She stood and whirled, suddenly manic, giddy in her new body. “So much to do! So much to look forward to! I am a virgin again. A virgin with ninety years of wisdom and my Monster by my side.”
She ran her hands over the Horseman’s body, longingly. He did not acknowledge her but awaited orders, chest heaving, hands clenched. “He is in the flesh as well.” She passed a hand over the stump of his neck. “Partially. But that will suffice… for now. Look here.” Agathe’s fingers touched a torn and bloody place on the Horseman’s red shirt. She ripped the hole wide, exposing only smooth skin. “See? See? The boy ran him through with your sword, Dylan. But the wound has already healed.” She tugged at a length of rope—a bandolier that hung diagonally across the Horseman’s body. “Oh, dear. He’s run out of heads to throw. No matter! Such ammunition is cheap.” She laughed madly, baring her canines. “We will rest, and plan. You may stay, Hadewych, if you do not inconvenience us.” Her crazed eye widened. Her lips worked furiously. “But you shall be obedient. Betray us, and it’s your head he’ll be throwing. Do not think to interfere with my work.” She spun and strode from the room.
“What work?”
She paused on the stairs, her face rapturous as a high priestess kneeling before her icon. “By my blood. A necromancer shall be born.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, you shall see. You shall see.” She whispered a spell, and the room filled with blinking fireflies. She held one in her cupped palm. “I shall show you wonders, child.” She made a fist, squeezing the little light out of existence, and marched upstairs.
Hadewych rose, sidestepped the Horseman warily, and ran up after her, flinching at every firefly that curlicued desperately past his head. “But you can’t! You can’t stay here. What if my son comes home?”
“If he’s a Van Brunt, he may join us.” She stopped at the door of the master suite. “You need me. You weak men have always needed Agathe.” She raised a hand and caressed Hadewych’s face. “Don’t be afraid, child. I will be a good guardian to you.”
“But—but that’s my room!”
She pulled her hand away. “Your room? I slept here two hundred years before the Van Brunt seed deigned to enter your mother.” She slapped him, hard enough to spin his head. “Learn your place.” She stormed into the master suite and slammed the door. The deadbolt turned.
Hadewych was too shocked for anger. “This… isn’t fair.”
A terrible roar of pain rose from the living room. Hadewych crept downstairs, eyes wide. The Horseman had fallen to his knees, body writhing. His hands went to his neck. Blood spurted from his severed arteries but did not spill. It climbed a fast-sprouting tendril of vertebrae and congealed around a white cluster of bony plates, which hinged inward and sutured like a flytrap closing on prey. He calmed, and his body shuddered. The skull grew a layer of skin, then sprouted a shock of black hair shiny with sweat.
The Horseman looked up. The face was familiar. Young and brutish. The son of the policeman… the quarterback. The boy they’d expelled for almost killing Jason.
Eddie Martinez put a hand to his temple, wincing as if he nursed a hangover. “So,” he said, scowling. “I guess we’re roomies?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Wheels Within Wheels”
Agathe stood before the wide picture window of the darkened second floor master suite, watching the fireflies drift into the trees. The yellow-green souls blinked down the hill, dancing toward the town below. She recited spells, giving them missions.She caught a glimpse of her beautiful new face in the glass. She could almost believe she was a girl again, that the year was 1776 and she was the sixteen-year-old apprentice of Mother Hulda, Witch of the Woods. Hulda had taught her everything. How to bind and command, how to ensnare, how to make an infusion of potent herbs to conjure remedy or ruin.
She would make her infusions again. She would steep this town in fear. She would worry its dreams and harry its hearts, set all its nerves a-prickle. Fearful prey makes foolish mistakes. Fearful prey is an easier bleed. Fearful prey betrays itself to the patient hunter.
Agathe withdrew a small bottle from her pocket. She’d stolen blood from the guards she’d killed, the guards that had protected the girl. She tilted the bottle, wet the tip of a finger, and tasted the clot. Gifted or no? She couldn’t tell. But it didn’t matter. She could not strike. Not yet.
She needed to raise her army first.
