Clovis led Flora through the parking lot to one of the many surrounding apartment buildings. At its entrance, he keyed in a code on a security pad, which then blinked green as the door clicked open. With the poor dusk light, the hallway within was now dark; as Flora wordlessly followed him inside, she distantly wondered if she was making a mistake.
They came to an elevator; Clovis hit the up button, its arrow glowing green in the dim hallway. Beside the elevator was a door, marked, EXIT STAIRS, ominously red. The elevator quickly chimed, and its door opened. Flora stepped inside with Clovis behind her. He pushed the button for 3, and the elevator vibrated into use.
They stood together in mutual silence while the elevator rattled around them. Flora looked sideways to see Clovis watching her; it was too dark to make out his expression, the florescent lights casting harsh shadows across both their faces.
Flora drew in a deep breath, mouth open to speak, but then the elevator shuddered to a stop, chiming as the door opened to a new floor. Across the hallway from the elevator was the door to the exit stairs, identical to the first floor.
“This way,” Clovis said as they stepped out. She followed him down one hallway, the numbers on the apartment doors steadily climbing through the 300’s. Flora mentally retraced their steps back out to the exit, fixing the map in her mind – just in case, she told herself, it was better not to panic when running from zombies. Or anyone else, she thought grimly, eyes on Clovis’ back.
Still, it was hard to doubt Clovis – he kept casting unsure glances back at Flora, eyes full of concern, looking just a tiny bit relieved to see her still standing there, like he’d expected her to be dragged off if he dared relax. Overhead, the hallway’s lights flickered intermittently, making their shadows dance together around on the floor and walls as they moved.
“Here,” Clovis announced as they came to a door marked 325. He keyed in another code and the door clicked open. He gestured for Flora to enter before him.
But Flora stood firm. “Can I trust you?” she asked. It was a question she should have asked much sooner, and it felt silly and juvenile asking it now, but still, she felt compelled, needing to hear the words from his mouth and be convinced.
Clovis hesitated, and that alone made Flora’s stomach drop with dismay, her brow knitting with concern. Clovis frowned at her sudden change in expression. “Listen,” he started, dragging his hand through his hair nervously. “You don’t have any reason to trust me, but you don’t have any reason not to either.” He exhaled slowly. “It seems like someone close to you is involved with all of this, so if you’re going take a risk and trust at least one person, then maybe I’m your best bet because we don’t know each other.”
“Maybe,” Flora echoed. It was somehow validating that he seemed as uncertain as her in all of this, equally caught off guard and still trying to find his balance. “And nothing will get resolved standing out here,” she said, offering him a faint smile, feeling unexpectedly reassured when he returned it. Her anxiety somewhat alleviated, Flora entered.
It was a small studio loft apartment, minimally decorated and furnished. In the downstairs was a kitchenette against one wall, and a short bar top counter. It had enough space for two stools, but there was only one in use. On the opposite wall was a TV with a loveseat. Under the loft was a corner desk and several bookshelves, loosely lined with books. Although the space was small, it didn’t feel cramped, with the wide windows offering a view of the cityscape, lights twinkling bright pinpricks emerging nighttime darkness.
Strangely absent, though, were any sentimental tokens or personal touches. No posters or corkboard of paper memories, no framed accomplishments or family photos, no randomly mixed piles of ignored mail and papers of varying nostalgia.
The only personal detail of note were the dozens of plants, mostly gathered around the windows, tangled green vines and branches fighting for exposure. Several lined the back of the desk, their foliage spilling out across the desk’s surface, one vine neatly coiled around a coffee mug full of pens, another’s leaves dangling over an open book.
“We’ll have to talk and figure out our next move,” Clovis said as he followed her inside. “But right now, we both need to sleep; you look dead on your feet.”
“Gee, thanks,” Flora remarked dryly. But Clovis was right – a growing weariness was making her limbs and eyelids suddenly heavier.
