Band of Demons (The Sanheim Chronicles Book 2)

by Rob Blackwell

  Kieran could sense her obvious frustration at waiting so long—and that it was Sawyer who made all the decisions. He decided to play along.

  “Finally,” he said. “What the hell has he been waiting for? I thought maybe you were…”

  “Me, what?” Elyssa said. Her tone wasn’t hostile, but it soon would be.

  “I thought maybe you were holding him back,” Kieran said, and then added a false apology. “Sorry. I didn’t realize it was him.”

  Elyssa scowled. It made her normally beautiful face look old—although not as old as she really was.

  “Me?” she said. “I wanted to move the next night. It’s Sawyer who’s been waiting, planning.”

  “Why?” Kieran asked. “What is he waiting for?”

  “He’s concerned about her,” Elyssa said.

  “Her, who?”

  “The Headless Horseman’s consort,” Elyssa said.

  “He doesn’t even know who she is,” Kieran said.

  “That’s what’s bothering him.”

  “And we’ve waited all this time because of that?”

  “Yes,” Elyssa said.

  “I still don’t get it,” Kieran said. “We know nothing about her. Why is she a threat?”

  Elyssa paused. She wet her lips with her tongue and looked like she was about to say something she shouldn’t.

  “We sensed…”

  She stopped. Kieran was fearful of saying anything, worried the wrong move would make her clam up permanently.

  “That night, we got a sense of him easily enough,” Elyssa said. “He surprised us a bit by saving the girl, but between the books, movies and his appearance, we know how to handle the Headless Horseman. But her…”

  “She wasn’t even there,” Kieran said.

  “We sensed her, Kieran,” Elyssa said. “I sensed her. She was just a voice in the woman’s head, but…”

  Elyssa looked away.

  My God, Kieran thought. They’re scared this time. Genuinely scared.

  “But what?”

  “The voice had power,” Elyssa said. “That’s all we could tell.”

  “Of course it had power,” Kieran replied. “So do you.”

  “No, this was like nothing we’ve dealt with, including…”

  Kieran knew what she was going to say and suddenly felt angry. Why was he helping these people? Why was he even pretending to be on their side?

  “So your basic strategy was out,” Kieran interrupted, and though Elyssa didn’t appear to notice, his tone was dripping with acid. “The hit and run tactics you normally use…”

  “Yes,” Elyssa said. “Sawyer thinks… he thinks it would be better if we could find a different accommodation. At the very least, we need to know more about her first.”

  Kieran turned away. He didn’t want the hate, mingled with disgust, to show on his face.

  “Come on,” he said. “If Sawyer wants to see me…”

  They walked back into the manor house. Kieran watched as the dozen or so people they encountered parted for the passage of Elyssa. He hated the way the two cultivated the air of royalty. It didn’t have to be like that. It shouldn’t be.

  They arrived in the grand room, as Kieran had taken to thinking of it, to see Sawyer sitting in the chair at the front.

  “Ah,” he said as Kieran and Elyssa approached. “I hope Elyssa hasn’t spoiled my plan.”

  “No, she was just explaining why you’ve been sitting on your hands so long,” Kieran said. He noted the dirty look from Elyssa and the raised eyebrow from Sawyer.

  “Our encounter, while successful, gave me pause,” Sawyer said. “I’d like to try a different tactic. I know what his cennad is, but I’d like to finally uncover the person behind it.”

  “That’s not a new tactic, Sawyer,” Kieran said. “We’ve been trying that. For months.”

  Sawyer smiled and his blue eyes reflected his cunning and intelligence. He picked up a yellow piece of paper from the table next to him and handed it to Kieran. He looked at the flyer, an advertisement for a local festival a week from now, but didn’t understand. He looked back at Sawyer, who seemed inordinately pleased with himself.

  “It’s time we made a more public display,” Sawyer said and laughed.

  Kieran still didn’t get it, but he knew this: whatever was going to happen, he wouldn’t like it. Not one bit.

