Abigail Forsythe

Copyright Otto26, 2007

*

The dungeon corridors had very low ceilings, such that Abigail was forced to bow her head. The torch of the guard in front of her danced in the puddled water on the rough-hewn stone floor and left thick ropes of smoke that quickly blended into the darkness. Even in the relative warmth of the Hungarian spring the tunnels were cold and the sound of coughing echoed through them. Abigail pressed a handkerchief over her mouth and nose and shivered for a moment within her cloak.

The guard stopped abruptly at a door no different from the dozens of others they'd passed and inserted a large key into the lock. He drew a pistol and kicked the door open before standing to one side. A nod of his head indicated that Abigail should enter. The cell was barely larger than the corridor, which thought amused Abigail and caused a hint of a smile to play at her lips. Where the corridor had been stale, however, the cell was rank; the air felt heavy and oppressive.

"Tarnation! I take back half of what I've said about them damned Hungarians! You ain't a blonde, but you'll do," a voice croaked.

"Mister Cole, if you lay a finger on me the guard will shoot you," Abigail said coolly to the darkness.

A shape began to form in the darkness in front of her.

"He'll be doin' me a favor then, since they're gonna hang me tomorrow."

"But I have another way for you to leave. Alive."

The shadow stopped approaching, but Abigail could feel the effort it had taken the man and she worried that she had been incorrect in her assessment. If the man was more trouble than help, then she was better off without him. The thought worried at her for a moment before she quashed it. She was committed and second-guessing would profit her not at all.

"What price?" the voice rasped. Again she felt a hint of the effort it was taking the man to restrain himself.

"You were convicted of smuggling across the border between the Ottoman Empire and the Principality of Transylvania. I need someone who knows the back country of Transylvania, someone with the kind of contacts you have. I intend to kill... someone," Abigail explained.

"I take you where you need to be and then I'm free?"

"You are required to stay until I have killed the person I intend to kill or until I release you," she responded.

"Fine. Let's go."

"I will require your oath on this matter, Mister Cole," Abigail said coldly. She was not a simpleton to be taken in by a falsely given assurance and his treatment of her as such angered her.

The shadow was silent.

"That's the other thing I need, someone who can be trusted to do as he says. You have that reputation, Mister Cole. Of course, if you'd prefer to take your chances with the 'damned Hungarians'..." she let the suggestion trail off into silence, half hoping he would refuse her offer.

"Fine. My oath on it."

"Swear." The word was clipped by a steely tone better suited for a woman twice Abigail's age.

"On my oath I will faithfully assist you in your quest to kill one person, yet unnamed, until that person is dead, or you have released me, or your death," the man said solemnly.

"Done, then," Abigail agreed. "Follow me."

The pouch she handed the jailer seemed sufficiently heavy to him so he holstered his pistol and gestured for the two to precede him down the tunnel. Abigail led the way, conscious of the man at her back, and not reassured by the presence of the guard behind him.

Out of the tunnel the guard patted the pouch in his pocket to reassure his co-conspirator who tossed a cloak to Cole. "Walk out. No one notice."

Abigail hesitated.

"He's right," Cole advised her. "This happens all the time."

Abigail nodded, as much to herself as anyone else in the room, and led the way out the door into the courtyard. The carriage she'd engaged was waiting and the driver held the door open for her with a knowing leer plastered across his face. Not until he'd engaged the engine and the carriage was chuffing out of the prison did she relax enough to ask the question on her mind.

"People frequently buy the freedom of family members?" she asked.

Cole, his eyes on the windows of the carriage, shrugged. "Sometimes. Generally they make their bribes before the trial. What the guard was referrin' to was the practice of the rich buyin' prisoners. That happens all the time."

"And what do the wealthy of Hungary want with prisoners?"

"Sport," was the reply. The word seemed to have been dragged out of his throat and came past clenched teeth.

Abigail thought through the possible interpretations of that term and decided to leave off any further comment. Instead she leaned forward and lowered the window. Cole, frankly, reeked. The little of him visible from beneath the cloak was filthy. He made no apology for his odorous condition, however, and waited in silence until the carriage arrived at the house she had engaged.

She took a purse from within a pocket of her cloak and counted out approximately one hundred dinars. She held out the coins, pouring them into Cole's hand without touching him.

