by Ranae Rose
“Are you sure?” Katrina asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m sure.” He pressed his mouth against hers, pulling her into a kiss very much like the one John and Katrina had shared in the kitchen. By the time it was over, John’s heart seemed in immediate danger of either bursting with the beauty of it or cracking in half from desire.
“I’m sorry,” Katrina said breathlessly when they pulled apart. “To both of you, if I’ve put a strain on your friendship. I know you’re very close.” She turned her gaze to John, whose heart had begun to race again when she’d mentioned his and Brom’s relationship. Did she suspect – did she know?
“You haven’t,” Brom assured her. “I understand that you and John are also close, and I know you both well – I’m sure neither of you meant to harm me.”
Katrina let her forehead drop against Brom’s chest and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I – I’m so relieved.” She stood that way for a little while, until Brom gently pried her away.
“You should never have come after us,” he said. “Come, we’ll take you home.”
She nodded, and Brom took her hand, preparing to lift her onto Torben’s back.
During the exchange, John had become lost in the matter at hand, totally absorbed in Katrina and Brom. The forest looming behind him and the fields stretching ahead had all but disappeared, as far as he’d been concerned, but he was called rudely back to awareness of his surroundings with one terrible sound.
It was a horse’s scream, clear and shrill, and it rent the night for several chilling moments, echoing through the darkness. Every hair on John’s body rose, causing his skin to crawl with a prickling sensation. He instinctively drew in the reins, stilling Gunpowder, who’d tensed upon hearing the sound.
“There!” John cried hoarsely, pointing to an empty field that sprawled across from the Van Tassel farmhouse – the same one he’d attempted to take his life in on the night of the harvest party. A horse and rider were just visible, black shapes against the edge of the forest. The shadows there were too heavy for it to be clear whether or not the rider was headless, but John’s gut roiled with a terrible, unexplainable certainty that they’d finally found the phantom rider.
“Keep her safe.” Brom’s voice cut through John’s shock, and a warm body pressed against his leg – Katrina’s. In the split second it took him to shift his gaze from the rider to her, Brom had mounted Torben. He thundered away, leaving John to slide from the saddle, gripping Gunpowder’s reins tightly as he landed next to Katrina. She seized one of his hands and squeezed so hard that John’s knuckles ground together. Brom thundered away on Torben, and John cursed him under his breath. It had never been the plan for either of them to pursue the horseman alone. But John could hardly abandon Katrina. He squeezed back, mindlessly whispering assurances as he fought down the desire to mount Gunpowder and gallop after Brom.
“He’ll be fine, I’m sure,” John said. All he was really sure of was that Brom had a pistol in his saddlebag and a knife on his person – both useless against a spirit.
Katrina turned her wide, gloriously blue eyes upon John. “Should we ride after him?”
John almost laughed. “Brom would kill me if I brought you on the chase.” He glanced toward the Van Tassel farmhouse. “I’ll see you safely home, and go after him myself.”
Her hand tightened around his, and a glimmer of some unidentifiable emotion shone in her eyes.
“Here.” He pulled his hand from hers with some difficulty and clasped it with his other one, cupping them to form a step for her.
She put one hand on his shoulder and the other on the saddle as she placed her foot in his palm and climbed onto Gunpowder’s back. The horseman’s appearance and Brom’s departure had left John too wracked with worry to enjoy the sight of her calves flashing from beneath her raised petticoats. He climbed into the saddle in front of her, and alarm seized him as he peered ahead.
Brom had turned around and was riding toward them, but the other horseman was in the lead, and gaining with every step. His steed practically flew, racing so quickly toward them that John barely had time to twist in the saddle and loop an arm around Katrina’s waist, pulling her close and holding her tight as Gunpowder began to dance, plunging and rearing as the other horse and its rider charged at them.
