiar about it. It evoked memories of getting lectured prior to her punishment being administered. That sliver of a memory was enough to send a chill down her spine.

“Wait. You’re Sister Maria?” Clara asked.

“How would you know my name?” Sister Maria replied.

“You brought me here after my mother died and later escorted me to the Tower. You laughed when I confessed that I was the one who rearranged the furniture in your room,” Clara answered in return.

“Lies! I can smell the killer’s blood coursing through your veins,” Sister Maria said. “You have the same eyes.”

“ENOUGH!” Clara  boomed out, and made the walls shake. Well, that’s new…

The dry skin cracked and widened around those eye sockets. While inhuman, it strangely conferred a sense of awe. 

“Trait—” the nun hissed.

The glow from Clara’s eyes was nearly white, serving as a threat. Meanwhile, she used this lull to fold in her wings.

The apparition reappeared, from the outer edge of the room and charged. Clara changed tactics, the glow from her eyes became powerful enough to illuminate every nook and cranny of this space. Fully charged, she sent everything she had through her fingertip. 

It was nothing more than a hunch, but she had nothing to lose. When the blue bolt came into contact with the green spectre, the room lit up in a shower of sparks. It may not have been a fatal shot, the nun was left humbled.

“Traitor!” the nun hissed.

The spectre’s eyes darted from point to point as though searching for something to leverage to her advantage. She’s not going to play nice.

“Time to change the beat,” Clara said.

She removed her light jacket and flannel shirt leaving behind a sports bra and jeans. Two buds appeared on her back, stretching the skin until they burst out as a congealed mass of flesh and bone. Once they reached their full size, black feathers sprouted from the surface until her wings were fully formed.

Other transformations were more subtle but impressive. Her eyes turned to a piercing steel grey, whereas the features on her face and body became sharper and distinctive. That effect extended to her musculature and even the sheen in her hair. That sheikh wouldn’t walk by me looking like this… the smell though…