  “The Spider was the first of us to challenge Sanheim, but he failed.

  In the centuries since, there have been others. Those are the only Princes of Sanheim worth their title. The others should be consigned to fairy tales and never spoken of again. They are not worthy of their own power.

  The current Prince, Edward Roahen, is such a case.

  Don’t mistake me, Roahen is an intelligent, powerful man. Originally from Edinburgh, he now practically controls the Isle of Mull in the Inner Hebrides. He has defeated four Princes who came after him because his cennad, the Caoranach, is nearly unstoppable. In English, it is called a Dragon and it is a sight to behold. With red scales that reflect the moonlight and a jaw of sharp teeth that could swallow half of Big Ben, he could terrorize towns if he wanted to. Instead, he hides on an island, content to live in luxury.

  I’ve urged him to fight. Since I became the newest Prince in 1870, I knew he would come looking for me. So I found him first. He was surprised by my boldness. He is an amiable sort and has grown fond of me. I feel he is reluctant to challenge me, even though he thinks he will easily win.

  He lacks vision. I’ve told him of Sanheim, laid out our history in plain language, and he only laughs, sipping his wine and avoiding my eyes. He thinks I am mad.

  So it has come to this. I will defeat Roahen—of that there is no doubt—and take his place.

  And when I have called enough moidin to my side, I will do what no Prince has ever done: I will destroy Sanheim.

  The cycle will be broken and the Prince will finally be King.”

  —Robert Crowley, 1871

  Chapter 17

  October 13, 2007

  Quinn walked down Main Street and tried not to let his nervousness show. He moved through crowds of people who seemed blithely unaware of the danger. And why wouldn’t they be? As far as they were concerned, this was just another Waterford Homes and Craft Show, a three-day festival that showed off the Civil War-era town.

  It had been quiet for two weeks and though it was a cliché to think it, far too quiet for Quinn’s taste. The other Prince of Sanheim—whoever he was—was up to something. The question was what.

  What are they waiting for? Quinn thought.

  Kate and Quinn had endlessly debated the same frustrating questions. Which Prince of Sanheim, exactly, was after them? Why did some Princes of Sanheim just disappear instead of being defeated? How did Crowley know so much? And what happened to the man himself?

  Kate was also struggling with her encounter with the wraiths in the graveyard. What did it mean when they said, “she was the last?” The last of what? It was the same message Zora had left them, but though Quinn had pored over the Crowley book, there was no mention of that phrase anywhere. They had more pieces of the puzzle but no sense of how to put it together.

  By now, Quinn was convinced that their opponents were simply waiting for a time to strike. And he suspected the Waterford Fair was the place to do so.

  The fair attracted thousands of visitors to Loudoun County each year and proved popular with residents as well. It wasn’t the traditional county fair with games, rides and carnival barkers. Instead, it was a celebration of a historic town, one that looked much like it had 150 years ago.

  Waterford was small, boasting only a few streets, but what it had in abundance were old homes that had been carefully preserved to maintain their historic integrity, with a few nods to modernity. Present-day refrigerators and dishwashers were sometimes hidden away behind wood paneling that made a kitchen look like it was from the 19th century. Residents spent thousands, if not millions, of dollars in an effort to restore
the homes. The Waterford Fair was a chance for people to take a peek inside.

  Quinn wandered among the stalls of craftsmen selling their wares. There were painters, furniture makers, potters, even someone who placed tiny paper cut-outs inside glass ornaments. You could buy home-made soap, swords and—Quinn noted with approval—delicately carved wooden gourds with scary faces.

  As he walked around, Quinn saw musicians dressed in historic clothes preparing for an impromptu concert. A Civil War reenactment was starting shortly on a nearby field and he saw many people heading in that direction—families with little kids and elderly couples.

  Seeing all these people worried him.

  When he saw the crowds packed into these tiny streets, he didn’t see a historic arts and crafts fair—he saw the perfect target.

  They didn’t strike yesterday, Kate said in his head.

