Chapter 20: Aftermath

Departure

The motel room was sparse but clean, a temporary refuge while they figured out what came next. A week had passed since the destruction of Cedar Lane, the aftermath already fading into surreal memory. Beatrice floated near the window, her Victorian-era dress unchanged despite the centuries that had passed since her death. She cut a striking figure with her high-necked, corseted black gown, the fabric adorned with delicate lace at the collar and cuffs. Her dark hair was pulled back in an elaborate updo, a few rebellious curls framing her pale face. Though she'd died in her thirties, she maintained a regal bearing, her features fine and aristocratic with high cheekbones and penetrating blue eyes that had seen centuries pass.

Across from her, sitting cross-legged on the nightstand beside Ethan's bed, was Lila. The teenage ghost still wore what she'd died in: ripped black jeans and a faded band t-shirt with "PUTRID MAGGOT APOCALYPSE" emblazoned across the front in dripping red letters. Her wild red curls remained untamed in death as they had been in life, floating slightly in a spectral breeze that affected nothing else in the room. A silver nose ring and multiple ear piercings completed her look, shimmering with an ethereal light that hadn't been present when she was alive.

"It's weird," Lila said, watching her hand as she passed it through the lamp. "I feel... stuck. Like I can move around, but only so far." Her gaze drifted to the small ritual dagger that lay on Ethan's bedside table, the one he'd taken from the homunculus. He kept it close, never letting it out of his sight.

"That's because you are tethered," Beatrice explained, her voice carrying the crisp English accent of bygone days. "Objects near emotionally charged, violent deaths sometimes capture a piece of the departing soul. That blade took your life while carrying powerful magic. You're bound to it now, at least until you learn to extend your influence."

“Is that what happened to you?” Lila asked.

Beatrice’s neutral expression turned momentarily dark.  “We’ll talk about that some other time.”

Lila nodded, then frowned. "So I'm stuck haunting a knife? That's my afterlife?"

"For now," Beatrice replied. "With time, you can learn to extend your range. And if the dagger moves, you move with it. It's not the worst arrangement. I'm bound to that undignified brooch Thomas gave Margaret. At least your anchor is interesting."

Outside the motel window, emergency vehicles still surrounded the remains of Cedar Lane. The official explanation had been plastered across every news outlet; a catastrophic gas main explosion, exacerbated by unusual geological activity. Authorities were calling it a miracle that only a few residents had been found dead.

"Hard to believe the rubes are buying that story," Lila said, watching a news van pull up. "A gas explosion?"

"Humans prefer simple explanations," Beatrice said with the weariness of long experience. "Gas explosions happen. Vampire elder gods and blood cults don't.  At least not in their comfortable reality." She adjusted her spectral sleeves. "It's easier this way. For everyone."

From the bathroom came the sound of running water. Ethan emerged a moment later, his face drawn tightly despite the shower. He hadn't been sleeping well. The dagger caught his attention, and he picked it up, turning it over in his hands.

Lila's ghost form shimmered as he touched her anchor. "Ethan," she whispered, though he couldn't hear her.

"He still carries grief," Beatrice observed. "For you. For his father."

"I wish I could talk to him," Lila said, reaching out toward Ethan before pulling her hand back. "Tell him it wasn't his fault. That I'm okay. Sort of."

"You could, you know," Beatrice said carefully. "Margaret has the ability to facilitate communication between the living and the dead. It's not uncommon for new spirits to wish for closure."

"I just want him to be happy again someday," Lila said, reaching toward Ethan before pulling her hand back. "To have a life that isn't defined by loss."

"He will," Beatrice assured her. "Humans are remarkably resilient.”

Lila watched as Ethan placed the dagger back on the nightstand with reverent care. "Would that help him? Or would it just make it harder to move on?"

Before Beatrice could answer, the motel room door opened. Margaret entered, carrying takeout bags that she set on the small table. She still moved stiffly from the wound in her side.  Claire followed behind her.

"I got food," Margaret announced, her tone deliberately casual. "Nothing fancy, but it's hot."

"I'm not hungry," Ethan said.

"You still need to eat," Claire said gently. "Just try a little."

As the living settled around the table, Ethan finally spoke the question that had been weighing on him. "Margaret," he said, his voice hollow, "is there a way to use magic to talk to the dead? To talk to Lila?"

Margaret's expression softened. Though she couldn't see the ghosts, she knew they were present. "Why do you ask?"