"Get cleaned up and buy some new clothing," she told him.

"I'll need to buy some equipment," he said quietly.

She turned when she was out of the carriage and dumped some more coins on the interior floor. Two more coins settled her account with the driver and then she was into the warmth of the house.

***

Radigan announced them as if they were noble guests arriving at a ball, instead of hired help being ushered into a room pressed into service as a laboratory.

"Mister Timothy Cole and guest," he said in his clear baritone.

Abigail looked up in idle interest that quickly became annoyance when the word 'guest' was uttered. Cole, dressed in local clothing, walked into the room trailed by a woman covered from head to toe.

"Guest?" Abigail demanded. "What is she for?"

Cole glanced back at the woman behind him. "She's for fuckin', and washin' my clothes, and cookin' food, and carryin' things I need carried."

"You bought a slave with my money?" Abigail asked frigidly.

Cole shrugged. "Bought a wife."

"Get rid of her."

"No."

"No?" Abigail was flustered, a condition which three years of grief and hardened will had almost removed from her makeup.

"No," Cole confirmed. "I don't consider that this falls within the scope of our agreement. If she starts to make problems then I'll get rid of her.

"Radigan," Abigail began, but Cole held up one hand to gain her attention and wiggled the fingers of his other hand to draw her attention to the gun which it hovered by.

"We can do this the hard way," he cheerfully offered.

"I rather think the hard way would go poorly for all of us," an elderly voice pronounced. "A fight, particularly a gunfight, would release or ignite some rather nasty chemicals. I really do suggest, my lady, that you take your argument outside."

"Yes, thank you, Doctor McCormac. Perhaps we'll simply dispense with the disagreement altogether. I'll accept Mister Cole's reasoning for the time being," Abigail declared. "I offer you my apologies, Mister Cole. I should not question how you go about accomplishing the tasks I set you." The icy tone was the opposite of apologetic and Cole was plainly clever enough to understand the second part of her statement; he served her and had enough sense to acknowledge this fact by inclining his head.

"Reckon that's the truth, your ladyship. But you ain't yet said who you aim to kill," he pointed out.

Abigail took her seat and Radigan stalked over to pour a cup of tea for her.

"Miklos Brasolic," she informed him.

"The 'Devil's Butcher'?" Cole exclaimed. "Lady, you're loco! Brasolic ain't human, he's a creature of Sam Hill. Can't nobody kill him."

Abigail frowned. "I see you're familiar with the man, but how is it that you know he can't be killed?"

"I put four bullets into him, and a good knife. I like to died from what he done to me. Took me all of a winter to get back on my feet and that whoreson was walking around good as new not a week later," Cole explained. "I ain't the only one, neither. He ain't filled the graveyards of Covasna, but he's for damned sure making a try at it."

"Am I to understand that you survived an attack by Mister Brasolic?" the elderly doctor asked.

"You are unless you're callin' me a liar," Cole responded.

"And did Mister Brasolic... bite you in the course of his attack?" the doctor pursued, carefully, as if he was afraid Cole was going to disappear in a moment.

Cole snorted. "Bit me, clawed me, punched me. He ain't human I tell you, got teeth like... an animal. That's how he fights too."

"Remarkable," Doctor McCormac concluded.

"In what way, Doctor?" Abigail asked.

"People rarely survive such an attack, and I'm not aware of anyone that has ever survived a bite from someone infected with Van Helsing's Disease," he explained.

"Aside from the novelty of the situation, what use is this to us?" Abigail asked. The doctor was brilliant but lacked the focused purpose that Abigail had cultivated. She found this a little grating, but something had told her that the elderly scientist was going to prove useful in bringing vengeance to her parents' killer.

"Mister Cole has been exposed to the disease and has plainly not been infected. If I could get some of his blood I could isolate the serum and, perhaps, find a way to inoculate people, perhaps even cure them. The man is incalculably valuable." The excitement in the doctor's voice was unmistakable.

"How long?" she pursued.

The doctor straightened up. "You cannot predict the time such things will take, my lady. A week, a month, years?"

Abigail sighed. "A week is what you have, Doctor."

"Now hold on!" Cole protested. "He ain't bleedin' me none."

