The fall scenery of Attleboro, Massachusetts, blurred past as the black Hummer roared down the winding road. The car was definitely out of place for the normal traffic, to the unobservant eye, but one would have to be inside to understand just how out of place the car was. The glass in the windows was too thick, thick enough to withstand any caliber of round. The man driving it was built like a tank, and the nearly invisible wire that ran from his ear to his shirt collar would have been a dead giveaway that he was not one of the thousands of commuters rushing to and from work. The man sitting in the shotgun seat held a rifle in his lap and was dialing the scope in.

The six other men in the back were dressed identically; black suits that with jackets that were a size too big; unless they reached for them, the common passerby wouldn't notice the concealed pistols they were carrying. Their shoes had high-grip soles, and the phones they carried displayed an indecipherable language made up of strange characters (it was actually Hebrew, but the average man wouldn't be able to recognize –much less read—it). The men themselves were all tall and broad, with buzzed hair and practiced neutral expressions. The wallets –always in the inner right breast pocket of the jacket—all had the same ids, just with different names and different faces.

Tomas Field Operative: Gollum Class.

However, what was most remarkable about the group in the car –and most out of place—was the young adolescent girl that sat in the back seat, dressed in black. Her hazel eyes were always shifting, always tracking those around her. For the most part, she'd be friendly and talkative, just like any other teenager. However, if you walked up behind her and said hello, she wouldn't respond… not until she saw you. The particularly observant would also notice that none of her guards spoke to her at all, preferring to use a series of hand gestures. Those educated in the correct fields would instantly recognize the hand gestures as various forms of sign language.

Somewhere, along the way, through hundreds of ancestors, one Tomas and one Ekaterina had married and made the completely singular girl sitting in the back seat of the Hummer, seemingly oblivious and yet always watching. Somewhere, along the way, genetics had fought with one another and –unless she had help—closed her ears to the outside world.

The girl reached up and clutched the Star of David pendant that hung from a gold chain around her neck. Her lips moved silently, reciting words that had been repeated to her since she was born.

Hear, o Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord our God is one…

One of her guards tapped her shoulder. We've reached Madame Cahill's estate, he signed once her had her attention.

She sighed, and straightened up in her seat. American funerals were always such a… solemn affair. No, let's not celebrate the life. Let's dress in black and be really depressed about everything. She unbuckled her seat belt, and hid a grimace as one of her guards held the car door open for her. I mean, I get why Dad's worried, but you'd think the guards would be a dead giveaway. She could feel the gravel shifting beneath her shiny leather shoes. The autumn wind whipped around her, nipping at her nose. She shivered. "Let's get this over with," she signed to her guards.

The guards were an ever-present wall of black, slipping around her and encasing her in like a curtain of silk and muscle. Their long strides down the hill allowed bits of color to splash in from the outside world; a flash of purple from the Holt family track suits, a burst of red from the autumn leaves, or maybe the sandy stone that Grace's mansion had been built from. If she could see the people around her, she might've tried reading lips, something her father had insisted on her learning. Of course, the endless wall of black did block her vision a little. How am I supposed to experience the world if I never see any of it?

The line of black broke long enough for several flashes of purple to burst past. The Holt family zipped past her little group, causing one of her guards to bristle. Her phone vibrated a few seconds later.

Did you father want to you to strike an alliance with them? If so… do you have to?

Elizabeth Zingel sighed as she fidgeted idly with the hem of her sleeve. American funerals might be tedious, but Cahill funerals were guaranteed to be a disaster. Her phone buzzed again, this time with a text from her father.

Be careful, Liebchen. NO unnecessary risks. Verstehst du mich?

Elizabeth couldn't help but smile slightly at her father's concern. She pocketed her cell phone and tugged on one of the guard's sleeves. "We should head inside."

The inside of Grace's mansion had always been one of the crown jewels in the Cahill wealth collection. It spoke of a lifetime of travels, of adventures, and of Clue hunts. The floors were covered with various ornate, oriental rugs that created a rainbow-like tapestry across the entire lower level of the mansion. Various vases, knickknacks, and paintings decorated coffee tables, shelves, and walls. Elizabeth was certain that one of the chairs was an original French Renaissance masterpiece, which –considering Grace Cahill's precocious streak and amassed fortune—wasn't unrealistic or surprising in the slightest.

Elizabeth sat idly in her folding chair, watching the lips of one particularly dour William McIntyre. The lawyer was announcing to the room of funeral goers that they had the option to be millionaires, or burn the money to go on a hunt for unknown Clues for a greater power. Elizabeth let her fingers trace over the creamy white voucher, the paper void of any texture under her fingertips. She knew that most of the people here would take the money and bolt; honestly, who would pass up the opportunity to become a millionaire overnight, no questions asked?

