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 had recruited Jack and used him to do her dirty work? It explained how he found those from the order who were 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 had proven 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, to 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. In 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 people began to panic.
“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 that 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 flooded 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 had chosen to ignore his wisdom, discounting it as a work of fantasy.
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.
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 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 w
hite 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 could lead to other destinations? Clara had 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,” Edith said. “So why are you still alive!” she 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. Clara 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,” Clara said. “He even painted a tableau mort for every one of those poor girls,” she added 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. In 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.
“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 had 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 had seen a change in the Reverend Mother’s stoic mask. Her eyes went wide with surprise; of all the times to wish for a camera!
“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 was staying 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 o
f Arc, the only woman in history to have lead 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 though she streamed through her training faster than her peers. Her youth had been seen as a serious hindrance, at least until now.
“When?” Clara asked.
“Immediately,” Edith said with a smile.
The Van Helsing Paradox Page 8
