Abbie pounded on the cabin door. "Crane. I need to talk to you." Nothing. "I know you're in there." A rustle, maybe a sigh, but no answer. "You're new to cell phones and all, but it's still rude to break up with your partner by text message."

The string of texts had been waiting for her when she came out of the shower. "My Fellow Witness," the first text began. Oh yeah, that didn't sound ominous at all. It only got worse as she kept reading:

"There are no words to express the gratitude and depth of affection I hold for you. Your friendship has given me my few moments of true happiness and joy since my awakening, and I shall never be able to repay that kindness. Indeed, if Moloch's words are correct, I shall only repay you in betrayal and heartache, as I always have done—first to Abraham, then to Jeremy.

For your sake, and only for your sake, I humbly request that we part ways. It is only in this separation that you can hope to keep your soul—your strong, virtuous, and brave soul!-in tact. If I cannot deliver that soul to Moloch, you will be free. You will be safe.

Yes, we are witnesses and we are bound together. But bonds can be broken. Just as my tie to the Horseman was shattered, so shall I sever this bond between us. We shall continue the war, but we must take up arms in different battles.

Please understand the pain this decision causes me, Abbie. You are, and always shall remain, my friend.

With fondest regards,

Ichabod Crane."

On the drive to the cabin, fumed at him, but mostly at herself. She should have known better, but she'd been trying to do the right thing. He'd asked for some time alone, and she'd assumed it was to mourn Jeremy and get his head on straight so they could gear up for Moloch. It seemed like the least she could do. So she'd given him a day. Which, stupid. They should have fenced, researched, chopped wood, eaten donuts. It didn't matter what they did, but too much time for alone was bad news for Crane. Then he started thinking and wallowing in guilt and then she got shit like this.

She knocked again. "You know I've got a key. You also know I could pick that lock or break the door down. But I'm not, because I trust you. You get to make your own decisions, but you don't get to decide the fate of the world like this. Not alone. Now open up."

"Miss Mills, please leave. My intentions have been made quite clear." Crane's voice was muffled, wavery, and thin. She wondered if he'd slept since he'd been pulled through the mirror. She hadn't.

"Yeah, well, my intention is to sit right here until you open up and talk to me." It was freezing; she really would prefer to do this sitting by the fire. But instead, she sank into the old rocking chair Corbin kept on the porch, pulling her coat close. The air smelled of pine from the wreath she'd hung on his door, back before all this began.

She sat patiently, listening to the wind whine through the trees. "I never could figure out why Corbin loved the woods so much. You can't see more than a few feet in front of you, they're dark, they always have that weird rotting smell. Plus, they're full of demons."

She thought she heard a faint snort through the door. There. Quantico had wanted Abbie for a reason: she was damn good at sizing up a person, figuring out their weak points, knowing just the right amount of pressure to apply. In a different life, she'd have made a good criminal profiler; she could say that without any ego. She'd squirreled under Henry's defenses with just a few words. But Crane? He was going to be harder to crack.

She could do it. She had to.

"I've spent my whole life being scared of Moloch. Jenny was the brave one. She'd have brought everyone down on him with pitchforks and torches from the very beginning. But you know what I did? Well, I lied. But after that, I went to church. And man, I prayed so hard. I thought that if I could just be good enough, if God liked me enough, maybe that thing wouldn't come back for me." She'd hit every church in town, searching for even a little bit of security and peace. She liked the Episcopal church best—less flashy than the Catholics, but with a comforting sense of tradition. Plus they did blessings there, and she'd wanted all those that she could get.

"But praying didn't keep him away," she continued. "The deeper we get into this, the less I think God has to do with it. Moloch's just another monster, and you and me? We fight monsters, and we win. But to be honest with you, he still scares me. It's even scarier to know he's gunning for me." She swallowed, seeing the same shadowy image that had appeared in her dreams every single solitary night for the last decade. Since Ichabod had given his warning, the image had become clearer and clearer every time she closed her eyes. "Don't make me fight him alone."

She scrubbed at her eyes with the back of one hand. The sun was going down so fast; she didn't want to be in these woods after dark.

"I have failed all those I have cared for," he said softly. She almost lost the words in the wind. "You are all I have left. I cannot see you hurt by my hand."

"Oh, so as long as you don't have to see it, it's okay if he eats my soul? That's all cool as long as it's not by your hand?" Keep him talking. That was the key.

"Moloch said I would deliver your soul to him." His voice cracked; he sounded utterly broken. Abbie pressed her palm against the rough wooden door. She pulled it away again, feeling dumb. "If I am not near you, if we are not...entwined, as it were, your soul will be safe."

Abbie forced anger into her voice; all she really felt was tired. "There are two things wrong with that. The first is, 'Moloch says.' Why the hell would you believe a demon? Their whole point is to mess with you! That is why they exist. You're smarter than that." Abbie really, really hoped she was right about that. But either way, the thought was logical. It would make sense to him.

"And the second?"

"The second is that what he's telling you is impossible. Can't happen. You can't deliver my soul anywhere because it's mine. If anybody gives it away, it'll be me. And at least in the short-term, I like my soul right where it is. So will you please open the door?" Abbie didn't have any idea if that was true or not; she didn't remember anybody giving their soul away in the Bible, but clearly the Bible left a lot of shit out. Maybe Ichabod could hand her soul over. Maybe he would, if he was given the chance to have his wife and son back. It was definitely possible.

But she knew she wasn't wrong about him. Crane was only the second person in her life she'd ever really trusted, and her gut still told her he wouldn't screw her over. Even knowing that he might, she still didn't want anyone but him watching her back.

"Ichabod, please," she said finally. Maybe she should have said the rest: that she needed him. That she cared about him. That neither of them had to do this alone. But for so many reasons, those words just wouldn't—couldn't-come. "Just let me in."

The door groaned and settled, as if a weight had leaned against it. When the wind was still, she could hear him breathing. But for once in his life, Crane was quiet.

She rocked slowly until the sun turned the sky to that icy orange you only see in the winter. Just as the last rays slipped away, she stood. "When you're ready to stop feeling sorry for yourself, you know where to find me."

"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" poured from the radio as she started her car. Some awful noise, partway between a laugh and a sob, clawed its way up from the depths of her belly. Then she squared her shoulders, put the car into gear, and sang all the way home.