droomoord

Going away had become a staple in her life from the moment she separated from Hendrik and found her way west, to Amsterdam. In the four decades that had followed, Inge had left place after place, turning her back on cities and countries with increasing ease. But it was never really easy, no matter how lackadaisical she pretended to be. It was especially hard when it didn't feel like much of a choice. 

She'd been considering changing Wicked's Rest for a different city for a while now, admittedly. But the walls were closing in faster than she liked and the bloody bitemarks on her legs were just more proof of that. The amount of hunters who she figured were just lying in wait was too large as well and besides, what was there to do in this town that she could not do elsewhere? The teaching position was so-so, but it ate away from her time spent creating art. There were friends, but she had friends elsewhere too. There was the gap left behind by Debbie, a festering wound even more painful than those left by Wyatt's teeth. 

It was time, the way it was always inevitably time.  

It had been time, back in Antwerp, when Inge had witnessed a hunter chopping off Sanne's head. She had ran into the astral that time, rushing to a plane of existence where no axe could get to her. She had played it over and over again, that image, and only returned to their once-shared appartment to gather her most important belongings before fleeing south, to the crowds of Paris. In that capital she had stayed no longer than three months before there was the hot breath of hunters in her neck, so off to Nice she went. Bordeaux, next. Across the ocean to England and then across a larger ocean, to the Americas. In Mexico she'd enjoyed her time until her neck had been marred with the scar left there by Elena Cortez and she'd fled north again, with few belongings but her life. That was always the most precious thing to cling to. 

The years had continued on, as had the places she'd come and gone. Switzerland, Venice in 2003, and then copious of European capitals as she moved through them as Nika Beinhacker, famed sculpturer. That identity had to be destroyed eventually, though, and soon enough she was herself again. Inge de Jong, returning to the Netherlands, to the hospital and running away from the scene as soon as the funeral of her only daughter was concluded. 

She tried to collect something from each city, but it was not always an option. Sometimes she ran with just the clothes on her back and the few belongings in her bag, and memorabilia were discarded. These days she was clever enough to have a few storage boxes scattered around with some of her things, but even so. Things got lost in the wind. 

This time, though, she was doing it right. Quick, but right. She was gathering her things, ordering a moving van to drive the most precious materials up to New York, where she'd move in with Mona and delve into the vibrant nightlife that Dance Macabre could never claim to imitate. She was trying to say goodbye, though it was never really goodbye — at least not for those who would live as long as she did. It was a good thing, that most of the people she'd learned to value in Wicked's Rest were as undead as her, but there were a few she knew would come to grow old and pass while she remained unchanging. Maybe, then, it was best to leave now, before she grew all the more fond of Anita and her mourning would weigh even heavier than it inevitably would. 

And Inge intended to return periodically, she really did. As a mare it was easy to come and go as one pleased, but she needed her homebase changed. There were things lurking behind corners here. Crocodilian dreamers, hunters whose brothers she'd hurt or who'd deceived her, ghosts that killed indiscriminately. Wicked's Rest would just become a place she visited from time to time, making reappearances in the lives of Anita, Leila and Ariadne as she pleased.  

So her things were packed by the movers. Her appartment was empty. Her studio sold. Her contract at the university ended. She'd seen the people she cared for one last time as an inhabitor of Wicked's Rest and left them her forwarding address. All that was left to do was get in her car and drive off. 

In her car, Inge felt a level of uncertainty that came with saying goodbye. There was also, more dominantly, a feeling of concern. What if someone was to stop her from leaving now? If all her intentions to not die in this godforsaken town were for naught, and she'd still be caught underneath someone's axe or between someone's teeth or even that same sword once more? If she'd still had a functioning heart, it would have been hammering all the way through her drive out of town, but it remained as still as it always was.