Sure enough, cousin after distant cousin took the money and ran.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Beatrice Cahill waggling her finger at the two orphans, Amy and Daniel. Elizabeth cringed inwardly at the sight of Beatrice's blue hair and scarlet lipstick.

The mortician would have a hard time making Beatrice appear… natural, whenever Death finally came to claim her. Another three cousins took the cash and walked out of the ornate double doors that sat behind the crowd.

Then, Ian and Natalie Kabra strolled up to where McIntyre was standing, and burned their vouchers.

The Kabras are in the race, one of her guards texted her.

Of course. Their clothes are made of money. They can afford to burn a million bucks, she texted back. Elizabeth drummed her fingers on the voucher. She wouldn't go just yet. Not last, but not close enough to be at the top.

The Holts are in as well…

The Wizard brat…

Enough people have gone now, Elizabeth thought to herself. No one will take enough notice of me. She stood, and motioned for her guards to stay put. Wordlessly, she walked down the aisle to where McIntyre was standing, and handed him her voucher. She stayed long enough to take her clue and make sure the voucher was burning, then turned back. Her phone buzzed again.

Spasky…

Oh…

The Starlings…

Elizabeth watched as the Amy and Daniel stared at one another. Rumors had circulated through the Tomas branch that the two Cahill children supposedly had a psychic connection; however, rumors had also circulated that the Lucian branch had put performance reducing powders into the bags of Cheetos that were in the vending machines of the Tomas stronghold break rooms. Elizabeth watched –with no small amount of awe and glee—as Amy and Daniel handed their vouchers to Mr. McIntyre. She hid her smile behind her fist as the flurry of blue, scarlet, and gaudy jewelry that was Beatrice Cahill stormed out of the room. Her phone buzzed in her hand.

Don't we already have this one?

Elizabeth nodded, just barely. Iron solute was a Lucian clue, one her mother had extracted from Paris over ten years ago. She didn't need the lead to find this clue. But finding clues often pointed to other clues, and no Cahill could master the hunt without leads. To Elizabeth, there was a clear reason why Lucians always came the closest to finding the total package of thirty-nine. Sabotage, espionage, and collecting mass amounts of lead related information was practically the job summary for becoming a spy, under different contexts.

Of course, there was the greater threat as well. The Vespers were active, now more so than in the past two decades. Many sources speculated that another shift of power had occurred in the Vesper council. Their new leader was much more... driven than the last one.

Or, that was the most logical assumption, since Elizabeth's father was constantly running missions, trying to protect the family.

Elizabeth sighed as McIntyre let everyone open their leads. She couldn't help but smirk when Irina and the Kabra children were one of the first ones up. The Lucians know the answer to a Lucian clue. Shocking. Once the snakes left the room, she nodded to her guards. No reason to hang around. She tucked some of her long hair behind her ear, and left the way she came in. In a sea of black suits. She sighed.

Leave it to the Cahills to make things interesting; someone always had to threaten another person, or try to form an illegitimate alliance, or do something that –in the right context—could run a person into legal problems. If Elizabeth was perfectly honest, she was sure that the family would never unite. Sure, the Collective had managed to get themselves together, but the rest of the family refused to find a common ground. At least the threats were interesting… She was walking through Grace's mansion, reading the history that the rooms told while her guards organized the route back, when it happened. A blur of purple landed in front of her, which turned out to be Reagan Holt.

"Going somewhere?" Reagan asked, a sneer twisting her face. Behind her, Madison Holt shoved Elizabeth slightly.

Elizabeth turned to the side so she could see both of them at once. The shuddering ground beneath her feet heralded the arrival of the rest of the Holt clan. From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth could see Arnold straining against his leash as he lunged at her. She quickly slipped her hearing aid -which masqueraded wonderfully as a Bluetooth device-into her ear. Thanks mom, for inventing things for me... even though I break them a LOT.

"Good work, girls!" Eisenhower bellowed triumphantly. His beefy, red face -which was a bit too close to her face for comfort-depicted a caricature of short sighted glee. "Now! We know you know the answer to this clue, and we want in!"

Elizabeth blinked slowly. Yupp... definitely glad for the hearing aid. Eisenhower -like most Americans-had the obnoxious habits of mushing his syllables and moving his head erratically while he talked, making it impossible for her to read his lips. Although, it's not up for debating whether he had beef jerky for lunch. Elizabeth tried not to gag as he breathed on her face. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, and typed a quick message.

Elizabeth to Guards: Surrounded in the mansion. Front door closest entrance. No weapons in play yet.

