Crane (16 page)

“
The Hessian is already dead and he lives in you. Take your own life and you will rise again, without a shred of humanity to hold you back.” Rip inched his way closer, a cautious hand raised as if he were nearing a wild mustang. “Unless you can think of some way to rid yourself of that rather permanent brand, we will just have to find a way to overpower and control it.”

Her selective hearing pinpointed only one part of Rip’s suggestion,
rid yourself of that
. That was the answer. It had to be. If the mark was gone, she would be free. Her purse thumped to the floor at her feet. Ireland stumbled forward, through her emotional fog, purposely detaching herself from her body and what she planned to do to it.

It’s a vessel, nothing more
, she reassured herself as she opened the cabinet in the hall, allowing the drop down ironing board to fall into place.
Any pain you feel is fleeting compared to what you’ve done.

Ireland plugged in the appliance that ticked with life as it warmed. Ninety seconds, that’s how long it took to reach full heat. The convenience of that was why she bought it in the first place. For some reason that seemed ironic now.

“Ireland, I worry you’re not quite thinking clearly here,” Rip stated from behind her in the overly cautious tone usually reserved for talking jumpers off of ledges.

Forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight
…

She stared straight ahead, her silence a
nd the clicks of the iron’s heating element acting as his only answer.

“We can figure this out together. We know the Horseman can be controlled. That gives us an instant advantage.”

Sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three
…

“Whatever your plan here is, I assure you that you do
not
have to do it.” Rip crept closer, moving to unplug the iron.

Ireland
pivoted her upper body and threw her arm out, denying him passage in the narrow space.

Seventy-eight, seventy-nine,
eighty
…

A slow hiss of steam
eeked from the silver plate.

“Oh, no
.” Rip’s face blanched. “Ireland, what are you
doing
?”

Eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine
…

Her trembling hand closed around the grip. “What has to be
done.”

Her arm turned skyward as she laid the iron on it flat.
Pain seared like a thousand needles. A wash of tears flooded her eyes. Even so, Ireland denied herself the right to yell out, viewing that as a privilege she’d given up the moment she took the life of a child.

Biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood, she held the iron steady.
The smell of burning flesh filling the cramped hall. Behind her, Rip wavered and crashed to the floor, his head barely clearing the edge of the kitchen counter.

Only then did she pull the iron away, peeling off chunks of her skin with it. A choked gasp caught in her throat and prevented even a whisper of a breath from passing. A perfect iron shaped mark marred her flesh
. Red, cracked, and oozing blisters had already formed. Except for on the tattoo. That remained perfectly intact, not a blemish to be seen.

18

Ireland

“These are nasty wounds,” the dark-haired intern, who Ireland guessed to be maybe a year or two older than her, stated weaving in another tight stitch. “How did you say you got them?”

Well, random health care professional,
Ireland mentally mused from the midst of her pain-killer induced fog.
It seems that tattoo you’re staring at has somehow turned me into a serial killer. I thought self-mutilation may be a cure for that. Judging by the blood-soaked towel I came in with, and the fact that I’ve blacked out twice since I’ve been here, it’s safe to say that is not the case.

“I wanted to mow my lawn one last time for the season
. Hit a big rock that jammed between the mower blades.” Despite the fact that her tongue felt like it had swollen to three times the normal size, her lies flowed with a remarkable ease. Ireland thanked whatever this nice woman had injected into her arm for that. “I called my boyfriend and asked him to help, but you know how guys are.”

“Boy, do I.” The doctor flipped her hair over her shoulder a
nd scoffed in disgust. “Let me guess, he said he’d be there and never showed.”

“You guessed it
.” Even she could detect the slight slur of her words and did her best to enunciate. “I got ticked and tried to do it myself. Not a smart move. Burned myself on the exhaust and sliced the hell out of myself on the blade. Next time I’ll know to turn it off first. Worst part, other than feeling like a complete moron, is that I still didn’t get it fixed.”

“Don’t beat yourself up too bad.” With a gentle hand
, the doctor slathered ointment over the burns and fresh stitches, before positioning gauze over them and taping them into place. “I think the lawn mower did that enough for you. You got lucky, actually. That top slash was nearly to the bone. It’s a miracle it didn’t severe your hand completely. I’ve seen it happen. Plus, a big silver lining here is that gorgeous tattoo still looks perfect. Did you have that done somewhere here in Tarrytown? The color and shading is amazing.”

