Page 38 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
So perhaps slaying a dullahan's Ceannaire could free him. But could it undo the kill order he was most recently given?
If I killed Anika Van Brunt, would I be saved? Or would Eamon still have to slay me—one final act before he was set free?
Tears flew past my cheeks as I smiled into the dark. Did it matter? I had already decided, years ago, that a mission of mine would be to free slaves, whenever and wherever I could. And if I died in the freeing of one enslaved soul, surely the sacrifice would be worthwhile. After all, I was a spoiled, selfish coquette, and Eamon was a trained physician, dedicated to helping the least fortunate. If only one of us could survive the night, it should be him. He was worth ten—no, twenty—of me.
But Anika—soft, dimpled, laughing Anika. Like a second mother to me. A friend, or so I had thought. Could I really kill her? End her, with my own hands? I looked down at them, thin white fingers twisted desperately into the rough locks of Elatha's mane.
It is a terrible sorrow, taking a life.
Anika Van Brunt had planned my father's murder. She intended to kill him after my wedding to Brom. She had killed others, appointed herself the executioner of every petty thief or suspicious vagrant who entered Sleepy Hollow.
Maybe her first kill had been justified, but not the others. Not the past murders, the ones she had commanded Eamon to commit, and not the future killings she would force him into. Sweet, noble, compassionate Eamon, stricken and spelled into whacking off the heads of any human Anika deemed unworthy.
I could not allow it to stand.
For him, I would do this terrible thing. I would carry the guilt and the sorrow. I had killed one innocent man by accident; I could kill a guilty woman with clear intent.
A sharp yell sounded from the forest, and I jumped so hard I nearly tumbled from Elatha's back. I righted myself, but something swept past my head, and I screamed. Not a fiery skull—this thing was dark and feathered. An owl, most likely. Elatha, bless him, was used to screams and shocks—he did not falter, or toss me off.
We struck a road then—a road that I knew. The road that led over the Old Church Bridge.
From here, I could direct Elatha to Brom's house. I guided him to the right, away from my house and toward the Van Brunts' farm. Elatha slowed, cantering along, and I let him set the pace while I fretted.
Brom would likely not be at home this evening. After the day's work, he often went out carousing with his companions, to play pranks or cards, or to drink at the ramshackle building that doubled as inn and pub together. Sometimes they rode to another village, to see new faces and bosoms, and to try new ales.
I prayed to God that Brom would be away. If he was in the house, I would have no chance to—to kill—I could scarcely even think the words.
Never mind the prayers. Why would God have an interest in helping me commit a murder? Even if I was doing it to free a man, and to possibly avoid more murders—even then I could not expect divine blessing on the act.
Even if Brom were not at the farm, I would have difficulty with Anika. She knew that I knew about Eamon, or she would not have made me his next target. If I confronted her, there was every chance she would try to kill me herself, or hold me captive until the Horseman arrived to finish me off.
When we came to the lane leading to Brom's house, I slid off Elatha's back and left him in the shadow of a tree before slipping through the gate. Brom's dog Wodan—a savage, nearly feral beast that would bite off the hand of anyone who tried to pet him—streaked across the grass toward me, straight as an arrow. He never barked, which made him all the more deadly.
The first time I met Wodan, he had nearly launched himself at my throat. Brom had stopped him with an outthrust arm to the beast's chest. Then Brom stroked my hands and patted my arms until the dog realized I was a friend, not a threat. As the final step in our introduction, Brom had given me a chunk of raw meat to feed to the dog.
Since then, Wodan had never threatened me, as long as I let him approach and sniff me before I proceeded to the house—and as long as I made no attempt to touch him.
Wodan stopped just short of me and put his nose to the ground, running it along until it touched my foot. He growled deep in his throat and took a long time sniffing me over, probably because I carried the scent of the Horseman and his steed.
"I do not have time for this, you abominable brute," I said in my sweetest, softest tones. "It's Katrina, Wodan. You know me."
Finally the dog sneezed once and trotted away along the fence. Inhaling deeply to fortify myself, I walked toward the Van Brunt's farmhouse.
I had known this house all my life. It was perhaps half the size of ours, in decent repair, although Brom sometimes neglected its upkeep in favor of his own pursuits. I knew that the front steps creaked and the back door squeaked, that Anika Van Brunt's room was at the top of the stairs, but that she was likely to be in the parlor at this hour, sewing and humming to herself, or reading and stroking the cat, who was as fluffy as a pillow and not much of a mouser. The thought of Anika sewing and plotting death, and smiling over her cat while others fled through the woods in terror of the Horseman—it spurred another surge of bile in my stomach. For a moment I thought I would be sick; but I breathed again, drawing in cold night air through my nose, and the urge receded.
I chose the front door as my place of entry, avoiding the steps entirely by hauling myself straight up to the porch. It wrenched my back to do it, but my stitches appeared to hold.
If Brom was not at home, the front door would be unlatched to admit him when he returned. He did not like to go in by the back if he could help it. As the master of the house, he thought a rear entrance was too good for him.
Gently I tried the door, and it opened easily.
So Brom was out for the evening. I allowed myself a small sigh of relief as I stepped inside and eased the door shut behind me.
The front room lay empty, dark, and silent, like a tomb awaiting bodies to fill it. The Van Brunts had a couple of laborers who lived at the back of the property, but they would not return to the main house tonight. Anika and I would not be interrupted.
As quietly as I could, I slipped off my shoes and padded on bare feet toward the parlor. A slash of flickering golden light shone from that doorway, splitting the indigo darkness of the front room. A rhythmic creak and the faint crackle of a low fire sifted into the dark as well—sounds that should mean comfort, and peace, and safety. Instead they sounded like death omens, and set my heart thrumming faster.
Softly, softly I crept closer, careful to avoid the squeaky places in the floor. Brom and I used to make a game of sneaking up on our mothers while they were tête-à-tête in the parlor, gossiping over tea and needlework. Strange that such a game could mean life or death to me now.