"Hey! No calling for back up!"

She saw Eisenhower's hand dart in for her phone, and kicked him in the gut. "Back off, Holt!" she growled. "You can't afford another mark on your record. I'm pretty sure assaulting one of the council member's daughter!" Admittedly, Elizabeth didn't like resorting to low blows, but it worked. She relaxed a little as Eisenhower backed down, scowling slightly. Her phone buzzed in her hand.

Andrew to Elizabeth: Five minutes. Stay calm.

Elizabeth slipped her phone back into her pocket and glanced back at Eisenhower. He was tapping his foot impatiently, arms crossed over his broad chest. "Actually, Herr Holt, I don't know the answer to the clue," she lied. "I was merely walking through Frau Cahill's house to pay respect to her life before I left. There is a lot of history here. The truly observant might learn something from it."

Eisenhower rolled his eyes and scoffed. "Oh, come on. You're Tomas. We're Tomas. You have to help us! For the good of the branch!"

"Or else, we'll pound you!" Hamilton added, running a hand through his dark blonde hair. His blue eyes seemed to sparkle at the notion of physical violence. A true Tomas, if nothing else.

"Yeah!" Eisenhower added.

Elizabeth eyed Eisenhower carefully. If she played her cards right, she wouldn't need to start a fight. She let her fingers trace over the dark banister that flowed up to the second floor. The polished wood was smooth, almost glass-like, under her pale fingertips. "Herr Holt, you know that I am Tomas, just as you. You also know that my family comprises much of the leading Tomas council, a position that has been in the Zingel name for over seven generations. So, please, enlighten me…" She slipped past Madison so that she could speak to Eisenhower directly. "Why would I deign to lower myself to help the likes of you? Your father's actions make you a traitor to the branch."

Eisenhower's already red face turned downright scarlet. "My father was not a traitor!"

Elizabeth knew that. Anyone with eyes and the right resources to read knew that Buchanan Holt had been betrayed by the Vespers, and the Vespers alone. But she needed to pretend that she was just like the rest of the Tomas branch. Above the herd of black sheep. So, Elizabeth painted an insincere smile on her face. "And yet, the records available to the Tomas branch say just the opposite. You bear your father's sin… just as you son and daughters do, and I don't have the patience or lifespan to wait ten generations for those sins to pass. Your resources are highly limited, whereas I can have the whole branch at my command if I say the right words. Face it, you have nothing to offer me."

Eisenhower cracked his knuckles. "Except your physical well-being," he growled, teeth gritted hard enough that they should've cracked.

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. As discretely as she could, she wiped her sweaty palms on her coat. 91 kilos versus 54. She swallowed at the absence of spit in her mouth. I've faced worse. I've faced worse. Besides, he can't hit me. Not unless he wants the full wrath of the council on his head. She wiped her hands on her coat again. "A Tomas threatening another Tomas with physical combat. Perhaps, if I were a Janus, or an Ekaterina, I would be more intimidated. But you see, Herr Holt, there is one difference between the two of us."

Eisenhower's head swiveled towards the front door, and he tensed.

Elizabeth leaned to the side and saw that two of her guards were in the room, guns trained on Eisenhower. She smirked, just barely managing to hide a relieved smile. "Two differences, then. I have friends in the branch. You don't." A flicker of large, purple movement caught her attention. Elizabeth side-stepped Hamilton as he charged her, and withdrew a pistol from her black coat pocket. She cocked the gun and aimed at Hamilton. She smirked as he froze. "The second difference is that I'm always prepared, which is why I don't need your help." She disarmed her gun and strode out the front door. "Auf Wiedersehen!"

Elizabeth slumped into the backseat of the Hummer, hands trembling. She'd pulled the gun. She'd pulled her gun, on a boy her age. What is wrong with me? She sighed, and pulled the hearing aid out of her ear.

She'd dreamed -lived for-the day when her Dad would finally let her outside of the house for something other than church and running errands. And on the first day, my life is threatened and I pulled a gun on someone my age. She inhaled deeply, and clasped her hands together. You didn't shoot anyone. It was self-defense. Completely understandable. She looked up as someone tapped her leg.

Are you sure you want to go to Paris? Perhaps we should stop at the Institute first, gain some more knowledge, one of her guards –Yaakov—signed to her.

Elizabeth sighed. She happily closed her eyes; it was a relief, not having to read lips or use a hearing aid anymore. The Kabras and the Wizards are already heading to Paris, and Frau Spasky and Herr Oh are undoubtedly on their tails. We already know this clue connects to Benjamin Franklin. I see no reason to gain more useless information when we need to focus on assimilating into a Lucian stronghold city, she signed back. Our goal right now is finding a lead to the next clue, she continued. We got lucky with already having this one in our database. I doubt we'll get that lucky again. Her phone buzzed, and Ellaria pulled it out of her pocket. Her father was calling.

