Page 28 of Saved By the Headless Horseman
“Would you like breakfast?”
I nod eagerly; my stomach is already rumbling.After feasting the night before, the days I spent in hunger come rearing back.I will gorge myself to make up for lost time.I no longer wish to resemble the ghost I was becoming.I want to live with Krane by my side.
Krane extends a gray hand towards me.He has removed his gloves, and now I can see the state of his hands.The skin is rough, as if burned.Dark nails decorate the tips of his fingers.However, I don’t hesitate to take his hand in mine.He is my Krane; while he may look different, he feels just the same to me.
He leads me from the room and we walk down a carpeted hallway towards the dining room, where we were the previous evening.Once inside, he guides me to the upholstered chair I occupied before, and he settles in beside me, much to my delight.
The room is just the same.Crumbling wallpaper and dust-covered paintings line the walls.A glistening mahogany table is laden with all manner of breakfast items.Steam curls over the lips of silver serving dishes.Fluffy scrambled eggs are arranged artfully next to crispy bacon.Golden biscuits rest inside a tea towel.Jars of jam and pots of fresh butter rest beside them.
My heart stumbles in my chest as I look at the color of the jam—blackberry—my favorite.Of course it is, Krane’s magic made this feast.I look shyly over to him, only to find his eyes already on me.My throat suddenly feels tight.I clear it before lifting my plate and spooning all manner of delicious food onto the porcelain.
Once I have taken bits of everything, I notice Krane does not reach for his own plate.After buttering a warm biscuit, I slather a thick spread of glossy jam atop it.Glancing up at Krane, I nod towards his plate.
“Do you no longer have to eat?”
A beat of silence passes before he nods.
“I’m not human anymore.All of those urges have been blighted.”
Lifting the biscuit to my lips, I pause before taking a bite.
“All of them?”
Krane watches me, his green flames flickering quickly inside his eye holes.His gaze snags on my lip as I lick a piece of jam from the corner of my mouth.
“Most of them.”
I swallow soundly.This is the most we’ve talked since our reunion.I don’t want to fall back into tense silence.
“How does the magic work?”
Krane sighs, shrugging his massive shoulders.
“I don’t really know.When I was made into this,” he pauses to gesture down at himself, “there was fire and pain—a cleansing and reforging of my soul.Memories were stolen for a time.I was unmade and twisted into this creature.Revenge was my sole motivation—it was the only tangible thing I had.The anger was all I could remember.”
I stop my chewing, the food turning to ash in my mouth.Krane’s eyes sharpen.
“I don’t say this to upset you.In truth, I have no idea why I was made into this.At my creation, there were only whispers.Whatever force transformed me led me to believe that it could be undone somehow.If my revenge was satiated, then perhaps there was a chance.”His lips twist.“Unfortunately, there’s no guidebook on how to be the Headless Horseman of Broken Cliff.Everything—including the magic—has been things I’ve learned through trial and error.If I think of something, I can make it appear.I can transform myself into different forms.There are limits to my powers, of course.I find a new one every day.”
I nod at his explanation.My appetite returns at his urging, and I spear a piece of egg with my silver fork.It melts against my tongue like butter.How strange that he does not know his purpose for being here.Whatever created him must’ve done so for a purpose.Perhaps my prayers had been answered, albeit in a cruel way.I begged for him to come back to me, and someone—or something—had heard me and answered.
I would be grateful for Krane no matter how I had him.I abhor his pain, but I cannot be angry that we’ve been given a second chance together.
Glancing around the room, I lift a brow at him.
“Where are we exactly?”
“Nightingale Castle.”
I nearly choke on my final slice of bacon.Coughing, I take a sip of water before wiping at the grease decorating my mouth.
“Tell me you’re kidding.”
Something like amusement flickers in his flames.His mouth twists.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of ghosts, Scar.”
I narrow my eyes at his jibe even as my heart squeezes at the use of that nickname.No one but him calls me that.I take another biscuit and coat it in jam.Turning towards him, I shake my head.
