Crane (22 page)

Positioning herself body skimming close, he
r warm breath teased across his earlobe. “I bet you think you are clever, coercing all of my secrets from me. However, there is one crucial flaw to your plan … I have yet to decide if you are going to make it out of this house alive.”

Ichabod
threw himself forward against the hold of his imprisoners, ignoring the stabs of pain that radiated from his overextended shoulders. “Do what you will with me, witch, but let Katrina go!”

“Oh, sweet boy. Katrina’s fate has already been decided. The only question now is, what of you?” The back of her hand, rough and coarse from daily chores, brushed his jawline. “I could take it all away. A few simple herbs, the right incantation, and the pain of knowing—and losing—Katrina could be wiped from your mind completely. You could leave here. Try for your fresh start in a town not bogged down by its own curse. Say the word, Ichabod, and you will be free from Sleepy Hollow.”

“Ichabod, go
.” Katrina’s hair fell in her face, matting with tears and blood. “If you have ever loved me at all, take this opportunity and run!”  

“
No! I will not leave you!” Ichabod’s exclamation burst breathlessly from his chest, as if the nearing midnight hour was somehow sucking the oxygen from the room in her greedy hunger for another life to be offered up.

Elizabeth
paused, her head inclined to consider him. A casual lift of her shoulder and she was off, striding back to Katrina. Her chin dipped just enough to shoot Ichabod a coy smile over her shoulder. “Let us see if we can shake your resolve, shall we?”

The air sizzled with a palpable tension. Elizabeth pulled back her dagger wielding arm. Her devilish smile widened as
Katrina flinched and squirmed to free herself. Ichabod sucked air through his tightly clenched jaw. The blade sliced through the air—and severed the ropes around Katrina’s wrist.

Katrina’s gaze searched
her newly-discovered sister’s face. “You are …
freeing
me?”

“In a matter of speaking
.” Elizabeth arched one brow, her face a mask of indifference.

Before Katrina could question the motives of such an act, Elizabeth seized her hand.
Forcing her palm skyward, she dragged the blade from thumb to pinkie. Layers of skin burst open in a gush of red. Adrenalin pumped through Ichabod’s veins, and Katrina’s anguished scream rang in his ears. He threw his weight into the larger of his two captors, hoping the other would lose his hold. Unfortunately, his valiant effort gained him no ground.

Once again
, Elizabeth duplicated Katrina’s wound on her own body. “The future holds so much promise for Katrina Van Tassel. Her marriage to Brom Van Brunt will be the wisest possible choice. One that will make both families infinitely wealthier.” Her face folded in mock sadness as she clasped her bleeding hand with Katrina’s. “It is really quite a shame you will miss it.”

Ichabod’s jaw fell slack, awed by the li
ght that surged from Katrina’s pores, enveloping her in a halo of white. Her goodness and purity emerged as its own separate entity … but it wasn’t alone. Darkness hatched from beneath Elizabeth’s skin, wriggling out of her like an infestation of smoky spiders. Their vastly different auras seemed to repel each other. Live tendrils of darkness and light swirled and roiled in an intricate waltz, the two sides never crossing or joining. That hungry, black aura snaked its way inside Katrina, taking the optical route. Her peaches and cream complexion faded to a dull grey pallor. As the white light entered Elizabeth, her fumbling hand relinquished control of the dagger to Katrina.

“
Katrina! Quickly
—” Ichabod’s exclamation cut off. Before his very eyes, Katrina’s features sharpened, the cornflower hue of her eyes sinking to a deep sea blue.

“
Ich-Ichabod? What’s happening?” While it was Elizabeth that stuttered the words, the voice undeniably belonged to Katrina.

His heat lurched into his throat. He had to choke down a swallow to croak around it, “
Ka—Katrina?”

Before
he could press for even one answer to his surfeit of questions, Katrina’s body rose from the chair she’d been confined in. She pitched forward, thrusting the dragger deep into the maid’s core.

R
aw, chapped hands covered the wound, an endless flow of red seeping and bubbling between her fingers. A high-pitched wheeze escaped her parted lips as her legs crumbled beneath her. Impending darkness dimmed the light in her eyes, yet her gaze sought out Ichabod’s face.

