SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3)

by Gleaves, Richard

  “Did I say that? Just do it.”

  Jason obeyed. They walked downstream, with the current.

  “What is it with you?” said Hadewych. “You never would do chores either. Always stubborn, never obedient. I’m still your guardian, you know.”

  “I’ll be eighteen soon.”

  “If you live that long. March, boy.”

  Jason kept his hands high. A rat squeaked up at him, startled by the light, and disappeared into a crevice. Jason wished he could follow. He needed an escape plan, but he could think of nothing. He was still half-asleep, punchy and disoriented.

  Hadewych wasn’t in great shape either. He began murmuring, “Lyndhurst. Day before yesterday. 9 p.m. Lyndhurst. Day before yesterday. 9 p.m.,” as if saying his rosary.

  “Didn’t find the sinochitis, huh?” Jason said, turning around and walking sideways, groping for some tactic. “I know where it is. But if you kill me you’ll never—”

  “Shut up and turn around.” Hadewych’s flame pulsed, and Jason turned forward again. “You’re not a very good liar, Jason. You have a tell. Your eyebrows twitch.” His voice became thoughtful. “Mine did that too, when I was your age.”

  “But not anymore. Maybe I should have been an actor. I certainly had ’Liza fooled.”

  “Don’t.”

  “She was hot for me, you know.”

  “Shut up.”

  “She wanted me. You should have heard her. ‘Oh, Hadewych. You’re so handsome and charming.’ The cow never suspected a thing. Pathetic. Where’s my Academy Award, Jason? Hm? Best performance by a leading actor? It was hard work, believe me. I almost lost my lunch, flattering that withered old—”

  Jason spun, swinging a fist. But Hadewych was ready. He gave Jason a flaming sucker punch. He’d been waiting to ring Jason’s bell, and Jason had walked right into it. Jason wiped his lip and found blood there.

  “That’s for the punch in the cemetery,” Hadewych said. “Ding, ding. Round two to me. Am I still ‘going down in the end,’ like you said after our guardianship hearing? Doesn’t look like it. Sorry.”

  Jason scowled, turned, and continued walking. Hadewych went back to his recitations. “Lyndhurst. Day before yesterday. 9 p.m. Lyndhurst. Day before yesterday. 9 p.m.” The pair reached a juncture in the pipe, and Hadewych barked, “Stop.”

  Jason’s fear had given way to anger. He dropped his hands and turned around. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

  Hadewych lowered his arm and let his fire go out. They stood with only Jason’s hands for illumination, twinkling in the water and in Hadewych’s eyes.

  Hadewych took a step back. “I said I wouldn’t kill you, and a Van Brunt keeps his promises. I’m no… murderer.”

  “Are you kidding? I watched you kill Tamper!”

  “That was an accident. It’s all been… accidents and misunderstandings.” Some teardrop of desperation had risen in Hadewych’s voice. “I could murder you where you stand. Right now. But I haven’t, have I? I could’ve killed you in the lighthouse. But I didn’t. I could have smothered you with a pillow some night while you slept. But you’re breathing. Because that’s not me. You have to understand. I am… the victim here.”

  Jason went cold inside. He was wide awake now, focusing intently on what he was hearing. He did have to understand. He needed to understand. Here was evil, in the flesh, standing right in front of him. Evil had found a home in Hadewych Van Brunt, like a ghost possessing the living. And somewhere in its swamp of brooding resentments and murky self-justifications, there lurked some answer. Something that explained not just Hadewych’s evil, but all evil. The reason for its quicksand allure, its tenacity, its… persistence. Something here explained the persistence of evil. Jason could feel it bubbling up like methane from a tar pit. If he could bring himself to look beneath, to gaze into Hadewych’s personal Slough of Despond, he would find it—wriggling in the darkness of a stagnant soul—the sad little leech that bled all evil men.

  “Whose victim are you, Hadewych?”

  Hadewych sighed, as if the answer were obvious. “The world’s. I deserved better. I’m a Van Brunt. I deserved more.”

  “But… did you earn it?”

  Hadewych’s eyes widened, with incredulity. “Earn it? I was entitled to it.”

