Chapter 23: The Lost Trail of Blood
Pale morning sunlight began to crawl up, piercing through the heavy velvet curtains of the penthouse. The digital clock on the nightstand blinked slowly, the number seven glowing in silence. The thickness of the silence in the room stood in stark contrast to the noisy memories of gunshots and screams that still rang in Xavier’s ears from the events just hours before.
In the center of the silk sheets on the king-size bed, Agatha slept. Her breathing was regular, yet her brow furrowed occasionally. Cold sweat the size of corn kernels dripped from her forehead, as if the pain from the gunshot wound was chasing her even into her dreams.
Xavier did not close his eyes for even a second.
He sat in the armchair in the dim corner of the room. His athletic body was now clad in a plain black t-shirt. In the corner of the room, his used shirt, stiff with Agatha’s dried blood, lay helplessly, a silent witness to the madness of that night.
Xavier’s green eyes were fixed on his wife’s back. The blanket had slipped down slightly, exposing Agatha’s left shoulder which was now wrapped in thick white bandages. The bandages covered the stitches Xavier had done himself with trembling yet precise hands.
Seeing the blood seeping thinly through the gauze, Xavier’s memory was forcibly dragged back fifteen years. To a memory buried deep within his mind.
Xavier could feel the coldness of the waste water soaking his feet again. He remembered the stinging pain in his torn stomach. And he remembered that little girl.
The little girl with wild hazel eyes pulled Xavier’s body, which was much larger than hers, into a narrow gap behind a concrete wall.
"Quiet," the girl whispered back then.
Xavier remembered clearly, when the little girl dragged him with all her might, her tiny leg was injured while she held a piece of bread in her hand.
Fresh blood flowed heavily from her thigh, mixing with the dirty sewer water. But strangely, little Agatha did not cry. She did not even look at her own leg.
She was busy tearing her shabby skirt instead. With small, dirty hands, she pressed on Xavier’s stomach, bandaging his wound deftly. Her face was not the face of a frightened child, but a flat face that seemed undisturbed by the situation at hand.
However, the part that tortured Xavier’s memory the most was the end.
As soon as Xavier’s blood stopped dripping and the faint sound of his subordinates could be heard in the distance, the little girl retreated. She did not ask for a reward. She did not wait for a thank you.
She turned and ran. Her small back moved away, her legs limping from the pain of the torn wound on her thigh. She vanished, swallowed by the darkness of the rain, leaving Xavier alone reaching out a hand to empty air.
"You always get hurt every time you save me," Xavier whispered in the present. His voice was hoarse, full of regret.
His eyes shifted to Agatha’s leg covered by the blanket. There, on the side of his wife’s thigh, the scar from the wire fence tear had healed right next to the unique rose petal-shaped birthmark.
Xavier clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.
"But not this time, Agatha. You will not run again. You will not disappear into the darkness. Your place is by my side, where I can see you."
Knock. Knock.
A soft tapping on the door broke Xavier’s reverie.
Xavier stood up slowly. He pulled the blanket over Agatha carefully up to her neck, ensuring his wife stayed warm, then walked silently toward the door.
As soon as the door opened slightly, Frans’s face appeared. His assistant and best friend looked chaotic, dark circles hanging under his eyes, his hair a bit messy, but his gaze was sharp and serious. In his hand, a black tablet glowed.
"Is she awake?" Frans whispered, glancing briefly at the bed.
"Not yet," Xavier replied flatly. He stepped out and closed the door. "The anesthesia and heavy blood loss made her fall asleep quickly. Let her rest."
"Good. Because you need to see this now, Xav. As you promised her."
Xavier gestured with his chin toward the outer balcony. "Over there. Don't talk here."
The cold morning air of Paris slapped their faces as soon as the glass balcony door opened. Xavier lit a cigarette, letting the nicotine calm his nerves for a moment. White smoke danced, vanishing carried by the wind.
"Speak," Xavier ordered. "What did you find?"
Frans placed the tablet on the cold iron balcony table.