"I just..." Ethan struggled to articulate his feelings. "There were things I didn't get to say. And Dad... I was so angry at him. If I could just tell them both that I regret what happened."

"Some things are possible," Margaret said carefully. "But they aren't always wise."

"But you can do it?" Ethan pressed, a small hope in his voice. "You could help me talk to Lila?"

Lila drifted closer, her ghostly form hovering just behind Ethan's chair. "Tell him no," she said, ensuring Margaret could hear her. "Please. Tell him I'm gone."

Margaret's expression was gentle as she reached across the table to touch Ethan's hand. "Death is a boundary that shouldn't be casually crossed," she said. "Even when it's possible. Your father made his choice, Ethan. And Lila..." Margaret hesitated, glancing briefly behind Ethan, from where she’d heard Lila’s words.

"I think Lila would want you to remember her as she was," she continued. "To honor her by living fully. Not by clinging to what can't be changed."

"But—" Ethan began.

"The dead have their own journey," Margaret said firmly. "Sometimes the kindest thing we can do is let them travel it without trying to hold them back."

Ethan's shoulders slumped, but he nodded slowly. "Yeah. I guess."

"She's right," Lila whispered, even though Ethan couldn't hear. She placed a ghostly hand on his shoulder, and though he couldn't feel it physically, he shivered slightly. "I love you, but you need to live. And I need to learn what this new existence means."

"Thank you," Beatrice said to Margaret. "That was well handled. The boy has enough burdens without the complications of dalliances with dead girls."

Margaret gave an almost imperceptible nod as she started unpacking the food.

Lila drifted back to the nightstand, watching Ethan with a mixture of love and sorrow. "Will it get easier?" she asked Beatrice. "This whole ghost thing?"

"With time," Beatrice assured her. "All transitions are difficult at first. But you'll find your way. And it seems you won't be alone."

As the living ate their meal in somber silence, the two ghosts continued their quiet conversation, unseen and unheard by the living.

Moving Forward

Three days later, the motel room was filled with cardboard boxes and hastily purchased luggage. Claire folded the last of Ethan's t-shirts, packing them neatly into a duffel bag that still had price tags hanging from its handles. Almost everything they owned from their life in Cedar Lane was gone, buried beneath ruins or burned in the unnatural fires that had consumed the neighborhood.

"Are you sure about Portland?" Margaret asked from the doorway, arms crossed as she watched Claire work. She'd brought coffee in paper cups, steam rising from the small opening in the plastic lids. "It's pretty far.  You don’t know anyone there."

"That's the point," Claire replied, accepting the coffee with a grateful nod. "Far enough away that no one will connect us to Cedar Lane. Far enough for a fresh start."

There was an awkward tension between them, conversations half-started and abandoned over the past few days. Questions about what came next. 

"I have some contacts there," Margaret offered, careful to maintain distance as Claire moved around the room. "People who understand... unusual situations. They can help you get set up, no questions asked."

"We'll be fine," Claire said, perhaps too quickly. "Ethan's applied to Reed College and has a really good shot at getting in. And I can write from anywhere."

"Claire..."

"It's not that I don't appreciate the offer," Claire interrupted, avoiding Margaret's eyes. "But I think we need a clean break. From all of this. From everything that happened here."

Margaret nodded, understanding what remained unspoken. 

"I've got a few more things in the car," Margaret said, retreating toward the door. "I'll go grab them."

When she'd gone, Claire sat heavily on the edge of the bed, coffee forgotten in her hands. She stared at the half-packed boxes, each one representing a step further away from Cedar Lane. From David. From Margaret.

Ethan appeared in the doorway, his face solemn but composed. In the week since his father's death, he'd grown somehow older, steadier. The dagger was carefully wrapped in cloth and tucked into an inside pocket of his backpack.

"You okay, Mom?" he asked.

Claire managed a smile. "Just tired. Almost done packing."

"I'll be in the car," he said, shouldering his backpack. "Don't forget the box with Dad's things."

The small collection of items recovered from their ruined house sat apart from the other boxes: David's watch, his wedding ring, a luchador mask, a family photo in a cracked frame. All that remained of him.

"I won't," Claire promised.

When Margaret returned with the last bags, they worked in silence, loading everything into Claire's car. The afternoon light was fading by the time they finished, casting long shadows across the motel parking lot.

"That's it," Claire said, closing the trunk. "We'll leave first thing in the morning."

