A horse trots slowly down the rain-slicked brick road, its dark bronze silhouette reflected in the puddles below. Atop the horse sits a woman, her wide-brimmed hat shielding her from the relentless storm. She wears a dark dress that clings to her figure, rain dripping from its edges. Reaching the sidewalk, she dismounts and hitches the horse near the curb in front of a butcher shop, now shuttered for the evening. Above the storefront, bold letters spell out "Sal’s Butcher", and a faded sign on the window reads, “Best Cuts in Chicago.”
Without pause, she makes her way toward the alley beside the shop. The building is an old brick structure adorned with intricate detailing, though its charm is dulled by the stormy gloom. After a few careful steps, she arrives at a side door, weathered, black, it's paint peeling away like forgotten memories. Her gloved hand raises, and she knocks firmly with her middle knuckle, the sound sharp against the downpour.
The door creaks open, revealing a dimly lit stairway sloping down into the basement. A faint red glow illuminates the steps, casting long shadows on the walls, but the door at the end remains shrouded in deep black. She steps inside, the heavy door closing behind her.
As she opens the second door, a large man steps forward. He’s dressed in a blue French-style shirt, the maroon tie around his neck dotted with small sun patterns. His hair is tousled, and a cigarette dangles precariously from his lips, its tip glowing faintly in the low light.
“Miss Wolfe, welcome back,” he greets her with a whimsical lilt, his voice smooth but casual. The cigarette bobs as he speaks.
Ms. Wolfe moves through the bustling room, removing her hat as she goes. The air buzzes with chatter and the clink of glasses. “Another round!” bellows a man in the corner, his vest hanging open and tattooed arms on display. Nearby, two men play cards on upturned wooden crates meant for storing liquor. One glances up at Wolfe as she passes, shifting to the side to let her open the door at the back.
The back room is a stark contrast, quiet, dimly lit, and thick with dust rather than smoke. Shadows creep along the walls, and the faint scent of age lingers in the air. Wolfe approaches the counter, where a man works intently on something.
He turns as she nears, revealing his face: an older man, grey silver hair, his right eye hidden behind a black patch. A burn scar snakes down his neck, disappearing into the collar of a sharply pressed navy suit. His white shirt and dark red-brown tie, neatly tucked into a navy vest. With a trembling focus, he pulls a gold pocket watch from his vest, it's engraved surface glinting faintly in the dim light. After a brief glance, he tucks it away, the gold chain left gleaming against the fabric. Leaning forward, he raises his single, piercing eye to meet hers.
“Abigail Wolfe, the one and only,” he says, his voice gravelly, like he’d been expecting her but didn’t think she’d ever show.
“Luke, you old madman,” she replies, her tone calm, low, with a rasp that lingers like smoke. Her jet-black hair shimmers as she flicks it back, pulling off her gloves to reveal pale hands, chilled from the relentless rain.
“I told you not to call me mad. One of these days, I might just lose it for real. You kids think us old folks are crazy. We’ve just got too much experience and too many problems unsolved.” He rests an arm over the counter, right behind the brass and wood ashtray, eyeing her.
“At this rate, Luke, I won’t even make it to forty.” A faint smile curls her lips, the overhead lights casting a pink glow on them.
“What can I do for Miss Wolfe?” he asks, his tone softening but staying sharp.
“I need ‘dead man’s blood’. And a case of silver bullets.”
“Vampires,” she confirms.
“Abigail... leave the bloodsuckers to the younger hunters. No need to get your hand dirty with those things.”
“These aren’t like the others,” she says.
“How so?” His tone doesn’t waver, but his hand shifts slightly away from the ashtray.
“They talk,” she answers, meeting his dark blue eyes, shadows dancing in the dim light.
“Talk?” He leans forward, his voice dropping. “Vampires don’t talk. They’re wild beasts, no control.”
“Not these,” she murmurs, her dark ruby eyes catching the faint light.
Luke places a small vial, barely the size of a thumb. The vial filled with a red substance on the counter alongside a box of freshly molded and pressed silver bullets. Abigail hands him a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.
