Amber & Gray

By Jason Andrew Updike

Six years ago Abigail Grey escaped from brutal captivity, along with eight other teenage girls, at the hands of Baron Alistair Rigby of Highgate, a man who knew well how to guard himself with the secrets he collected on the wealthy and powerful in the Sanctum. In the years since her escape she’s lived a life of quiet retreat with Oliver Grey, the doctor who counseled her after the traumatic events of Rigby’s farm and who later adopted her as his daughter. Though still haunted by memories of the farm, Abigail manages to carve out a simple life for herself in the countryside.

All this changes when Abigail is informed that Doctor Grey has been murdered while in the city on business. Due to his social standing in the Sanctum, Abigail finds herself invited by the Queen herself to come to the Capital City, the beating cosmopolitan heart of this closed matriarchal society.

Now, despite her own fears and social doubts, Abigail sets out with determination to find her father’s killer. It’s a perilous journey that will take her right into the turning cogs of the Sanctum's most powerful and dangerous political circles. It is a world filled with shifting allegiances and deadly secrets, where legalized assassination serves as a replacement for open war between the Ladies who lead the royal houses of the Sanctum.

The closer Abigail comes to tracking down her father’s killer the clearer it becomes that someone is pursuing her as well. As she races against the clock, coming face to face with her own worst fears and nightmares, one question continues to haunt Abigail,

Is she the hunter...or the prey?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason Andrew Updike
• Release date: Aug 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476486734

Jason Andrew Updike

Jason Andrew Updike began writing fiction at the age of 14. He received his undergraduate degree from Albright College where he had the opportunity to study writing with playwright Donna DiNovelli at the National Theater Institute at the Eugene O'Neill Theater Center in Waterford, CT. He received his MFA from the Mason Gross School of the Arts at Rutgers University.

Book preview

Amber & Gray

by

Jason Andrew Updike

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Jason Andrew Updike on Smashwords

Amber & Gray

Copyright © 2012 by Jason Andrew Updike

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Amber & Gray

~ Chapter One ~

The burning field of wheat surrounded Abigail and as the very flames she herself started crept closer and hotter with each passing moment, one simple question circled through her mind; why on earth had she not done this sooner? She pondered this while the burning stalks hissed and popped making it sound as if a swarm of insects were hovering just over the blazing crop.

Abigail lay prone in the mud surrounded by one of the last patches of unburned wheat. Before her was a clearing where she could watch the orange waves of fire shimmer across the field. This, she imagined, must be what it’s like to float just beneath the surface of a burning lake. She felt distant, almost safe, with her long hair hanging over her face like a veil. The sharp pain creeping up on her bare feet where they stuck out from her nightgown told her she was as far from safe as one could be. The fire was getting closer yet she dare not move.

She could hear the other girls screaming. Some were coming towards her, others were moving away but it wasn’t the fire that terrified them or her. Abigail could also hear men. Commands shouted at full voice to reach over the din of the flames. She couldn’t tell who was calling out, their supposed rescuers or the panicked farmhands, so she held her place. The fire might kill her but if she moved she could be spotted by one of the other girls who would then run to join her in her perfect hiding spot, thus giving it away. Or she might be seen by one of the farmhands which would certainly be the end of her. Worst of all, she thought, she could be discovered by ‘him.’

This thought made her burrow even deeper into the dirt, as if trying hard enough were the only prerequisite for being a proper mole. Her soiled nightgown only became more so as she struggled to stay flat against the earth while still keeping an eye on her burning surroundings. Thanks to the damp earth, her belly was now the only part of her still cool.

She saw Sally running in terror through the clearing before her. Sally’s nightgown was every bit as blood-stained and worn out as Abigail’s and for a moment she thought of calling out to the fleeing girl to offer asylum. Sally’s red hair billowed behind her, buoyed both by her flight and the hot air currents around her. For once, her bright red mane did not stand out against its surroundings. Like Abigail’s, Sally’s hair was long. At rest it stretched all the way down to the small of her back just as Abigail’s did. This was not by choice. It was one of his many requirements.