He knew. Without a shadow of a doubt
, he knew. The spirit of
Katrina
lay dying before him. Somehow, they had switched.

“Ichabod
,” she gasped, “
run
.”

“She
is not wrong.” Elizabeth cut her still bound hand free. Tilting her chin one way then the other, she admired her reflection in the dagger’s blade. “The blood sacrifice has been paid. My noble Hessian is on his way, galloping closer by the second.”

She wore the face of the woman he loved, nevertheless all he felt as he glared
at her was revulsion, loathing, and a thirst for vengeance. “We could still save her. Set me free, let me tend to her.”

Elizabeth
’s nose crinkled at Katrina’s now still form. “I fear we may be too late.”

She bent, as though to check Katrina’s pulse
. Then, weaving her fingers into Katrina’s tied hair, wrenched her head back and slit her throat.

“Ye
s, we are most definitely too late.” Elizabeth let Katrina’s head thump to the floor as she rose to her feet, wiping the blade with the folds of gown.

All Ichabod could do was stare.
The simple act of breathing was an anguishing task now that he’d watched his future die before him while he stood impotent to help.

“Release him,
” Elizabeth ordered with a casual flick of her wrist.

Ichabod
’s hands fell to his sides: twitching, shaking. Longing to wrap around that swan-like neck she’d stolen and wring the life from it. He lumbered forward in a threatening step, his nostrils flaring with each heaved breath.

“Ah,” Elizabeth h
alted his advance with one finger. “Tick-tock, Ichabod. The Horseman is on his way.”

“Let him come
,” the schoolmaster growled through his teeth. “Let him claim my head while I rejoice over your lifeless body. I have nothing else to live for.”

Her lower lip protruded
slightly. “That is heartbreaking, truly. However, I never said the Horseman was coming for
you
. How are those friends of yours?” A curtain of blonde cascaded over her shoulder as she cocked her head, tapping her chin with one elegant finger. “What are their names? I believe one is Rip and the other Irving?”

Ice cold fear
injected itself in his veins. “
No
.”

“You can be the avenger to your fallen love, or
save your friends. Which will it be?”

28

Ireland

The bloodcurdling scream tore from her throat, strangling her from within. Her watering eyes bulged, her tongue swollen in her mouth. The drumming of her pulse resonated in her ears like the whirring blades of an industrial fan. The basement swam out of focus a moment before the floor rose to meet her. If any pain accompanied her knees slamming down on unyielding cement, it didn’t register. She could comprehend nothing beyond …
them
.

“I-I couldn’t have. I couldn’t—
“ Ireland’s attempt to console herself in the face of true gruesomeness transformed into a choked sob, purging forth her sins.

The bare bulb swung, casting shadows over the ground that seemed to mock her with their illusion of a doubled body count. Noah. Ana. Hanging limp
ly from the floorboards overhead. Their fixed stares cloudy. Their heads craned to the side in an unnatural angle caused by tightly wrapped nooses. Hollowed voids gaped from their chest cavities where their hearts had been ripped out, showering the front of their funeral attire with gore. Their feet dangled, clomping against each other with each sway of the rope.

Ireland’s head turned, following a muted thump. The paint cans were gone from the shelf. In their place sat two Mason jars … holding the still beating hearts of Noah and Ana. Something within her snapped, pushed to the brink then nudged over the precipice.
The shake of her head started slow, quickly building in speed and intensity, until she was snapping it side-to-side in a frantic denial of the horror before her.

“
No. No. Nooooo
!” Bellowing until her lungs ached, she crumbled to the ground. Her legs drew into her chest, curling her into a tight ball while her torrents of tears soaked the ground.

Overhead
, the ropes creaked their malicious giggles.

Rip banged down the stairs behind her. “Ireland! What is it, child? What’s happening?”
he asked, easing her trembling frame from the ground and gathering her in his arms.

“It’s my fault. All my fault.” Her fingers curled in a white
-knuckled grasp around his shirt sleeve, drawing strength from him just to breathe.

Rip pulled back, cradling her face in leathery hands. “What is your fault?”

“Them!” She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder, sparing herself another glimpse of what the monster within her was truly capable of.

Rip took his time before answering
, choosing his words carefully. “Ireland, there’s nothing there.”

