“Clara? Say something?” Julia said.

The voice inside her head distracted her and she nearly missed grabbing onto a pew to steady herself. Clara’s heart was beating wildly, her veins pumping adrenaline as quickly as she produced it… feels like I’m a hare running from the fox!

Right by the door there was Jack holding his nose as a fresh dose of crimson poured out through his fingers… Why didn’t I question myself about him even being in this town?

Clara had no way of knowing which way he entered nor if someone else was here. So she ran for the main doors and used her shoulder to open them hard. The heavy oak doors slammed against the wall but there was no one there to greet her.

With her third option expended, Clara ran towards the sea… I might be able to sell myself in exchange for safe passage out of here…

It was hardly a desirable option but having hunters after her was a factor she never considered.

“Horse… fucking… feathers,” Clara swore in between breaths.

Clara shifted until her back was flush with the door and her bent legs pressed against the back of the opposing wall… that’s the doorknob being turned!

As soon as the mechanism drove home, she pushed with her legs as hard as could. The door flew open and was shot out along with it.

“Child,” Father Michael finished.

What she did not see was the doors edge slamming into the face of the other hunter. Her back met the floor but was ready and launched herself into a barrel roll. Given her poor health, her body resisted every movement leading to a poor landing … better than none at all…

T-h-a-t…

Her eyes went wide upon realising that someone was headed for the confessional. Like the dutiful good hunter he was, Father Michael was hunting with a partner… He’s the b(ait)—

B-e…

“Clara?” Julia called out.

The voice may as well have been a gunshot in the night. Her mind came alight, focusing on the source if somehow came from every direction. It may as well have been yelled down from Heaven by God…

M-y…

Her eyes shot open, and nothing changed other than her awareness of the situation. If she were the other hunter, she would barge as the Father was speaking to catch her prey unaware.

Clara closed her eyes and let her jaw hang loosely. It was an old trick that hunters used to further focus their hearing. As an angel she could pick up hearts beating and whispers behind closed doors. As a human there was nothing—

W-h-o…

Time appeared to stretch on as he spoke. In between every letter there was another sound, dull and brief. Wait. That’s not a single sound…

W-o-u-l-d…

The first part was heavier, as though striking the bass drum. Whereas the other was closer to tapping on a snare drum. At this speed they were separate and distinct, but the cadence between these two sounds was brief, and the repetition just as defined…

“That cloistered school did not take students her age,” Clara interrupted. “She was old enough to start her training at The Tower.”

The screen prevented her from gaining insight on his facial tics. For all she knew, he was sticking his tongue at her… Like I used to do during confessions as a child…

She did pick up on any changes in angle and distance. When his head got smaller and changed position, she concluded that Father Michael must have pushed his head in shock. Her response was clearly not something he expected… I doubt anything I’ve said so far has…

“Did you ever catch up with Drusilla?” Clara asked.

The memory of that ancient vampire slicing open his neck and draining him dry came to mind. She was curious how much history had to change to be once again in his presence… I could certainly do without being a prostitute…

“Who is that?” Father Michael asked.

“Ask Reverend Mother Augustine…”

“You came out onto the courtyard when an old farmer brought me to the school,” Clara said.

She remembered how furious Mother Superior was when Father Michael took an interest in her. The school was cloistered, even the chapel was located off the grounds to further reduce the chance of men being near their residences.

“What if I told you that was Ada?” Father Michael asked.

“For killing the ghoul?” Clara confirmed.

That truth was revealed to her months ago when she encountered her sister, Ada, at The Grand. Her sister was too old to get the training opportunity Clara got, which was later exploited by Drusilla, twisting her sister until there was nothing left of the kind soul she knew.

“So, you do—(remember)” Father Michael said.

“That cloistered school did not take students her age,” Clara interrupted. “She was old enough to start her training at The Tower.”

Clara often forgot to add the title at the end. She was infamous for adding them a second or two after it ought naturally to be used. She would often cut off staff who were about to chastise her for the slight.

That mannerism repeated and the familiarity of that voice permitted her mind to make a logical leap. The reason why she could not initially place the voice was because this person had died at the dawn of the Twentieth century.

“Father Michael?”

“Where do you remember meeting me?” Father Michael said without confirming it was him.

“Veni ad scholam in Pompeiano,” Clara replied. (I went to school in Pompeii.)

“Illa civitas igne et cinere sepulta est?” The father asked. (The city buried by fire and ash?)

Pars urbis Romanae manet. Propositum peculiare est curvis geminae scalae…” (A portion of the Roman city remains. This structure features a peculiar set of winding twin staircases…)

“You can’t possibly know that,” the father began before belatedly adding. “Cl—Child.”

Clara often forgot to add the title at the end. She was infamous for adding them a second or two after it ought naturally to be used. She would often cut off staff who were about to chastise her for the slight.

The question itself was more telling. Hunters did not use specific phrases or codes to identify themselves. Instead, they weaved in hints during an exchange, and blurting out the name of an organisation that did not officially have one was not the way to do it.

In this situation, generous amounts of patience and caution were called for. She took a deep breath to formulate her response, pursing her lips as though deep in thought. A grin crept across her face when the solution turned out to be easier than expected.

“Veni ad scholam in Pompeiano,” Clara replied. (I went to school in Pompeii.)

“Illa civitas igne et cinere sepulta est?” The father asked. (The city buried by fire and ash?)