“No, in Manhattan,” Ireland mumbled
, staring down at the corner of the loathsome mark peeking out from beneath the taped on gauze.

After the
second
attempt at burning it off failed, Ireland had gone for the knife. Dragging it across her skin and splitting her arm with a crimson gash. She could—and
did
—cut around it. However, something about that enigmatic mark wouldn’t let her break the surface of it, or saw beneath. Attempts to were thwarted with a resistance that seemed iron clad.

The pretty doc
tor sat up to stretch her back. “I think that should do it. Let me go get your discharge instructions for the care of the wounds, then you’ll be free to go.”

A forced smile and half-hearted nod were the
closest to a reply Ireland could manage.

The doctor slid back the curtain. Draping her stethoscope around her neck, she paused to flip her gaze back to her patient.
“Oh, and you might want to consider withholding sex from that boyfriend for a while. At least until he learns to be a better listener!”

Ireland kept her fake smile in place, knowing full well it didn’t reach her eyes
. She let the sorry attempt die as soon as the good doctor sauntered off to the nurses’ station to prepare the paperwork.

Relieved to be alone
, Ireland flopped back against the pillows; her good arm draped over her eyes as her head swam from the combination of blood loss and a potent medicinal cocktail. Only then did she realize how truly lucky she was that she made it to the hospital without blacking out behind the wheel. Then again, how good can one’s decision making skills be after finding out they go all
Darkly Dreaming Dexter
in their sleep?

“I’m not crazy! I know what I saw!”
a male voice shouted loud enough to resonate through the entire ER.

“Sir, we need you to calm down. You are disturbing the other patients. If
we have to sedate you, we will.”

“Don’t you threat
en me! Do you know who I am?” the enraged patient spat. “I could buy and sell this entire town three times over! You
will
treat me with respect!”

Ireland would know that self-absorbed, whiny tone anywhere.

Brantley
, her inner-self groaned, a split-second before bolting her upright with a fresh rush of panic. Had he still been outside her house after she charged off as the Horseman? There would be no explaining that away if he’d been witness to it all.
Had he told the cops
? Funny how just a few hours ago she had been so determined to turn herself in, and now that same lingering possibility had her instantly petrified. Not “funny ha-ha” but more, “huh, I don’t
actually
want to fry in the electric chair.”

Easing herself off the bed, Ireland tiptoed from the room. The smell of antiseptic burned her nostrils as she set off to find her raving ex.
No fedora or whip was needed for this particular quest. She simply followed his increasingly agitated shouts to the bed at the end of the hall, which was surrounded by nurses, a couple doctors, and hospital security.

“Ireland!” Brantley snapped as she peeked around the curtain. “Nice choice of town! Some idiot dressed as the Headless Horseman attacked me last night!”

“I’m sorry, miss. You can’t be in here.” A grey-haired security guard held up one hand to halt her, the thick paunch around his middle straining against the buttons of his starched uniform shirt.

“Back off, rent-a-cop. She’s my fiancé
e.” Brantley’s face, bright with a hot flush of red, was partially covered by the bandage wrapped around his forehead. Other than that, he seemed to be perfectly fine. Still a raging ass—but that was to be expected.

“
Ex
, oh, so very ex,” she clarified to the small crowd.

A couple of the nurses hid their giggles behind their hands.

“Can I have a minute with him?” Ireland asked. “I think I can calm him down a bit.”

“You always
did
have effective methods for tension release.” Brantley leered, leaning back against his pillows with his arms folded behind his head.

Ireland clapped her hands in front of her, her eyebrows shooting into her hairline. “And
there
is a prime example of how he got that ex title!”

“At this point, I’m willing to try anything,”
the perturbed looking doctor admitted as he shooed away the rest of the crowd. “However, if you can’t calm him down, I
will
have him sedated until his test results come back. Then, hopefully, we can boot him out of here.” Shooting one last glare at Brantley, he followed the departing crowd out.