“C’mon.” Clovis started up the stairs, toward the loft. “You can take the bed, and I’ll sleep on the couch.”
Flora frowned at the small loveseat as she passed it, but still followed Clovis up the stairs, swallowing down back protest. “Just for tonight. I need a clear head when I talk to Albert next.”
At the top of the stairs was the loft bedroom, its half wall leaving it open to the rest of the studio. A double bed was positioned centered against the back wall, below a large window. The only other furniture was a wide dresser and a single nightstand on one side of the bed with a small lamp positioned on it. A door against the adjacent wall opened into a small bathroom.
Clovis pulled open the top drawer of the dresser and dug through its contents. He paused, glancing over at Flora in quick assessment, before fishing out a T-shirt and pair of sweatpants. “They’ll be big on you but should work,” he said, tossing the garments on the bed. He disappeared into the bathroom briefly. “You’re welcome to shower if you want. I left you out a towel.”
Flora wanted nothing more than to sleep, but then thought of the night’s events, of the zombie woman’s soiled hands grabbing at her, and the foul smell of the dead crow as it thrashed overhead, its dangling guts dripping down on her hair and face. Showering suddenly seemed like a wonderful idea. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” Clovis replied. He started for the stairs but hesitated, turning back to her. “If…” he started to say, then stopped. “I mean…” he stalled again, now frowning. “You’re okay, right? If I leave you alone?” He took a step closer, his dark eyes studying her with a surprising new intensity. “You won’t pass out, or, or—”
“Or be attacked by zombies in the shower?” Flora offered, trying for humor. “Unlikely, but if I am, I’ll call for you so you can watch the show; it’s sure to be entertaining.”
“I’m serious, Flora,” Clovis insisted. And Flora saw that he was, his obvious worry weighted in his sagging shoulders, his brow furrowed with concern. “I still don’t know what happened to you back there with that bright light and now I’m starting to think you don’t know either.”
“You’re right,” Flora admitted quietly. “I don’t know what happened. I… I thought I was going to die, or worse. I remember thinking, ‘I hope Clovis shoots me before I turn’.” –Clovis flinched, but did not interrupt– “And then there was this bright light, and I felt…”
“Felt what?” Clovis prompted gently.
“Righteous,” Flora whispered, the memory of it sending a strange shiver down her spine.
“There are forces at work here neither of us yet understand,” Clovis said solemnly. “But I guess that’s another mystery we have to figure out.”
“We?” Flora asked, the word making her inexplicably nervous. “When did you decide you were involved in this?”
“You haven’t figured me out yet?” Clovis asked. When Flora didn’t reply, he grinned. “I have a massive hero complex and being around you and all the trouble you stir up is doing wonders for my ego.”
Flora frowned. “And it has nothing to do with wanting a Cleric on your side to help you locate your magical tree branch before a potential necromancer finds it?”
Clovis’ easy smile evaporated. “It sounds very mercenary when you phrase it like that.”
Flora shrugged, trying to seem indifferent. “But accurate?”
“I’m assuming the Church – and you –- are interested in finding the branch now that you know a necromancer might be after it.” Clovis stated tersely, but didn’t wait for a reply, instead continuing. “And I’m also assuming, that you’d like to know my current lead on where it might be. Because you don’t know where else to start, otherwise.”
“The lead I helped you get from that stupid storage unit,” Flora retorted, more sharply than intended.
“Yes,” Clovis said, the word stressed impatiently. “Which is why we need to figure this out. Together.” Then, his tone softened, “We’re both gain something by working together, and maybe, it’ll work out that I get my artifact, and you get your necromancer.”
The tension went out of Flora as she sighed. “You’re right.” She rubbed at her temples. “It’s just… a lot to process right now.”
“We’ll both feel better with some sleep,” Clovis said. He nodded in gesture toward the bathroom. “I’ll give you some privacy. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” Flora said. “Not just for this, but for everything.” She wondered what she would have done on her own, then felt a strange pang of guilt for relying so much on him.
