The woman lifted her head, examining Clayton's full, round cheeks as the flickering light painted her face like a sculpted stone.
Indescribably, she had conveyed her sorrow to Clayton.
No harsh things escaped her lips; Viva asked only one question.
A thing that Clayton should have known but had never bothered to inquire about.
"I want to accept your apology. But, do you know what my husband's name is?"
The question, like a strong electric shock, caused Clayton an intense headache.
The receptionist, who had reached out to Viva, hadn't told him the deceased's name, though he himself had never considered finding this out, either.
Thus, he could only respond, "I'm sorry, but I don't know."
Names hold sacred significance. Everyone should know whose life he had put an end to.
But this was no easy thing.
Killing someone whose name is unknown can be considered equivalent to killing a concept named enemy. But killing a 'Jack' or 'Ryan' means that you've really done away with a living person.
That was why Clayton had never checked whose life he had claimed. He simply didn't wish to hear that name.
He held his forehead, blurting out in a flustered manner, "But this doesn't matter. I have gotten in touch with you to make it up to the people walking the earth."
Soldiers are damned utilitarians. The longer their service, the more established the very inclination.
"I no longer need anything." Viva locked her long since desiccated eyes on him. This time, it was Clayton's turn to shy away from her gaze. " My husband last left home to borrow money for my critically ill child's medicines... Now I no longer need anything. It is too late."
The widow whipped a flintlock from her lining pocket and pointed it at him with a trembling hand, the void in her eyes calling to mind the deceased's.
The deathly hush lasted for nearly ten seconds.
Nonetheless, she eventually opted against pulling the trigger.
Clayton silently watched as Viva eased the gun onto the table.
Even though he could have held the woman down, he hoped to see her make a choice by herself.
"Actually, I have also forgotten his name," she said, her expression numb, her speech slow.
"This gun isn't mine. I can't afford it. Someone gave it to me. She said you had murdered my husband in order to mask some more macabre crimes and suggested that I take revenge on you with it... But now it seems that I have been tricked; the suggestion isn't well-intentioned."
One whose heart brimmed with vile stuff must have panicked faced with a gun's muzzle. Clayton had passed her final test.
"Grateful for your confidence, Madam."
Clayton bowed his head low, his eyes lidded and his brows drooping, showing respect to Viva, who had forgiven him.
For her reason and mercy.
"But may I ask who passed the gun to you?"
"I can't remember. Since my child's passing, my memory has worsened a lot."
At the mention of this, Viva looked as though talking about other people's issues, her fatigue-etched visage deadpan.
She hadn't demanded the truth about her husband's death and seemingly had never pondered what intentions the person who had handed her the gun harbored deep down.
Her mental state had hit its limit in every way.
What brought her here was merely the invitation.
Clayton could tell that Viva was a well-bred lady. However, he was also clear that extreme sorrow would ruin one's health and memory and reshape their view of the world.
This was something that couldn't be helped.
"I have already met with you. Now I have to go."
Viva rose to her feet, but stumbled. Clayton immediately walked up to help, a service Viva accepted naturally.
She didn't say a 'thank you'. Having regained her footing, she walked outside alone.
...
Several days into his investigation of the club, Clayton had now concluded there was little choice but to barge in.
There were people in there around the clock.
The dancing girls never set foot outside. They had food and drinks delivered at the club.
Factoring in the fact that Viva had been incited and gifted with the flintlock, Clayton had to recognize that his operations might have already been discovered.
The other party was already on guard against him and had launched a retaliation attack.
If Clayton couldn't track down the Arachnid Cleric, his circumstances would only grow ever worse.
Nevertheless, there was a bit of good news for Clayton presently. After feeding Clara numerous times, they had become much cozier.
So, it seemed to Clayton time to move to the next stage.
"Clara, can you seal a pact with me?"
This was a question Clayton decided to ask after looking up the term 'devil' in books.
The books heaped up tongue-twisting descriptions of devils as incorporeal, spiritual beings, which was the very reason they could possess one from afar and speak in the mind.
