Clara’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of the door’s opening. She closed them again with a sigh as she listened to Hesi, her maid, bring in her morning meal. A concoction of cooked oysters, beef liver, some raw spinach and a variety of other vegetables, alongside anything else that would help her revitalise her body for the next transfusion. All godly awful to the palate.

There would be some chocolate, but only of the darkest variety, a sort far too bitter for her liking.

‘But…needs must,’ she consoled herself.

As detestable and tiring as the frequent loss of her blood was, it bought her so much in return, opened so many doors for her. Which all in turn brought her more opportunities, which then led to more connections to gain from.

To recover, Clara was resting within her Long Island home rather than her apartment within the city proper, as she was wont to do, a place where Hesi and her other helpers could better watch over her, and where the sea air could assist in her speedy recovery.

She was currently resting on the green chaise lounge within her bedroom, rather than in the bed proper.

Against her doctor’s orders, but one could only play the wilting flower for so long before it all grew so tiresome. In truth, as much as they took, her procedures would always be replaced with an equivalent amount of mundane blood in exchange for her magic-laden fluid; something that, oddly enough, usually left her feeling more energetic than not. Frisky even.

Often, it would take no more than a week or two to fully recover. Hazardous to someone other than a natural-born such as herself, but with the money her transfusion brought in, she would, of course, spend some of her gains to purchase whatever supernatural means were available to help her recover more quickly, and far more importantly, safely.

Usually just so she could then go through this whole rigamarole all over again.

‘Using magic to help me lose magic,’ she half mused. There was a joke in there somewhere, but she was in no mood to think on it.

But the frail, bedridden image that most in the know associated with her lot was useful to give the true-born some breathing room from the hordes hungering for their blood and the power within, so she needed to play her part for some time before she could venture out to more entertaining endeavours.

The true cause of her current lethargy, however, was due to a foul cold that had overcome her after being caught in the sudden downpour some days earlier. The pleasant heat of the summer had been ousted by wretched winds and rain now, weather which promised to continue for some time to come if that fool on the radio was to be believed. It was those winds she now watched through the large, glass double-doors leading from her room to out onto the veranda, where she would have normally been spending her time.

Though, as wonderful as staring out over the ocean under the summer sun was, Clara had to admit that warming herself indoors as she watched the harsh winds and enraged ocean assault the beach in the distance did have its strange appeal.

As Hesi made to leave, Clara called out to her gently.

“Hesi? Be dear and bring me the phone, please?”

“Yes, miss.”

The woman did so, bringing Clara the phone in question. Rather than the booth that the common-class had to resort to using—if they even had access to such a thing—Clara’s was a far more convenient, and far more expensive, portable version of the device. Consisting of the phone itself and its small stand, it also came with several metres of cable that allowed one to move about freely as they talked.

Admittedly, that same cable would often work its way around her legs as she moved and turned, that entanglement then exposing her to the danger of tripping over and braining herself against the corner of one of her fine pieces of furniture.

But such was the price of convenience.

And what was life without a little risk, now and then?

But Clara did not move around now, her energies sapped by this damnable flu.

“Thanks, Hess…oh, and could you please inform Fitts that I’ll probably be skipping dinner tonight? This cold’s positively floored me, and I’ll likely head to bed early.”

Clara watched her maid bob her head in consent, then waited for her to leave before making her call.

She trusted all her servants, of course, but ears were ears, and some things you just did not talk about in front of others. Especially with her business now.

Tapping the trigger at the side of the stand, Clara spoke into the headpiece as she brought the small, bell-like speaker, an accompanying piece attached to the phone’s stand by a far smaller cable, to her ear as she then put her mouth in front of the phone’s head.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“Hello, operator?”

Waiting for the response, she then said, “Yes, could please connect me to freelancer agency Quartermain and Sons?”

It took a short moment for the operator to go through the procedure to put her in contact with one of the city’s operator—the long island sector handled by its own network—another woman who then put her through to the agency in question, one of the larger services available for hire, and one who needed its own, in-house operator to connect her with the relevant person with whom she wished to speak to.

Said person being Quartermain jnr. himself.

“Hello; Richie? Yes, hi. Listen, I hate to be a bother, but I need a favour. …Yes. Yes. No-no, nothing too important. I’m looking for information about a Cohen, Sullivan and Goodwill?”

Richie, surprisingly, then described two of the men whom she had met during her latest transfusion. The ginger and his overly-tall, curly-haired partner.

“You’ve heard of them? Ah, well, that’s something,” Clara commented. If they had a reputation, even a bad one, it would still serve to assure her of their legitimacy.

“What exactly do you know of those three? Hm…and Goodwill. No, no, I believe they’ve added a third to their number just recently, a young boy. In fact, it’s that boy I’m interested, in particular. No-no, not for myself, of course; I have dear friends such as yourself for such things. No, another dear friend—one of lesser means, unfortunately—has to resort to their services. I’ve offered them a loan, naturally, but they insist on dealing with matters themselves. Pride, you know? Or ego,” she snorted, “But I can’t just let them be taken advantage of, you understand? meddler that I am.”

Clara was not lying in regard to what services she had available to her. For her blood, no agency within the city or beyond would think twice about bending over to try and please her. At least that was how it should have normally been, but now…something was going on. Though it was not her problem, specifically, everyone was giving her the run-around of late, even if she tried to go through various other means to get what she wanted, or even apply leverage where she could, and for the life of her, she still could not fathom why?

Hence her slumming in regards to whom she was selling her blood to these past few months.