Just then, a man appeared and grabbed Sally by her wrist, pulling her to a stop. Mercifully, it wasn’t the baron or one of his farmhands. This man wore what appeared to be a militia uniform gilded in beige and green though Abigail could not recall which Sanctum house these colors belonged to. Sally screamed and the militiaman tried to silence her.

Settle down, girl, he said, attempting to steer them both away from the flames. I’m here to help.

This did not calm Sally and Abigail knew why. Too many times had they both heard men offering to help, only to find they had entirely different intentions.

Round up all the farmhands! boomed a male voice, seemingly from all around Abigail. It wasn’t the militiaman standing before her. In fact, this voice was nothing like the others which struggled to compete with the roar of the burning field. This new voice rang out effortlessly and powerfully. Be gentle with the girls but let no one escape!

Sally made another effort to pull away from her uniformed captor, nearly pulling him off balance. He reined her back in with a sharp tug and, once again, she screamed.

I said gently! commanded the voice, this time from right behind Abigail’s hiding place. It petrified her and for a good several moments her breathing stopped entirely. It had the same effect on both Sally and the militiaman who quickly, but gently, led his quarry from the unburned clearing.

Abigail remained perfectly still, waiting for the slightest sound to tell her which way the voice’s owner was moving. Then, through the hazy veil of her hair, she saw a pair of black boots walking the clearing, searching. Finally, they paused then turned to point right at her.

Well, look at you, said the man, sounding no less grave even at a conversational level. Abigail had been spotted. She knew it was over, but the flames were so close now that perhaps it didn’t matter. Resigned to her fate, she raised her head to observe the man before her.

He was tall with short hair which was just turning from brown to gray. He wore what also appeared to be a uniform though much different from the militiaman’s. It was the deepest black Abigail had ever seen a garment be and rose up sharply around his neck into a collar with white tabs on either side just over his shoulders. The handle of what appeared to be a whip hung from his belt and she caught the slightest trace of its thong running up his right shoulder where it coiled tightly around his right arm, running down his sleeve in a spiral.

But this couldn’t be, thought Abigail, since the whip was so flat it was barely discernable from the fabric of his uniform, save for a subtle shimmer it gave off as it reflected the fire light. This man was familiar to Abigail somehow, like something out of a story she had heard before coming to the farm.

Gone to ground in the burning brush while your sisters run in fear, he continued, crouching down to examine her more closely. You’re afraid as well but you don’t let it take control, do you?

The heat from the flames was becoming unbearable to Abigail but still she did not move a muscle for fear that he would. This was the distance, this was the moment. Whenever she held a man’s attention for as long as she had held this one’s, nothing good ever came of it. He continued to observe her and as if sensing this very thought in her, he leaned back ever-so-slightly.

I will not touch you. However, I do want you to follow me so that you do not burn. With that, he stood, turned his back and walked away from Abigail with the most comforting indifference she had ever received from another human being. He was leaving. The flames were closing in and he had left the choice to her. What else could she do but follow, she thought.

And so she did, rising from the heavy dirt into the floating ash to carefully make her way behind this black-clad figure who carefully wound his way through the burning stalks. He was unfazed by the heat but took care not to take them too close to the most intensely burning patches of the field. Abigail’s lungs ached and her eyes began to water. With her vision blurred she could no longer see where they were going but she continued to follow his dark form. The stranger became a shadow guiding her out of the bright light that would be the death of her.

As they made their way out of the burning field, the air finally cooled against Abigail’s skin. The main pathway to the farm was filled with militiamen like the one she had seen earlier with Sally as well as several parked carriages and hitched horses.

One militiaman barked orders to the others and appeared to be their captain. As soon as he saw the man in black emerging from the wheat he quickly went to him. Abigail stepped behind one of the horses, careful to stay out of sight.

Intendant McCall! uttered the captain in surprise. We thought we had lost you. I suppose I should have known better than to doubt a Judicant.

