“It’s so—so disorderly here, Father,” Jeremy said in a disapproving tone.
Crane smiled. “Perhaps, but that is the nature of a port.”
“I’m glad we don’t live here in town. And even gladder to be going to Oxford!”
Now Crane’s smile dimmed somewhat. But still, he could not deny his son this opportunity.
The last seventeen years had been kind to him and his family. With the colonists’ victory in 1783 came an affirmation of the independence they had declared seven years previous to that. In 1788, General Washington was elected to the office of the presidency of the newly United States, and he won reelection in 1792.
It was the 1796 election that truly showed the world that a new age was upon them. President Washington chose not to run for a third term and his vice president, John Adams, was elected. On the fourth of March in 1797, Washington did something that rocked the world to its foundations: he willingly turned over the reins of power to another. Changes in power were supposed to happen via illness, death, or violent change, yet here was Adams bloodlessly seizing power from Washington.
Now, at the turn of the new century, Crane had received a letter from his father.
In truth, he didn’t receive it as such. Father had disowned Crane when he switched sides and took up the cause of the colonists against King George twenty-five years ago, and the last letter he’d received from his father was the one declaring that very fact.
The letter that had arrived at the Crane residence three months ago, however, was addressed to Jeremy and assured him that his rightful place at Oxford University was secured, should he wish to pursue it, as was his legacy.
Apparently, Father’s disdain only lasted a generation. Crane would have preferred to have a father who understood why his son made the choices he did, but alas, it was not to be. At the very least, he did not pass on his hatred to Jeremy, or his two daughters, who were innocent of the disagreement between their father and grandfather.
In due course, the sailing ship was secured, and its passengers filed off the vessel one by one. Father was, perhaps not surprisingly, one of the last to do so, as he was walking very slowly and with a cane.
However, he limped his way down the gangplank and walked up to Jeremy, not even giving his son a first glance, much less a second one.
“You must be Jeremy.”
“Indeed I am, sir.” Jeremy reached out his hand. “It is a great pleasure to finally meet you, Grandfather. I’m eager to begin my studies.”
Returning the handshake, Father said, “I’m glad to hear that. I believe that you will enjoy England. It is a civilized nation.”
Several tart responses ran through Crane’s head, and he cast all of them out. He did not wish his first conversation with his father in more than twenty-five years to be an argument.
Instead, he went with a platitude. “You look well, Father.”
“I look nothing of the sort,” Father snapped. “The voyage here was miserable, exacerbating my already poor health. However, I thought it important to risk the journey in any event, as the Crane legacy must live on.”
“Ichabod!”
Crane was spared having to find a polite way to respond to his father’s comment by the sound of his wife. She was coming through the crowd, their two daughters on either side of her, holding a hand.
When she joined the trio, she smiled. “You must be my father-in-law. I am Katrina Crane.” She bowed her head, the bonnet covering her hair that, like Ichabod’s, was mostly gray these days. “And these are your granddaughters.”
Both girls stepped forward and curtsied properly. “Hello, Grandfather,” the oldest said, and the youngest followed with a muttered “Hello.”
For the first time, Father’s face brightened from the sour expression he’d had from the moment he came out onto the deck of the boat. “You’re both very polite little girls. I imagine that comes from the good teachings of your mother.”
Crane winced.
“Actually,” Katrina said with a mischievous smile, “any politeness you detect from our offspring comes entirely from Ichabod. You will find, sir, that I am a most intemperate woman.”
“I doubt that very much.” Father’s words were solicitous of Katrina, but Crane inferred the insult.
“Father, I do wish—”
“You wish what, exactly, Ichabod?” Father snapped, turning at last to look at his son. “You committed treason, against the king, against our country, against me. And for this treason you have been amply rewarded. The side you chose was victorious. You have a beautiful wife, three lovely children, and an estate in Sleepy Hollow. With all that you have, of what possible use to you is my approval?”
Taken aback, Crane found he could say nothing in response to that.
