A Trail of Blood and Smoke

9 - A Fool's Hope

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C A L E B
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Our first week of lectures passes by in a blur of names and faces and assignments. With every passing day, it gets easier. Being home after so long is strange yet refreshing and, despite the carnage of the past, I'm growing more and more fond of the place.

The company helps, most definitely. Markus' uncanny ability to lighten a room no matter the mood in moments; Chloe's fresh, warm, bright personality, her motivation and organisation keeping us sane and prepared all week; Adelyn's immovable excitement at every little aspect of my home and her determination when it comes to making sure I'm alright with this plan.

After just a week, I feel more tethered and comfortable than in any place I've visited in the past. I think this entire process of exposure therapy is going a lot smoother with my fears swayed— after all, the only person I'm dreading meeting is in an entirely different country. I don't have to face him, just yet, and that makes everything easier. Besides, with every passing day I become more assured that Markus won't tell the pack about my arrival unless I agree to it.

I've just finished my last lecture of the day — leaving the weekend open and empty of work — but instead of meeting up with the others and heading back to the dorm room, I decide to visit Fenbrooke itself, instead of hiding on campus. It's something I've put off all week, but I'm curious to know how much it has changed over the years. Besides, I need to hunt anyway.

An icy autumn breeze stirs around me as I wander through the streets, familiarising myself with the city's layout. Just as I expected, hardly anything is as it used to be. My father has indeed kept himself busy.

The city I'd grown up in has lost itself to time, and a technological maze has replaced it.

There's still echoes of the past — I'm glad to see — engraved in the stone walls lining the houses I walk past. Ivy crawls up the greyed cobbles and moss lurks in the cracks and crevices of pathways. Bookstores and cafés that used to be a staple part of the small town have been renovated to accommodate the change in time, but I'm glad to find they have kept their rustic charm. The entire city has, in fact.

The cathedral that had been built in my youth still towers over nearby cottages, its cobbled walls darkened with age and ivy. In the graveyard just across from it, right by a forest that has crept closer over the years, the stones appear well-kept and nurtured, and whilst some have overflowing memorials of flowers and trinkets and photographs, not a single gravestone lies bare. On each, there is a solitary chrysanthemum just starting to wilt. A ghost of a smile tugs at my lips as I realise the offerings must be courtesy of my father. It is the duty of the immortal, he always used to say, to keep the memory of others alive.

It seems I'm not the only one feeling nostalgic. A middle-aged woman is knelt down in front of a gravestone, arranging a bouquet of flowers— sunflowers and peonies, I believe.

With a touch of humour, I think that Adelyn would kill me for not knowing what they symbolise; even for a witch, she's especially fond of nature, flowers in particular, and takes great pride in being able to recite what everything means. She's the sort of person to send a bouquet of flowers meaning 'respectfully fuck you' to her enemies, which is one of the reasons why I adore her. She's done it to her matron no less than five times over various birthdays, assured in the knowledge that Victoria is too focused on offence and defence to worry herself over the symbolism behind flowers.

Glancing around as I meander casually over to the woman, I find we're the only people in the graveyard. The streets beyond are empty of people and, therefore, witnesses.

I pull up what Markus and Lyn call my 'mask' as I close in. Decades of practice in the art of enthralment makes it second nature, at this point. As easy as breathing. As easy as existing.