The percussive sound of rapid hoofbeats rang in John’s ears, and Katrina gasped, her breath rushing against his neck as he held her too tight, forcing the air from her lungs. He had to in order to keep ahold of her, to prevent her from falling to the ground and being trampled underfoot as Gunpowder pranced and bucked, snorting in fear. Katrina’s breath still smelled faintly of the glaze she’d put on her batch of buns that afternoon, and the sweet aroma seemed absurdly out of place as it became apparent that the rider in the lead was, in fact, headless.
“Hold on!” John shouted as Gunpowder took the bit between his teeth and leapt violently, attempting to feint to the right, out of the headless horseman’s way. Katrina tightened her grip around John’s waist, clinging to him like an overly-tight belt as the horseman came closer, closer and closer… John squeezed the saddle with his knees and thighs, bracing himself for the impact of Gunpowder’s hooves hitting solid earth again. One of his feet had slid out of the stirrup, and his knees were slipping; it would be all he could do to keep Katrina from falling off the horse.
The jarring impact never came. Instead, a cool mist touched John’s cheek, and as it enveloped him, time slowed impossibly. The headless horseman was upon them, so close beside them that his knee bumped John’s and his horse’s flank brushed Gunpowder’s. At the speed he was riding, he should have breezed past John, Katrina and Gunpowder in an instant. But he didn’t.
The cloud of fog he traveled in swirled around them all, and seemed to freeze time itself. John gaped in wonder as the black horse’s nostrils flared, showing pink, as slowly as a flower bud blossomed. Only one of its hooves touched the ground; the rest were suspended. That fact wasn’t very incredible, considering that Gunpowder was frozen in mid-leap, his descent back toward the earth so slow that John couldn’t possibly hope to escape the horseman.
He couldn’t help but stare at the rider, at the place where his head should have been. There was only a set of broad shoulders, cloaked in dark clothing, and a terrible empty space. Despite the fact that the phantom was headless, John could feel its stare, intense and penetrating, petrifying him in the saddle. Though he was technically staring at nothing, he might as well have locked eyes with the horseman – with death. With speed that defied the situation, the headless rider raised a black-gloved hand, reaching for John.
With one arm wrapped tightly around Katrina and his other hand clutching the reins, John was powerless to stop it. It closed around his throat, and a sudden chill enveloped him, cold as death. He shuddered as his breath escaped him in an involuntary gasp, and when he tried to draw air again, he couldn’t. The hand tightened, and he felt his neck begin to twist as the rider continued forward, ever so slowly, his hand wrapped like a steel trap around John’s throat. Either his bones would snap, or he would die of suffocation first – or maybe even from cold. It was too bad that the horses were moving so slowly; if time had been moving at a regular pace, John’s neck probably would have been broken in the blink of an eye. As it was, he would have to suffer.
All sound faded to nothing, save for the inescapable pounding of the black horse’s hooves. The horseman’s eyeless stare held him immobile as bleak certainty of impending death seized him, and surprisingly, there was no time to fear his imminent end. When something burnt red-hot against his chest like an iron poker, he had the sudden thought that it might be his first taste of the flames of Hell.
The horseman drew back his hand suddenly, retracting it even more quickly than he’d extended it. John felt the vertebrae in his neck come back from the brink of shattering. He drew his first ragged breath, only to have it knocked out of him as his back slammed against something hard – the ground. Ga
sping, he tried again, but his lungs felt shrunken and bruised, and a great weight fell on top of him, forcing what little air he’d been able to take in out again. The earth shook beneath him, ringing with the pounding of hooves. Fog swirled above, so thick it was blinding. What had happened? How had he ended up on the ground when the last thing he remembered was gripping the saddle between his knees, his every effort concentrated on preventing Katrina from falling?
“Katrina! John!” Brom’s voice cut through the gloom, and time seemed to resume its normal pace. However it had happened, John had fallen from the horse. Fear lanced through his heart, as sharp as a blade – had Katrina been harmed?
“Damn it! Are you all right?” Brom had found them; his boots scraped against the earth at John’s left side. “Are either of you hurt?”