“How can you say that? They’re hanging right—
“ She spun toward …
nothing
. Her claim trailed off, lost in the sea of her tumultuous thoughts.

“If I were to wager a guess, I’d say the Hessian knows of your plan. He’s pulling out every parlor trick in his arsenal to prevent you from stealing away his control,” Rip theorized while guiding
her up onto wobbly legs. Once she achieved steady footing, he pivoted her toward the hidden cubby with his hands on her shoulders. “You mustn’t let him. Amber has been sent home. You have nothing else to concern yourself with than claiming the cloak that is rightfully yours.”

A confining casket of unease smothered Ireland, forcing her gaze to flick back to Rip.

“Whatever you see,” Rip murmured. Ireland tried to reassure herself the razor blade that suddenly appeared in his hand wasn’t real. Even as he dragged it gradually across one cheek, spilling blood from earlobe to mouth, then shifted the blade to do the other side. “Whatever you hear, no matter how real it seems, keep going!”

Ireland clamped her eyes shut tight
just as the ghoulish image of Rip punctuated his thought by slitting his own throat.

“Ireland?”

One lid pried itself open to peek. Rip stood staring, eyebrows raised in expectation. Not a scratch or drop of blood on him.

“I’m going,”
she gulped, wiping her sweaty palms on the legs of her faded black jeans. “The Horseman just decided to widen your smile in the ickiest possible way.”

“My smile?” He pa
tted his face with frantic hands, searching every inch for flaws. “
What happened to my face
?”

And then he was gone. Bounding up the stairs two at a time, most likely in search of a mirror.

“Three quarters of your face is covered by hair, but by all means run off and leave me to my threatening sanity,” Ireland grumbled under her breath, each of her tentative steps drawing her that much closer to her uncertain fate.

Dust rained down from the crumbling wall under the pressure of
her hand. Ducking her head, she glanced inside. Her cheeks puffed, exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She had anticipated a ghoulish nightmare inside orchestrated just for her. After all, the Horseman could root around inside her brain. He had to have stumbled across a few phobias he could use to make her squirm. But no. In an even more off putting turn of events, the room was eerily, deliberately, silent.

“It may be time to reevaluate your life when bodies hanging from the ceiling is less jarring than an empty room.” Rock scrapped across her back, snagging her fitted tee, as she stooped under the wrecked wall to creep inside
.

Then … that damned proverbial other shoe dropped.

The floor came alive beneath her feet. Snakes, of every size and color, flooded the room ankle deep.

“It’s not real.” Ireland stared straight ahead
, doing all she could to ignore the writhing body of motion beneath her while she forced one stubborn foot forward.

It wasn’t real.
Nothing
had slithered underneath the cuff of her pants, tickling over her skin with deadly intent. The walls were
not
reverberating with a menacing hiss, as though any minute more of the legless demons would spew forth from any available crack in the foundation.

“You … are not … going to—
mhmm
… have a … panic attack.” Her words were broken. Forced from her mouth in pained whimpers each time she lifted her foot and set it back down in the reptilian sea. “Get to … the trunk … grab the damned cloak …
ahhh-haaa
!” Her pattern of avoidance got exponentially more difficult following the strike of an ornery rattlesnake that
wasn’t really there
. Biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste a rush of coopery warmth, she pushed on. “Then, I’m gonna … run from this … pit, and enjoy … the full-blown … girlie, hissy fit …
I have earned
!”

The second her hand thumped down on the trunk
, the snakes vanished. Granted, her skin still crawled, but there was a good chance that would now be a permanent affliction. She wasn’t foolish enough to think the ringleader of terror had retreated. Nope, this was intermission. The decapitated showgirls were probably stretching for the big finale. Her hands curled around the lid. Bracing herself with a steadying breath, she lifted it open. It creaked its stubborn protest until relenting and flopping back against its hinges.

Bile s
corched its way up the back of her throat, threatening to spew the remnants of her lunch down the front of her. Outwardly, the trunk was only about two foot by three foot in size. What loomed before her was an endless abyss of suffering. Mouths hanging open, locked forever in their final scream. Fixed eyes gaping at the brutality of their end. Ireland gazed down into the depths of despair, which was basically a walking tour through the history of the Horseman. Each severed head a placard commemorating yet another kill. Right on top, where their impact would have the juiciest potency, rested Mason and Victor’s heads. Her own victims.