  Jason felt horror and pity, mingled. He understood now. He’d never been tempted by evil himself, not truly, because he’d never been… bitter… about his life. He’d been disappointed by it sometimes, sure, but he’d never felt that life owed him better, that it was denying him, that it was out to get him. He’d never felt that the universe was his enemy, or that he was its victim. But Hadewych did, didn’t he? Hadewych believed himself the victim of… all existence. He hated the world because his life was difficult, and he imagined that his… pain… excused anything he did. His evils were mere self-defense. Justified by his victimhood. And if his evil actions brought him no success, well, that was just more proof of his victimization, wasn’t it? Failure would never stop him, because failures were fuel. Fuel for the fire of his eternal resentment. He would retaliate against failure with more evil, with more destruction, even to the point of destroying himself—just to spite his own life. He and Agathe were exactly alike, deep down. Hadewych wanted money, Agathe wanted her kiss, and both were willing to burn the world, because life had left them unsatisfied. Because it… because it…

  Because it wasn’t enough.

  Jason looked at Hadewych without flinching now. Men like this existed, yes, but they didn’t scare him anymore, because they were pathetic. They were pathetic because they were doomed. Doomed because they hated life.

  And if a man hates life, what’s left to love?

  When Jason finally spoke, his voice was soft but firm. “You deserve it all, Hadewych.”

  Hadewych smiled. “I know.”

  “You deserve everything that’s coming to you.”

  “Don’t say that,” Hadewych snarled, with a look of fear. “Say that again and I’ll roast your little face off. How could you understand? The Pyncheon heir. You have everything! While I have nothing. Still… I forgive you.”

  “You forgive me?”

  “Yes. And… since this is goodbye… I think you should offer your forgiveness.”

  “My forgiveness? Screw you.”

  “Language, you little shit. I’m apologizing. I am sorry that we both had to go through this. Whatever happened to ‘forgive your enemies’?”

  “Forgive you? For Eliza? No way.”

  “Eliza fell down the stairs.”

  “Holy hell! I think you actually believe that now.”

  “It’s the truth. Fine. Since you’re a heartless brat without forgiveness or courtesy, we’ll have to part as enemies then.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine. I can’t let you follow me, though.” Hadewych turned to a piece of machinery and spun a wheel. The sluice gate Jason had noticed earlier gave a rattling cough and began descending. Hadewych pointed back the way they came. “It’s nine miles upstream to Croton. Good luck.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Hadewych’s hands burst into flames. “Run along now.” He approached, pressing Jason back, and Jason had no choice but to splash upstream again. “What are you doing?”

  They reached the entrance to Eddie’s lair. Hadewych stepped up and through the arch. “Bye bye, boy.”

  With the gate down, the water of the aqueduct had begun to swell and gorge. Jason rushed after Hadewych, following him through the hanging butcher’s plastic. Hadewych had shouldered the reliquary and had taken hold of a rope ladder. He climbed a few rungs and looked back, his expression one of reproachful sadness.

  “We could have parted as friends, if you weren’t so stubborn. I’m very disappointed in you. Oh well. At least my conscience is clear.” He burned the ladder behind him as he climbed, leaving Jason no way to follow. “I told you to run, Jason. If you choose to drown, that’s your prerogative.”

  Water ru
shed into the room, breaking against Jason’s legs.

  “You can’t just leave me down here!” Jason screamed.

  “Why not?” said Hadewych, gaining the top. “It’s perfect for a little shit like you.”

  “What?”

  Hadewych turned back and peered through the hole high above. “Don’t you know where you are?”

  Jason turned a circle. The water was halfway up his calves now. “Agathe’s pantry?”

  Hadewych laughed. “Afraid not. Brom lavished every luxury on his beloved mother.” He ran a hand around the rim of the hole. “Even an indoor water closet.”

  “What?”

  “You’re in the cistern, Jason. Agathe’s toilet tank. Good luck. Maybe someone will take pity and flush you.”

  “Hadewych!”

  “I made a nice apology,” he snapped. “You should have been more generous. I’m very hurt.” He hung his head. “Think about what you’ve done, young man.”