Something gold flashed in the corner of John’s eye – hair. Katrina’s hair, to be exact. She had fallen on top of him, and lay with her cheek on his collarbone, her bosom heaving against his belly. John hadn’t decided whether he should feel relieved or not by the time Brom’s voice rang out from just above him and a pair of thoroughly human, gloveless hands reached through the mist and lifted Katrina off of him, leaving him finally able to breathe.
Blackness ebbed and flowed at the corners of John’s vision, lapping like waves, threatening to wash over him. Familiar voices whirled through the chilling fog the horseman had left behind.
“Are you all right?” Brom asked, sounding uncharacteristically shaken.
Sounds of rustling came from nearby – an embrace, perhaps, and hands traveling over another’s body, eager to find it whole and unharmed.
“I’m fine,” Katrina said, her voice reassuringly steady. “A little bruised perhaps, but fine. John took the brunt of the fall.”
The same set of hands descended again, gripping John’s shoulders. As he was lifted, his arms hung at his sides like those of a ragdoll. Miraculously, he was able to stand with Brom’s support. He leaned on the other man and they stood at the edge of the rapidly-evaporating fog. There was no sign of the headless horseman – or Gunpowder, for that matter. “Where’s Gunpowder?” John asked, his voice hoarse. Perhaps it was stupid that he asked about the senseless horse first, but he hadn’t managed to figure out how to put what had just happened into words yet.
“Halfway back to his stall by now, no doubt,” Brom said, tightening the arm he’d slung around John for support and squeezing his shoulder. “Don’t fret over it; he’ll find his way home.”
John nodded as memories of the past few moments – had they only been moments? – whirled through his mind, baffling him with their sheer impossibility. Yes, he’d always been a firm believer in the supernatural, but to be touched, choked and nearly killed by a specter… “Katrina, tell me you weren’t hurt. And tell me I’m not mad.”
She laid a hand on his arm, and it was wonderfully warm. “I’m fine. And you’re not mad, John. I hope that means I’m not, either.”
He laughed, his lungs painfully protesting every second of it. “And you, Brom? Have you been convinced that what we’re dealing with is no mere prankster?”
The muscles in Brom’s arm tensed. “Unfortunately. Christ, John – are you really all right?” He pulled John a little closer – something that hadn’t seemed possible a moment ago.
John ached from head to toe, but he could stand, and no part of him seemed to be severely damaged. He hadn’t expected to be so fortunate. “Yes, I’m all right.”
“Can you walk, then, or shall I lead you on Torben? We must see Katrina inside as soon as possible.”
“I can walk,” John assured him hastily, noticing the way Katrina was watching them – intensely, with a hint of curiosity evident on her face. He slid out from under Brom’s arm and stood on his own. The Van Tassel farmhouse was far too close to bear being led on horseback like a child while Katrina and Brom went on foot.
He did walk, a little wobbly-kneed, but he was sure that none of his bones had been broken, and that was enough. Pressing a hand to the back of his neck and rubbing it as a shiver raced down his spine, he sent up a quick prayer of thanks.
“I’ve been gone far longer than I intended,” Katrina said, clinging to Brom’s arm. “Whatever shall I tell my father if he’s awake?”
“That you were walking in your sleep,” Brom said firmly. “John and I – well, we found you that way several nights ago, while we were on our patrol, and escorted you back inside, into your father’s keeping.”
Katrina halted in her tracks, her skirts swirling around her ankles. “I – I thought that was a dream.”
“It wasn’t.”
They walked in moonlit silence for several moments. “You needn’t see me inside,” Katrina said when they reached the farmhouse’s front door. “I’ll be fine on my own from here, and I don’t wish to wake father.”
“Wave a white kerchief from your bedroom window when you make it safely there,” John suggested.