Clovis smiled, and despite the dark circles under his eyes, his whole face lit up with the expression. “Any time.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but then thought better of it, and instead left.
As she picked up the clothing from the bed, Flora listened to the fall of his feet on the stairs as he descended. And about halfway through he paused, came back up two stairs, paused again, then turned back around and went down to the first floor. She heard him moving around downstairs, the fridge door rattling as he opened then closed it.
Flora went into the bathroom and flipped on the light. It was small, with only enough space for a vanity and sink, a narrow shower stall and toilet. She turned the shower on, letting the water run. When she looked into the mirror, the deep color in her reflection’s cheeks surprised her, and she self-consciously rubbed at her cheeks with her palms, wondering why she felt so warm. She wondered if it had anything to do with the bright light that had come out of her when she fought the zombie but doubted it. Either way, she adjusted the shower’s temperature closer toward cold.
It was strange to contemplate, as she disrobed and stepped into the cool spray, the strange new tension and anxiety boiling within her. Again, she wondered if it stemmed from the previous night’s encounter and what the presence of increased undead might mean for her. Why was she so hell bent on fighting them? Where had that impulse come from and when had it started? She’d tried to examine it more closely, but found her memories oddly elusive and ill-defined, squirming away from her grasp when she tried to look too closely.
As a child, Flora had no ambition to become a Cleric, although she’d been raised alongside death, nevertheless. Her mother, Moira, had been a professor of religious history at the New Rome University. She’d written a book on the history of funeral rituals and their cultural meanings to moderate success in the academic field. Flora had learned the power of curiosity at her mother’s elbow, watching her endlessly dig through texts and documents, drawing connections and recognizing patterns everyone else had missed.
Flora’s father, Bran, was similarly surrounded by death, working as a mortician at a local funeral home. Flora had learned her kindness from him, watching him gently guide grieving families through the process of loss, trying to ease what worries he could for them. He always had a reverence for the finality of death; it would have pained him to see the zombies’ bodies abused so, disrespected and blasphemed by death magic.
It had only been after the accident and the death of her family that Flora first remembered the desire to hunt the undead. Her aunt Clara, who’d become her guardian, had sat Flora down and gone over the details of her parents’ estate, explaining that Flora had the resources to pursue whatever she wanted. It would have been easy to do something frivolous and stress free, but some inexplicable feeling was knotted deep in Flora’s belly. “I want to fight death,” Flora had declared.
Aunt Clara, to Flora’s surprise, did not argue. Instead, she’d just nodded to herself, and murmured, “Of course,” then started discussing college options. At the time, Flora had been too relieved to question it, distracted by her own excitement at feeling like she was fulfilling a purpose. But what purpose, Flora now wondered, and why did it seem like Aunt Clara had been expecting it?
As she sorted through these thoughts, Flora washed crow guts from her hair and skin with borrowed products she found on the shower shelves, all smelling faintly outdoorsy. She found herself perplexed by Clovis, not only by his involvement but by her own curious reaction to his presence.
It was leftover adrenaline, Flora told herself, as she exited the shower, though she saw doubt in her reflection’s eyes. Before the fatal accident, Flora had been sixteen and painfully shy, not yet able to decipher the language of flirtation. After the accident, she’d been uprooted from her home in New Rome and brought to live with Aunt Clara in rural Michigan, where she was too consumed by grief to make new friends, much less romantic connections.
For college, she returned to New Rome, but she’d been so focused on her academic success that she’d ignored most other young adult traditions and rituals. She attended parties and occasionally indulged in alcohol or drugs, but her participation felt performative and perfunctory, like she was only doing it because it was what was expected.
Twice, she’d attempted a classic college hook up, the first time in the cramped back seat of her date’s car, the other in the bathroom at a house party. When both progressed to awkward groping and fumbling kisses, Flora had frozen up, feeling hopelessly lost and unsure.
