by Lincoln Cole
With a shrug, Abigail stepped into the house. The entrance opened into a foyer covered in dust and cobwebs. A staircase ahead of her climbed to the second-floor landing. To her left lay a living room, and to the right, a dining room and connected kitchen.
Plastic sheets and dust covered every piece of furniture. Abigail headed into the living room. An old fireplace, built into the far wall, sat filled with ash. On top of the shelf stood lines of old pictures, also covered in dust and faded. She went over and brushed one off.
The picture of Arthur, from many years ago, showed him in his mid-twenties (or thereabouts), earlier than she’d ever known him. A woman stood with him, beautiful with black hair and a bright smile, as well as a little girl in a yellow dress.
This must have been his home before they died. Abigail had known about his cabin in the forest of Colorado since they had spent much of their time there training, but this house proved entirely unexpected. Arthur had never told her about this place.
While Abigail had known about the murder of his family, he refused ever to speak about this part of his life. It made sense that he would have had a home before she lived with him, but she’d never thought to bring it up.
Also, she’d never before seen any photos of his wife or daughter. It looked like Arthur had abandoned this not long after they had died.
Was that why he always brought me out here? she wondered. Abigail had never realized what connection he would have to this part of Ohio and, suddenly, it all made sense.
Had Arthur come here to visit this home without telling her while the two of them traveled in the area? Maybe during the times he left her in a hotel while he went out on a job?
Questions and emotions flooded into Abigail when she thought back to those days. Part of her felt surprised that Arthur had kept this from her, but another part knew it was exactly like Arthur. He didn’t like to talk about his past or dwell on things, and he certainly wouldn’t have wanted to explain this to her.
Abigail kept moving through the house, looking at all the broken-down furniture and family items that had deteriorated through the years. Age had not been kind to them. A little girl’s room matched the age of the girl she’d seen in the photos. Pink walls, pictures of princesses, and the usual stuff.
As a child, Abigail had never had any interest in princesses. If anything, she always associated more with the knights and heroes of the stories. She knew, all too well, what being helpless felt like, and determined never to be that way again.
When Abigail went into the basement, she found a safe built into one of the back walls. The lock had an alphanumeric digital input and looked like it didn’t belong with any of the other items. Too new and modern and way too much security for a white-picket-fence family.
Curious, Abigail glanced it over, guessing it had to weigh a few thousand pounds and lain into a concrete slab to make it even heavier. It would be a nearly impossible task to move it, and breaking it open would prove time-consuming too.
Fingers tapping her chin, she studied the keypad. What might the password be? Frieda, she realized, had sent her here for this. The safe held something that she was supposed to find.
The most confusing part, however, was that she had no idea what the password would be.
First, Abigail tried Arthur’s name. Nothing. Then she tried his wife’s name, and then his daughter’s. Neither combination worked.
Frustrated, Abigail stepped back and stared at the safe. Had Frieda known the password? Or, maybe, she’d never been privy to that detail. Perhaps, Frieda thought Abigail would know the password, and that was why she’d sent her.
Abigail tried a few dozen more options—things she thought Arthur might turn into a password. Details of his life that had seemed important to him; phrases he said all the time; she tried any and every combination that came to mind.
Yet, still, the safe remained locked, and with each failure, it just buzzed to announce the incorrect password.
At least it didn’t have a failsafe to lock her out after too many invalid attempts. With a growing headache, Abigail found a chair tucked in the back of the basement and dragged it out in front, staring at the monstrous green safe. Tired from traveling, she needed to rest, but couldn’t bring herself to leave.
This belonged to Arthur. It belonged to him and must have had importance to him. Abigail needed to know what it contained. What had Arthur put here?
Abigail felt certain that his sword would be stored here, but what other trinkets or notes might it contain? Information about his family? She’d known of his wife and daughter, but what about his extended family? It was something he’d never talked about.
Abigail stood and punched in a few more combinations at random, but nothing worked. All of the important dates and names she knew, she had now exhausted.
Except …
She had tried Abigail (and experienced a twinge of sadness when it hadn’t worked) but hadn’t thought to try her last name.
When they found her with the Ninth Circle, they’d never known her identity. The Council combed through missing person’s reports within hundreds of miles to try and find out where she came from. She’d known her first name but never anything else.
Almost five years had passed before they got a hit on the missing person’s report associated with her. She’d reached thirteen when she found out that her full name was Abigail Dressler. That she came from Minnesota and had no living relatives. Her grandmother had reported three-year-old Abigail missing but had since passed away.
Arthur had taken her to visit the woman’s grave, but it had meant little to her. She’d even felt some guilt on the trip, hoping it wouldn’t make Arthur sad to have a reminder that he wasn’t actually related to her. Her previous life defied memory, and Abigail had felt disconnected from it.
They were her blood, but Arthur was her family.
Still …
Abigail typed the name into the safe. D-R-E-S-S-L-E-R.
It clicked open.
***
The sword, leaning against the inside wall, caught her attention first. It lay in an ornate sheath, about a meter long and curved slightly. Gently, Abigail picked it up and slid out the blade. It had a sheen of oil on it to hold the sharpened edge and looked to have rested here a long time.