“Now then,” Father said, turning back to Katrina and their daughters, “I assume you have booked passage to that aforementioned estate? I wish to sleep on a floor that does not buck and weave.”
“Of course,” Katrina said. “Come, Abigail, come, Jennifer.”
Crane suddenly lost his footing on the deck. Once again, Jeremy was there to rescue him.
Why did they name their daughters Abigail and Jennifer?
Then he realized that he chose those names because he knew them. Those names were critically important to him in another century. When he died during the war.
But he didn’t die, he fought for the whole duration until they achieved victory, and then he and Katrina settled in Sleepy Hollow. He remembered this—yet he also remembered being on the battlefield—
—the masked Hessian faces him, broad axe in hand, rising after Crane shot him. It makes no sense to him, though it is hardly the first nonsensical thing he has encountered these past months. The Hessian isn’t even bleeding.
He swings his axe, slicing through Crane’s chest. The pain is agonizing, a line of fire burning through his ribs, and Crane knows he has only moments to act. In a last desperate move before death, he cuts the Hessian’s head off. Then he falls to the ground, the blood pouring out of him, intermingling with that of the Hessian as he—
—stumbled again. “This isn’t real,” he muttered.
“What isn’t real, Ichabod?” Katrina asked.
“All of this. I didn’t survive the war—yet I lived far beyond it. I was killed, yet I did not die. I slept through Anno Domini 1800, and all the years to follow until I was awakened in the twenty-first century—in which I fight alongside two women named Abigail and Jennifer!”
And then he screamed.…
EIGHTEEN
BRONX, NEW YORK
JANUARY 2014
“IT AIN’T WORKING!”
That was the last thing Beth wanted to hear Frieda say as she smeared the blood of Al Whitcombe-Sears on the six Independence Crosses. “What’s wrong?”
“They’re pushin’ back, seein’ through the illusion’a their heart’s desires.”
Beth looked up and around the living room. Frank, that lieutenant of his, and some other woman she didn’t know were standing at the three entrances to the living room. Each was staring straight ahead, mouths hanging open, arms at their sides.
“All three of them?” Beth asked.
“No, four,” Frieda said. “There’s another one outside.”
“Was wondering where Witness number two was. Why isn’t it working? Is it the Agrippa talisman?”
Frieda shook her head. “I ain’t sensing the talisman on the one outside. Look, Beth, I told you, I’m rusty—I ain’t cast nothin’ in months!”
Suddenly, Frank, Mills, and the other woman all screamed at the same time and collapsed to the floor. The screams startled Beth as she knelt down by the fifth cross that she had to smear blood on.
Shrugging, Beth said, “That’s fine, I’ll take it.” She smeared blood on the last two crosses, then stood at the center of the sigil she’d drawn on the hardwood. “Keep an eye on them while I cast the spell.”
“What the hell do I do if they move?�
� Frieda asked, but Beth ignored her.
Closing her eyes, she started slowly speaking the words she’d been practicing since October, the words she’d been champing at the bit to cast, just waiting for this eighth half-moon to arrive.
She felt the power of the magic infusing her. Intellectually, she knew that the phases of the moon probably had an effect on the earth’s magnetic field and that was what made it possible to cast a particular spell at a particular time.
Ultimately, though, the reasons didn’t matter. She just knew it would work.
The words poured out of her mouth, and she could feel the forces swirling about. Everything went away, her living room, Frieda, the three intruders, the house, the neighborhood—there was nothing but Beth, the sigil, the six crosses, the blood, and the magic.
And Serilda.
Beth could feel the mistress, teasing at the edge of her consciousness. Her presence was weak at first, but as she continued to speak the spell, it grew stronger.
At last! After so many centuries of unrest, I may at last return to my rightful place!
Smiling, Beth continued to recite the spell. Serilda’s presence was like a warm flannel blanket wrapping around her on a cold winter night.
Already Beth’s imagination was running wild with all the things they could accomplish once the mistress was back on the mortal plane.