Agathe wet her finger again and went to work, writing spells across the glass, streaks and squiggles and evil devices, inscrutable to any but the Deep. The Hexenwerk, Hulda had called it. The Spellcraft. Agathe whispered the words under her breath, in absent-minded singsong syllables, as if working a thresher in her fields, to bring in a long-awaited harvest. Word by word she scrawled her threshing song, bloody witchcraft set to float on the starlit waters of the Hudson, dripping in space above the Tarrytowns. Dripping onto the Old Dutch Church, and the moonlit cemetery, and the millpond of Philipsburg Manor.
“You can’t sleep in there!” shouted Hadewych.
Eddie threw him aside like a sack of flour. “Watch me.”
“That’s my son’s bedroom! I won’t stand for it.”
“Let’s get this straight. You don’t run things here.” Eddie pointed to the ceiling. “She does. She’s the coach. I’m the quarterback. You’re just the waterboy.”
Hadewych fought tears. “But… this is my house.”
“Not anymore.” Eddie jabbed a finger into Hadewych’s chest, hard enough to bruise. “And if you put a foot out of line I’ll break it off.” He opened the closet and knelt. Flies whizzed from the hole in the floor. “I’m sick of sleeping down there.”
“In… the tunnels?”
“Yeah. It’s like solitary. I’m done with it.”
“Fine. Take the guest room. Or the attic.”
“No.”
“Any room but this.”
Eddie pointed at the hole. “It’s too good a setup. I can get back down there if I need to. He can go hunting and not be seen. I’ll make a ladder. Get me some rope tomorrow.”
“No. Get it yourself.”
Eddie rose, and Hadewych stepped back. “Say no to me again and I’ll chop your head off.” He sank the hatchet into the wall. Plaster dust powdered the carpet. He pulled his T-shirt over his head, revealing a torso covered with scars. “I’m taking a shower. Make me a sandwich.”
Hadewych balled his fists. “This is insane.”
“Did I hear a no?”
Hadewych looked away. “No.”
“Was that another one? It sounded like another one.” Eddie grinned at him. “Aw. What’s the matter? You going to cry?”
Hadewych snarled. His hands burst into flame.
Eddie punched him in the stomach, hard enough to put his flame out, knocking him to the floor. A blotch of mold erupted across Eddie’s face. He bent over Hadewych, his eyes brimming with fungus. “Try that again and I’ll kill you. I’ll let him out. He wants to kill you, you know. You’ve been pushing him around. Telling him what to do. He doesn’t like that. Me neither. You think I forgot? How you and your fag son got me expelled? You’re only alive because we answer to her.” He pointed at the ceiling again. “She wants you breathing, but give us an excuse. I dare you.”
“How are you—like this? How are you the Horseman?”
“She chose me. And I like it.” His eyes returned to normal. “Get your ass up.” Hadewych obeyed. “Now turn around, go to the kitchen, and make me a sandwich.”
“What—what kind of sandwich?”
“Surprise me. And if you spit in it I’ll cut your ears off.” Eddie pawed through Zef’s dresser, throwing handfuls of clothes onto the floor. “None of this shit’s going to fit me. I’ll give you a list of what I want.”
Hadewych’s mind raced, but he nodded. He would agree to anything just to get out of this room.
“Aw, look at you.” The splash of mold wriggled across Eddie’s forehead. “All pissed off.
You’re thinking about—what? Running away? Calling my dad or some shit like that? Go ahead. If you want to drown in your own blood. Just go ahead.” He kicked his shoes off, stripped his jeans, and threw them on the bed. “Glass of milk too. And whip an egg in it.” He pushed Hadewych out of the room and slammed the door in his face.
Hadewych did as he was told. He found turkey and whole wheat bread, romaine and American cheese. He made a smoothie of whole milk and raw egg and added a dash of vanilla extract. He plated the food and left it outside Zef’s—no, Eddie’s—door. Beyond the wood he could hear the Martinez boy showering and singing… what? “Walk Like a Man” by The Four Seasons. Hadewych backed away, feeling small and weak.