Arthur took the blade everywhere with him. He trained her how to fight with it, but swords never became her thing. She preferred guns. If people got in too close, she had knives to deal with them.
Abigail had felt extremely saddened, though, when Arthur went to prison, and the sword had disappeared. She’d never had the guts to visit him while he festered in that cell, and so never asked what had happened to it and just assumed it forever lost.
Now, she held it, testing its balance. It felt comfortable in her hand. Right. She’d never had enough strength to use it effectively, but she’d grown older now.
Abigail set the sword on the chair behind her and looked back into the safe. A bag sat on one of the shelves, filled with money—at least a few hundred thousand dollars—and false identities. Two of them for her.
Abigail also discovered various other weapons and trinkets that Arthur had carried over the years. She recognized some of them, but many more were objects she’d never seen before. Like a shard of glass that looked as though it had been removed from an old stained-glass window, and a small chunk of wood that had hardened over time.
Too much stuff to carry. Abigail would leave it here because it would be more secure in the safe than with her.
The last thing she found was a binder of documents. The pages looked old and dry and had faded somewhat. With much of it written in another language, she couldn’t tell what the documents related to, but on the top one lay a post-it note with a phone number.
The sticky-backed paper had aged, and the writing proved difficult to read. Abigail hesitated, and then pulled out her phone and punched in the number. Though late, she couldn’t wait.
Someone answered on the fourth ring
. “Hello? Who is this?”
Abigail didn’t recognize the voice. A man’s voice, and he sounded older and a little frantic.
“This is Abigail,” she said.
A long moment passed. “Abigail? Jesus. How did you get this number?”
“Arthur Vangeest,” she said.
“Arthur is dead.”
“I know,” Abigail said. “I was his adopted—”
“I know who you are,” the voice said. “Why are you calling me?”
“I found your number in Arthur’s things,” she said. “You knew him?”
“We shouldn’t do this over the phone,” the man said. “Do you have a pen?”
“No,” Abigail said. “But I have an excellent memory.”
The man rattled off an address, and she made note of it. It wasn’t too far away, still in Ohio, just on the opposite side of the state. “It’s my shop,” the man said. “Come alone.”
“Okay,” Abigail said.
“I mean it,” the guy said. “No one else.”
Abigail didn’t even bother to respond, just disconnected and slipped the phone back into her pocket.
Someone she’d never met before who knew Arthur. What sort of connection had they had? And why had Arthur never mentioned him?
One thing at a time. Abigail took the sword but left the other items. She didn’t need the money, and it might be best to save the identities for later. On second thought, she took the binder as well, locked the safe, and headed back to her car.
As soon as she stepped outside the house, she knew something was wrong. She no longer stood alone, although she couldn’t see anyone else around her in the immediate proximity. How could she know? Nevertheless, she felt certain.
Alert and alarmed, she slipped her gun loose and crept toward her car, scanning the area around the house. Dark and cloudy, she couldn’t see anything.
When she drew closer, Abigail noticed that the vehicle rested lower than it should have. Someone had slashed the tires.
Not waiting for the trap to spring on her, she sprinted to the right, running toward a fence leading into an old horse paddock. A shout came from behind, followed by a gunshot. Abigail ducked and dashed to the fence, climbed over it, and dove into the tall grass below.
Years of horses walking over the muddy terrain had made the ground uneven. Luckily, the grass stood several feet tall and disguised her entire body, especially with such little light.
Abigail landed hard and rolled, ducking into the grass as more shots fired behind her. She kept moving, crawling low through the grass and, occasionally, glancing back the way she had come.
Near her car, three people ran toward her. Although Abigail couldn’t recognize their faces, she knew them from the way they moved: Colton Depardieu, Jack Wright, and Anong Sao.
It looked like they had come to finish what they had started back in Lausanne. Colton raised his pistol and fired into the grass. The shot fell behind her, but not as far away as she would like.
Abigail flinched, ducked again, and continued crawling. On this breezy night, the grass wafted in the wind and masked her progress. She moved fast, staying low, and went another fifteen or so meters. When she checked again, her pursuers had made it through the gate and into the field. They combed the area slowly, spread out to fan the entire field and worked their way toward her.
Abigail held onto her revolver. At the least, she could drop one of them from her hiding spot. Anong stood closest, oblivious to her. They hadn’t prepared for her to retaliate, and she could put a bullet in Anong and still perhaps crawl away without the other two being able to find her immediately.
However, she didn’t. These were Hunters, her brothers and sisters, and killing them felt … wrong.
Though she might well regret it, Abigail slipped her revolver away instead and belly-crawled through the weeds and toward the fence. There, she found an opening that she could crawl under and slid outside the field. Abigail couldn’t see any other houses or vehicles in the area, but an old barn sat only fifty meters from her.
It looked like it had burnt up in a fire years ago, probably due to lightning or hooligans, and only half of it remained standing. Still, it gave better cover than nothing.
