Page 40 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
He lifted the scythe. Swept it outward in an arc.
And then he paused, his arm shaking.
His skull whisked near me, its heat singeing my lashes and brows. "Katrina..." The voice from those jaws was stone and agony, chains and wretchedness.
Then—a sharp whirr through the air as the skull was sucked backward, away from me. Back toward him.
No pain seared the tender skin of my neck. No slicing blade cleaved my head from my body.
The Horseman's skull settled between his shoulders with a faint crack of reconnected spine. The fire tightened around the facial bones, glowing, changing, metamorphosing into flesh and skin and black hair. The golden scythe dissolved, floating in glittering remnants up to his neck, where it reformed and locked in place—the collar, complete with its row of terrible runes.
The spell around me vanished. I could move again, and move I did, pushing Anika off me. Her body had released its contents—her skirts were soaked and reeking. She was truly dead.
And I was alive.
And Eamon was free.
7
Eamon stared at me, his lips trembling. "Katrina..."
I struggled to my feet. "She cannot hurt anyone else now. Eamon—forgive me—" I swayed, pitching forward. Eamon caught me and swung me up in his arms. "We have to go," he whispered. "No one can find us here."
"My shoes—I left them by the front door—"
"We will fetch them."
I did not remember much of the ride back to the cabin. When we reached it, Eamon checked my wound and told me that the stitches still held well enough, despite a little seepage of blood.
We spent the next day wrapped together and bundled in blankets, moving only when our bodies needed food, or drink, or relief. It was a necessary cocoon of physical comfort, a recovery from the terror we had both endured.
We barely spoke throughout the long day.
At last, when evening came, I tucked my face into Eamon's shoulder and whispered to him, told him how I felt while he was chasing me, what I thought during the reckless ride to the Van Brunt's farm, how I had found Anika, how certain I was that I would die before I managed to free him. How I wasn't sure that her death would allow him to spare me.
"I fought it, Katrina, with everything I had." His voice was raw, agonized. "The power of the collar—the compulsion I labor under in that form—I couldn't resist it, not for long. I'm sorry."
"I know." I kissed him. "Eamon, I want to know if you think differently of me, now that I've killed someone—not from any compulsion, but of my own free will. I did it for you—for myself—for Anika's future victims—but still, I took a life. Can you ever look at me the same way?"
In answer he kissed me soundly, then stroked my hair, letting its golden strands slide through his fingers. "You are the fiercest friend I have ever had. I love you, and nothing you have done or will do can ever change that."
Something unlocked inside me then. Every love in my life had been conditional—dependent on my behavior, my eligibility, my wealth, my position, my pious attitude, my beauty, my performance as a daughter.
Eamon had seen me wounded, wretched, dirty, disheveled, irreverent, murderous—and still he loved me.
I pushed myself up on my elbow in the bed. "That does it. I am going to marry you."
"What?" He half-smiled. "Are you joking?"
"Not at all."
"But—I have nothing. I am not the man your parents would want for you."
"I have plenty for both of us. And you have your training as a physician. Dr. Burton is getting old and rheumatic—you will have no lack of patients, if you want them."
"But will those patients wantme, when they find out that I treat everyone, no matter the color of their skin?"
"If they do not want your excellent services, they can go die in a ditch," I snapped.