“Let me guess,” Brant
ley smirked. “You heard I was here and had to come running. Deny it all you want, Ireland. You still have feelings for me.”

Picking a fight wouldn’t get her the a
nswers she needed, even though it would feel
really
good. So—as much as she despised the idea—she had to choke down her loathing and play nice.

With a lift of her chin, she gestured toward his
bandaged head. “Want to tell me exactly what happened?”

Brantley pulled his hands out from behind his head
, gesturing wildly as he ranted. “What happened was I got attacked by a cloaked lunatic! This
person
,” he spat the word as if it tasted rancid on his tongue, “on horseback charged right at me and hit me with the butt end of his sword! He knocked me out and left me on the side of the road.
Who does that
?
What is the matter with people
?”

“But, I mean, it wasn’t
actually
the Headless Horseman, because the person had a head … right?” Her own dread at his answer spawned her voice to rise to a squeak.

“Of course it wasn’t the
real
Headless Horseman.” He cocked his head to gift her with his best sneer of annoyance. “You’re a college educated woman, Ireland. Try using your head.”

Ireland ruffled a hand through her short hair
, chuckling a dry, humorless laugh to the floor. “Yeah, what was I thinking …”

“What it was, was a nutcase with a sword in one hand and a
friggin’ axe in the other! Probably the same freak that has killed two people in this town already. Speaking of which, thanks for cluing me in on
what
was going on!”

Her narrow shoulders rose
and fell in an exasperated shrug. “In our lengthy, yet surprisingly
non-existent
phone calls?”

“I’m just saying
.” Brantley smoothed the front of his hospital gown in the same fashion he would one of his designer suits. “I may have thought twice before driving up here. I mean you’re hot, Ire, but you’re not
that
hot, if you know what I mean.”

Ireland did her best to turn her gritted teeth into a painfully forced smile
. “That’s funny. I had that same thought when you proposed.”

Brantley scoffed and rolled his eyes. How different life must be for someone
who genuinely believed themselves to be God’s gift.

More than anything
, Ireland wanted to rip him to shreds. Not in a bloody Horseman fashion, but in the far more gratifying way of using just the power of her words. Unfortunately, she still had questions that he, as the only living survivor of an alleged Horseman attack, could answer. The best she could hope for was getting the information before she bit her tongue clean off. “You said your attacker was on horseback. Any idea where they got the horse?”

Or how a novice rider was able to stay on a charging steed
?

Brantley threw his hands in the air
, like her ignorance physically pained him. “How could I possibly know that? I didn’t exactly have time to strike up a conversation before the guy
knocked me out
!” He simmered down for a brief moment, his narrow-eyed stare locking on the pastel curtain in front of him as if the glimmer of a memory played there just for him. “Although, now that I think about it, I think he
did
get off his horse for a minute. Right before I blacked out, I-I think he leaned over me and pressed one finger to my lips.” With a shudder, he physically shook himself from the trance. “I probably imagined that. I was pretty looped out, hence the head wound.”

Blood rushed to Ireland’s face with enough force t
hat she feared her ears were steaming. In her dream last night, she had pressed her finger to Noah’s lips.

Oh
, God!
Was I having a sex dream while nearly killing my ex?
There was wrong, an elevator that went six stories further up, and then this.

Ireland clamped her lips together in a thin white line and fought
for even a semblance of composure. “This person, they had a cloak on, right? Could you see their face at all? Enough to tell that they actually … you know …. had a head?” She tried to remember a time in her life she sounded more like a raging lunatic. One didn’t spring to mind.

“
What the hell, Ireland
? I was nearly killed last night! You seem more concerned with some random dude on horseback than my wellbeing.” He jabbed an accusing finger in her direction. “That, right there, is why we never would’ve worked out! You’re insensitivity to my needs.”

T
hat was it. The switch that turned off her nice. “No, you diddling other women was more the deciding factor there. Ya know, it’s really a shame that the horseman didn’t aim for your
other
head. But, hey, there’s always next time!”

“
We are so over
!” Brantley raged, his face morphing from red to purple. “Get out of my room!”

“
Glad to see you finally agree with general consensus!
” As she stormed from his life for a second time, Ireland deeply hoped
this
one would stick.