You have done well, my servant. Rest assured, you will have a place of honor by my side as we remake the world as Abaddon would wish it.
Beth was now halfway through the spell and she wasn’t even consciously speaking the words, they seemed to just come from her mouth unbidden.
Noooooooooooooooo!
Without warning, the flannel blanket was ripped away, leaving Beth cold and confused. Serilda’s presence was suddenly fading and less substantial. Beth had to force herself to continue to speak the words of the spell.
And then she felt another presence alongside Serilda. A tall man with a beard wearing a long coat and a poofy shirt.
Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to keep reciting the spell.
ONCE CRANE SAW through the delusion of his suddenly being a middle-aged man in fin de siècle New York having something resembling a reconciliation with his father, he collapsed to the hard surface of the road.
Struggling to his feet, he cried out in pain, as he rather idiotically used his left hand to brace himself. The self-inflicted cut was still raw and coated in blood.
Shaking it off, Crane steadied himself, cupped the bloodstained Congressional Cross in both hands, and once again began to recite the words of the counterspell.
As he spoke the words, he felt the same chilling winds that accompanied Serilda’s presence beneath the armory months ago.
You again! Will I never be free of you, husband of the hated witch?
Crane smiled, but continued to recite the spell. It was Katrina and the rest of her coven who bound Serilda’s power, allowing her to be burned at the stake, back in the eighteenth century. And it was Crane, along with Lieutenant Mills, who used old gunpowder to destroy her bones, denying her attempt at resurrection the previous autumn.
I will not allow this! Serilda’s words were weaker this time.
Again Crane said nothing save for the words of the spell. He felt the power coursing through the bloodstained silver of the cross, forcing away the chill cold of Serilda’s presence.
When he at last reached the final words of the spell, he cried out, “You will not win this day, Serilda! No matter how murderous your followers, no matter how cruel their attacks, they will not stop us!”
You may be victorious this day, but your woman remains trapped, and she shall stay there evermore!
“Perhaps she shall. But you will not be able to gloat about it any longer.”
The Nugent house burst into a mighty glow that temporarily blinded Crane. Raising his hands to shield his eyes, he still saw the glow even with his eyes shut and his arms in the way.
And then the glow faded, and with it, all of Crane’s energy. His arms suddenly felt as if they weighed half a ton, he no longer had the capacity to support his own weight, and he once again fell to the ground, struggling mightily to keep his eyes open.
SHAKING HER HEAD, Abbie tried to figure out how she wound up lying on a hardwood floor when she was just in her cubicle.…
No, she was just at the Fox Hill Stables.…
No, she was here. Standing, facing Nugent as she was about to cast the spell to bring Serilda back when some other woman with scars on half her face walked in.
She was lying next to her Glock, and she gingerly touched it. It was still warm, but much cooler than before, so she grabbed it and then got to her feet.
Quickly, Abbie took stock of the situation. Nugent was lying in the center of the chalk drawing that was in the center of the room. She didn’t appear to be moving, and there didn’t seem to be any sign of Serilda, which led Abbie to think that Crane had done his part quite admirably.
Irving was still groggily lying on the floor, moaning a bit.
Jenny was on her feet and pointing her weapon right at the head of the scarred woman, who looked understandably apprehensive.
“What the hell did you do to me?” That was Jenny, sounding as pissed-off as Abbie had ever heard her. And that was against some mighty fierce competition, given that Jenny had spent most of the past decade being pissed-off.
The scarred woman was whimpering. “I’m sorry, please, don’t hurt me.”
“You really think ‘I’m sorry’ is gonna cut it, lady? Do you know what you did to me?”
“It was—it was just a harmless spell. Supposed t’let you live your heart’s desire. S’why it worked even with the talisman, ’cause it’s white magic, not black.”
“White magic?” Jenny cocked her pistol, and Abbie flinched.
“Jenny, don’t—”
“Shut up, Abbie, this doesn’t concern you.”