  It was a Friday, Quinn replied. Attendance at the fair is usually highest on Saturday.

  That depended somewhat on the weather, of course, but today was flawless. The sky was a deep blue without a single cloud. The temperature was just warm enough to be comfortable, but there was still a chill in the air that felt like fall. The pumpkins out on doorsteps were another reminder of the time of year. The trees hadn’t quite finished their transformations, but many showed streaks of bright color.

  Quinn passed a barber-shop quartet at the center of town. He was supposed to be covering the fair—a job for which he had volunteered at the weekly news meeting—but he was having a hard time doing so. He kept watching faces, scrutinizing each one for some trace of hostility or menace. Someone out there was going to pounce, he was sure of it. It was just a question of when.

  He was so intent on scrutinizing people that he didn’t see a fellow reporter until he bumped into her.

  “Quinn,” she said, and he stepped back to look at her.

  The smile with which he was about to greet a friend evaporated. Before him stood Summer, with an expression of utter annoyance.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, before Quinn could say anything.

  “Hey Summer,” he said.

  Of course she was here. The Waterford Fair was a big event on the social calendar of Loudoun County. Summer Mandaville, the Loudoun Extra’s top reporter, would be on the prowl.

  “That’s all you have to say to me?” she asked.

  “I didn’t know there was a minimum requirement,” he replied.

  “Well, an apology would be nice.”

  Quinn stared at her.

  “Uh, for what?” he replied.

  “Like you don’t know,” Summer said.

  “Actually, I really, really don’t.”

  “You’ve attacked my stories at every turn,” she responded and her voice grew to a louder and far more annoying pitch. Quinn supposed some people might find Summer attractive, but it was a total mystery to him why. She had a pleasant enough exterior, but her voice alone was enough to curdle milk.

  “You denied that Lord Halloween was still alive,” Summer continued. “You suggested the so-called Prince of Sanheim wasn’t really behind the murder of that banker. At each step, you’ve disputed everything I’ve written.”

  Quinn stood in astonishment.

  Oh, brother, Kate thought. It’s always about her, isn’t it?

  For a moment, Quinn was tempted to ignore Summer entirely and head up the street to join Kate at the top of the hill. She had been interviewing William Burns, a retired GM engineer who now made swords in his spare time.

  But he was stuck with Summer.

  “You think those stories were about you?” Quinn asked.

  He didn’t need a response. From the look on her face, the conclusion was obvious.

  “How can you claim they’re not?” she responded.

  There was a fair-sized crowd all along the street and Quinn noticed they were parting like a school of fish around the two of them, with many giving them amused glances.

  They probably think it’s a lover’s tiff, Kate thought.

  Quinn wanted to drive a steel spike through his head. Or, on second thought, through Summer’s.

  “This is going to be a hard concept for you to grasp, so you may want to steady yourself, Summer,” Quinn said. “Those stories were about the truth, not you.”

  “You specifically denied my Lord Hallo…”

  “Because he’s dead, Summer,” Quinn said. “We went through this already at the police station. Lord Halloween is dead. You were scaring people and, while we’re on the subject, attacking our story that said he was dead. You were wrong.”

  “You don’t know that,” Summer said. “Not unless you were the one who killed him.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Quinn started, before Kate’s voice broke through in his head. Watch it, she said.

  “… I do know that, because all of my reporting bore it out,” Quinn finished, thankful for the narrow miss. He was angry enough that he might have said something he would have regretted.

  “And your reporting is so much better than mine, is that it?” Summer asked.

  Quinn rolled his eyes.

  “You didn’t even question the police hard on the banker murder,” he responded, changing the subject slightly to avoid answering her question. “They said it was the Prince of Sanheim and you just accepted it.”

  Summer moved a step closer, mostly to avoid the crowds swirling around them.

  “And why wouldn’t I?” she said. “Why would they lie about something like that? The pattern all fit, Quinn.”

  Can you help me out here, please? Quinn thought to Kate.