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Both times, she stammered out an apology, claiming she’d had too much to drink and wasn’t feeling well. The first had been a sweet guy from one of her classes who touched her carefully, like he was afraid she’d break; the second, a sorority pledge with an interesting tongue piercing.
After that, Flora had maintained a stubborn tunnel vision on her goals. There was even less chance of romance at New Rome Divinity School, where enough faiths encouraged celibacy that public dating wasn’t common, and that alone was enough to deter Flora from even trying.
After training at the divinity school and learning all the ways to hunt and battle the supernatural, Flora joined the Clerics. From there, it had been easy to isolate herself, focusing only on the job. It had only been after Demonology approached her with their recruitment offer that Flora had considered her neglected sexuality as a potential tool. She toyed with the fantasy of being confident enough to be a tempting seductress, but the idea seemed so strange and foreign that it made her stomach crawl with unease. Ultimately, Flora declined.
When the Vestals contacted Flora, however, her inexperience became an unexpected strength. She could use it to her advantage and guarantee no one would ever stand in the way of her ambition. The idea certainly had its appeal; she would forever have an excuse not to participate.
Flora had been fine with the trajectory of her life and choices, but now, as she stood in a stranger’s bathroom and dried herself, she was now questioning where that ambition had originated. But why now?
Guiltily, Flora stared at her reflection. “Don’t get distracted,” she told herself.
Distracted from what? Flora’s reflection asked back; it was an accusation.
Flora hurried to dress herself in Clovis’ borrowed clothing, ignoring the mirror. The sweatpants fit too loosely, but the t-shirt hung low enough to keep her covered. Wet hair hanging around her shoulders, Flora left the bathroom; the cooler air outside felt welcoming.
Heavy curtains had been drawn around the windows, blocking out the city’s bright lights. Flora listened, expecting to hear Clovis moving around, but instead heard nothing but the distant tick of a clock somewhere. Quietly, Flora moved down the stairs.
She was surprised to find Clovis asleep on the loveseat, still sitting, his head slumped forward, chin on his chest. A notebook was open on his knee; his hand dangled from the side of the loveseat; a pen was still loosely gripped in his fingers.
Flora peered closer and saw Clovis had been writing something. His deep and even breathing indicated he slept, but still, Flora held her breath as she inched closer, expecting his eyes to open at any moment. When they did not, she reached for the notebook; it slid without protest from his leg into her hands.
Squinting in the darkness of the room, Flora saw his neat and meticulous handwriting, clear and concise. It was a fresh page, with only one line written – Flora Sedrickson: Not what I expected.
There were previous pages, dense with his inked script; just as Flora flipped to the previous page, warm fingers circled her wrist, stopping her. At the same time, the notebook was firmly pulled from her hands.
Flora looked up to see Clovis; he was sitting up now, leaning forward towards her. “You are far too curious,” he said with amusement as he tucked the notebook beside him in the sofa. He loosened his grip on her wrist, but did not entirely let go, his fingertips lingering over her skittering pulse. “You should go to bed,” Clovis said in a low voice.
Flora’s heartbeat thundered on, drowning out any coherent thought, but then finally he let go, and Flora drew her hand back. “Good night,” she managed to squeak out as she went up the stairs, feeling strangely like she was fleeing something unknown.
Once upstairs, Flora climbed into bed. She could hear the city outside – the passing train that marked each quarter hour, the occasional blare of an offended or impatient car horn, the chirp of the evening birds, biding each other goodnight. Normally, these lulled her to sleep, but as Flora burrowed deep in the blankets (that smelled like the back of Clovis’ neck, when she clung to his back on his motorcycle), she found herself too distracted to sleep, her thoughts in a continuous circle of uncertainty.
Then, downstairs, she heard movement again. Clovis moved under the loft, then settled at his deck, the chair creaking briefly under his weight. Then, she heard the scrape of pen on paper. Flora wondered what he was writing – about the case and his new lead, and the new potential threat of a necromancer. Or about her, Flora thought shyly, wondering what he’d meant by Not what I expected. What exactly had he been expecting?