Impulse one was to give in to the guilt that ate at her. Cower to the ground, legs drawn tight to her chest, until the world crumbled around her. Then, the tide of crazy rescinded, allowing the sands of rational thought to s
ift through. There was no giving up. Doing so meant willingly allowing more people to die—by
her
hand.

Th
at left only one—
awful, icky, sweet baby Jesus I hate my life
—option.

Averting her eyes, Ireland plunged her hand straight down into the sea of heads. It entered with a sickening slurp
, lost in a slow cooker of death and rot. Slime coated her skin with a dense, clammy film. Exposed, jutting vertebrates, hacked by the Hessian’s blade, raked over her flesh, threatening to break the skin like a dulled pocketknife. Something small—and uncomfortably bug-like—wriggled beneath the tips of her finger. Ireland readjusted to a new spot. Maggots, real or hallucination induced, would set her gag-flex on a go for launch countdown. Tucking her nose into her shoulder, she concentrated on breathing through her mouth. It seemed the Horseman had found the button to push in her brain to add aroma-vision to his performances.

             
He’d proven how quickly he mastered veiling reality for her benefit, but he couldn’t
actually
alter it. The cloak was there. It
had
to be. She rotated her hand at the wrist; skimming, searching, rooting for that one beacon of hope. Fabric, thick and coarse, rubbed against the knuckle of her thumb. Ireland turned her hand, causing the mountain of heads to shift. Mason’s face lolled to the side; his parted lips mere inches from her face. The proximity of a lover, longing for a kiss. Revulsion skittered down her spine. Her hand closed around what she prayed to be the cloak and yanked it free. She anticipated an avalanche of heads. Instead, they blinked from sight. A clear indicator, without even having to look, that she had scored her desired cargo.

B
lack, benign fabric hung from her extended arms, the coarse wool fibers scratching against the sides of her fingers as her thumbs rubbed over it. Swallowing hard, she forced down the lump of trepidation rising like a fishing bobber in her throat, and swung the cloak around her shoulders. A garment closed away for centuries should’ve smelled musty. However, as the air moved beneath it, she caught whiffs of pine, spicy autumn air, and the unmistakable scent of equine. Her hand hovered over the clasp before securing it in place. Gnawing on her lower lip, she flicked her gaze toward the stairs. Should she warn Rip? Tell him to hide until she could steer the beast outside? Something about that idea struck her as almost laughable. Like she would snap the cloak around her and instantly become a matador to the supernatural. Physically shaking off the thought, she fastened the cloak over her breast bone.

Ireland filled her lungs to capacity and exhaled slowly—a deep sea diver preparing
to plunge to the depths. Her pulse drummed each passing second in her temples as she waited for the change to take hold.

A slow green haze to seep in with leisurely laps.

A jolt of DNA altering gamma radiation.

A
friggin’ lady in gold lamé asking if she was the keymaster.

Something
!

“Come on, dammit!” Thumbing the button free, she flipped the fabric out behind her and refastened it
, as if its metaphysical powers needed a jump start.

Still nothing.

“Wha-what does this mean?” Rip stammered from his crouched position outside the cubby.

Ireland turned with a jerk. In her distraction of impending mortal peril
, she hadn’t even noticed he came back. “It means the dead aren’t nearly as wise and all-knowing as we give them credit for. It means our last chance has failed. Most importantly, it means the Horseman can continue to use me as his little butt-monkey and there isn’t
a damned thing I can do about it
!”

Just like that, it all became too much. The cloak too heavy. The room t
oo constricting. Rip’s stare too demanding.

“I have to go. I have to get out of here.” The thick tread of her boots clomped across the floor, kicking up puffs of dust with each step.
Bending, she swatted Rip out of the way and ducked through.

“Ireland, wait!” He side-stepped in front of her to block her traveling tirade. “Maybe we could revisit your idea to lock yourself up?”

His tone, dripping of compassion, only fueled her rage. She was a monster undeserving of pity or kindness. “There isn’t time to test stupid theories now!”