She nodded, and threw her arms suddenly around his neck. “I’m so glad you’re safe, John.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek, and ended the embrace. “You too, Brom.” She wrapped her arms around him and tenderly kissed his jaw. “Promise me you’ll both go straight to Brom’s home,” she said, fixing them both with an imploring gaze, “and not venture outdoors again until after sunrise.”
“You have my word,” Brom said, stroking her cheek and bidding her goodnight.
A few moments later, she appeared at her bedroom window, waving the promised white kerchief.
“Don’t you think the Jansens will worry?” John asked as they approached Torben, who Brom had tethered to a tree in front of the house.
“Feel free to go straight to them in the morning,” Brom replied, “but you’ll not be leaving my sight tonight. After all, we promised Katrina.”
The forest loomed dark and sinister in the corner of John’s vision, and despite his worries over what the Jansens would think, he couldn’t have been gladder of the promise Katrina had extracted from Brom. Brom probably would have demanded that John stay with him anyway, but at least Katrina’s insistence took the edge off of John’s guilty feelings and eased the constant presence of his fear of discovery just a little. Of course, Katrina might already know… He tried his best not to think of it as he and Brom rode double on Torben, who bore the burden much better than Gunpowder had. In no time at all they’d arrived at Brom’s home, and Brom made quick work of rubbing down and stalling his horse.
Inside, the fire had gone out, leaving the large fireplace’s hearth and the indoor air as cold as the outdoors. Brom struggled with a flint for a quarter of an hour before finally managing to start a fresh fire, kindling it from sparks into a steady flame and feeding it a split log. “It will take a while for the house to heat,” Brom said, “but we can keep each other warm until then.” He cast a meaningful glance down the hall, toward his bedroom.
John followed him gladly there, craving the heat of Brom’s body. His encounter with the horseman had left him dreadfully cold; he could still feel the chill of the specter’s touch deep in his bones. Had Katrina felt it too? The idea that she might be lying in bed alone, hopelessly cold beneath the blankets, made John frown.
“Christ, you’re cold as ice,” Brom said when they sank onto the mattress and he touched John’s hand.
“A few moments of the horseman’s touch felt like an entire night spent in a snowstorm,” John said. “I feel as if I may never be warm again.”
“We’ll see about that.” Brom stripped away his own clothes, tossing them aside. He showed no sign of discomfort, though the weak moonlight that filtered in through the window revealed that his nipples had shrunken to tiny pinpoints.
John didn’t object when Brom set to work on undoing the buttons of his waistcoat and then divested him of his other garments – he could hardly get any colder. The air seemed to be approximately the same temperature as the blood running in his veins, and thusly his body gave off no heat for his clothing to retain.
“They say God created Adam from the soil of the earth, but you might have been carved from ice,” Brom said, running a thumb over John’s cheekbone as if marveling at his frigidness.
Brom lowered his hand, letting his fingers trail over John’s chest. “What’s this?”
“Oh. I’d almost forgotten about that. Joshua made it for me when you and I first decided to patrol the road in search of the headless horseman – it’s for protection against evil, he claims.”
Brom held the tiny wooden cross gingerly betwixt two fingers, an odd expression on his face. With his other hand, he touched the spot on John’s chest where the crucifix had lain. “You’ve been burnt.”
CHAPTER 7
“What?” John dropped his chin, peering down at where Brom’s thick finger rested, directly over his breastbone. “Well, I’ll be…” His chest was marked with a pink patch the exact shape and size of the cross, and it did indeed look like a burn.
“Does it hurt?” Brom asked, dragging the pad of his thumb over the irritated skin.
“Stings a bit, but it doesn’t seem to be anything serious. Only…”
“What?”
“When the horseman gripped my neck, I was sure he was going to break it, and that I would die. At the last moment, just when my bones were about to snap, I felt something burn hot against my chest, and he let go. I didn’t know what it was.” John plucked the crucifix from Brom’s hand and held it aloft, scrutinizing the crude object. Neither the wood nor the horsehair bindings were scorched. “By God, I think it worked.”