A Judicant? Now Abigail knew why the man was familiar. She had heard the stories of investigators trained from childhood to hunt criminals using the human disciplines. They were the stuff of legend in the Sanctum. Enforcers who could examine crime scenes by rendering them as paintings in their minds in order to ferret out details others would miss. They were infamous both for their cunning and their lethality. Brandishing neither sword nor blade, they carried a hidden weapon which could reach out and behead a man from eight paces. It was with no small amount of trepidation that Abigail realized she had seen one of these implements. The whip coiled about this man’s right arm and shoulder, hidden in plain sight, was that very weapon. The last thing she expected when she started the fire was to be led from it by a Judicant.

Where is Baron Rigby? asked McCall. The mere mention of the baron’s name made Abigail grip the horse’s neck for security.

Carted off, sir, along with the farmhands. We’ve counted eight girls so far and we’re still… As soon as the captain mentioned Rigby being absent the Judicant turned to Abigail and nodded. Cautiously, she stepped away from the hitched horse as if letting go of a lifeline. She froze in place once the militia captain took notice of her and her breath quickened as he started towards her. The intendant quickly stopped him then turned to Abigail.

You’ve followed me this far, he began, squaring his shoulders to her but keeping his distance. Every instinct in you tells you to run but if you’ll trust me a little further it will be to your advantage.

Abigail watched him carefully then looked to the burning field behind her, the only possible route of escape. The flames were still hot against her back and for a moment she considered fulfilling her original intention. How simple it would be to take a single step back and destroy every bit of her that had been fouled by this place. How merciful it would be to let the memories of the farm burn into air like the pages of a diary over a candle. The Judicant waited patiently as Abigail considered all of this and most surprising to her was her belief that if she chose to step into the flames, he would not try to stop her.

Abigail made her choice and took a step toward the Judicant. She saw just the smallest hint of a smile on his lips as he turned to where the wagons were parked at the end of the path. There Abigail saw the rest of her ‘sisters’ being tended to by the militia and several other men and women in civilian clothes by the largest of the wagons.

Each of the girls bore the telltale signs of Rigby’s property: sodden nightgowns and hair which reached down to the smalls of their backs. Mary had already tied her light brown locks back to keep them out of her face, something which had been forbidden over the last two years. Abigail was not surprised by this hasty rebellion. At sixteen years of age, Mary was the oldest girl of the nine and two years older than Abigail herself. She had been den mother through all the atrocities of the farm and Abigail was glad to see her now, moving from one girl to the next, making sure the militiamen were treating them well. She was doing her best to watch over the others, which is what Mary always did.

The rest of the girls seemed either catatonic or simply too stunned by the sight of the farm in flames to speak, with one exception. Abigail noticed Alexandra struggling against one of the militiaman, her black mane of hair shaking to and fro. Alexandra could always be counted on to bring trouble. Finally, he seemed able to subdue her.

Doctor Grey, your assistance please! called the Judicant. One of the men in civilian clothes was busy tending to the deep cuts on the soles of Joan’s feet. These were gifts from the baron’s staff not from the fire. Abigail couldn’t imagine how painful it must have been for the young girl to make her escape with those wounds. The doctor looked up at the mention of his name, took one more glance at Joan’s injuries to assess how well their treatment was progressing then rushed over to where Abigail, the Judicant and the captain were.

Yes, Intendant, he replied. He was a man advanced in years but surprisingly spry. His gray hair had stopped growing atop his head and though his eyes rested behind a pair of spectacles, they still had a youthful glow to them.

Doctor, I believe she may require your special attention, said Intendant McCall. The doctor’s eyes lit up even more at this as he turned to Abigail and smiled.

Right, then. When a Judicant says you’re special, you know things will get interesting. This did not comfort Abigail in the slightest. She quickly found she preferred the scowling face of the intendant.

Captain, I’ll take two guards to search the forest for any farmhands who may have slipped the net.