  He pressed a board into position and disappeared.

  Jason thrashed in the dark, fighting the rush of water, his hands flailing, their light muted by silt. Eddie’s mattress floated by and he caught hold of it. Maybe he could ride it high enough to follow Hadewych out the top? But some undertow caught his legs and his body lurched sideways, slapping against the wall, dragging across it. The thirsty mouth of some high side passage opened to swallow him, guzzling him down like the worm in a tequila bottle. The lower half of his body lurched into the hole. He caught himself with his elbows, fighting the incredible current, but lost his grip on the algae-slick stone. He lost his grip on the mattress, clipped his head on the edge of the hole, and tumbled into darkness. The world narrowed, narrowed once more, then opened wide as the channel spit him out. He gasped and staggered to his feet, turning a circle, searching this new chamber with both hands high.

  He stood in a cylinder of familiar grey stone, with no visible exit. The incoming water had slowed, but the surface was still rising. He took deep breaths, expanding his lungs for when things got worse. The water reached his chest and he began to float. The cold might have stopped his heart, it was so fierce. He kicked his feet and practiced his breathing as the water level rose, as the roof pressed down. His ears stung as the air pressure intensified. He had almost reached the top of the cylinder when he saw an alcove and a grate above. A possible exit? He caught the lip of it, heaved himself up, and stared into…

  The eye sockets of Agathe Van Brunt.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  “Matriarch of the Bones”

  Jason cried out in surprise.

  Of course it was her. He had no doubt. Her body lay curled in the little space, its spine pressed against a grate just behind it. Her flesh had rotted away forever ago, one thread at a time washing through the grate, algae growing in its stead—leaving only a pile of delicate green bones, a scrap of patent leather, a cameo necklace, three gold rings on her right hand… and a toothless skull.

  Their eyes met.

  The boy and the witch were face to face at last.

  Here lay Agathe Van Ripper, the barber’s daughter, the leech-hunter. Here lay Hulda’s apprentice, wife of Hermanus, mother of Brom, mother-in-law of Katrina and grandmother of Dylan, false friend of Ichabod Crane. Architect of the Tarrytown Quarry and the Mistress of the Headless Horseman. Here lay the original of the bust in the Van Brunt tomb. Here lay the lantern of her soul.

  In her own toilet.

  “She was the great matriarch of our family,” Hadewych had said, that long-ago day at the tomb. “Amazing woman. Her body was never found… She was ninety years old… Another Van Brunt mystery.”

  Cold water rose up Jason’s shoulders. He had nowhere to run, no escape. But he refused to die without knowing. He braced himself on the lip of the opening, slapped his right palm to Agathe’s rot-green skull…

  … and knowledge flooded in.

  The young woman in the hanging cage screamed, her voice high and desperate. Agathe enjoyed the sound. She couldn’t scream like that herself, not anymore. Screaming hurt her old throat. Nowadays she had to beat the servants with her cane, or burn them alive, if she wanted to get their attention. Screaming was less effort, and she missed doing it.

  She missed many things at ninety, and how she hungered for them. She hungered for strength and sexuality and vigor. Where had they gone? Who or what had stolen her youth from her? She missed climbing stairs without difficulty. And chewing. Ah, to have her teeth again.

  She would have teeth, soon. And all the rest besides.

  “Please… please…” the girl whispered, extending a hand.

  Agathe leaned back in her rocking chair, bracing herself for the ordeal to come. She’d accomplished this body-swapping feat only once before. It had been difficult. If only she’d begun practicing this skill long ago. She might have been an expert at possession by now. She whispered a spell and closed her eyes. She could hear thunder, somewhere above. The storm outside was fierce tonight. The water ran fast through her pantry, saying, “Shhhhh.” She shut all such sounds out, the thunder, the water, the screams and pleas of the girl.

  Colette Sanders. That was her name. Daughter of Michael Sanders, foreman of the sawmill. She was a lovely thing. Auburn-haired, as Agathe had once been, with a high bosom and a strong face. Her ribs stuck out a bit much. She was hungry, poor thing. She hadn’t eaten in ages. Agathe had starved her. Bled her as well, almost to the point of death. Only when the spirit of the victim is broken or drained can their body be a proper receptacle—not merely a machine of borrowed flesh, but truly a home for another’s soul, a vessel to speak through and dance with and possess forever, even in daylight.