“Uhm, it kinda does. Leaving aside the fact that you’re, y’know, my sister, there’s the fact that you’re pointing a weapon at an unarmed woman. That’s the sort of thing I’m paid to stop from happening.”
“You don’t know what she did to me.” Jenny had yet to look away from the scarred woman’s face, and Abbie saw tears welling up in her eyes.
“I think I can guess. You were living the life you would’ve lived if we never saw those trees in the forest.”
Now, finally, Jenny turned to look at her. She whispered, “You, too?”
Abbie nodded.
She turned back and glared at the scarred woman. “Then you know why I need to shoot her.”
“I can’t let you do that, Jenny.”
“Neither can I.”
Abbie glanced behind her to see that Irving had also gotten to his feet. “You okay, Captain?”
“Aside from the herd of elephants running through my head, I’m just peachy. Mills, put the gun down.”
“You don’t understand!” Jenny cried. “The life she showed me—it was happy and fun and wonderful and I can’t ever have that!” She shook her head. “Everything I’ve been through since that damn night in the forest, and this bitch shows me what it should’ve been like! She has to die for that!”
“Nobody has to die, Jenny!” Abbie cried. “Yeah, what she showed us was great—that’s what heart’s desires are supposed to be. But that’s not how it works and you know that. We don’t get to play what-if. It was just a stupid magic trick trying to keep us from doing what’s right—just like every other stupid magic trick we’ve gone up against the last few months. But the whole point of this is that we’re the good guys, Jenny!”
At that, Jenny again turned to her sister. Abbie was slowly moving toward her younger sibling, and she saw the look of anguish on her tear-streaked face.
Now standing as close to Jenny as she dared, Abbie lowered her voice, belatedly realizing that Jenny would likely pay more attention if she wasn’t yelling. “A lot of people are dead because of what this little
coven did. We’re supposed to be against that. If we just shoot people because they pissed us off, then why the hell are we bothering to fight Moloch and Serilda and the Horsemen? ’Cause that’s the world they want. They want death and destruction and pointless suffering.”
Jenny looked back at the scarred woman. “But it’s not like you can arrest her.”
“I can do better’n ’at,” the woman said.
“Did anyone say you could talk?” Jenny snapped.
“Jenny!” Abbie then looked at the woman. “Do better than what?”
“I’ll testify against Beth. Don’t worry,” she added quickly, “I’ll leave all the magic out, but I heard her talkin’ ’bout killin’ those folks at the museums. Just please,” she said with a plaintive look at Jenny, “don’t kill me. I thought I could go back to this, I really did, but—” Suddenly, she let out a bitter laugh. “Look at me. Can’t even cry, thanks t’Moloch.”
Abbie’s eyes went wide. “Excuse me? What do you know about Moloch?”
She pointed to the left side of her face. “Who you think did this?”
Nodding, Abbie turned to her sister. “Okay, Jenny, c’mon. Put it down.”
“You really think that helps?”
“All right, let me put it another way. We’re in New York City. Out of Irving’s and my jurisdiction. We’re in an upscale neighborhood. Trust me, they find a body here, NYPD’ll move heaven and earth to find the killer, and Nugent can describe you. Or you wanna kill her, too?”
Abbie watched as Jenny’s face went through several different emotions: anger, resentment, confusion, sorrow.
Finally, she lowered her weapon and turned away.
The scarred woman was shaking now. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think—”
“It’s okay. We’ll take care of you. What’s your name?”
“I’m—I’m Frieda. Frieda Abernathy.”
“Okay, Frieda, we’re gonna have to call the local cops, have them hold you until we can get an arrest warrant. Then you can talk about your deal with the DA. All right?” Abbie refrained from mentioning the jurisdictional nightmare this case would be, as both Westchester County and New York County had claim to Nugent, and given that cops were killed in both counties, neither side would give an inch to the other. But that was a problem for prosecutors and judges to hash out.
Sleepy Hollow: Children of the Revolution Page 19