"Dead man's blood alone costs fifteen bucks," he says, his tone edged with warning. "This stuff isn’t cheap, Abigail. You’d better make sure the pay’s worth it."
“Trust me Luke, this job is not cheap”
“Talking vampires huh? I have to see it to believe it, but then again, I did not get this scar from just believing. I will stay in my comfort space”. As he raises his arms.
“Thanks, Luke, stay safe why don’t you”
“Abigail, kill some vamps for me.” He smiles and as Abigail puts her gloves back on and makes her way out the door.
Her bronze horse gallops as Abigail rides down the Chicago streets as it hooves digs and splashes mud with every stride. She finally arrives at a large field and at the far side a large brick building. The building is decorated in brick and detailed dark fascia. When lighting strikes, for a second, you can see the intricate colored glass depicting characters and scenes of religious figures.
She pulls the reins on her horse forcibly and leads her to a towering willow tree, The only tree in the area, where she hitches the horse. “Stay here Tulip, I will be right back”, she utters to Tulip.
Standing before the towering structure, her dark dress billows in the storm, revealing glimpses of the white underdress beneath. Her black, glossy leather oxford heels sink stubbornly into the mud with each step. The wind has claimed her hat, leaving her hair whipping around her face like tendrils of dark fire. With precision, she draws two silver revolvers from the holsters beneath her ribs. One is loaded with silver bullets, the other with six rounds dipped in dead man’s blood, the polished metal gleaming brilliantly in the faint light. Once loaded, she holsters the weapons and retrieves a leather bag she had placed on the ground, swinging it onto her shoulder and tightening the strap securely.
Carefully approaching the towering structure, she presses her weight against the ornate wooden doors. Her strength barely suffices, and they groan in protest, the sound echoing like a reminder of years of neglect. The door creaks and shudders, yielding just enough to let her squeeze through the narrow opening she has managed to create.
Greeted by an ornate hall, its wooden accents and intricate carpeting muted under a thick blanket of dust. The entrance adorned with remnants of detailed art from a bygone era, each piece whispering of grandeur long past. She could almost picture the opulent balls and lively parties that once brought this space to life. The pale blue walls, now dulled and peeling, bore the scars of neglect and abuse, their surface etched with scratches and cracks. Yet, amidst the decay, her gaze was drawn to the grand staircase ahead, it's sweeping, majestic curve beckoned, leading upward into the shadowed depths of the house.
She moves slowly and carefully toward the staircase, the building crackling and humming around her. Each deliberate step sends a sharp clack of her shoes against the wooden floor, the sound muted as she reaches the grand, carpeted steps. The second level is brighter, illuminated by a soft, ethereal glow. She is greeted by another hall, its far end dominated by a large, ornate glass window depicting a man cradling a baby and a goat. The vivid reds, blues, and greens of the stained glass spill across the gray walls, casting them in a kaleidoscope of shimmering color.
Abigail drops her bag and pulls out a wooden stake, its tip glistening with dead man’s blood. She murmurs to herself, "This is the place. Where are you?"
“You mean me!” A man’s voice echoes through the dark halls, reverberating with an unsettling clarity. He steps out from behind a cabinet at the far end of the room. Tall and imposing, his golden hair catches the faint light, his glowing yellow eyes piercing through the shadows.
“I am the leader of this clan. Now, what are you doing here?” he replies, his voice rising with authority. As his words hang in the air, movement stirs all around. Vampires emerge from the doors on either side, slithering out of the darkness. Some crawl along the walls and ceiling, their glowing red eyes gleaming like embers. Their tattered clothes, remnants of the lives they once lived, hang in shreds, a haunting contrast to their predatory presence.
“I did hear something of a talking vampire,just had to see it to believe it. You are lot more taken care of then the rest of your.. subordinates.” She states with a little smirk.
“We will see who is smiling!” Yell the man.