  Already on my way, she responded.

  “Oh my God, seriously?” Quinn said. “This from the folks who couldn’t catch Lord Halloween for 12 years?”

  “I see. So you hate the Loudoun County police…”

  Quinn was so engaged in the conversation, he almost didn’t hear it. It was barely audible, but beyond Summer’s berating and the crowd’s noisy hum, he heard a sound that grew steadily more distinct—a horse was rapidly approaching.

  “Quinn, I’m talking to you,” Summer said.

  He’s coming, he thought.

  Almost there, Kate replied.

  It took a minute for Quinn to figure out where the sound was coming from. He looked toward the mill at the far end of Main Street. He could hear the horse getting steadily closer.

  It’s possible it’s reenactors, Kate thought.

  But Quinn didn’t believe that for a second. Whoever was riding that horse was coming far too fast. Quinn looked down the street and saw small kids and senior citizens. If he wanted to, whoever was on that horse could mow them all down. Quinn couldn’t see a horse yet, but he knew it was coming.

  “Quinn?” Summer asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Now she was looking down the street as well.

  Quinn started running down the street toward the noise, unaware that Summer was following in his wake. He pushed through the crowds and strained to get a look at what was coming.

  He heard a horse neigh loudly and then a strange sound he hadn’t expected—applause. Quinn jumped up on a small stone wall on the side of the street to get a better look.

  At the end of the street stood a horse and rider. The horse was black as night and pawed at the ground. The rider wore a black uniform that looked crisp instead of rotted, with a flowing red cloak that spread out behind him. As always, what was most notable was what was missing—the rider had no head. The Headless Horseman stood at the end of the road and drew his sword.

  That’s impossible, Quinn thought. I’m the Headless Horseman.

  In his anger and haste, Quinn didn’t see details that might have told him what was really happening. He didn’t notice that the horse—unlike his horse—didn’t have red eyes, and seemed to shy away from the crowd. He didn’t notice how clean the Horseman’s uniform was or that the cloak appeared brand new. Most importantly, he didn’t see that the Horseman was taller than he should have been.


  Quinn didn’t register any of that. Instead, he ran through the crowd in a blind rage, trying to get to the Horseman.

  People were gathered around the rider now, waiting for what they thought was a show to start. The horse reared up and the Horseman swung his sword high in the air. There was another burst of applause—and then the horse suddenly surged forward.

  People scrambled to get out of the way as the Horseman plunged down the middle of the street. He lowered his sword as if he meant to cut down the men and women in his path.

  That was when the screaming started. Quinn saw parents grabbing their kids to get them out of the way. He saw an old woman fall down as she struggled to move aside. The spectacle was rapidly gaining the attention of everyone nearby as people further down the road struggled to see what was happening and the ones nearby tried to flee.

  As the crowd quickly parted to give the Horseman a wide swath down the middle of the street, Quinn stopped running. Instead, he stood directly in the Horseman’s path, waiting for him to get closer.

  He wasn’t afraid—far from it. His days of being terrified of the Headless Horseman were long over. He was the Horseman now, which made whatever was riding down this street offensive to him.

  With the Horseman riding full tilt and his sword out, Quinn stood in the middle of the street. People were shouting at him now, many calling for him to get out of the way. Others seemed to be cheering him, as if he were a lone cowboy in a duel.

  Quinn, it’s not who you think—but the voice was cut off.

  Everything happened in a blur. Quinn wasn’t sure when the sword appeared in his hand. He knew where he obtained it though. It was the sword he carried every night as he rode around Loudoun County.

  As the horse bore down on him, Quinn easily stepped to the side at the last moment, held up his sword against the Horseman’s own outstretched weapon and braced himself.

  The rider was unprepared for the challenge. Maybe he had assumed Quinn would jump out of the way, but he apparently had not seen his challenger’s weapon. The clash of swords badly jarred the rider as he blew past, twisting him in his seat. For a moment, it looked like he would regain his balance, but instead the rider fell off into the street.