Page 35 of The Horseman of Sleepy Hollow
The demon Mephistopheles had always been my favorite character, and it was a true delight to hear his words in Eamon's deep tones.
Why, this is Hell, nor am I out of it:
Think'st though that I, who saw the face of God,
And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,
Am not tormented with ten thousand hells,
In being deprived of everlasting bliss?
I could have listened to his sonorous voice forever. When the light faded, he lit the lantern he had brought, and we curled beneath blankets.
"Tell me more of your secrets," I whispered, tracing a finger along the bridge of his nose.
"There is a tunnel beneath the Old Church Bridge," he said. "Its entrance is concealed by a woven hanging of branches and ivy. It lets out not far from my cabin. We do not often take that route because it has a low ceiling and is therefore uncomfortable for both Elatha and I—but it has served us well a few times, when someone was getting too close and we needed to escape."
"So Lucas was right about the tunnel! But he said it led to Hell, that he saw a fiery glow."
"The glow he saw was my flaming skull, most likely—serving as our lantern as we passed through."
"Of course." I chewed my lip as I tried to recall every story I had heard of the Horseman. "Did you ever race Brom Van Brunt for a bowl of punch?"
"Ah, the boisterous Brom. I have seen him a few times since I returned here, but never at close enough range for him to recognize me. Yes, he shouted a challenge at me once, when I was out for a kill. I waved for him to go on his way, but he rode to me and spurred his horse alongside mine."
"He claims that his horse beat yours."
Eamon scoffed. "He's a fool, saving his pride by concocting a story. For all his brash talk, he came very near losing his head that night. He simply would not get out of my way, and I had to fight the magic's impulse to kill him so I could proceed with my task. Thankfully I was able to pass him after we crossed the bridge. After that, Elatha and I outdistanced him quickly."
"What about Old Brouwer? He says that you frightened his horse when he was returning from the market. You caused him to spill his coins." I ran my fingers through Eamon's hair, making it stick up even more wildly than usual. "Brouwer claims that you were planning to carry him off to the Devil."
Eamon groaned, slapping a palm to his forehead. "I remember that old fool. I was on my way to take the head of a pickpocket who stole from Anika, and my skull happened to spook old Brouwer's nag. The compulsion to leave him behind and ride for the kill was strong, but I was still lucid enough to feel bad for him—he was so feeble, and unable to walk far on his own. I thought I would take him along and drop him off near a house where he could get a ride back home. Clearly he thought I meant to kill him. He jumped straight off my saddle, over the side of the Old Church Bridge, and into the stream. It's a miracle he did not break his neck. After that incident, I vowed to myself that I would not try to help anyone while in my dullahan form."
"But you broke that vow for me."
"You were bleeding out. Dying." He moved one of my curls aside and kissed my forehead. "The way you looked at me, Katrina—the courage and desperation in your eyes—your fire burned low at the time, but I could sense it. And I could not let you die. Besides, my mission that night was fulfilled with Ichabod's death. Had you stayed conscious a moment longer, you would have seen my head returning to my body as your schoolmaster's soul slipped away."
"Then he wasn't yet dead, when Brom threw him off the bridge." Horror twisted my stomach.
"Do not think on it." Eamon crushed his lips to mine, as if by doing so he could banish the image of Ichabod's life gurgling out of him, staining the flow of the stream.
Ichabod died alone, in the dark under the bridge.
I could hardly bear it. My very bones ached with the knowledge, with the question—could I have saved him, somehow? Reacted more quickly? Extracted the branch from his neck? No, not possible, the extent of the injury—the injury had been—this kiss of Eamon's was—warm—comforting—it was a golden cloud spreading through my body, softening the memories and muddling the questions. Even the faint thread of ever-present pain in my back disappeared in the magic of the kiss. I surrendered to it—to the whisper of his lashes against my cheek, to the brush of his scruff against my palm. His body crowded closer to mine under the blanket and I moaned my approval, plunging my hands between the stiff folds of his coat, working them down to the hardening bulge I knew I would find.
He responded in kind. His fingers wandered to the band of my trousers and slipped beneath them, diving to the spot I had shown him the other night. His touch teased slick warmth from my body and a faint whine of need from my lips.
"You are making it very hard for me to let you go tomorrow," he said thickly.
I froze. "Tomorrow?"
"I think you are well enough for a ride into the valley, if we bind your wound thickly and take it slowly." His fingers withdrew from me. "We should get you home soon."
"I don't want to go back to the valley."
"Your parents, Katrina. They are probably grieving you."
"Then they will be all the more exuberant when I finally return alive," I retorted.