He was tired, that was all. He hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours. He staggered to the only bedroom left unoccupied. The room that had been Eliza Merrick’s once, then Jason’s briefly. Hadewych blessed the bolt that Jason had installed. He could lock the monsters out.He lay on the bed—in the dark—clutching the old woman’s pink comforter. He twisted with sudden discomfort, pulling something from beneath his body. A bottle of Eliza’s fingernail polish. Jungle Red. He flung it aside. It broke open, streaking the wall with a long teardrop of blood.
What the hell was he going to do?
He shifted restlessly, terrified and miserable. Maybe he should call Paul Usher, tell him what had happened to Kate. Paul must be in a panic now. But the thought of Paul Usher in pain was pleasant. Jessica had confessed her long-ago affair with Usher. Hadewych’s “dear friend Paul” had caused all his family’s misery.
Let him fret over his damned daughter. Let him cry over her picture. Why not? I’ve lost my son. Why shouldn’t Paul be hurting too? Let him see how it feels to lose your child.
And what about Eddie’s father? Does that asshole policeman have a shrine set up in his son’s room? Screw him too. What’s David Martinez’s pain to me? Let both men suffer. Losing Kate or Eddie can’t possibly compare to my pain. Zef is worth a thousand of either of them.
Hadewych didn’t want to think of Usher or Martinez. He was too busy staring at the homecoming picture of Zef. He’d taken it from his pocket and was holding it to the moonlight.
Better if Zef doesn’t come home. Better if he doesn’t see any of this.
Hadewych couldn’t challenge Agathe or Eddie. They could murder him at any moment. But he didn’t have to stay in this house, did he? He couldn’t sleep here, in this room. It smelled of Eliza. Her bathrobe hung on the back of the door, watching him. It filled him with more dread than the Horseman costume had.
You deserve everything that’s coming to you, it whispered.
He stood, pushing dread away. He had to act.
He rose and left the bedroom. He tiptoed through the breakfast room, crept out the back door, and padded down the thirteen steps to the yard. One potential disaster had to be averted, at least. He had a secret to keep. Something Agathe and her Horseman couldn’t discover. He went to the rear of the Phantom Coupe and fished out his keys, thinking, Wheels within wheels within wheels within…
Something struck him, hard. It lifted him off his feet and slammed him into the garage door, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He hung there, dangling over the drive, struggling against some invisible force. What? What was—
“Hello, Hadewych.”
He recognized the voice, of course. That gravelly voice could only belong to one person.
Valerie Maule stepped from the shadows, one hand raised, the other pressed to her valve. “You burned my house down—you son of a bitch.”
Hadewych dangled helplessly in the grip of her telekinetic Gift. But he wasn’t afraid of this creature. “Prove it. Go on. Tell the police. Tell them I ‘used my magic powers.’ Even if they believed you, they’d only end up cursed.” He struggled, preparing to ignite a hand.
Her invisible grip tightened. “One spark, and I’ll—rip your arms off. I’m not afraid of you—anymore.”
“What do you want?”
“Jason and Zef. I’m taking them—away from you. Away from this house. Tonight.”
“They’re not here.”
Valerie scowled. “Where are they?”
“Let me down.”
“No.”
“Do you want the neighbors to see this?”
Valerie hesitated. She dropped him.
He fell fast, and his right knee hit the gravel painfully. He stood and brushed himself off. “Zef chose his mother. He’s with her now.”
“With Jessica? Where?”
“I don’t know. You might check the whorehouses.”
“And Jason?”
“Oh, I know where Jason is.”
Valerie glanced up at the house. “Is he inside?”
“No. He’s not.” Hadewych watched her face expectantly. “Jason… is at the bottom of the Hudson.”
Valerie stared at him. She brought a hand to her valve, slowly. “What do you mean?”
“The Horseman attacked Jason last night. Murdered him. Threw him in the river. His stupid little rat dog too. I saw it happen. So. That’s that.” Hadewych raised his hands. “You’re too late.”
“You bastard.” Invisible force struck Hadewych, driving him back, but he kept his footing. He could feel her Gift weakening as guilt set in, could see the strain on her face as she blamed herself. Beat herself up.
