Author's Note: This is the sequel to And She Was Not An Adventure. The reading order so far for all of my Flynn/Clara fiction is: And She Was Not An Adventure and Plato's Step-Daughter. Each new Flynn/Clara story will include an updated reading order. All my Librarians fiction can be found under the 'My Stories' section of my profile. Videos for characters canon and original, can be found on my Youtube channel via the link on my profile.

Ain't That Unusual

Before

"I know Flynn is technically the Librarian," Jenkins said as Clara came through the doorway, almost tripping over his tea-trolley, "and that I technically work for the Librarian..." he continued, glancing up at Clara. "Oh hello, Delilah," he drawled, his nostrils flaring with dislike. "How was the tonsil-tennis? Got Wimbledon in your sights, have we?"

Clara blushed hotly and furiously, her fists clenching by her sides, the others raising their eyebrows at her, Ezekiel shooting her a knowing grin.

"Look," Eve interjected, striding forwards, until she was almost nose to nose with Jenkins, "you don't really have a choice in this, Jenkins. These four will be using this Annex as a base of operations, and I'll be supervising their security. So make yourself useful, or make yourself gone." Her words hung in the air, making Jenkins finally back down.

"I suppose there's always the clippings book," Jenkins said, tilting his chin.

"What's a 'clippings book'?" Cassandra asked, shrinking into herself slightly, still unsure of her place amongst them.

"O child of the annoying digital age," Jenkins sighed heavily, "let me enlighten you on the ancient art of scrapbooking." He led the way over to Flynn's desk, the others trailing after him like lost souls, watching as he lifted up a heavy-looking tome, its covers battered, its spine cracked. "It's how we used to gather information about news-stories," he explained, flicking through its many pages. "Each page has clippings from different sources detailing a bizarre mystery" -

- "We really don't need some scrapbook full of old newspaper articles," Jacob said impatiently, straightening his scarf. "We're here to save the world, not mince through micro-film."

"O silly Midwestern person," Jenkins said, shaking his head. "This clippings book is the Library's clippings book." He shut it with a loud bang. "Every night there is a new page," he continued, setting it back down on the desk, "with new information about a new mystery happening that very day, and will you be quiet!" he snapped at the complaining desk. "It's not my fault they're as ignorant as a newborn infant!"

"Says the buffoon in the bow-tie," the desk said nastily. "Fancy a game of hypocrisy, anyone?"

Jenkins rolled his eyes. "Come, let's begin," he said to the others, beckoning them forwards, before flipping the clippings book open again. "Ah," he said, "here we go..."

One month later

Clara strutted down the sidewalk like it was a catwalk, feeling like a complete fool. She was wearing an all too convincing blonde wig, her skin slathered in fake tan, her hem and heels outrageously high. It had been Eve's idea to cast Clara in the role of bait, pointing out Clara's power lay in her pretty face, that people would always understimate her because of it. Eve was trying to teach them to play to their strengths, but it was a lesson Clara didn't want to learn. Her main strength was her brain, not the way she looked, but Eve was adamant it wasn't, an argument Eve had won by dressing Clara up like Trailer Trash Barbie.

"I'm not just a pretty face, Baird," Clara muttered mutinously, swinging her designer handbag with too much vigour, making it almost connect with a passing cop's nose.

"Hey, watch it!" the cop yelled, batting it aside.

"I'm soooooooo sorry," Clara gushed, struggling to stay in character as she simpered up at him. "Please forgive me."

The cop did a double-take, his gaze then travelling downwards, Clara fighting the urge to cover up her cleavage. "Say you're single and I might," he grinned, tilting the brim of his cap back.

Clara just simpered some more before sashaying off down the sidewalk again, cursing Eve to the darkest depths of hell. She felt ridiculous and she looked ridiculous, a fact confirmed by the smirk Ezekiel was sporting as he approached her, wearing a false moustache and trench-coat that made him resemble a flasher.

"Lookin' good, girl," he said in a fake Southern drawl, his compliment code for he's right behind you.

Clara just blew him a kiss, code for understood. She fought the urge to run, remembering the burnt out corpse of the demon's last victim, the memory reminding her that she was making a fool of herself for good reason.

"Fancy going to hell in a hand-cart, honey?" an oddly melodious voice said from behind her, making her slowly turn around.

"Only if you're my escort," she pouted, tossing her hair back, making a show of appraising him, not missing the too sharp angles of his face, how he held himself like a sword about to strike, death dancing in his eyes. To the average mortal, he looked like a prosperous businessman, but not to Clara, not now. The scales had been ripped from her eyes and she saw magic everywhere; in the fall of a footstep; in the sleight of a hand.

"If I may?" he said, gesturing to the limousine that silently drew up beside them.

Clara hesitated for a split second, panic paralysing her. This wasn't part of the plan Eve had gone over and over again in the Annex with them. It had all started with a newspaper clipping, detailing how the charred remains of several beautiful blondes had been found scattered around the city, seemingly forming some sort of grand-scale sacrifice, or so Jenkins had theorized, the case piquing Eve's interest, seeing it as another chance to turn her LITs into fully fledged Librarians.

Learning to become a Librarian required on the job training, and Eve had been using every opportunity to fling them into the deep end, chanting the mantra sink or swim at them like a maniac. Jenkins had expressed some approbation at Eve's ideas of imparting knowledge, but Eve had argued Clara and the others were learning their trade in a controlled environment, even if the ensuing chaos contradicted her ethos.