"Yes, Mister Cole, he will be," Abigail assured him. "But not excessively."

"It's really very safe, Mister Cole, and hurts only a little," McCormac assured him.

"It aids me in my project, Mister Cole," Abigail said quietly.

Cole swore under his breath, but he nodded.

"Over here, Mister Cole, take a seat," the doctor gushed, enthusiasm for his project plain in his every line.

Abigail sipped her tea.

***

Abigail, though she wouldn't say it aloud, was concerned for Doctor McCormac's health. And his sanity. The man had pushed himself relentlessly for five days, sleeping in little naps and eating only when he stopped to consult his notes. He'd torn equipment apart to build new equipment and the little steam turbine that powered his makeshift laboratory was running round the clock. He'd insisted he was fine, however, and close to a breakthrough. He'd taken yet more blood from Cole and was certain he'd succeed in properly extracting the serum.

She wasn't certain he was correct, and she wasn't certain she'd made the right decision in allowing him to try. He looked like he was working himself to a collapse and possibly taking Cole with him. She couldn't have that, both men were necessary.

She found the door to Cole's room open and entered. The man was nowhere to be seen and neither was his 'servant'. Abigail's lip curled as she remembered the woman. A slave from the Ottoman Empire, without a doubt, and Cole permitted her to cover herself in their fashion. Abigail had disliked her from the start, though the woman was at pains to keep her distance from Abigail.

She saw the open doorway leading to the closet and walked in.

"Cole?" she called. But the room was empty. She turned to walk out and saw Cole's servant run from the bathroom. The woman was as naked as the day she was born, Abigail realized. She started to walk out of the closet, but Cole emerged from the bathroom in the same state as his servant. Embarrassed, Abigail remained in the closet and stepped behind the door.

The quick movement didn't prevent her from getting an eyeful of Cole. 'He's enormous!' was the thought that rose unbidden to her mind. Struggling for a moment with her morals, she applied her eye to the gap between the door and the frame to observe.

Cole was not a particularly tall man, but he was broad and built like a bull. Abigail had labeled him a brute after the first day of associating with him and that appellation described his manners and form well enough. Now that she could see him unclothed, she found her assessment still accurate. What caught her eye, despite her wishes, was the large male member that rose from between his thighs. Abigail remembered the portraits of Priapus in the Roman ruins of Pompeii, and blushed to remember sneaking in with two other friends while the guard's back had been turned. Cole was not as ridiculously large as Priapus, but the comparison was closer than she'd thought possible.

Cole's wife was laying at the edge of the bed and had drawn back her knees and spread her legs. Her sex, Abigail was shocked to see, was completely bare. She blinked and then Cole was obscuring the sight, standing between her legs and pushing into her. The woman moaned loudly in delight and then Cole's hands were at her breasts, roughly kneading at them, fingers rolling and pulling at her nipples. Abigail wondered what that felt like, idly imagining the sensation before she could clamp down on the thought.

Cole was pumping into the woman like a steam piston, and with the same amount of compassion. Each thrust audibly slapped against the woman and rocked her body on the bed. She was repeating something in a language that Abigail didn't recognize, but the tone was clearly that of pleasure.

Her own hand, she discovered, was between her legs, pressing through the layers of garments and circling firmly. She bit her lip in anger, frustration, and desire. Taking a step back into the closet she lifted her skirts and plunged her hand down the front of her drawers. It passed through the soft pubic down and she began to slowly stroke, circular motions that fanned the warmth in her loins and caused her breath to come more quickly.

She heard screaming from the room and looked up to see Cole's wife writhing in the throes of ecstasy. Cole, it was plain to see, was not finished. When his wife had calmed somewhat he withdrew from her, his cock dripping, and flipped her over, taking her from behind. Abigail was astounded, 'Surely he spent himself at least once! How is he still able to perform?' She realized that her stroking had fallen into the rhythm of Cole's thrusts and felt a moment of shame that a sudden orgasm swept away.