As much as it lowered her standing somewhat, her bandying about with those three and others during the various little procedures allowed her some exposure to the less famous, and far less reputable freelancers operating within the city and beyond—ones she presumed were free of whatever or whoever was tying things up behind the scenes.

“No-no, look, my main concern is that my friend’s being taken for a ride; if I could just confirm their legitimacy, then that’d be that, but I’d be absolutely mortified if this was all to get out, you understand. I’m a meddler, I know, but I don’t need others to know, you understand?”

Clara had to stop from rolling her eyes at Richie as he made an absolutely dreadful joke, to then laugh at his own words. The man, as much as he was reliable, was also an absolute bore. But needs must.

“Oh, thank you Richie; you’re an absolute godsend.”

After a minute more of saying goodbye and tolerating two more of the man’s jokes, Clara hung up the phone and then took a moment to breathe in order to calm herself for what came next. Then, after a minute or two more and a small bite of one of the chocolates on the top tray of three-tiered severing plate the maid had brought in, Clara steeled herself to deal with the next bit of business.

Calling the operator again, she connected to one Reginald Fitzgerald, a particularly annoying little twerp whom she positively dreaded dealing with. If one were to describe the two of them, socially, that is, she was a needle and thread, whereas Reggie was a hammer. Not an outright sledge-hammer, mind you, but that mattered little when you had to deal with the man face-to-face.

And yet, despite his seemingly blunt and forward manner, he was somehow more manipulative than she could ever hope to be.

Worse yet, he somehow could always see through her subtle nudgings, leaving her with little recourse but to simply be as blunt as the man himself when forced to socialise with the wretched thing. But as annoying as the prospect was, the man was the only one intelligent and trustworthy enough to rely on now. The only one who had the same interest as she did, at least.

“Reginald?”

The man hesitated a moment, clearly not having expected her to contact him.

“Clara? I assume this is important, or has hell finally frozen over and you're calling to report your imminent seclusion to an old-world nunnery?”

Ignoring the man’s usual inane antagonism, she went on.

“I need your assistance. There’s this agency; Cohen, Sullivan and Goodwill? I need you to employ their services? In particular, that of Thomas Goodwill, a boy who can find things. I’ve organised with Quartermain to look into them on behalf of a friend, so now all I need is said friend.”

“That why you’ve been slumming it of late?”

‘Far too blunt, and far, far too intelligent,’ she noted once more.

“Hm,” she replied.

Clara could feel the beginnings of migraine forming; a usual consequence of talking with the man.

“So far, they seem legit, but I need you to confirm the extent of the boy’s capabilities. Perhaps even ask him to find that crush of yours?”

It was a low blow, one Clara mentally kicked herself for making for fear of now chasing Reginald off. But thankfully, he proved to be the adult in this particular conversation and ignored the barbed comment.

“Clara,” he started, his tone far more serious than would be normal, even for him, a jolt of child-like stress shooting up her spine as she heard it, “I realise that we are not on the best of terms…”

“To put it lightly,” she muttered.

“…indeed, but I do however find myself needing to ask out basic human decency: are you certain you want to do this? If neither of us can make any headway with our connections, then you surely realise that someone above us is the cause?”

“Please stop stating the obvious.”

“If you do this, you will not just be playing with fire, but jumping headfirst right into the inferno,” he continued to warn.

“Again, you state the obvious. Please answer the question.”

She heard a sniff from the other end as Reggie breathed in deeply.

“If you could send the details to hyacinth, I’ll see that she organises everything. Is that all?”

“No, thank you…”

The line cut off before she could finish.

“Detestable man.”

One who was not wrong, however. She was stepping into dangerous territory here, and doing so in a way so audaciousness as to incite some envy from Reginald with its sheer bluntness, no doubt.

But as always, needs must.

She just hoped that she was not complicating matters further by doing so.

For all that she was magical, her various abilities were entirely mundane, and for the first time in her life, Clara found herself envious of those shrews within the Daughters of Delphi.

She would spend another hour there, alone and stewing in stress and indecision, before coming to a realisation.

Considering how she had now fully stepped in it, and had probably wrung someone’s warning bells already, she might as well go all the way in her troublemaking.

Making one last call, the operator connected her to a club just outside of the city proper, one over the bridge, to a man by the name of Liam Maes.

It was some thug of a man that first greeted her after connecting with the establishment, but after telling him her name and desire, the thug soon handed Clara over to a man whose voice sounding like rich silk—gentle, but strong enough to strangle the life from you, the promise of dire consequences should she waste his time lacing the words of his simple greeting.

“Yes; Mr. Maes? My name is Clara Bow; You may not have heard of me, but I have most heard of you. In particular, I’ve been told that you’re the type of man who can solve a problem if the money’s right?”

“That is indeed my reputation, Ms. Bow,” the man replied smoothly, “but my needs are not so great that I will accept anyone’s offer, you understand?”

“Hm,” she replied non-committedly. She was dismissive of the man’s warning, she was merely smart enough to have already understood such danger before considering her call to him. And honestly, death was such an insignificant consequence compared to what other horrors that this world could inflict upon her for her hubris.

“Well, Mr. Maes, I have a problem. And if it is not money that will move you, then I am certain we can discuss other forms of recompense.”

After explaining as best she could without dragging anyone else’s name into the conversation, she ending the call as quickly as etiquette would allow, the man on the other end clearly a danger she would not risk antagonising at this time, and their sort were always obsessed with being ‘Respected.’

Placing the phone on the nearby table, Clara then lent back to once again rest, watching the blowing winds outside as she assuaged the waves of stress within with another bite of too bitter chocolate.