Clovis wrote on, pen scratching the paper. The sound filled Flora’s mind, pushing out all troubling thoughts. Then, she fell asleep.
Flora woke to the sound of a door clicking closed. She sat up in bed; across the room, sunlight glimmered at the edges of the closed curtains. She heard footsteps downstairs, a cabinet opening then closing, silverware clinking together. Curiosity spurring her on, Flora rolled out of bed. She came downstairs to see Clovis setting out two sets of silverware on the bar top, and three Styrofoam meal containers stacked at the end. He looked up as she came down the stairs and smiled. “Morning.”
“Morning,” Flora replied, feeling suddenly shy as she approached, but unable to ignore the smell of the food and her stomach’s rumbling response.
“I got food,” Clovis said as he pulled out the single stool, placing one of the Styrofoam containers down in front of it. “One of my neighbors makes meals for the nearby offices. She makes a killing on the work from home crowd, too.” He pulled out the stool, then gestured for Flora to sit.
Flora took the stool, tucking her legs underneath. She opened the container’s lid – scrambled eggs, sausage links, two halves of buttered toast. “Open for breakfast too?”
“Only when I ask nicely,” Clovis said with a grin. “I help her sometimes with financial paperwork, so she likes to make me breakfast.” He crossed to the kitchenette, opened a cabinet and pulled out a coffee mug.
“Oh, so you’re an accountant too?” Flora asked, eyebrow arched.
Clovis shrugged, then poured coffee into the mug. “I’m adaptable. I’ve learned a lot of skills that way.” He opened a drawer, dug around in it, then produced a handful of creamer packets.
“Yeah?” Flora said, sounding skeptical.
“People hide a lot of secrets in money, so I had to figure out how to read a bank statement.” Clovis said as he set both coffee mug and the fistful of creamers on the bar top counter in front of Flora. “Let’s talk next steps.”
“I need to talk to Albert,” Flora said, eyeing her coat that hung on the wall beside the door, its pocket containing her powered off cell phone. “He might have information.”
“Of course,” Clovis agreed. “You should meet him in a neutral place. Somewhere public.”
“In the meantime, you should follow up on your lead from the storage unit,” Flora said. She peeled open a container of creamer, then dumped into her coffee. “Who purchased the artifact and where are they?”
“Yes.” Clovis nodded, but it seemed more to himself than to her. “I think I should show you some of my research about the artifact and its history. I think you might understand it better, maybe have some insight or something I haven’t seen.”
“Sure,” Flora said, now curious about what about this artifact might attract the attention of a necromancer.
Clovis’ whole face lit up as he smiled. “Yeah?” He nodded again. “Okay, first, you eat while I shower and get changed. Then I’ll show you everything about the Tree of Life and we can figure out where to meet Albert.”
“Sounds good,” Flora said, a knot of anxiety loosening; having a plan was comforting, indeed.
“Good.” Clovis’ smile grew, as if he could not help himself. “Stay here,” he said as he started up the stairs, casting an unsure glance back at her once he reached the top, before disappearing into the bedroom.
Flora turned to her breakfast, knowing she smiled stupidly at it but unable to help herself. She took a few bites of scrambled eggs, listening to the shower’s pleasant hum as it turned on.
Not what I expected, came back to mind, unwanted and unbidden. Flora set her fork down, then turned on the stool to look at the desk below the loft. All books had been tidied up from the desk, the desk now clear.
Still, something compelled Flora up and off the stool, toward the desk. She pulled open a drawer and saw the same spiral notebook, but then something behind it in the drawer caught her eye – a book with a familiar cover: A moss covered headstone. She picked it up.
Living through the Dead,
by Moira Sedrickson.
Flora knew this book. She’d watch her mother write it over the course of three years, dedicating every precious free hour to it, either endlessly scrolling in research or typing furiously away. Whenever someone asked Moira if she wanted to do something with them, her mother would always hesitate, even if just for a second, and Flora knew she was doing the mental calculus of how much time she’d be losing. To her credit, Moira never refused such requests from her daughters or husband, but still, she hesitated, and Flora would never forget the sting of it.