"We finally found the missing puzzle piece from fifteen years ago, Xav. The reason why you couldn't find that little savior of yours after she ran away leaving you."
Frans swiped the screen with his finger. A digital document that looked old and blurry appeared. It was a copy of Silas Elara’s daily journal.
"The location was in Zurich, Switzerland. Close to the border where you were chased by killers back then."
Xavier frowned, bringing his face closer to the screen. Cigarette smoke puffed from between his lips.
"Read the date. Exactly one week after you were rescued by your men."
Xavier read the text silently.
Zurich, October 25. Saint Rionsa Orphanage.
I was on my way home from a business trip through the mountain pass when I saw black smoke billowing high. The aftermath of a fire. The old building had been leveled to the ground. Rumors from the villagers say loan sharks burned it down three days ago because the orphanage director couldn't pay the debt and its interest.
Xavier’s jaw tightened. He could imagine the fire.
I stopped for a moment, thinking maybe there were antique goods that survived the fire. But amidst the ash that was still warm and the black debris, I saw movement. Something small. A female child. She was crawling out from behind the ruins of the burnt wall.
Xavier’s hand gripped the edge of the balcony table.
Her condition was terrible. Skeletal, face full of ash, and the stinging smell of smoke. But what caught my attention was her clothes. Her clothes were full of blood stains that had dried and turned black. It was old blood, maybe days old. And it seemed it wasn't just her own blood.
"That dried blood..." Xavier interrupted, his voice choked. "It was my blood."
Frans nodded grimly. "It seems so. After running away leaving you in the sewer, she went back to that orphanage. She probably shared the stolen bread she got with her friends. She survived there with clothes still smelling of your blood."
Xavier closed his eyes. Guilt hit his chest.
"But bad luck," Frans continued. "Loan sharks came. They beat those kids, that's why there was a lot of blood, and then burned the orphanage. She survived the hitmen chase with you, and then she had to survive alone again from that fire."
Xavier went back to reading the last line of the journal.
She looked at me. Her hazel eyes were sharp, wild, and full of wariness. There were no tears, unlike kids her age. I examined her from the car window. Her bone structure was like nobility. Her eyes were rare. This wasn't trash, this was raw gold. If I picked her up, fed her, and polished her, she would be an expensive asset when she grew up. I decided to get out. I took her. Named her Agatha Arionsa Elara.
CRASH!
The empty coffee cup on the balcony table was sent flying, shattering into pieces on the floor. Xavier slammed the table hard.
"Bastard," Xavier growled. His voice was low, trembling with pure rage. "He saw a small child who just escaped death... and what he thought about was selling value?"
"Silas was a human trafficker, Xav. He had no heart," Frans replied coldly. "He picked Agatha up like someone picking up an antique in a trash can."
Xavier stubbed out his cigarette roughly in the ashtray, breaking the stick.
"There is one more thing bothering me, Frans," Xavier said suddenly, his eyes staring sharply at his best friend. "In Silas’s inventory list of found items... he noted torn clothes, broken shoes. But no dagger."
"Agatha must have hidden it," Frans answered quickly. "She’s a smart kid, her intuition is sharp. She knew that knife was her only protector."
"That’s not the point," Xavier cut him off impatiently. "I’m talking about the engraving. The carving of a thorny rose winding around the silver handle has a distinct stroke. Have you found where that crest comes from? That’s not a common market carving, Frans. It looks like an ancient clan crest."
Frans sighed long, his face looking frustrated. He shook his head weakly.
"Nothing, Xav. I’ve run image search algorithms through the entire database of European noble crests, Vatican archives, to the history of old mafia groups. The result is zero. It’s as if that family crest has been forcefully erased from history."
Xavier snorted in disappointment. He stared at the cloudy Paris sky.
"Keep looking. Don't stop. I’m sure that rose engraving is the key to her real identity. Her biological parents must not be random people."
They did not realize that the data search they performed on the Swiss server last night had triggered a silent alarm elsewhere. Far away, there were eyes starting to open, and ears starting to burn.