Gasping quietly, she shuddered within the privacy of her hiding place until she was calm again. Cole's wife screamed through another orgasm and then Cole threw himself onto the bed, laying back and watching as the woman fellated him. It was lewd, Abigail thought, but also strangely exciting to watch the woman lap their commingled fluids from his rampant member. She watched in fascination as the woman's tiny hands rapidly stroked Cole while her mouth encompassed as much of him as she could. When she suddenly pulled back, Abigail wondered what had happened, a question answered by the sight of Cole fountaining into the air while his wife, giggling, tried to catch his seed in her mouth.

Cole made a comment that Abigail couldn't catch and then rose from the bed, walking back to the bathroom. His wife, thighs and face sticky with his seed, followed him in. Quickly, Abigail took advantage of her opportunity and slipped from the closet and fled the room.

***

Abigail absently rubbed at her arm as she waited to descend the steps. Doctor McCormac had assured her that the irritation of the injection would last only for a week and, in truth, most of the bruising had healed. The fever had faded as well and it was likely she was simply imagining the little twinges she sometimes felt. Irritated by her own behavior, she shook the feeling off and stepped carefully down the stairs onto the platform.

Covasna was the biggest city in this part of Transylvania, but it was little more than a large town. 'Not so large, really,' she thought. The city had been over-run several times within living memory, a victim of the nearly constant border warfare and cycle of invasions between the Austro-Hungarians and the Ottomans. Every building was stone, a miniature fortress in its own right, and they were packed cheek and jowl.

"I have secured our luggage, my lady," Radigan informed her.

"Thank you, Radigan," she replied, pulled out of her reverie and back to her plans. "If you will engage a taxi for us we can proceed to our lodgings."

They had to settle for two horse drawn carriages as Covasna was too remote for steam cars, much less steam turbine cars, to have found their way there.

***

Settling into the rented house had taken several days. Her instructions about not needing a staff had been ignored by the agent. This, she found out from Cole, was because the staff had bribed the agent. They had done so because they made money renting space in the servants quarters to lodgers who paid a pittance for a relatively warm space on the floor and out of the elements. Evicting the servants had meant evicting the lodgers which had caused something of a scene. That was unfortunate, but necessary.

Unpacking the equipment and testing everything had taken two days. Professor McCormac's traveling laboratory and medical equipment had taken another day to set up. The explosive charges had taken yet another day, but Abigail had not begrudged that time; it had even been informative. Cole, it turned out, had been both a miner and a soldier at points in his past and knew more about explosives than Abigail had been able to learn.

It was difficult to work side by side with the man. When she looked at him she remembered the sight of him ravishing his wife, as he apparently did several times a night from the sounds which emanated from his room, and remembered her own actions on that day. For his part, he was insufferable. The liquor had to be locked up or he'd be at it at all hours, and his gaze was, frankly, all too knowing. He appraised her body every time he encountered her and his grin made it plain he'd enjoy ravishing her, too. Yet he kept his distance and carried out his assigned tasks with an efficiency matched only by his insubordinate attitude.

He'd found Brasolic by the simple expedient of drinking in a number of bars until he found one where someone remembered him and his fight. Brasolic, it seemed, had come up in the world and was able to maintain a large house by Covasna standards, in a better part of town. He'd also come up with a plan for drawing Brasolic out of his little fortress. True to the man's nature it was simple and brutish, but effective.

***

The last flaming bottle went into a basement window and Cole walked nonchalantly down the street. When the first call of "Fire," rang out he stopped and turned, as a bystander would be expected to do, and then ran back down the street towards the house. He joined the crowd of people forming themselves into a line and passed buckets of water from a position where he could watch the house. When he spotted Brasolic he simply carried his bucket forward and threw the contents into an open window. Then he approached the man.

Brasolic turned his eyes from the fire and gave Cole a withering look and asked a question in a contemptuous tone.

"I'm hurt, Miklos. Just plumb hurt. I thought I'd made more of an impression on you," Cole said sadly. He saw the man's eyes narrow and then Brasolic jumped as though he'd been stung by a wasp. His hand reached around to the side of his neck and pulled a dart from it. As he regarded it Cole heard the muffled thump of another dart striking him. The man snarled and lifted his hands to attack Cole, but he fell to the ground.

"He's fainted!" Cole pointed out to another bystander in his best Hungarian. "Must be the smoke. Help me get him to a carriage and we'll take him to a doctor. Quickly now."