Seeing it now, Flora felt an odd mix of both pride and resentment, immediately followed by confusion. Why did Clovis have this?
Flora opened the book to see her mother’s face on the cover’s jacket, smiling brightly up at her. Flora flipped through the pages to find one marked with a post-it note, then opened it there. An illustration of a lush tree branch splashed out across the two pages, in around the text, The Tree of Life.
Over the top of the page was the post-it note. The sloping handwriting was not Clovis’, or anyone else’s that Flora recognized, but still somehow familiar.
Find Flora Sedrickson.
679-555-1234
The book fell from Flora’s hands, thudding back into the open drawer, her fingers suddenly numb. The phone number was the Church’s help desk line. Flora remembered Clovis’ written words again, Not what I expected, and shuddered. His call hadn’t been a coincidence – what did he want from her, exactly, and what did it have to do with her mother?
I need to get out of here, Flora thought, hot panic crawling up her throat, making it suddenly harder to breathe. She drew in several deliberate breaths, slow and even, and pushed the anxious feelings aside; she had to focus.
Flora forced herself to move carefully and quietly as she crossed the studio to the outside door. She took her coat from the hook and shrugged it on, then stepped into her shoes, wishing she’d remembered to put socks back on. Wrapping her coat tightly around herself, she eased the door open, exited, then closed it quietly behind her.
Once outside, she moved quickly but quietly down the hallway, the numbers on the doors decreasing toward 300. She came up to the elevator and pushed the button, casting an anxious glance behind her, reassured by only shadows behind her. The elevator dinged and its doors opened. Flora stepped in and leaned down to press the button for the ground floor. As she straightened, she looked up in time to see Clovis emerging from his apartment door; he held her mother’s book in his hands.
They saw each other at the same time – Flora hurriedly pressed the Door Close button as Clovis shouted, “Wait!” The doors rattled as they started to close. Clovis dropped the book and broke out into a run down the hallway. Through the shrinking space between the doors, she glimpsed one last desperate look on his face as he realized he was too late. “No, no, I can explain!” Clovis called out just as the doors finally closed.
As the elevator descended, Flora’s first thought was to feel stupid. How na?ve and reckless she’d been, following a strange man blindly. And here she was, without her car or field bag, surrounded by people she couldn’t trust, not knowing anyone’s intentions, wallowing in her own helplessness.
No, she told herself sharply. She straightened and took several steady breaths, trying to calm her hammering heartbeat. You can feel sorry for yourself later. For now, just get somewhere safe.
She watched the elevator light blinking overhead and knew she had a limited amount of time to think; it was foolish to waste it. She had to focus on getting herself out of there. She knew there were stairs next to the elevator and he might decide to follow her – in fact, she should assume he would. She hadn’t seen his gun on him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have it; she would also assume he had it.
Flora took several big gulping breaths, preparing to run. The elevator chimed then opened its doors. Flora lingered only long enough to press all the elevators floor numbers, then the Door Close button as she hurried out. The elevator groaned as it engaged its motors again, preparing to go back up. She could only hope that if Clovis was following her, he’d waste time here waiting for the elevator to come back down; it might buy her the precious seconds needed to get outside.
Flora ran down the hall, back the way they came in, the door numbers inching toward 1. She strained to listen behind her, trying to make out another’s footfalls over the sound of her own, not able to risk looking back yet. She saw the door at the end of the hallway, bright in the new day’s light, promising safety just beyond it. She nearly crashed into it, too caught up in her own momentum, but stopped abruptly before it. She flung open the door and stumbled through it to the waiting day outside.
As the door swung closed, she heard Clovis’ voice shouting down the hallway behind her. “Wait!”