“You think I’m happy about it? Once they find his body I won’t control the money anymore. I needed Jason.”
The waves of force evaporated. Valerie leaned on the trunk of his car. Tears shone bright down her cheeks. “How could you let it—get this far? Where’s your heart, Hadewych?”
“Get out of here.”
“Do you even have one?”
“Get off my property.”
“I should have seen you—for what you were. I should have stopped you.”
“Well, then. This is all your fault, isn’t it?” He was goading her—just to see her suffer.
But the suffering drained from her face. She looked at him with impersonal curiosity and distaste, as a scientist might look at botulism through a microscope. “You should have—killed me, last night.”
“I thought I had.”
“You tried. But you failed. And you’ll regret it.” Her fist clenched. The air shivered, the trees bent. A garbage can tipped and fell. Her face held anger and deadly determination. “Next time you—burn a witch—you damn well better—finish the job.”
Valerie’s anger kept her tears at bay until she reached her BMW. She managed to drive to the end of the block before she broke down. She kept seeing Jason’s face. And Eliza’s. She parked in front of a handsome colonial-style house, its trees still strung with Fourth of July decorations, killed the headlights, and wept.
At least Zef escaped. Whatever Jessica is, she can’t be as bad as Hadewych.
But… Jason. Oh, poor Jason.
Her phone rang. She rose and wiped her face. She didn’t recognize the number. She answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?”
“Hey. It’s me. Mike? From last night?” He sounded hesitant and embarrassed. “Don’t be mad. I got your number from the fire report.”
“I’m not mad.”
“I just wanted to say—I enjoyed being with you. If it was a one-night thing, that’s cool. But I—hope it won’t be—’cause I—”
“Where are you?”
“My place.”
“Can I come over?”
“Now?”
“Yes. I don’t want to be alone.”
“Why? You okay?”
“No. I just found out. A friend of mine—died last night.”
“Who?”
“Did you ever meet… Jason Crane?”
She heard a sharp intake of breath. “Ichabod? Ichabod died?”
She winced. “Yes.”
“How?”
“I—can’t talk about it. Can I stay tonight? On the couch? I can’t handle—the hotel.”
“Of course. Do you remember how to get h
ere?”
“I’m on my way.” She wiped her cheeks. “Oh, Mike…”
“What?”
Her shoulders convulsed as the sobs began again. “He was only—seventeen.”
Hadewych waited in the driveway until he felt certain that Valerie had gone. He paced the lawn, thinking. He hadn’t lied to her—Jason’s death would be a disaster for him. Eliza’s will made him Jason’s guardian until the boy came of age. But if the law pronounced Jason dead, control of the fortune would go to Jessica—Jason’s nearest Pyncheon relative.
And then what? Jessica would discover Hadewych’s thefts, his misallocations. He hadn’t planned for that. Zef wouldn’t have prosecuted his own father, but oh, she would. As soon as the accountants gave her the figures, Hadewych would go to jail. And afterward? His son would spend his entire life begging from that woman, jumping through her hoops, waiting to inherit. Zef would be an old man by the time she died, his chances gone, the money a mere consolation prize at the end of a blighted life.
Hadewych kicked the dirt. That couldn’t happen. He refused to allow it.
And so… Jason must not be pronounced dead. He must be missing only. A missing person. A runaway. Under those conditions the legal situation could be twisted to suit Hadewych’s purposes, at least for a while longer. Long enough to think of something.
If he could pull it off.
He took out his keys and opened the trunk of the car. He drew aside a length of soggy tarp. A body lay beneath, curled on its side, just as Absalom Crane had lain in his coffin. But this wasn’t Absalom. This was a hundred and twelve million dollars and change.
Hadewych put a hand on the white throat, feeling the clammy skin. A talisman hung there. A silver owl talisman on a chain.
Movement in an upper window caught his eye. Agathe stood silhouetted above, the warden in her guard tower. Hadewych pulled his hand from the trunk. She would not be pleased.
SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3) Page 8