In the blink of an eye, the vampire thralls launched themselves at Abigail, their movements a blur of hunger and rage. She didn’t hesitate. Her hand darted into her bag, retrieving a gleaming silver sword. With a sharp pivot, she lunged to the left, narrowly avoiding their clawing hands. The thralls collided in their frenzy, snarling and snapping at each other, each desperate to be the first to take a bite. Abigail used the chaos to her advantage, sprinting into one of the nearby rooms. She pressed her back against the wall near the entrance, her breath steady despite the pounding in her chest.
One by one, the thralls charged in, their eyes burning with blood-lust. Abigail’s silver blade flashed in the dim light, slicing cleanly through flesh and bone. Heads toppled to the floor, and their bodies crumpled with dull thuds, her movements as precise as they were lethal. She kept moving, her breath steady despite the chaos. Step by step, she fought her way to the far room, each strike calculated and fierce. From there, she spotted the hallway that looped back to the main corridor.
The thralls closed in, their twisted form a suffocating wall. Cornered, she reached for the pouch hanging from her belt. With practiced ease, she uncorked it and took a quick gulp of its contents. The metallic taste burned on her tongue, but she didn’t falter. She sprayed the liquid from her mouth, the droplets catching the spark from her golden lighter. A sudden roar of flames erupted, illuminating the hallway in a furious blaze. The thralls recoiled, their inhuman shrieks cutting through the air as they burned and fell, one by one.
As the last of them crumbled to ash, she sank to one knee in the center of the hall. Her ornate, dark dress tattered and bloodied, streaked with the remains of flesh and dust. Yet, her gaze was steady. The She drops the lighter and stands up, tired and barely holding on to her weight, she lifts the sword and points it that the head vampire. “You are next” she states with her eyes piercing. The vampire drops his silk coat and exposes his Poet shirt and his dark collar. This Vampire is different he takes really good care of himself.
The vampire lunged at Abigail, but she narrowly escaped his grasp. A gunshot rang out, echoing in the dark. Her expression hardened as she leveled her revolver, a wisp of smoke curling from the barrel. The head vampire staggered, his forehead darkening where the bullet struck. His yellow eyes flickered, dimming from an eerie glow to a lifeless pale white. Smoke rose from his smoldering skin, flames consuming him until only his clothes remained, crumpled on the ground. Even as smoke rose from the revolver, Abigail's eyes stayed locked on the crumbled figure, her stance barely unshaken.
The room was thick with the remnants of the battle, soft crackles of dying flames, the faint echo of screams, and the sharp stench of burning. One by one, the remaining thralls disintegrated into nothingness, their ashes swirling in the dim light like a macabre snowstorm.
She allowed herself only a brief respite, sinking against a cracked marble column. Her fingers moved deftly, pulling a small, weathered leather notebook from her coat. Flipping it open, she scanned its pages, her focus razor-sharp. “Right,” she muttered under her breath, her voice low but resolute. “I almost forgot.”
Rising quickly, she began sifting through the ash-streaked floor, her boots crunching softly against the remnants. Her movements were deliberate, searching, her gloved hand brushing aside soot while she used her other arm to shield her face from the lingering dust. Toward the far end of the room, something caught her eye: a flash of white amidst the gray. She approached cautiously, her breath hitching as she reached out. It was an ornate silken dress, still intact, its delicate fabric ghostly glowing with the light of the the room. Abigail knelt, brushing the ash away with care, revealing a golden locket nestled among the folds. She picked it up, her thumb brushing against its intricate surface before she clicked it open. A miniature portrait hanging on the wall, capturing the essence of innocence and joy between a young girl and a man. The air around her seemed to shroud her in anticipation as she spoke in hushed tones, "This must be her".
With a gentle step, she approaches the talking vampire's robes, As she leaned closer to inspect the intricate details of the attire, her gaze was suddenly captured by a glimmering object nestled in the folds. Abigail's voice carried a sense of awe as she crossed the room and extended her hand towards the case. With an air of cautious fascination, she reached for the shiny silver ring resting on top of the vampire robes. The delicate band bore intricate markings, its green gemstone reflecting and yet transparent. The ring seems to whisper something, she leaned closer to listen then stopped herself. She put the ring in a small pouch, black velvet with a golden snake detailing it, the whispers ceased.