Go, she told herself instead, fresh adrenaline seizing her. She dashed out of the parking lot, feeling relief when her feet hit the pavement of a street. She just needed to follow it to a major intersection, get her bearings somehow. She thought of her phone, of turning it on and getting her location on a map but hesitated. Not trusting Clovis didn’t mean suddenly trusting Albert again, not sure who might be tracking her phone. What could she do? She had her wallet and thirty dollars cash. It had to be enough.
Flora came to a side street and saw past it to a bigger intersection. She glanced back behind her at the apartment building, relieved that she would be shortly out of sight. Once she knew he couldn’t follow, she could find somewhere to think.
But as she started to turn the corner, she heard Clovis calling distantly behind her, “Don’t go!”
“Damn it,” Flora hissed breathlessly, trying to find the drive to run faster. She looked down the next street and saw a car parked to the side, its owner getting into the driver’s seat. On its back window sticker, NRR, for New Rome Ride, a rideshare program popular with tourists. Flora ran to the car, tapping quickly on the driver’s window.
As the driver lowered the window, Flora fumbled with her wallet. “Can you get me out of here?” Flora asked as she opened the wallet to show the cash inside. “I can pay you.”
The driver, a woman in her sixties, salt and pepper hair pinned neatly on top of her head, looked down her over the rim of her sunglasses at Flora. Before she could say anything, Clovis shouted behind them. “Flora, please, wait!”
The driver peered past Flora to see Clovis running in pursuit. She frowned. “Get in,” she said, tersely, the doors clicking as they unlocked.
Flora scrambled to open the door, and got in, pulling the door closed behind her. The locks immediately clicked. Her hands shook as she clipped the seatbelt in. She looked out the window to see Clovis as he reached the car.
“I can explain!” Clovis said, muffled through the closed window. He paced back and forth next to the car like a nervous dog, but his dark eyes never left her face. “I know it all looks weird, but I promise, I’ll tell you everything—”
“You need to leave,” the driver said through lowered driver’s window. “Or do we have a problem?”
Clovis looked between Flora and the driver, then down at himself; some realization dawned, and he lifted his hands up in the air, palms up. “No problem,” he said, backing away. “Flora, I’m sorry.”
Flora didn’t say anything as the driver started the car, then pulled out of the parking spot. Clovis watched, looking almost sad, as they pulled away. Before they turned the corner, he held up his phone, waving in back and forth in gesture.
“You okay, honey?” the driver asked, watching Flora through the rearview mirror.
Flora looked aside, feeling suddenly shamed. “I’m okay,” she muttered, sinking lower into the seat. She closed her eyes, trying to forget Clovis’ face, dark with disappointment.
“You got anywhere you can lie low for a few days?” the driver asked gently as she changed lanes, putting much needed distance between them and Clovis. “Give things time to cool off while you think.”
Flora shifted uncertainly in her seat. She couldn’t go back home yet not knowing if Clovis or something supernatural was waiting for her there. Where else? She needed time to regroup, to think, to plan. “Any hotels nearby?” She felt crippled without her phone, but too afraid to turn it on yet.
“I know a place,” the driver said; the certainty in her voice was a needed comfort. “You can stay there while you figure things out.”
The past few minutes had been a dizzying mix of fear and self-pity, spiked with terrifying panic. Now, Flora panted heavily, trying to calm down and slow her pounding heart and bursting lungs, but instead she felt something new.
It was anger, she realized, first, at herself, for allowing herself to get into such a dangerous and risky situation. Never again, she told herself resolutely. She would be prepared and ready for the next threat that came her way, never again to be caught off guard or surprised.
Flora looked out the window at the passing city, wondering what other threats lingered out there and why they were coming for her and what the bigger picture might mean.
It didn’t matter, she decided, feeling a second wave of anger: it dwarfed all other feelings, teaching her a deeper meaning of the word wrath; and with it, the desire for swift retribution. She would meet her enemies, known or not, not resting until she or they met their destruction; it almost didn’t matter which, at least it would be over.