Yes, Intendant, replied the captain, curtly and without hesitation. It was clear that the man in black was in charge.

Do you have a name, child? asked the doctor. Abigail remained silent. Fresh start it will be. Right then. I’m Doctor Oliver Grey.

Again, Abigail looked to the intendant, who simply nodded in the direction of the doctor.

You’ll be fine, he said calmly, then turned and walked off into the night to continue the hunt with two militiamen at his side. Abigail cautiously regarded Doctor Grey before her and he quickly took a cue from McCall, smiling less and stepping back to make a subtle indication for Abigail to join the other girls at the wagon. It was a small gesture but she appreciated it. Had he stepped towards her, she might not have gone. As it was, she walked with him, careful to give a wide berth.

Ahead at the wagon the other girls were weeping. Most with joy, Abigail surmised. It was finally over. Two years to the best of her recollection though it felt like a hundred. Alexandra continued to struggle against her new captor and finally she broke free of the guard, making a run for the burning barn.

No, no! He’ll be so angry when he gets home, don’t you see?! she screamed, her voice a kind of singsong lilt, as she ran towards the flames. Alexandra always spoke as if she were attempting to sound younger and more demure than her actual age and temperament. The militia captain grabbed a hold of her by her trailing hair just in time and brought her to the ground. She struggled furiously, kicking and screaming, as he tried to restrain her.

That’s enough! shouted Mary, jumping off the wagon and getting between the captain and Alexandra faster than Abigail would have thought possible. As if suddenly aware of the impropriety of his actions, the captain quickly backed away, letting Mary take over Alexandra’s restraint. That’s enough, Mary echoed, this time more softly and to Alexandra as they both made their way back to the wagon.

Alexandra, this was no home an’ we both know it, cooed Mary in her northern Highgate brogue. Her speech was typical of one from the northern, most rural, parts of the province. Besides, the baron won’t be coming home a’tall from where he’s goin’. She escorted Alexandra back up onto the wagon, briefly meeting Abigail’s eyes and nodding along the way. A militiaman moved to help Abigail into the wagon as well and she quickly recoiled. Doctor Grey cleared his throat and the guard backed away. Abigail looked to the doctor and noted his careful effort not to smile, not to try and comfort her.

She climbed up into the wagon on her own and from there she could see the entire farm ablaze. The barn was little more than a charred skeleton of its former self and this filled Abigail with the closest thing to joy she had known in years. The corral was a sea of flames and the farmhouse just beyond was directly in the path of the growing wildfire. In front of the house was a carriage. More regal than the wagons carrying them, it was enclosed with gilded trim around the windows and doors on the side facing her. The militiamen were escorting the house staff, whom Abigail never had the displeasure of meeting, out in shackles. One of them appeared to be so ashamed that they were covered from head to toe in a shroud and were quickly pushed into the carriage by the guards.

Just below Abigail at her own wagon, another young guard ran up the path to reach the captain.

Sir, the fire brigade’s approaching.

Make sure they start by setting up a perimeter to contain the fire, replied the captain.

And the farm, sir? asked the guard. The captain began to survey the damage, assessing what could and could not be saved. Doctor Grey, instead, observed the nine girls watching in tears as their worst nightmare went up in smoke before them.

We should let it burn, said the doctor, drawing both Abigail and the captain’s attention. The captain considered this a moment, then gave a nod to the guard who turned and left to carry out his orders. Abigail joined the other girls in the back of the wagon as they prepped the horses for their departure. Doctor Grey jumped up front with the driver and they brought the wagon about. As they set to rolling down the path Abigail took one last, tortured look at the collapsing barn which had been her prison for nearly two years. Suddenly she felt a great weight press upon her chest as she spotted a figure in the flames. There was a girl still in the fire, watching them leave. It was difficult to see her clearly as wood beams collapsed and smoke curled through the air but when Abigail looked more closely she discovered it was herself she saw standing in the blaze.