Abigail moved cautiously, crouching low, and made her way to the barn. Once there, she ducked inside, out of sight of the fields, and let out a quiet sigh.
“Spread out,” Colton shouted from somewhere out in the open. “And find her.”
Abigail searched around the area. An old four-by-four beam lay on the ground. It felt heavy and looked about three feet long. A rough, splintered edge showed where it had snapped from the roof. Not as sturdy as she would like, but an excellent makeshift club.
Then Abigail located a hiding place near one of the old horse stalls, around the corner, which she slid into with her beam and waited.
After a few minutes, footsteps came into the barn and padded across the old dirt floor. Too heavy to belong to Anong. Probably Jack, but Abigail couldn’t be sure.
She ducked low, controlling her breathing. The man moved slowly, checking the area. Her head thudded violently while he checked her stall, glancing in but not checking thoroughly. His breathing came from just outside, and Abigail prayed that he wouldn’t notice her hiding spot.
He didn’t, but instead, kept walking to the next stall in line. Abigail waited until he moved out of sight and crept out. She left the binder tucked into the back of the hiding place. He’d just looked into the next stall when she stepped up behind him and bashed him with the club.
She hit him hard, and he staggered into a wall and let out a cry. Abigail followed through with another whack to his leg, knocking him off balance. He caught himself and launched a punch at her, but it came feeble and un-centered, and Abigail blocked it with ease.
Then she hit him a third time, knocking him to his knees, and followed up with a knee in the face. He collapsed, groaning and rolling to his side, trying to call for help.
Abigail kicked him again, silencing him, and then once more for good measure. She didn’t want to kill them—even if they were trying to kill her—but that didn’t mean she didn’t want to beat them up a little. She felt pissed as all hell and didn’t mind using them to let off steam.
The confrontation had produced a lot of noise, so Abigail wasted no time in heading back toward her hiding spot. She didn’t quite make it, though, before Anong rounded the corner and spotted her.
Abigail changed course and charged straight at Anong, throwing her club at the small Asian woman. Anong raised her pistol to fire but was forced to duck back to avoid the beam flying at her head.
Her momentary distraction proved enough for Abigail to close in on her. Anong raised her gun once more, but Abigail drew near enough, now, to make it a difficult shot. When Anong fired, her bullets went wide over Abigail’s shoulder.
She stepped in and punched Anong on the right side of her face, following with a kick to her stomach and a punch to her chest. Anong staggered back and tried to raise the weapon again, but Abigail stayed with her. She caught her wrist and knocked the gun out of her grip, and then punched her twice more in the jaw.
Anong staggered away from her, rolling across the ground. The woman managed to find her footing and launched a series of attacks, forcing Abigail to give ground. Abigail backpedaled, blocking attacks and trying to hold her own.
Not easy. Anong had incredible skill and had spent her entire life fighting. She landed quite a few heavy punches and kicks that kept Abigail off-balance.
Anong took an opening in the fight to draw a short blade from her boot and slashed out at Abigail, forcing even more distance between them.
Abigail was running out of time. Colton might be closing in on her now and could appear at any second. She could barely hold her own against Anong, let alone the two of them combined.
Desperate, she drew her gun. Abigail couldn’t run the risk of letting Colton enter the fray and tip the scales against her. Anong fought too fas
t and strong, and Abigail couldn’t think of any other ways to end the fight quickly.
Plus, shooting her in the arm might be painful, but it wouldn’t kill her.
Anong’s eyes went wide when she saw Abigail pulling the revolver loose, and she charged in. Abigail had time to get one shot off, which clipped the Asian woman in the shoulder, but then they stood too close. Anong punched her twice in the stomach, and then swatted the gun out of her grasp.
Abigail grunted in frustration but did manage to draw her knife and stab out, forcing her opponent back. She moved forward, kicking Anong hard in the face, and then she punched the hilt of her blade into the woman’s nose.
The bone shattered, and blood poured out. Anong stumbled back, but Abigail stayed with her, kicking her repeatedly in the stomach and legs and hitting her in her broken nose as hard as she could.
Anong staggered, and Abigail finished with a roundhouse kick, knocking her unconscious. She stood there overtop her opponent, panting and trying to catch her breath. Her heart thumped in her ears while she tried to listen for Colton’s approach.
Nothing. All quiet. So far. Abigail waited a second. Where had Colton gotten to? Then she moved to retrieve her revolver; she’d come back for the binder later. She left the two unconscious people lying there in the barn and moved slowly outside, scanning the area and looking around for her last opponent.
It seemed clear, but he had to be somewhere out there. Straight up fights weren’t his thing, so it came as no surprise that he hadn’t joined the fray. Too much of a coward.
It was a cat and mouse game now. Abigail moved toward the house, keeping low and watching for any sign of movement.
Abigail couldn’t see that far in front, but at least that meant things wouldn’t be any easier for Colton. Hopefully, he had given up. Maybe he would count his blessings and let her go.
She didn’t believe that, though it was a nice idea.
He shot at her just as she got up near the car. He hid on the far side of the house, around the corner. The bullet hit her in the side before she heard the gunshot, and it caught her completely off-guard.