So after some serious detective work and two brushes with death, Jacob and Cassandra had finally uncovered the killer's identity and the bases where he operated from. They had learned he was a hell-demon imaginatively called Demos who rather oddly cruised high class shopping districts for his victims, and so here Clara was, luring their prey out into the open, only to be lured into a limo in turn, the predator becoming the prey instead.

Demos raised his eyebrows at her, looking displeased at her dithering. Clara hastily giggled like a gormless idiot, trying to cover her tracks. To her relief, his frown faded, becoming replaced by a mocking smile. With an exaggerated flourish, he flung open the door for her, Clara sliding into the backseat with less than graceful ease, her heel becoming caught in a drain covering as she did. But she pulled herself free, pulling herself together, realising this was the sink or swim moment Eve had been ranting on about.

"What a beautiful vehicle," she observed airily as Demos sat beside her, slamming the limo door shut.

"Not as beautiful as you, Clara," he said, startling her.

"How" -

– "You make an excellent honey-trap," Demos said, idly laying his hand on her thigh, making her freeze. "And I've always admired courage, particularly in mortals, but bravery will only get you so far, Clara, and while it may have got you here" -

The next thing he knew was a knife through his throat, pinning him to the car upholstery, Clara's face inches from his own. "This blade hasn't been blessed, so the most it will do is sting you a little," she said from between gritted teeth, "but while it does, let's talk, shall we?"

"Your Guardian is going to be very angry with you," Demos hissed, "or what's left of you anyways" -

- "What can I say, except that I've gone rogue," Clara hissed back, fighting the fear threatening to overwhelm her, "so I suggest you reconcile yourself to dealing with me and only me."

But the next thing Clara knew was that she was suddenly on her back , Demos on top of her, tearing the knife out of his throat, his claw-like hands circling her own neck, choking the life out of her, his touch scorching her flesh. Then there were gunshots, bullets blowing the tyres out, the limo skidding out of control as Clara took her last breath, the world fading from her.

Now I feel unknown
And it's safe that way…

"What did I say about the plan, Clara?" Eve asked, pacing the floor in front of Clara.

"That we stick religiously to it?" Cassandra piped up helpfully.

"Is your name Clara? No, it isn't, so shut the hell up," Eve spat, making Cassandra shrink into herself.

"Hey, don't speak to her like that," Jacob flared up. "Clara may have screwed up, but the rest of us didn't, so don't take your shit out on Cassie."

Cassandra stared at him, surprised.

"If I remember correctly, Cassie sold us out to the Serpent Brotherhood, resulting in me getting a sword in my side," Clara snapped, "so if you want to talk about screwing up, I suggest you start with her."

"Touché," Jenkins said dryly as he went past, dragging a stuffed dromedary behind him.

"Look, throwing a temper tantrum isn't going to help us banish Demos back to hell," Ezekiel said, standing up, "so I suggest we hit the drawing board again, and start over."

"Start where though, Jones?" Eve said. "Demos has disappeared into thin air. Thanks to Clara's have-a-go-hero routine, we've got more chance of finding the Golden Fleece than him."

"Not really," Jenkins said, going past again, carrying a tea-tray this time, "Flynn left it lying around somewhere in Architectural Exports."

Eve just shook her head before stalking off, disappearing through the doors, leaving a tense silence in her wake.

"Alright, this is awkward," Ezekiel observed, sitting back down again.

"Of course it is," Cassandra said pertly. "We've messed up - again."

"No, I messed up," Clara said tiredly, taking her blonde wig off. "Eve's right to be angry, I did screw up - big-time."

"Just like I said," Jacob said, folding his arms over his chest.

"Alright, alright, you don't need to keep reminding me," Clara said, glaring at him.

"Look, you scared the shit out of us getting into that limo with him," Jacob said, becoming angry now, "it was too close a call, Clara, too damn close."

Clara just scowled at him, her hand unconsciously massaging her bruised neck. Jenkins had applied some arnica to it, tutting while he did so, mumbling he wasn't Florence Nightingale, but the surprising concern in his dark eyes had belied his complaining, making Clara feel even more guilty than she did already. She hadn't just risked her own life, but those of the others as well, and that was something Eve wasn't prepared to let go. Her main objective was to keep them alive, but there was only so much she could do; they had to cover their own backs as well as each other's, and Clara had just dragged them into even further danger by disobeying Eve's orders.

"You do realise you're not the group's Guardian?" Jenkins said dourly, making Clara glance up. "That's Eve's job, not yours."

"I stepped out of line, so what?" Clara said, doing a complete 360.

"Christ on a cracker, Clara!" Jacob exploded. "And there's me thinking I was getting through that thick skull of yours!"

"My IQ's higher than yours actually," Clara pointed out.

"You know what, buy yourself a one way ticket to hell if you want," Jacob said, getting to his feet, "s'long as you're not bringing us along for the ride, I don't care." With that, he turned and left, heading up the sweeping staircase, taking two at a time, Clara staring at his retreating back in shock.

"He didn't mean it, Clara," Cassandra said quickly, exchanging a worried look with Ezekiel.

"Just because he defended you against Eve, doesn't mean he's your friend, Cassie," Clara snapped, getting to her own feet, "and it doesn't mean you're mine either. I haven't forgotten what you did, even if the others pretend to. So - so just leave me alone, alright!?"