  Agathe’s spotted hands clenched. She forced them to relax and crossed them over her chest. She pictured the girl’s body in her mind. Not as it was now. As it would be when well-fed again. Curvy and soft, dimpled and delicate. She wanted that body… She would have it….

  She whispered incantations and her spirit rose.

  The pain came, as if Agathe were flayed of skin, ripped apart, broken open so that some magic power could reach inside, grab her soul with a bloody fist, and tear it out of her. But the spell succeeded. Agathe was a tiny light now. Feral red, hovering in the air above her own body.

  She felt tempted to let go of all flesh, to surrender her hated life and go to her grave. But her Horseman needed her. Her Horseman loved her, and she would have her satisfaction. Her kiss of perfect communion.

  She focused her will, thrust herself into Colette’s lithe body, and drove the girl out. She flexed Colette’s fingers and opened Colette’s blue eyes. Oh, the pain of hunger, sudden and fierce. And, oh, the festering skin beneath the shackles. So raw and uncomfortable. But these pains were nothing compared to the tortures that Agathe had suffered daily in her ancient body. Even with these discomforts, she felt miraculously healed, as if the hand of God had pressed her forehead and cured all ills.

  She concentrated, and moved the girl’s lips, whispering a spell.

  A ring of keys leapt from the altar and into her grasp.

  Good. Good.

  Her spiritual powers had traveled with her. Had her physical Gift survived the transfer as well? She raised a hand, but no flame appeared. No. Her fire Gift had remained behind with her old body. Pity. The flame had served her well, for the most part.

  She twisted the keys and descended, her feet raising a pleasant splash in the channel. She jumped up and down, giddily playing in the water, like a child in her first rain puddle. She chose a knife from her collection and approached the limp old figure in the rocking chair. The sight of her former body disgusted her. She never wanted to return to that carcass. She wanted this body, and intended to keep it. But… she’d have to sacrifice her old one, if she hoped to make the transfer permanent. That was a momentous decision, for there’s no going back once you’ve murdered yourself.

  Agathe circled the old relic, studying it with distaste. How strange to see the back of your own head, your own wh
ite hair in its tight bun. The body wore a black dress and cameo. Without Agathe’s soul inside, the mouth drooled open, exposing spotted, diseased gums.

  Do it, she thought, gripping the knife. Kill little Agathe Van Ripper at last. She does deserve it, you know. Kill this hated body. End this hated life.

  She dragged the knifepoint down the prominent ligaments of the left wrist. Not enough to bleed, just enough to scratch. There were burned patches on that arm, from those moments when guilt had turned her Gift against her. But in this new body, she would have no fire Gift. She would never have to fear guilt again. She would be free of her conscience at last. Another blessing to look forward to.

  She turned to the reliquary, left perched on the altar. She had bled her Horseman to beauty again. He was so handsome. Eternally handsome. She would be a necromancer, and soon. She would have him at last, and would experience other long-forgotten pleasures once the Horseman shared her bed. She’d decided to attach his head to the body of John Grey, a magnificent beast of a man. She’d been waiting for John to ripen since he was fourteen. Oh, her old body could never survive the passions they would experience. Yes. She had to make the transfer permanent. It was time. As long as her magic had traveled with her, she saw no reason to delay.

  “All for you, my Horseman.”

  She seized the bony arm and dragged the body from its rocking chair. It was so easy. Her arms were strong, and her elderly burden insubstantial and withered. She carried it to the channel and held it over the water. She raised the knife, wishing for her little oyster-shell blade from girlhood. She had lost that. A pity.

  One quick cut, and the deed would be done.

  She hesitated.

  Was she really sure?

  My old body might die any day. If I return to it, I might die with it. And my soul might never find another host as well prepared as the one I possess.

  She made her final decision. She prepared to pull the knife across the wattled neck and open the artery there, but… the baggy eyes opened and the wrinkled face filled with fear.