Margaret nodded, her expression carefully neutral. "I've left some additional cash in the glove compartment. For emergencies."

"Margaret, you don't have to—"

"Please," Margaret said, an unexpected vulnerability in her voice. "Let me do this much at least."

Claire relented, too exhausted to argue. "Thank you."

As twilight deepened into night, Ethan retreated to the motel room, claiming he wanted to double-check that nothing had been left behind. The gesture was transparent, giving his mother and Margaret space for a proper goodbye.  Claire was grateful for it nonetheless.

"He's going to be okay," Margaret said, her eyes following Ethan's retreat. "He's stronger than he knows.  Takes after his mother."

Margaret turned to her then, the careful distance she'd maintained all day finally collapsing. "Claire, I—"

Claire cut her off with a kiss, fierce and desperate, weeks of unspoken feelings pouring out between them. Margaret responded instantly, backing Claire against the car, her hands finding their way into Claire's hair with practiced urgency, rapidly running from her hair, down her back and into her jeans.

"Not here," Claire gasped when they finally broke apart.

Margaret nodded, taking her hand and leading her toward her own room, further down the row of identical motel doors.

The door barely clicked shut before Margaret pressed Claire against it, her lips claiming her with a hunger. Claire’s fingers slid under the hem of Margaret’s shirt, avoiding the healing wound on her side, feeling the tautness of muscle and the heat that pulsed beneath. Margaret shivered under her touch and inhaled sharply.  

Clothes fell in a trail to the floor. Claire sank onto the bed first, pulling Margaret down with her,  their mouths meeting again. Margaret’s fingers trailed down Claire’s ribs, featherlight, until she reached the waistband of her underwear and paused, her eyes searching Claire’s.

Claire nodded.

Margaret peeled the fabric away with reverence, kissing her way down Claire's chest, then her stomach. Her mouth found Claire’s mound and Claire arched with a gasp, hand tangling in Margaret’s hair and pressing her head harder into her warmth and wetness. Margaret moaned and Claire pressed harder for a second, denying her air as she pressed her hips forward.  The world narrowed to the rhythm of Margaret’s tongue.

Claire returned the favor, flipping Margaret gently onto her knees, kissing her way down her back. Her fingers slid inside while her mouth worked above, licking around her asshole while her upper fingers worked in and out and her lower fingers rubbed against the bud of her clitoris.  Margaret cried out and her head rose with her orgasm. Their bodies moved together in a rhythm of lust and shared history.

After a long, physical exchange filled with quiet, aching intensity, Margaret collapsed beside Claire, forehead pressed to her shoulder, both of them breathing hard in the dark.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

Wrapped in tangled sheets, Claire traced patterns on Margaret's skin. "I'd ask you to come with us," she said quietly, "but I know the answer."

"I'd say yes if I could," Margaret replied, catching Claire's hand and bringing it to her lips. "But I can't be something I'm not. Even for you."

"I know," Claire said, quietly. "This life you've chosen. It's who you are."

"Yeah," Margaret agreed. "I don’t know how much of a choice it really is.  It’s something I need.  Just like you need stability for Ethan. A chance at normalcy."

They lay in silence, the reality of the coming morning hanging over them.

"Our paths will cross again," Margaret said finally. "If you want them to."

Claire propped herself up on one elbow, studying Margaret's face in the dim light. "How can you be sure?"

"Because I'll find you," Margaret said simply. "Not right away. When you've had time to heal. To build something new. But someday."

Claire leaned down to kiss her again, believing her despite herself. "I'll hold you to that, Margaret Grayson."

In the morning, as Claire prepared to leave, Margaret pressed something cool and metallic into her palm. Claire opened her hand to find an ornate brooch.  Victorian, with intricate silver filigree surrounding a small, dark gemstone.

"Beatrice's anchor," Margaret explained. "I think she'd rather go with you than stay with me."

"But I can't hear her," Claire protested.

"You will, eventually. She grows on you." Margaret smiled, though her eyes were sad. "Take care of her. She'll take care of you."

They embraced one last time, a thousand words passing unspoken between them.

"This was real," Claire whispered against Margaret's neck. "Whatever else happens, remember that this was real."

"Always," Margaret promised.

As Claire and Ethan drove away, the motel shrinking in the rearview mirror, Claire felt the weight of the brooch in her pocket. A connection to what they'd experienced. To what they'd survived.

And perhaps, someday, a way back to Margaret.