Page 24 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
"Yes, my mistress."
Anika released a musical ripple of laughter. "You do know how to appease me, Eamon. Calling me 'mistress'—such a delight. Come, give me a kiss."
Silence followed, while I ground my teeth into my knuckle.
"Come now." Anika's voice shifted into a new key, cold and slippery as an eel in dark water. "Because of your reluctance to obey, it shall be a pair of kisses. Be grateful that I am a godly woman and I value my virtue—otherwise I might require more of you, Eamon my darling."
A soft rustle of movement followed, and then a slight smacking repeated once, and again. A low hum of satisfaction passed from Anika. Acid seeped into the back of my throat and I bit my knuckle harder.
Footsteps exited the room, and then hoofbeats drummed away.
I stayed under the bed until the Horseman's heavy footfalls returned and halted near me.
"Katrina," he said.
Tears clouded my eyes and bile threatened to lurch from my stomach. My fingers, my arms, my whole body was shaking.
"She is gone, Katrina. I—I am so sorry. Will you come out?"
"No." My voice was a broken squeak.
"I suppose I can tell you everything now."
"I don't know if I can bear it."
"She was not always this hard of heart. Or maybe she was, and she fooled me, as she fooled you and your family." With a slow thump and a scrape of boots, the Horseman sits down on the floor beside the bed. His words are sluggish, as if every sentence is being hauled unwilling from his mouth. "The first person she had me kill was her husband, Cor Van Brunt. He beat her, you see, and he took her body roughly every night, without compassion or affection. She was justified in wanting him dead. He had begun to beat young Brom, too, and she would not stand for it. She needed a way to destroy him without being hung for his murder. And she had heard whispers about my bloodline, and the things we could do. It was only a matter of time before she discovered the truth."
"How did she hear whispers of your bloodline?"
"Her husband was married once before, to my father's sister. My aunt died in childbirth, along with her baby, Cor Van Brunt's firstborn. My father suspected that she confided the truth of her Fae nature to Cor, and he killed her and the baby out of sheer terror, but we could never prove it. And my mother insisted that we keep up appearances and retain the family connection for years after my aunt's death. It's likely Anika heard some hint about my family through Cor, perhaps when he was drunk and feeling confessional. Or perhaps she caught a rumor elsewhere. After all, my people lived quietly in this hollow long before the Dutch arrived to settle it."
"And your parents? Where are they now?"
"Being dullahan does not protect you from the plague. We heal a little better than humans, but we can sicken and die. In my parents' case it was smallpox. My father died first. My mother held out long enough to help me and my brother Rory pull through it, but then she collapsed, insensible with fever. She never woke again. I was ten, and Rory was twelve—we did not know what to do, or how to help her. We buried my parents together, not far from this cottage."
Sympathy cut through my heart, a knife-blade spreading the echo of his pain. Biting my lip, I scooted out from beneath the bed, moving slowly so as not to wrench my wound. The Horseman—Eamon—laid a hand on my head so I would not bump it against the bedframe as I slid free. When I was clear of the bed, I sat up stiffly and felt for his shoulder, rubbing it with my fingers. "I am so sorry."
"It is the reality of mortal life," he said dolefully. "Afterward, Rory and I went to live in a distant town with a family friend. We were free of any master at the time, and no one knew the myth of the dullahan in that busy place. We covered our golden bands with cravats or scarves. I became an apothecary's apprentice, and later a surgeon's assistant. My brother worked in a factory for a time, then finally decided to go West."
"That's when you came back here. To provide medical care for the slaves."
"Yes. I was nineteen, and full of righteous enthusiasm. And I suppose I felt a connection to this valley—something unfinished. But before I could begin my good work, Anika approached me with her sad tale of nightly rapes and daily beatings. I wanted to help her, and I knew that without a master, I was vulnerable—anyone could take control of me and use me as an assassin. So I let myself be bound to her, for our mutual benefit. 'Only one task,' she told me, 'and then you can do as you like.' But one task became two, and three, and more. She ordered me to spend my days up here, hidden away, except for the occasional trip to the market. But she did not say what I must do with my nights—so whenever I can, I visit the slaves throughout the valley and do what I can to help those who are sick or suffering."
I gasped, pulling away from him. "You are the Night Angel!"
"Thewhat?"
"One of my father's slaves told me of the Night Angel who visits their sick. I wasn't sure who it could be—but now I know. It's you."
"I—I did not know they gave me that name. It does not suit me at all."
"So you prefer your real name—Eamon."
An exasperated breath burst from him. "And there it is—all my secrets have been bared to you. Are you satisfied?"
"Not quite." And before he could stop me, I pushed the blindfold upward, off my head, and I tossed it aside.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was his face. Sparkling dark eyes, surprisingly soft, like a night sky flecked with stars. Heavy brows pulled together in rebuke, and short dark hair stuck up in unruly spikes above a broad forehead. He had a thin, straight nose, and skin tanned from hard labor under the sun. His mouth, shaped just like Cupid's own bow, skewed up at one side, because despite his frowning eyebrows he was half-smiling at me.