~ Chapter Two ~

Abigail Grey stared into the deep, black pit before her. The faintest glimmer of light caught her eye as she pulled the rope which lifted the bucket from the bottom of the well. The light shimmered as the water in the bucket caught the silvery reflection of the overcast sky above her. Her eyes moved past the ascending bucket to the darkness below and a chill moved through her as she contemplated the damp place the bucket had just returned from.

Once the bucket reached the top she hoisted it out of the stone pit and took another glance down into the blackness. She imagined what it must be like down at the bottom. How she could, if seated there, look up and see someone at the top without them knowing she were there. It then occurred to her, conversely, that if someone else were down there, they could be looking back at her this very moment. Abigail quickly stopped looking into the well and worked to unhitch the bucket from the rope which ran through the well’s pulley.

Morning mist settled over the meadow and the Grey property was living up to its name at this early hour, a name she shared. Abigail shared her surname with this land, her new surname at least, but it was still felt new to her.

When she looked to her reflection in the bucket the person she saw staring back was also still strange to her even after all these years. Her hair was short, shorter than most boys’. This was as it had been since Rigby Farm burned down six years prior yet she never grew as accustomed to it as she had become to those long locks which used to provide such comfort.

The Grey property was quiet without her father around. Far more quiet than she cared for. Despite her best efforts, Abigail’s thoughts defaulted to the farm in her private moments. When she closed her eyes to go to sleep the flames were there waiting. When she first opened them in the morning she still expected to find herself surrounded by pitchforks and hay. There were always other distracting things to discuss when the doctor was around: books, chores, a new joke he might have heard while in the Capital on business. She missed that whenever he was gone. It was strange to Abigail how the sight of Doctor Oliver Grey during their counseling sessions used to remind her only of the farm but since then, as father and daughter, their conversations centered on anything but. She was grateful for this.

Abigail looked again to her face waving back at her from the water in the bucket. She could admit that she did not look unlike a boy with her hair so short but she saw nothing wrong with this. She certainly had no desire to be anything other than a young woman but she was grateful that her hair combined with her plain dress caused most men to leave her un-accosted during her rare trips into the village with the doctor. Of course, this being the countryside, she sometimes drew more attention because of her appearance.

Quail-pipe was an unkind name in the Sanctum for a woman’s tongue and the phrase quail-piper, a euphemism for two birds that lie with one another, was frequently slung in Abigail’s direction. During her occasional trips into town with Doctor Grey Abigail would often hear the local boys work the word quail into their conversations, just loudly enough for her to hear as she passed. It was not uncommon for the mocking sound of a quail call to follow her throughout the small town. The local girls were only a little kinder. Her solution to this was simple; she stayed out of town. She was more than content to spend her days on the Grey property and in the company of the doctor, who had learned when to leave Abigail be in peace and when to prod her with his gentle lessons, typically wrapped in jokes.

As Abigail examined the reflection in the bucket her concentration was broken when a small dogwood blossom floated over her rippling face in the water. She looked across the meadow to where the dogwood tree stood a good distance away, in full bloom. The wind must have carried the petal all the way over here then dropped it in the well, she surmised. Abigail scooped the blossom from the bucket and caressed it with her thumb. It felt like silk between her fingers. Gently, she placed it in her coat pocket as she set out to continue her chores.

Abigail carried the bucket to the chicken coop where she heard the familiar cooing and clucking of the hens roosting there. They stirred at her approach, clambering over one another to reach the feeder and water trough.

Silence in the Congretory, said Abigail, trying her best to match the doting tone which Doctor Grey always used when playfully comparing his hens to the highest legislative institution in the land. The first time he referred to them as such in front of Abigail she laughed. A rare enough occasion in the present but even more so at the time when she had just come to live with him on the property six years ago. He thought it was funny as well until the lady of House Trumball had stopped by one year to offer him a ride in her carriage to a gathering in the Capital. Even at the time, both Grey and Abigail knew the lady’s visit was a thinly veiled excuse for her to come see how well one of