How did the funeral go? The text read.

"Good. I decided to join the Clue hunt. The first clue is about Benjamin Franklin, so it clearly leads to Paris. We're leaving now so we have time to get to France and lose whatever Lucian tails we'll undoubtedly pick up on the way," she explained as the Hummer turned onto the highway.

The response was almost immediate. No.

Ellaria rolled her eyes.

You need to come to the stronghold in Green Bay first. The branch wants to analyze the lead, and then we'll see if you can join the hunt, her father replied.

"Herr McIntyre has already counted me as a part of the hunt. I have to participate."

No. It's too dangerous.

"Less dangerous than being your daughter," she mumbled. "I'm losing service. I've got to go. Tschüss." She ended the call.

That wasn't wise. Yaakov signed to her.

One of the other guards –a tall, blonde man named Andrew—nodded in agreement.

Elizabeth sighed, and resigned herself to staring out the window. It seemed that, wherever she went, the cage of her father's worry followed her. Which, I wouldn't mind so much... if it could follow me without crushing me.

Another board splintered as Elizabeth drove her foot through the pine plank. She stepped back, panting slightly as she motioned to the poor trainer that she had happened to catch in the sparring room. "Another!" The wonderfully patient trainer complied, and pulled another board from the dwindling stack. She was about to break her twenty-fifth board when the she noticed that the trainer's gaze had suddenly diverted. Diversion plus angle means front entrance to the training room. Diversion means that someone important must have entered. She narrowed her eyes as she studied the trainer. Elizabeth sighed as she realized how tense the trainer was. Lack of defensive action plus tension equals someone important... "Yes, Daddy?" She waved the trainer away, who promptly vanished out one of the side entrances. Elizabeth turned, and saw her father standing five feet behind her.

Come with me, he signed.

Elizabeth dutifully followed him. She lurched slightly as he placed a strong, iron hand on her shoulder, and pulled him along with her. She winced slightly. "Ow." The vice grip loosed immediately, but Elizabeth still knew her father was tense. His shoulders and neck were tightly set, and his face looked like it was on the verge of cracking. "You know, you might break your face if you don't relax a little."

Her father made no reply as he guided her towards on the far end of the hall outside of the training room.

The door swung open, revealing her mother's smiling face. Hallo, Liebchen.

Elizabeth smiled, even if she was a bit confused. Mutti! Why are you here?

Your father and I need to talk with you, her mother signed back.

Elizabeth frowned as she sat down at the table in the center of the break room. About what? What's going on?

Her father sat down next to her mother, face stony with stress and trepidation.

If he had been any more tense, Elizabeth suspected that her father might've shattered from his own internal pressure. He leaned forward so that his elbows were resting on the table, fists clasped in front of him. He looked her straight in the eye, straight through her.

As he always does. Elizabeth set aside her disdain, and took the rare opportunity to re-memorize her father's face.

The scars on the right side of his faces caught the shadows that the break room lights seemed to cast in every direction; his one ice blue eye contrasted so strongly with his one brown eye that she felt captivated by the fighting colors. He sighed, his shoulders releasing as though resigning to the decision his mind had already made. Here is what you need to understand. He glanced to her mother.

"Don't look at me, Amos. I've already given you my two cents." Her mother -Naomi-crossed her arms over her chest. "It's your duty to handle this."

Amos' shoulders slumped as he sighed. He looked at his daughter again, the bags under his eyes suddenly much more prominent. You will not use your hearing aids if you are not certain you can conceal them from view. You will not purposefully ditch your guards, or I will pull you off the field. You will not sign with your guards if you think you're being watched. You can't afford to take unnecessary risks, especially since the Kabras are involved.

Elizabeth blinked. She frowned. Then, she gasped. Are you letting participate in the Clue Hunt? she asked, signing as fast as she could. When her father nodded, she leaped out of her chair and wrapped her arms around his neck. She could feel him winding his own strong arms around her, his body shaking with inaudible laughter. Or maybe it was audible. She wouldn't know until she saw his face. But when Elizabeth pulled back, her father's face had reverted to it's typical, stony self, and the vibrations from the laughter had ceased.

I've trained you as well as I can, he signed. And I can't protect you forever.

Elizabeth hugged him again, then ran to the door. She had to pack. A buzzing in her pocket made her stop and face her father once more.

Make sure you take your Bible.

Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder, nodded, and ran out the door. She had to pack.