They fed off human emotions; thus, people could trade with them, and most devils behaved remarkably scrupulously.
If one offered as sacrifices part of their spirituality or emotions, a devil could allow them the power to read minds or even impart the psionic magic to play upon hearts.
The flame that had scorched Clayton was this kind.
It could only alter Clayton's sense of pain, but it was unable to reduce anything to ashes.
Clayton found this sort of power intriguing. With a devil right before him, he was surely glad to consult with her.
Clara's head atop the table showed an expression of bewilderment, "Pact? What is that?"
She was certainly a devil yet knew nothing about a pact... The werewolf felt a grip on his heart. At last, his worst worries had proven true.
Owing to Clara's dumbness, the possessing devil could not even communicate the information in its grasp.
He explained patiently, "I mean, trading my emotions and spirituality for your power."
"Emotions... spirituality... what's that?"
Clara asked again.
"The thing you fed on earlier, not the meat I gave you."
"Emotions are bread?"
"I don't mind if you possess me." Clayton earnestly said.
Although Clara could say surprising things every so often, Clayton could tell her intellect could not provide for a normal discussion on practical matters.
Now there was only one solution: Let the devil possess Clayton, then the devil might recover its wit.
He eyed the girl's head with anticipation.
Clara rolled her eyes twice, then innocently met his gaze.
"What's possess?"
"What are you on now?"
"Clara is now on the table."
Clara began offering Clayton a sympathetic gaze.
Clayton's pitch rose unwittingly. "NOT THIS!"
Clara pursed her lips and looked away.
Though dumb, she was sure that the answer was correct.
"Where do you come from?"
"Clara is from Joe Mani's home."
"Earlier?"
"Clara for sure lived in Clara's home."
Clayton spun around and raked his werewolf fingernails down his face, from forehead to cheeks.
The surface pain lifted his spirits.
He was introspecting. His notion that becoming closer to Clara could get problems fixed proved so naïve.
Watching Clayton's movements had inspired some misunderstanding in Clara. "What is Clayton eating? Clara wants to eat, too."
Clayton turned his head around, his face crisscrossed with red scratches, thrusting his fingernails at her.
"Clara doesn't want to eat, doesn't want!" the head clamored.
Clayton released a long sigh, reaching a deep understanding of what type of entity he was interacting with.
Just consider her intelligence level. Why would anyone pick her as a contracted devil?
"You are a devil, aren't you-----?" Clayton couldn't be sure.
If not for her powerful undying body and formidable survivability, as testified by years of starvation, he would have identified her as an insectoid that Groner had referred to.
Nonetheless, Cuitisi's book did not seem to have mentioned that a devil could endow its host with such capabilities.
Clara responded proudly, "Clara is not a devil, Clara is Clara."
"Alright, Clara, who ordered you to kill Joe Mani?" Clayton asked casually while pulling over the fishbowl, in which the silver salt solution had already been replaced, along with the velvet cover. After Clara offered another meaningless answer, he would return her to her berth.
Should she answer this as poorly, that would mean that she was practically useless to him.
However, Clayton wouldn't forsake her. He was too lonely here in the house. Having someone to talk with wasn't bad.
Keeping Clara was far cheaper than keeping a dog.
"It was Mama," Clara said.
This was the first time she had given a reply Clayton desired.
Clayton froze.
To be honest, right at that moment, the image of Joe Mani, who had been volunteering at the industrial school, flashed across his mind.
This sent a shiver up his spine and almost made his ears change into a werewolf's and perk up.
"Clara's Mama?"
"Yes, Mama said she wanted me to do stuff and then took me to Joe Mani's home. Clara remembers it was after breakfast that I rode in a horse carriage to Joe Mani's home." Clara said proudly.
Horse carriage.... It abruptly struck Clayton that the girl currently chatting with him had a home in Sasha as well.
At last, he had obtained a clue!
"Clara, Clayton wants to visit your home. May I?"
The werewolf's smile at this moment looked endearing beyond compare.